by Karen Brooks
I did, but it would have been churlish to refuse. ‘As you wish,’ I said. Papa dragged a stool over to the workbench. Seated on the edge of the bench, his lordship looked like an eagle on a canary’s perch, uncomfortable and ready to take flight.
The lock plate on the casket was of a beautiful design, Gothic tracery interwoven with a popular vine motif representing Christianity. I guessed it to be Flemish or French.
I bent until my eye was level with the keyhole, all the time aware of Lord Nathaniel, the proximity of his bent knee, the perfume of ambergris and musk emanating from his clothing. Papa passed me two rods and leaned on the bench. It didn’t take long to open the casket. Hooking the bent rod around the tumbler, I pulled and pushed with the other straight one. There was a click.
‘Ah, well done, Mallory,’ said Papa. ‘Is she not clever, my lord?’
‘Aye,’ said Lord Nathaniel, lifting the casket into his hands. ‘Exceptionally.’
Opening the lid, he sighed. Nestled in some purple silk was an exquisite necklace. Sapphires and rubies embedded in a lovely gold filigree dazzled. Lord Nathaniel plucked the necklace from its bed and let it slither across his palm.
‘Why, that’s a work of art, my lord,’ said Papa. ‘It was your grandmother’s?’
‘It was. She bequeathed it to my aunt who, having no children of her own, has given it to me with instructions I find a woman worthy of wearing it.’
Lifting his hand so the necklace dangled, he looked at me. I held my breath.
‘And you’ve found someone?’ said Papa warmly. ‘Then you’re a fortunate man.’
‘I have and I am,’ agreed Lord Nathaniel. He placed the jewellery back in the casket. ‘I wish to bestow this beautiful piece upon her soon. When I understood the key was lost, I thought my intentions thwarted, but you, Mistress Mallory, Master Gideon, have allowed my plans to go ahead. You have my deepest thanks.’
His words took a moment to register. He’d found a woman? He was going to give her the necklace? Why was my heart beating so fast and my mouth suddenly sour? Colour flooded my face. Rising to my feet, I picked up the rods and, moving away from the bench, restored them to their pouch.
I barely remember saying farewell to Lord Nathaniel or the manner of his leaving, only that I found I wanted to remain in the workshop, to continue to test my skills against the locks. After escorting Lord Nathaniel out, Papa returned.
‘Are you well, Mallory?’ he asked, watching as I inserted the rods into a complex padlock.
‘Of course, Papa, why would I be otherwise?’
‘I thought … That is, when you opened the casket for Lord Nathaniel … Well …’ He shrugged, loitered for a few minutes, picking up a tool and putting it down again, lining up a row of shanks, then bade me goodnight and went to Mamma.
It was only after he left that I understood I’d lost the perfect opportunity to raise the issue of his eyesight with him. All my thoughts had been thrown into disarray. Opening the casket for Lord Nathaniel had unlocked something within me: a little door I’d worked hard to keep closed.
For the first time since I’d mastered lock-picking, the lock I was working on refused to open. I threw it down in disgust. Arthur and Galahad growled.
‘It’s all right, boys, it’s all right,’ I said, staring at the offending item. I sat by the fire, placing my arms around the dogs’ soft bodies, pulling them onto my lap. ‘Sometimes what is locked should never be opened,’ I whispered into one floppy ear. I thought of Pandora’s box, which had released pain and fury upon the world. But didn’t it also contain hope?
The soft radiance of the fire was comforting. My mind began to drift. I wondered about the woman who would receive such a beautiful gift, who had captured Lord Nathaniel’s heart — ‘a woman worthy of wearing it’, as his aunt had said.
I tried to consider what this creature might look like and an image of a bow-shaped mouth captured by Lord Nathaniel’s lips danced in my vision.
Tightening my arms around the dogs, I shut my eyes so I didn’t have to see how tawny my own skin looked in the glow of the forge. I imagined this woman melting into Lord Nathaniel’s strong arms, leaning against his hard body, running her fingers over his silky hair. Would he look at her with twinkling eyes, horrify her by speaking without thought or concern? Or would he be cautious, treat her with respect, not inflame her with his careless words? He would treat her differently to the way he had treated me — as he should. Why did the notion fill me with such despondency?
‘Mallory Bright,’ I groaned. ‘What has become of you? Where is your nonchalance now?’
Whoever this woman was, I should have hoped she was as deserving as Lord Nathaniel’s aunt intended. Only, damn my treacherous heart, I did not. I hoped she was ungrateful, demanding and as much a scold as the foolish husband of Caleb’s creation believed his own wife to be.
THIRTY-ONE
HARP LANE AND SEETHING LANE, LONDON
November, Anno Domini 1581
In the 23rd and 24th year of the reign of Elizabeth I
After that night, his lordship became a regular visitor to Harp Lane, claiming he’d business to attend to with Caleb. When I returned of an evening I’d oft find him in the parlour, enjoying an ale with Caleb and Papa and sharing the latest gossip from court or news of Campion’s impending trial. Instead of making excuses and escaping to my room, I found myself drawn to the convivial company on offer and began to delight in the verbal sparring and teasing that inevitably followed my arrival.
Work at Seething Lane continued and though Sir Francis was busy preparing for Campion’s trial, he also sent me on various errands, dispatching letters and collecting correspondence, all in the guise of Samantha Short, who was variously a washerwoman, a lady’s maid, a tavern wench, a baker’s apprentice and a vicar’s housekeeper. In each of these roles I not only received information to take back to Seething Lane, but was able to gauge the mood of the people, listening to ramblings by firesides and over a tankard or two. Tongues were loose in the market and it was oft while I was lingering over fruit or waiting for a haunch of meat to be cut that I would hear suspicious snippets, a name carelessly dropped, a blessing being bestowed that had no place in England. I noted and recorded everything.
My perturbation over what happened to the folk at St Katherine Coleman eased. Being in a position to see and hear the degree to which Catholics undermined the Privy Council’s principles and defied the law helped me to reconcile their punishments. Thomas was correct when he said they deserved their fates. They had made a choice and had to abide by the consequences. I persuaded myself they were not godly people; they were not loyal and therefore didn’t merit my sympathy — no traitor did. Nevertheless, the sad and confused faces of the children tormented me.
Just as I thought Campion’s arrest had quelled the Catholic rising, in a bookstore called the Gun I discovered more treachery.
An icy wind blew through the streets and I entered the bookshop, grateful for its warmth. The familiar mustiness still had the capacity to transport me to other places and times. My bonnet had been blown askew, and as I adjusted it I glanced at Casey, who loitered outside. The handful of men milling near the counter ceased speaking, moved apart, and began to comb the shelves as if searching for particular books. The owner, Master Barton Crashaw, swept up a pile of pamphlets and placed them out of sight. Suspicious behaviour at the best of times. Upon seeing a mere woman enter, Master Crashaw relaxed and gave a small bow. The other men lurked nearby, trying to appear indifferent and failing miserably.
‘God give you good day, mistress. May I help you?’
‘God give you good day too, sir,’ I began. I’d been instructed to observe who was patronising the shop. Pretending to peruse the carts across the road before ordering a new pair of gloves from the glover opposite had kept me busy for over two hours. I’d seen four men enter the Gun, but none leave. Their reaction to my presence, the concealment of the pamphlets, told me I needed to do a little more than simpl
y watch. Moving closer to where the owner stood with his hands splayed upon the now empty counter, I offered a conspiratorial look. The men rummaged through the books on the shelves with a disingenuous air.
‘Sir, I pray you can help me. I have recently read an account of the arrest of Father Campion by Anthony Munday and George Eliot —’
The men froze. Munday was one of Sir Francis’s men, a gifted writer who, under orders from Mister Secretary, had written an account of Campion’s arrest. It was wildly inaccurate, and Munday subsequently spoke with one of the arresting officers, Master George Eliot, and had the truth. A more accurate version was quickly produced and distributed. It distressed and infuriated Catholics everywhere, but especially William Allen in Reims, who wrote a rebuttal of Munday and Eliot’s story in the futile hope it would aid Campion’s case. Someone in London was flouting the law and distributing Allen’s riposte, and Sir Francis believed he knew who that person might be … Dare I nudge and discover if his conjecture was correct?
‘I found it … How shall I say?’ I pretended to choose my next words carefully. ‘Do I dare utter what is filling my heart without risk of retribution?’ I glanced towards the hovering men.
Master Barton studied me then gazed for a long moment over my shoulder. ‘I’m a lowly bookseller, mistress. Retribution is not mine to give, only to receive according to the dictates of the good Lord.’
I went to make the sign of the cross and froze as I began, turning the gesture into a brush of my chest. Master Barton saw my action and again peered past my shoulder. This time, he nodded slowly, responding to a silent command.
‘Mistress, you will receive no retribution from this quarter, only understanding. Speak what is in your heart.’
Releasing a tentative sigh, I leaned over the counter, lowering my voice. ‘Munday’s narrative is disappointing; inclined to falsehoods and exaggeration. It will not help Father Campion or those disposed to … shall I say, offer sympathy? On the contrary …’ I shook my head in sorrow.
‘There are many who feel that way, mistress … or so I’ve heard.’
‘I as well. In fact, there are rumours of an alternate version of events, a version that’s inclined to offer a more sympathetic retelling, only I cannot find it.’ I hesitated, then whispered. ‘You wouldn’t know where I might buy a copy, would you sir?’
Master Barton again received a sign from behind me. His cheeks became ruddier the longer we spoke. For certes, it was becoming close in the shop. He stared at me for a long moment and then, with an abrupt step back, retreated from the counter. ‘I’m afraid I know of no such version or where you might find such a work. But I’ve many other wonderful books available. Please, feel free to browse the collection. There are also many pamphlets, some of which might satisfy your … tastes.’
Like air from a deflating bellows, the wind of my ambitions left me. With a slight curtsey, I thanked the owner and, spinning on my heel, went to search the shelves. What I wanted to do was leave, but that would have aroused suspicion and put the men on guard.
No longer able to see Casey, I walked the length of the shelves, reading the spines of the tomes, picking up a couple and opening them, faking an interest I no longer felt. I handled books on theology, education, domestic solutions, philosophical pondering, some poetry, Homer, Tacitus, and a very nice edition of Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur.
On a whim, I decided to purchase it. Had not Beatrice claimed to love Malory’s tales? I would give her this by way of apology for refusing her brother’s offer of employment. Meanwhile the men had returned to the counter and were involved in a quiet discussion. I approached slowly while fumbling in my purse, and they parted to admit me. I’d already noted their attire, the cut of the cloth, the quality of their boots. These were wealthy merchants at least, if not squires from outside London. My head high, I passed Master Barton the book.
He examined the cover, brushing the dust from it. ‘Unusual choice considering what you were after, mistress, if you don’t mind me saying.’
I gave a light laugh. ‘Indeed, sir, I quite surprise myself.’
‘Fanciful stories for naught but children if you ask me,’ said one of the men gruffly.
Astounded by his rudeness, I rounded on him. ‘I did not, sir.’ A pair of pale eyes looked me up and down.
‘And I wasn’t addressing you, mistress,’ he said and began to laugh. The other men chuckled. I turned my back upon them, bristling. More than anything I wanted to escape this place.
Master Barton wrapped the book. When he finished, I passed him the correct change.
‘Winter’ll be bitter this year,’ said a different gentleman, touching his cap by way of deference, perhaps making up for the rudeness of the other.
Uncertain if he was speaking to his companions or me, I simply bowed my head slightly.
‘Aye, that it will. But just as the good Lord gave His son who rose from the dead, so too will this winter pass into spring and rebirth,’ agreed another. There were quiet murmurs. It wasn’t only talk of the season that made a chill run down my spine. It was hard to reckon they were so bold in their talk. For was not winter the new faith, and the rebirth an allusion to the return of the Catholic one?
I needed to be gone. Taking the book, I thanked Master Barton and forced myself to walk calmly from the premises, aware of five sets of eyes boring into my back, the silence thick. Nonchalance, I chanted in my head.
Relieved to find Casey at the end of the row of shops, I fell into step beside him. ‘So?’ he asked.
I shook my head. ‘If they’re distributing Catholic tracts, and I believe they are, I could find no proof. Still, the place is certainly worth watching if not raiding.’
‘I agree, mistress,’ said Casey. ‘It doesn’t feel right.’
‘They didn’t mind their tongues in front of me.’
Casey grinned. ‘They knew not an avenging angel was among them.’
I looked at him grimly. ‘They did not.’
We pushed our way through the crowds about St Paul’s, rounding a corner and escaping the force of the wind.
In my office at Seething Lane, I stood before the fire, my hands held out to catch the heat, my brain afire. Pouring a drink, I sat down to write my report, but ceased after only a few lines. Convinced the shop was a centre of sedition, a meeting place of Catholics, I’d no proof. Leaning back in my chair, my arms outstretched before me, frustration rose. What good was a report of maybes and mights? Of ‘I think’ and ‘I feel’?
My eyes alighted on the book I’d bought. Pulling off the wrapper, I ran my hands over the embossed cover. Fanciful, the man had called Malory’s tales. Fit only for children. Well, I quite fancied reading one now, even if that did make me a child. As I opened the heavy cover, a slew of paper fluttered to the floor. Distressed I’d loosened the spine, I bent down to retrieve the pages only to find what I held was not from Malory’s book, but was in fact a pamphlet: Doctor William Allen’s rebuttal of Munday and Eliot’s account of Campion’s arrest and subsequent questioning.
With a whoop of triumph I smoothed out the pamphlet and began reading it. I was right. The Gun and Master Barton were distributing treasonous material. Defending everything Campion did and said, Allen’s work was clearly designed to inspire Catholics to maintain the faith, abhor everything Protestant and decry the persecution being meted out to their Father Campion.
With the pamphlet propped before me, I wrote my report swiftly, then went to find Thomas. It mattered not that Sir Francis was at Whitehall with the rest of the Star Chamber, he needed to know about this.
Only this time, I wanted to be the one to tell him.
THIRTY-TWO
HARP LANE AND SEETHING LANE, LONDON
The 29th of November, Anno Domini 1581
In the 24th year of the reign of Elizabeth I
‘Mallory,’ said Sir Francis. He stood and waved me into his office. Piles of paper lay across his desk, a thick bundle before him. From the look of the quills and sh
avings, he’d been up during the night working on reports.
Less than three hours had passed since I’d shown Thomas my discovery and shared my suspicions. Mister Secretary must have ridden hard from Whitehall when he received the message. I could smell horseflesh and sweat.
‘Thomas informs me you’ve something significant to impart. Make haste, I’ve left important business for this.’
I wasted no time in passing Sir Francis my report and the offending pamphlet. He looked at the latter while, as I was trained to do, I spoke to what I’d written. When I finished, he sat back. It was a while before he spoke. I noted how tired he appeared, but he was also strangely alert.
‘This —’ he began, his hand hovering over my report, ‘couldn’t have come at a better time.’ I glowed under his praise. ‘This —’ he picked up the pamphlet, ‘is the proof we need. No doubt the papers you saw being removed from the counter were more of the same.’ His frown deepened as he gazed at the offensive words. ‘Seditious rubbish. Making a martyr of Campion when he’s the greatest of sinners. Allen’s words further implicate Campion and the other priests in plotting against Her Majesty, against England. Their duplicity and treachery know no bounds.’
‘What will you do?’ I asked. His quiet fury made me timid, quenching my small spark of triumph.
‘Do? For a start, we will put watchers on all those gentlemen you and Casey saw. We will also observe the shop, see who else patronises it, discover where these pamphlets are being distributed. I also want to see if we can locate the press that printed them. More of this nonsense is bound to be peddled, especially after Friday.’
‘Why Friday?’
‘Because that’s the day Edmund Campion dies.’
‘The Commission has reached a verdict?’
Sir Francis’s eyes flickered to his desk. ‘Aye, we have.’ Rising to his feet, he collected my report. ‘Stay here. This cannot wait. I will get Thomas to organise watchers at once. No doubt these men will bear witness to Campion’s death, and perchance we can follow them from Tyburn.’
