The Locksmith's Daughter

by Karen Brooks

  A vicar came forward to offer prayers. Someone in the crowd booed and was quickly hushed. An official in a braided uniform ascended the gallows and, as the executioner placed a noose around each priest’s neck and a leather hood over each head, he read from a long document. The crowd grew restless and much of what he said was lost. But we understood: these were the crimes for which these men would be punished. High treason. The worst of sins.

  Whether it was because I hadn’t eaten, or because of the mass of unwashed flesh around me or uneasiness about what I was about to see, my mind wandered, taking me back to where this part of my life began. I was no longer at Tyburn, but with Papa in the workshop, unpicking the dangerous forziere while, unbeknownst to me, Sir Francis watched from the shadows. Sir Francis knew so much about me, about my family, and yet Papa had never mentioned him. If Mister Secretary was spoken about, it was only in relation to his role on the Queen’s Council. Mamma never once said his name and for certes, neither did Angela. But Papa and he were old friends, and he’d protected Uncle Timothy from the deadly wrath of the Catholics during the St Bartholomew’s Day massacre in Paris. His acquaintance with my family went back years. Yet I only knew of him in the remotest of ways … Why? Now these men were going to die because of Papa’s old friend, a man who had the power of life and death. Who was Sir Francis to us?

  A mixture of groans and cheers flung me back into the present. Caleb took my hand in his, squeezing tightly, his face pinched and pale. Upon the gallows, the three priests hung, their legs twitching, their shoulders rocking from side to side as they fought the inevitable slow death they were being made to endure. Some in the crowd cried and turned away. I could not. I forced myself to confront the grotesque spectacle.

  Below the platform, a large brazier was fed more wood, the flames crackling loudly, the smoke rising to screen those upon the scaffold before the wind spread it over the assembled people. Coughing, spluttering, even the guards on the gallows were overcome, waving their hands before their faces, spitting into the crowd.

  Before they lost consciousness, the priests were lowered until their feet rested upon the platform. The hoods were ripped from their heads. Dazed, their cheeks were purple and their eyes bulged, their mouths opening and closing like fish on dry land. Inhaling deeply, they coughed and gagged. One vomited upon his robes, earning a kick for his trouble. I released the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

  The crowd surged; murmurs grew to shouts. Caught in the momentum, against our will Caleb and I were propelled forward.

  Caleb’s arm tightened about my shoulders. ‘Steel yourself, Mallory,’ he urged, trying to hold me upright.

  Before I could ask why, a soldier stepped up and, drawing a long dirk, cut Campion’s robes apart, exposing his stomach and flaccid cock. There was a flash, a spray of blood and a jubilant cheer, followed by lifted arms, toothless smiles and war cries. The soldier raised his hand from which Campion’s mangled manhood dangled. The excitement grew. Flinging back his arm, the executioner threw it on the fire. Then, like an actor on stage, pausing for dramatic affect, he swiped the blade across the man’s stomach, his hand following the wound he made, reaching into Campion’s very being and pulling out his innards. Staring in horror, unable to believe what I was seeing, gorge rose in my throat as a mass of bloodied intestines was extracted, slithering over the hangman’s fingers like escaping eels. Campion arched his neck, shouting to God in heaven.

  The priests on either side of him, seeing their friend’s suffering, began wailing and struggling against their bonds, knowing they were next. One pissed himself, earning laughter and crude jokes from those below. The hangman held the strings of intestines aloft before casting them into the brazier. There was a cry; flames roared, sparks flew to the sky. The smell of cooked flesh tainted the air; a metal tang followed by the unmistakable odour of shit. I gagged, pressed the handkerchief to my mouth. Some women shielded their children’s eyes; others stared agog.

  Dear God. Dear God.

  I began to pray that the suffering of all the priests would soon be over. Pater noster, qui es in caelis: sanctificetur Nomen Tuum …

  Caleb joined me.

  We weren’t the only ones. Prayers were being chanted all around me — Pater Nosters, Ave Marias, the Symbolum Apostolorum. Cries of ‘martyr’ were taken up before being howled down by those of ‘traitors’ and ‘heretics’. There was loud weeping, the rending of garments and tearing of hair. Some cackled and screamed in delight as another’s priest’s cock was added to the flames, followed by his bloody innards. A fight broke out behind us.

  I staggered as someone pushed past us, unable to watch any longer. I wanted nothing more than to follow — to run and never look back. But I owed these men my presence. I’d helped bring them to this point, to this gruesome, awful death.

  Finally, Campion was lowered to the platform and I thought his ordeal complete. Surely, he was dead. But he was not. His head turned as it struck the wood and he stared with unseeing eyes out onto the crowd. Hands reached for him, some dousing themselves in the blood that flowed freely from his body. Others used knives and other instruments to cut pieces of his robe. Soldiers ran at these people with pikes and halberds, forcing them back. The government wanted nothing of Campion preserved, no relics for followers to gather around, over which a cult could grow.

  Exchanging his knife for an axe, the executioner came forward again and, raising his weapon over his head, with a bloodthirsty cry began to hew Campion’s body.

  ‘Holy Mother and all the blessed saints,’ said Caleb, tears streaming down his cheeks.

  I clung to him. ‘No. No.’

  Impossibly, Campion was still alive. His eyes were moving, his lips too, and yet the soldier hacked and hacked until the priest’s shoulder and arm fell to the ground. The rain of blood and gore descended over the executioner and those below, and I heard the exultant cries of those wanting death and the desperate wailing of those who did not. The screaming and begging of the two remaining priests whose own lives were seeping away even as they watched Campion’s end, his head lopped off, his body sawn into quarters, was too much.

  Blindly, I turned and, pushing hard against those in my way, staggered through the crowd. I was crudely groped and shoved, my jacket torn, my purse taken. A whore, thinking I was interfering with a transaction, slapped me hard across the face. I paused only long enough to strike her back, feeling grim satisfaction when she fell. Behind me, Caleb whispered words of strength, of hope, mingled with prayers to God for the priests’ immortal souls.

  Before a cart filled with silent people, there was space. I dropped to my knees and retched. With one hand across my stomach, I leaned over and vomited the contents of my heart onto the barren ground. Caleb tumbled onto the ground beside me, crying openly, placing his arm around me, his cheek against my back.

  How long we remained there, I don’t know. We cared not who saw us or what they thought. Gradually, my heaving turned into deep, painful barks, as if I were clearing my soul.

  Whatever I’d expected to see when I came to Tyburn, it was not what I’d just witnessed. I knew what hanging, drawing and quartering meant — why, I’d read vivid descriptions of terrible deaths in Foxe’s Book of Martyrs — but that was very different to seeing it with my own eyes, smelling it, hearing it; dear God, tasting it. I wondered if the world would ever feel the same; for certes, I knew I would not.

  Those cruel and bloody theatrics were the punishment I’d helped mete out. This was what my watching led to — the brutal evisceration of three priests. And this was what it would continue to lead to. Was I not in the business of catching those who planned treachery? Those who would convert us English to popery? I was. I retched again. Good God, I sickened myself.

  I eased back onto my buttocks, pulling Caleb with me. He was a sorry sight. His ruff was flattened, his once gorgeous velvet doublet stained and torn. His bonnet must have fallen off in the crowd, exposing his dark hair, and his blue eyes swollen with tears
. I touched my head. My bonnet was gone as well, my coif flung back. My hair was undone, tumbling over my shoulders and resting in the dirt. Running my hand down my cheek, there were raised lines that burned. I remembered the trull who’d lashed out. I examined my hand. There was blood beneath the nails. Hers. I felt no remorse.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Caleb as he sat in the dirt, uncaring that his beautiful garments were ruined. He wiped the back of his hand across his nose, looking more like Dickon than a leading actor and playwright.

  I gave a dry laugh. ‘No. Are you?’

  He shook his head and began to cry freely again through a smile he fought hard to maintain. I took him in my arms.

  ‘I don’t understand, Mallory,’ he murmured into my neck, his shoulders shaking. ‘I don’t understand how we can be so … so … cruel, so barbaric to each other.’

  ‘I do,’ I whispered, and thought not only of the deaths I’d seen, but of Raffe Shelton as well. It was easy to be heartless when your peace was threatened, when you were genuinely frightened of what others could do to those you loved. Sir Francis had felt that way ever since Paris; Raffe had feared what I would do to his family. It was even easier to commit atrocities when they were enacted in the name of justice; when you believed you were working for the good of the realm, for the security of the sovereign and your people. It was easy when you didn’t see the consequences and others performed the retribution for you. It was easy to be ruthless when you ceased to think of those convicted as human, and saw them as enemies. In that way, anything — any kind of action — could be justified.

  Caleb and I were still locked in an embrace when the crowds started to move again. With a crack and creak, the cart in front of us began rolling along the road. We helped each other up and stood amidst the milling folk — most heading back to London, others to wherever they’d come from. Some remained, determined to watch to the end; others still hoped to collect souvenirs. Sir Francis would have men ready to follow those who took anything away. The priests’ body parts would be distributed to different parts of the country — their heads, no doubt, would be boiled before gracing the spikes atop London Bridge. A warning to all who would plot against Her Majesty and listen to Rome.

  We began the long walk back. It was after noon. An icy wind came from the north, blowing away the stench of death and bringing heavy clouds with it. There’d be rain tonight, a cleansing shower to wash away the blood, but not the memories. I wondered how I would explain myself to Papa. He would assume I’d gone to Seething Lane. If I could just sneak back into the house and wash and change without anyone seeing me, my early-morning departure might go unnoticed. But how could I ever hide the effect of what I’d seen? It was as if the images were burned into my eyes and their impact would show forever upon my face.

  Just as we entered the city walls, a voice hailed us. Spinning around, I saw Lord Nathaniel approaching on horseback. From the expression on his face, he too had been at Tyburn. I don’t know how I’d failed to notice him.

  ‘Caleb —’ he began, then he saw me. His dour expression changed to one of shock. Dismounting swiftly, he flung the reins of his horse to a young man and grabbed Caleb by the shoulder. ‘What were you thinking, man?’ he shouted. ‘Allowing Mallory to attend such a gruesome display? Have you lost your wits?’

  Caleb began to defend himself when I interrupted. ‘Please, my lord,’ I said. There’d been enough violence for one day. Even a raised voice set my teeth on edge. ‘Caleb didn’t allow anything.’ I shot a look at Caleb, praying he’d keep mum. ‘He found me en route and tried to persuade me to abandon my intentions. I wouldn’t listen.’

  Lord Nathaniel stared from me to Caleb and back again. Folk passed around us, angry we were blocking the way.

  ‘Is this true?’

  Caleb opened his mouth.

  ‘You doubt my word?’ I asked, anger flaring. I motioned to Caleb to remain silent.

  Lord Nathaniel looked at me in disbelief, his eyes sweeping my filthy gown, my dishevelled hair and missing bonnet.

  ‘And yet you ignored his entreaties.’

  ‘God forgive me, I did.’

  He made a noise deep in his throat before taking hold of my chin and turning my face first one way, then the other. ‘You look as if you’ve been struck,’ he said. His fingers were gentle, his voice more so. I wanted to lay my cheek in his palm and take solace. Instead, I jerked my face away. I didn’t deserve such solicitations.

  ‘I was, though I gave better than I received.’

  Lord Nathaniel’s eyes narrowed. ‘That I do not doubt.’ He glanced around at the milling crowd before locking eyes with me again. There was concern, a flicker of anger and something else. ‘Are you well, mistress?’

  I took a deep breath. ‘I will be. The crowds were inflamed.’ I glanced at them now. ‘By what they have seen … The deaths … It was not what I expected.’

  He stared bleakly over the crowds. ‘Death does strange things to people, particularly gruesome ones. I’m not surprised the crowd is excitable.’ On cue, a roar erupted in one of the side streets and a fight spilled onto the main road between two men, clothes torn, hats missing, fists flying. A chant began as groups formed, urging them to hit harder, draw blood. Stepping between me and the press of people, Lord Nathaniel unsheathed his sword, clearing a space swiftly.

  ‘I will see you safely home. Come,’ he said and, before I could protest, he passed his sword to Caleb and placed his hands about my waist, hoisting me into the saddle as if I were a child. He kept hold until I found my balance. Arranging my hands on the pommel, he pulled my skirts over the withers and took the reins.

  ‘Her name is Bounty,’ he said, patting the horse’s neck.

  Walking his horse, he fell in beside Caleb, retrieving his sword and holding it before him as a warning to any who would venture near. No-one dared. His squire, to whom I wasn’t introduced, protected our backs.

  Bounty was a midnight mare, with a long mane and glossy coat. Caparisoned in the Warham colours of burgundy, black and silver, the horse looked magnificent. I could have been a lady atop her had I not looked like a strumpet with my hair loose, my gown torn and my face marked. I drew stares, and not for good reasons.

  In a daze, I allowed myself to be led, grateful my aching feet were being spared, wishing my heart could be so relieved.

  Caleb said something to Lord Nathaniel, who looked over his shoulder.

  ‘It will upset your father considerably to see the state you’re in, mistress. Should he learn of where you’ve been,’ he said.

  Surprised he would consider my father’s feelings, I was also touched. ‘I would spare him that if I could, my lord.’

  Lord Nathaniel slowed until the horse drew level, then reached up and placed his hand over mine where it clutched the pommel. ‘I would have spared you as well,’ he said softly, before letting go.

  Tingling beset my limbs, as if a thousand tiny bird feathers stroked my flesh. I found myself staring at the back of Lord Nathaniel’s head, noting how he towered over Caleb and any who passed. Women paused to watch him, while he, oblivious, or perchance accustomed to the stares, took it all in his considerable stride.

  Expecting censure from this man who didn’t hesitate to speak his mind, I was surprised by his uncharacteristic gentleness. I expected him to give me a tongue-lashing for my stubborn-hearted defiance. I wondered what had changed in him. Why had he been at the execution? What brought Lord Nathaniel, a peer of the realm who, as far as I knew, held no particular position at court or upon the Council — at least not yet — to witness the death of the priests? Was it secular or religious duty? A mixture of both? Or something else entirely?

  The man I believed a rugged and discourteous boor was proving to be more mysterious — and, I had to admit, interesting and compassionate — than I ever would have imagined. Aside from what Papa had told me, a tale that twisted my heart and make me rethink my assumptions, he was demonstrably thoughtful and kind. And not just to me, I no
ted, as he scooped up a small puppy that had escaped its owner’s arms. The little boy came running over and took the dog gratefully, the child’s mother bobbing a curtsey and bestowing a lovely smile upon his lordship. He doffed his bonnet and bowed in return and she giggled in delight. Fire burned in my throat and I wondered where that came from. Was I jealous? Of his lordship? The man I once did everything in my power to avoid? Surely not.

  Nonetheless, as I rode the remaining distance home, I was grateful his lordship’s presence had given me something other than death to think about. All the same, images of Tyburn bubbled away, threatening to breach the wall I was trying to build against them.

  ‘Nonchalance,’ I whispered. ‘Nonchalance.’ But it was difficult to summon even the appearance of indifference after what I’d witnessed. I doubted it was even appropriate. Some matters deserved anything but nonchalance.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  HARP LANE AND SEETHING LANE, LONDON

  The 1st of December, Anno Domini 1581

  In the 24th year of the reign of Elizabeth I

  At my insistence and much to his chagrin, Lord Nathaniel left us outside St Dunstan’s in the East so we might make our own way home. He objected strongly, but when I explained I wished to enter the house without being observed so I might both change and compose myself and spare Papa or Mamma worry — something his presence would trigger — he relented.

  ‘What you saw today, Mallory —’ he began, reaching towards me, a look of great concern upon his face.

  He addressed me informally. I didn’t correct him.

  ‘The bloody executions, the behaviour of the crowds —’ he said. ‘No lady should bear witness to that and you will suffer for it. I would Caleb had not listened and taken you straight home. I know, I know.’ He raised his hands as if to fend off words I’d not yet uttered. ‘He’d no choice.’ He gave a small smile to remove any rebuke from his words. ‘You’re an obstinate woman, for certes.’