The Locksmith's Daughter

by Karen Brooks

  His tone was conciliatory, but his expression contradicted it.

  ‘Nothing can touch the souls of those men now. Traitors or misled Catholics, they are before the Great Judge whom we all face. Before Him they will find justice, whether or not one believes they received it this day.’

  My throat grew tight. His words were both reassuring and, because they dared to offer even a modicum of comfort, perilous. Yet he was only articulating what many would be thinking.

  ‘Thank you, my lord. Your words offer some consolation where I thought none could be found.’

  He stepped towards me and for one wild moment, I thought he would kiss me. God’s teeth, I wanted him to. I moved towards him then paused, barely stopping myself. Colour filled my cheeks.

  ‘See her safe, won’t you, Caleb?’

  ‘Aye, my lord,’ said Caleb, and meant it.

  As soon as his lordship had disappeared up the street and into the crowds outside the church of St Andrew Hubbard, Caleb turned to me. ‘You have won yourself a heart, methinks.’

  I stared at Caleb’s twinkling eyes, the smile he tried and failed to repress. ‘I know what you’re thinking, you varmint, so cease immediately. Lord Nathaniel expressed only what any gentlemen would.’

  ‘Oh, so he’s a gentleman now, is he? A far cry from how you once described him.’

  I stared in the direction Lord Nathaniel had gone, but there were too many people, too many horses, to see him. ‘It is, isn’t it?’ I murmured.

  We turned and walked back to Harp Lane, choosing the back alleys so we didn’t pass the workshop on Tower Street. We didn’t speak again until we reached the gate.

  ‘Thank you for being with me,’ I began. ‘You’re a good friend. I … I … am so sorry you were. It was …’ My voice petered out. There were no words.

  ‘I could not permit you to suffer such a sight alone.’

  I lowered my head, then quickly raised it again. ‘Please, Caleb, don’t mention what I did to my parents,’ I said, pausing outside the gate, trying to fix my hair, my coif, gazing in despair at the state of my skirts.

  ‘What sort of lackwit do you take me for?’ He regarded me strangely, then shook his head. ‘Your will is my command, lady,’ he said with forced gaiety. ‘If I had my way, I would never speak of it again, but I fear we must.’ He glanced down the street. Folk strolled about the cobbles, bargaining with fruiterers, drinking a pint outside the ale-house, stamping their feet to keep warm, chasing a dog or errant child, their conversation plumes of white that lingered briefly in the air. Oblivious to what had happened miles away, to the manner in which the three priests had died, their lives continued.

  ‘All who stood there in that bloody square must speak of such violence, such desecration of the spirit. It’s our duty whether we be reformers, Puritans or Catholics.’

  I threw my arms around Caleb and drew him close, just as the bells began to toll. Waiting until the last echoes died, I whispered, ‘If you must talk of it, then be careful how and to whom you do. It’s not safe.’

  Caleb pushed me away and tipped his head to one side, his expression cautious. ‘You’re assuming I would take the part of Campion and his peers in Christ, decry their fate?’

  I didn’t answer straight away. I took in Caleb’s wild eyes and pale cheeks. His perturbation was great, a sure sign he would seek the solace of his quill as soon as possible. I only hoped what he wrote would not see him meet the same end as those at Tyburn.

  ‘I do. Am I wrong?’

  ‘Aye and no. You’re not. I would decry the fate of any who met such an end. I will write of what I saw, put words in my characters’ mouths, ensure in the worlds I create at least such … such barbarity doesn’t happen again. I would argue for tolerance, that we embrace the Queen’s dictum and not make windows into men’s souls. Seems to me, whatever we do, wherever we look these days, we see traitors. I don’t believe that’s always the case, and would share this view. I know there are others who feel the same.’ He paused and I wondered, as he took my hands in his, if Lord Nathaniel came into his mind too. ‘I’m safe when I reveal my intentions to you, aren’t I, Mallory?’

  I thought of the way his plays were oft-times critical of the Queen and our faith, and of Catholics, too. Then I considered the locked chest in his room and wondered what was within it. I loathed myself for it. That was the way Samantha Short would think. When it came to Caleb, I was first and foremost his friend, his confidant. To be otherwise was to doom myself to a life of solitude and suspicion, of more of what we witnessed today.

  He flicked my arm gently. ‘You’re taking far too long to respond.’

  ‘Oh, Caleb, forgive me. You’re safe with me. Always.’

  ‘There was a time, I never doubted. Only …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve changed, Mallory.’

  I moved to open the gate. ‘Have I? In what way?’

  Now it was Caleb’s turn to hesitate. ‘You’re not the woman you once were.’

  ‘What was I?’

  ‘Malleable.’

  With a kiss on my cheek, he pushed past me and entered the yard, holding the gate so I might follow. We snuck into the house as quietly as we could — the noises of the kitchen were loud — and moved swiftly into the hall. I daren’t leave my grubby cloak or gloves in the entrance. The bottom stair creaked as I stepped upon it. Wincing, I shrugged an apology to Caleb, who’d ascended to the landing without making a sound. Why, he was lighter on his feet than Latch.

  Comfort chose that moment to come out of the parlour, a tray balanced against her hip. As none of the candles had been lit, the hall was quite dim, and she failed to see the state of our clothes or the looks of dread upon our faces as she happened upon our intrusion.

  ‘Well, well, where have the two of you been, pussy-footing around the house in such a manner? I thought you at work, mistress and you the theatre, Master Caleb. I was wrong in those assumptions, wasn’t I?’

  ‘Ah, not so much,’ said Caleb brightly. ‘For certes, I saw some macabre theatre today.’

  I glared at him before we both muttered about change of plans. Comfort’s eyes narrowed. Perchance there was something in our tone or awkward manner, but when we requested food and drink brought to our rooms, instead of insisting we fetch it ourselves, Comfort agreed.

  Stepping closer, squinting to see me better in the shadows, she raised a hand towards my face. ‘Are you hurt, mistress?’

  Dear God. Hurt, hollow, scraped from the inside and filled with a great dark emptiness. I caught her hand before she could touch me, folding my fingers around her hand.

  ‘I’m but tired, Comfort. Weary of the world and seeking the privacy of my chamber.’ Upon seeing her expression, I added, ‘I fear I have a megrim coming; I’ve pleaded ill and come home.’ Not such a great lie. I was heartsore and sickened.

  ‘Ah,’ she said. I’d given her something she could deal with. ‘I’ll bring a posset and something for that mark on your face, too,’ she said, and then tried to see Caleb, who’d taken the opportunity to make his way further up the stairs. ‘Would you like some extra feathers, Master Caleb?’

  ‘Not today, Comfort. Today I will read rather than write. Replenish the well of my imaginings. Adieu, sweet ladies,’ he said, and practically bolted up the stairs.

  With a small smile for Comfort, I followed.

  Voices drifted from Mamma’s room. Angela and Widow Dorothy. They were heated, shrill. In no mood for an interrogation, afraid Angela might choose that moment to open the door and catch me, I moved swiftly past.

  My room was still warm, the embers of last night glowing in the fireplace. Taking off my clothes, I brushed the worst of the dirt from the hem of my cloak and my skirts, hanging them out the window as I did so the evidence would not collect on the floor. I combed out my hair and tended the fire, happy only when it was crackling fiercely and throwing light and warmth into every corner. Staring into its depths, images from Tyburn arose and I saw naught but the br
azier and the foul fuel fed to the flames, the executioner’s arms streaked with blood. I shuddered. No heat would melt the frost accumulating in my soul.

  Hot water was brought, a fresh soap and drying sheet, and a fine repast of warm pottage, cold chicken, soft cheese and manchet. Comfort even delivered a ewer of claret. Hovering in the hope I might explain my unkempt appearance, if not my state of mind, she soon gave up and waited only until I’d taken the posset. With a loud harrumph at my thanks, she left me alone.

  I picked at the food, poured myself some wine and then washed, gently at first, but I soon began rubbing so vigorously that the flesh turned red and my arms burned.

  With a cry of frustration, I threw the cloth into the bowl, dirty water splashing and striking the fire, the hiss reminding me of the morning. Dear God in heaven, nothing would ever be the same again. That was not true. I sank onto the floor, my head in my hands. Lord Nathaniel was right. It would just take time.

  Pushing my hair back, I sat up. Did I regret going to Tyburn? Regret was not the right word. I regretted running away with Raffe, but witnessing the priests’ deaths? It was the manner of their deaths I regretted and wished I could change, not that they had died or that I beheld their final moments. I owed it to my work for Sir Francis, to my own conception of justice, to see where our watching and listening, all our detailed reports, led.

  I’d seen death before, many times. Mamma’s wee babes, precious little scraps of bloody flesh that never breathed. When Goody Kat next door died, I helped prepare her body. Oft-times the poor passed where they slept, propped against a house or church only to be found once their skin was cold, their eyes opaque, the following morning. The streets were littered with dead animals: cats, dogs, butcher’s refuse, rats, their corpses pecked by hungry birds. Then there were the plague carts rumbling through the lanes, the white-blue limbs of the dead jutting from beneath the cloths thrown over their indignity. Aye, death haunted the city and our lives the way mist did the winter morns.

  Then there was the death I tried not to think about … the one for which I’d yet to pay penance.

  I sought my locket.

  How long I sat, the memories crowding my head as the shadows lengthened in my chamber, I knew not. It was a cock’s startled screech that brought me back to the present. The afternoon was growing dark, and fingers of dusk slowly claimed the room. I tried to read Ovid’s poems, but my head was unable to contain their optimism after the doom of the morning. As I replaced the book on the table, Papa’s voice carried across the yard, ordering something from the kitchen. Comfort replied and shortly there was the sound of boots on the path and pounding on the workshop door. The cow bellowed, a cat mewled, and the bells chimed across the city once again.

  I didn’t remember feeling so tired, so drained. Certain sleep would claim me, instead I lay awake, unable to cancel images of blood, the cheers of the spectators and cries of utter horror. The screams of pain and terror of the priests played over and over. Madness ruled for those hours, a devil-induced lunacy that had no place on earth.

  I remembered when Master Fodrake and I read The Iliad. How Achilles slew Prince Hector and then, in an act of wanton cruelty, sliced his victim’s ankles and ripped out his tendons and used them to tie him to the back of a chariot before dragging him around and around the walls of Troy so Hector’s family might see his contempt for his enemy’s corpse — and how much disregard he had for them. But the gods saw it too, and Achilles was punished for his lack of respect for the dead, who belonged to Hades. Achilles paid the ultimate price.

  Would the men responsible for what happened today also be punished? Would I? The thought made me tremble. Yet it was no more than I deserved. Had I not caused their deaths as well? Helped unlock their secrets and expose them to the world? Instead of keys and metal, I’d used disguises and falsehoods.

  I lay on my back, my hands behind my head, staring at the ceiling and the patterns the flames made upon the plaster. They undulated and twisted, much like the men on the scaffold.

  Sir Francis knew what awaited Campion and the others. He’d endorsed it. The same punishment awaited all Catholic traitors. If this was so right and godly, if these priests deserved their fates, why then had Sir Francis seen fit to interfere, to guarantee the outcome by adding Campion’s name to Sledd’s list? If his rationale was that they were doomed the moment they stepped on our shores and defied our laws, then why add Campion’s name to Sledd’s dossier? Such an action undermined his staunch principles. It also undermined mine.

  Though I didn’t feel close to God this day, I prayed to Him for the strength to discuss this with Sir Francis. I also prayed for the souls of the three men who had died, and for Mister Secretary and his misplaced ideals. I prayed for Caleb, that whatever it was he was doing with that chest was not against Queen and country — I could not bear it if he were to meet the same kind of fate as Campion — and I prayed for Mamma, that she would see sense and give up the old faith. I prayed for Papa, that his eyesight would improve. I also prayed that, despite what I’d done and the many sins I’d committed, the lies I’d told, Papa would find it in his heart not only to forgive me, but to love me as well.

  I prayed and prayed, yet it seemed my pleas went unheard. Screwing my eyes tight to try harder, it was only when a sob escaped that I felt the tears cascading down my cheeks and onto my pillow.

  I don’t know how long I cried, only that at some point sleep claimed me. My dreams were filled with wailing, overlayed with images of dismembered bodies, people at prayer, Agnus Dei; Mamma in her bed, clutching her rosary beads; Caleb weeping. Sir Francis’s swarthy face appeared, calmly justifying his actions, extracting promise after promise from me; as I made them, I knew they would be broken. Even Raffe loomed, leering and larger than life, admonishing Papa, striking him with a whip, and tearing me away from him. Scarlet-stained sheets, lacerating pain, screams that rent my body and flesh, all merged.

  The only respite from my nightmare was a solitary image of Lord Nathaniel, his huge hands around my waist as he lifted me onto his horse, a look of disquiet filling his golden eyes — and, truth be told, my heart.

  PART FIVE

  Who Looks to Us Women?

  [The trial of Edmund Campion and fellow priests in the Tower of London is] the most pitiful practice that ever was heard of to shed innocent blood by the face of justice.

  — Father William Allen, 1581

  Indeed, I do not deny that men have arrogated to themselves a certain liberty; and this because they know that, according to universal opinion, a loose life does not defame them as it does women, who, due to the fragility of their sex, give in to their appetites much more than men and if they sometimes refrain from satisfying their desires, they do so out of shame and not because they lack a ready will in that regard.

  — Baldassare Castiglione, The Book of The Courtier: The Third Book, 1528

  But whenever you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret. And your Father who sees in secret will reward you.

  — Matthew 6:6

  THIRTY-FIVE

  SEETHING LANE, LONDON

  The 2nd of December, Anno Domini 1581

  In the 24th year of the reign of Elizabeth I

  When I arrived at Seething Lane the following day, Sir Francis was at Whitehall, as I’d half anticipated. Determined to wait for his return no matter the hour, I sat in my room trying to attend to my tasks as if this were simply another day and not a reckoning.

  Overnight, I made the decision that if I was to continue to work for Sir Francis, I had to know the nature of his relationship with Papa, their shared history and why it was kept secret. Perchance in learning this, I could reconcile myself to what Sir Francis had done.

  Restless, tired and disconsolate, desiring answers yet doubting how satisfying they would be and fearing the choices I may have to make, I decoded and ciphered the correspondence before me. Again there were letters requesting money from Sir Francis’s spies in
Paris, Northamptonshire and even Scotland, all of them requiring replies. There were two more intercepted from the Spanish embassy discussing the arrest of Campion and his sentencing. There were a number in French dealing with the impending collapse of the marriage negotiations between the Queen and the Duke of Anjou, one blaming Sir Francis outright, another pleading with the French court not to give up hope. There was even a ciphered report from an agent based in the Escorial that mentioned how King Philip had asked the Pope for a huge sum of money to fund the building of a fleet to attack England. I moved this letter to the top of my pile.

  With every cipher I formed, every word I wrote, I couldn’t help but consider how what I did would affect others. No longer was ferreting out secrets a game in which I was a master player. It had become a matter of life and death — potentially, a brutal and agonising one.

  With every passing hour my agitation grew, as did my determination to speak to Sir Francis. To gain from him … what exactly? Reassurances that what we did was right? That the priests deserved the manner of their deaths? That we weren’t simply executioners, slaying people with quills instead of swords? That we were delivering God’s justice?

  Long after sunset, when the watchmen had begun roaming the streets, their faint cries reminding folk to seek hearth and home, Thomas came to my door. Concentrating on my papers, I didn’t notice him at first.

  ‘So, you determined to wait.’ He leaned against the doorframe, his arms folded. His hair was in disarray and through the dirty lenses of his spectacles I could see the dark shadows ringing his eyes.

  ‘I told you,’ I said, my voice sharper than I intended. ‘I must speak with Sir Francis.’

  ‘I’m here to inform you he also wishes to speak with you. He’s in his office and awaits your pleasure.’

  With a calmness I didn’t feel, I replaced the quill in its holder, stood and smoothed my skirts. ‘Thank you, Thomas.’