by Karen Brooks
My heart hammered.
‘I’m uncertain what this has to do with me, sir.’
Sir Francis smiled, and this time it reached his eyes. ‘Oh, everything. You see, in the past, any Catholic propaganda was distributed by those travelling for business — merchants, tinkers, itinerant workers. They move from town to town, village to village, without arousing suspicion. If you recall, Campion himself pretended to be a jewel merchant.’
Pushing aside thoughts of Campion and the overwhelming sadness and confusion that attended them, I focussed on what Sir Francis was saying.
‘Aware we’re watching them,’ he continued, ‘the Catholics have changed tactics. We now believe they’re using troupes of actors to spread their lies and sedition.’
‘Actors?’ Oh.
‘Have you heard of Yeardley’s Men?’
I had.
‘About two months ago, we discovered a priest among them. Posing as a stage hand, he was able to travel about the counties over summer, delivering masses and hearing confessions. We captured him at an inn outside Norfolk — his meagre congregation too.’
‘Did … did the other players know?’
‘If they did, we were unable to elicit a confession.’
I swallowed.
‘Needless to say, the Master of Revels withdrew their licence. Those men will never perform again under that banner. What happened with Yeardley’s Men has also happened with two smaller groups. This has alerted us to the importance of watching the troupes — those with licences and those performing without. I’ve men positioned to gather information. If you take up a post with Lord Nathaniel, it would mean I have eyes and ears there as well.’
‘So, I’m to watch Lord Nathaniel?’ I shifted on my seat, leaning away from the fire. I was becoming uncomfortably warm.
‘You’re to watch his players. I do not suspect Nate of harbouring papist sympathies — or priests, for that matter.’
I could not help but feel a modicum of relief.
‘As for his men,’ continued Sir Francis, scanning a document he lifted from the many piles atop his desk, ‘I’m not so confident. It’s them I want you to watch and report immediately if you see if anything amiss. You know what to look for. You’ve been well trained. Aye, placing you with Nate could work very well — for all of us.’
My thoughts flew to Caleb … the play he was writing … the plays he’d written. Thus far, he’d avoided arrest. But for how long? I couldn’t forget what he said after Campion’s execution, how it was our duty to speak out against atrocities, especially when they were enacted as justice. And how his characters would do just that.
Keeping my expression impassive, I nodded. ‘So, I will observe and listen to goings-on and report no more or less?’
‘No more or less. As companion to Beatrice, Nate will expect you to attend the theatre. You can familiarise yourself with the players, their movements, learn what you can.’ Sir Francis began to twirl one of his quills. It was distracting. ‘Is not your lodger part of his troupe?’
‘Caleb. Caleb Hollis.’ My throat was dry. ‘He’s their principal writer and one of the lead players.’
‘Excellent,’ said Sir Francis, casting the quill aside. ‘Verily, he will be a fine source of information. Encourage him to discuss the men he works with, draw him out.’
‘If that is what I must do.’
There must have been something in my tone, for Sir Francis shot me a strange look.
‘Does this not please you, Mallory? Did you not suggest Lord Nathaniel yourself?’
‘I did, but not so I might continue my duties as a watcher whilst beneath his roof. I confess, sir, this is not what I intended.’
He looked at me sharply.
‘But it’s what I intend. Mallory, you asked for my help and as your current employer and as your father, even if he wasn’t already inclined to offer you work, I’m offering it. I will write a glowing reference for you, such that Nate could not refuse your services —’
‘On the condition I spy for you.’
‘Exactly. Those are my conditions.’
Frustration, despair and a sense of how impotent I was to direct my own course arose. Even my father could not see it in his heart to help me, not unless he benefited from the arrangement. Only, it wasn’t just him, was it? The country had the advantage; our sovereign lady. Nothing else mattered. As much as it pained me, I had to acquiesce. Agree and pray Lord Nathaniel never found out.
‘As your employee, your watcher and as your daughter, I accept,’ I said, unable to meet his eyes. My disappointment in him, in myself, was too great.
I was ordered to spy not only upon a family from whom I sought employ and sanctuary, but upon my closest friend. The man who shared my deepest secret, who had witnessed Campion’s bloody death with me, and who, only two days ago, I had reassured was safe with me.
Then and there Sir Francis penned a letter to Lord Nathaniel and dispatched Casey, bidding me wait. I prayed with a fervour I’d not felt in a long time. I prayed that, if placed in a situation where my friendships were compromised, I’d have the strength to do the right thing — regardless of what I discovered. Did not my very own father, my flesh and blood, trust me to deliver us from Catholic evil wherever and whenever I could? Was it not what I wanted as well? To keep the country and all I loved within it safe?
What if it meant I had to make a choice? What would it be? I was no longer certain; just as I was no longer certain what was right and what was wrong any more.
PART SIX
Only Silence Will Protect You
No crooked leg, no blearéd eye.
No part deforméd out of kind,
Nor yet so ugly half can be
As is the inward, suspicious mind.
— Elizabeth I, c.1565
Oh wretched mother, half alive,
Thou shalt behold thy dear and only child
Slain with the sword while he yet sucks thy breast …
— Thomas Sackville and Thomas Norton, Gorboduc or The Tragedie of Ferrex and Porrex, 1561
FORTY
WARHAM HALL, KNIGHTRIDER STREET, LONDON
The 3rd of December, Anno Domini 1581
In the 24th year of the reign of Elizabeth I
Much to my astonishment (and Sir Francis’s, though he made an effort not to show it), less than an hour after the message was dispatched, Lord Nathaniel rode into the yard accompanied by his squire. Amid greetings, introductions (the squire’s name was Nicholas) and the rapid exchange of news, Lord Nathaniel’s eyes rarely left mine. Aware of his unrelenting gaze, I listened earnestly as my duties, conditions and retainer were discussed. Sir Francis explained that he was acting on Gideon’s behalf, a falsehood he intended to make good by writing to Papa after I left. Throughout all this, my heart behaved as if it wished to leave my body. I could not hold a thought down. Between noting how fine his lordship looked and wondering why I’d never noticed quite how distracting the lock of hair that fell across his brow was, and fearing he would see into my soul and uncover the growing number of secrets harboured there, I longed to escape the close confines of Sir Francis’s study.
I was not kept waiting too long. The bells chimed ten of the clock, their cry picked up and carried across the city. Nicholas lifted my burlap and carried it into the yard. The rest of us formed a procession behind him. The eyes of Sir Francis’s assistants didn’t dwell upon us — they well knew how to look without appearing to — but I could feel their curiosity and relief: relief that the woman Sir Francis had chosen to elevate was finally being restored to her natural place. Only Thomas’s gaze lingered, and when he was certain no-one was looking, he offered a salute, which I returned.
Sir Francis grasped my hand tightly in an unspoken message as I gave my second farewell of the morning. This caused no pain. Promising to write and visit when possible, I waved Sir Francis goodbye as I was led out of the yard by Nicholas, who’d surrendered to me his mount, a cream and fawn gelding called Tesoro. ‘Th
at be “treasure” in Italian, mistress,’ he informed me, completely unabashed when Lord Nathaniel laughingly told his squire he could not teach a language to someone who was already a master of it.
‘Oh, I was but repeating what Lady Beatrice told me, my lord,’ he said, ‘it being her pony and all.’
‘I’m honoured Beatrice would allow me her mount,’ I said.
‘She insisted, mistress,’ said Lord Nathaniel, doffing his cap to a gentlewoman watching from the window of her house. ‘Anything to ensure your safe arrival at Warham Hall.’
The light rain that accompanied me to Seething Lane just after dawn had dissipated, leaving puddles and mud for the horses to negotiate. I felt for Nicholas, whose fine livery was quickly splattered by the traffic as well as Tesoro’s hooves.
In single file, with Lord Nathaniel leading, we passed the beggars gathered outside Father Bernard’s church and made our way into Tower Street. The relief I felt when I saw Papa’s shutters were closed was replaced by worry. I guessed the reason and hoped the apprentices would soon welcome custom. Oh Caleb, Matt, please, please look to Papa.
Heading west, we entered Eastcheap and threaded our way through a crush of folk — vendors, goodwives and servants armed with baskets seeking to purchase a range of goods, as well as criers waving pamphlets above their heads, announcing everything from a new play to an outbreak of influenza. A group of children wove their way between us following a pastor, and I was certain I spied one picking the pocket of an unsuspecting woman who had paused to engage the pastor — who, on closer inspection, resembled a vagabond in stolen garb more than a man of the cloth. A posse of lawyers in their dark robes strode past, papers tucked under their arms, their faces inscrutable. The noise grew as we travelled and for a while we almost came to a halt as carts and other horsemen competed for space with those on foot. It wasn’t until we passed the London Stone, a great lump of rock in the middle of Candlewick Street where beggars congregated, that our passage was eased.
London’s streets were one cluttered, continuous chorus. I appreciated the advantage of being on horseback and drank in the sights. It wasn’t until we passed St John the Baptist and came into the relative peace of Horseshew Bridge Street that I inquired about our destination. Caleb had mentioned that Warham Hall was in London, but I didn’t know where it was.
‘Along here a little further, mistress,’ said Lord Nathaniel. ‘My family built the house during the reign of Henry IV. We’ve lived between there —’ he pointed to chimneys rising above the rooftops, ‘and our estates near Hampton Court ever since. Now it’s to be your home, too.’
My home? Oh how wonderful and equivocal that word had become.
I had to tip my head back to regard his lordship as he sat atop Bounty, his beautiful destrier. The horse magnified his height. His considered tone caught me unawares, tripping the tears I’d worked so hard not to shed.
‘Thank you,’ I mumbled, and pretended to be distracted by the flower seller approaching Nicholas, who refused her goods politely just as Lord Nathaniel crossed the street and entered the manor grounds.
Warham Hall was situated on the corner of Knightrider and Cordwainer Streets, at the top of Garlyck Hill.
‘Isn’t it splendid?’ said Nicholas as we followed his lordship through the open gates.
To say the least, Warham Hall was splendid. A three-sided building rising to four storeys, it was a rarity in that, apart from the roof, it was built completely from stone. Moss claimed the lower levels while the upper ones changed colour according to where the light struck them. The roof was shingled and possessed two small turrets.
A flurry of servants was unloading half a dozen carts parked in the middle of the yard filled with barrels of ale, haunches of meat, sacks of grain, strings of onions, root vegetables, baskets of eggs, pails of milk and bales of hay. The carts were emptied swiftly and I was astonished at the quantity of goods and wondered how many lived under the manor’s considerable roof. Amid the men scurrying to and fro stood an older, well-dressed man in livery directing where items were to be taken. There was chanting, shouting, whistling, the exciting barking of dogs and the cackle of a couple of stray chickens being stalked by two tomcats as well as pink-faced maids dodging the attentions of the men.
For all that the scene appeared to announce chaos, there was an orderliness to everything. It was as if the man in livery was conducting a group of musicians who all played different instruments that made a marvellous tune when commanded to play as one. It was not what I had expected at all.
Unaware of Lord Nathaniel at first, it wasn’t until the man in livery gave a shout that caps were whipped off heads and quick curtsies and greetings extended. An ostler tore over to place a box on the ground for me to dismount upon before taking the reins from his lordship.
Lord Nathaniel helped me and then began to issue instructions to the liveried man, who was clearly his steward. I brushed off my skirts, aware of how untidy I must look. I should be the one carting milk and eggs, not being helped to dismount by the lord of the manor.
Holding out his arms, Lord Nathaniel gave a half-turn. ‘Welcome to Warham Hall, Mistress Mallory. This is Bede, my steward.’
The thin liveried gentleman doffed his bonnet.
‘And this is his wife, Mistress Margery.’ A woman of middling years wearing a plain coif and a beaming smile approached.
‘Welcome, mistress. That your belongings?’ She pointed to my burlap. Before I could answer, she gestured to a maid loitering nearby. ‘Take that to Mistress Mallory’s rooms in the western turret. Above Lady Beatrice’s suite.’
The peach-cheeked maid dropped a curtsey and took the burlap from Nicholas. Master Bede cleared his throat and spoke before his wife could continue. ‘Lady Beatrice is eagerly awaiting your arrival, my lord.’
‘Ah, eagerly, is she?’ His eyes creased and he flashed a set of very white teeth. Accustomed to his teasing, accusations or irony, the warmth in his voice unsettled me. I placed a hand across my stomach to steady myself.
‘When did you last eat, mistress?’ asked Mistress Margery, her eyes narrowing.
‘Why, I … I don’t recall.’ For certes, nothing had passed my lips that morning, I had been so eager to get away from Harp Lane and to Sir Francis. Once I’d arrived, he couldn’t be rid of me quickly enough. Sorrow descended and I worked to shuck it off.
Mistress Margery made a little click that bespoke kindness. ‘Well, that won’t do at all. Mary!’ She hailed another maid. ‘Go to the kitchens and see to it that Master Connor whips up something for Mistress Mallory here. Bring it straight to the family parlour.’
‘Aye, Mistress Margery,’ said Mary, a plump young woman with dark hair and pitted skin. She disappeared down a corridor.
‘Come then,’ said Lord Nathaniel. ‘Before Beatrice sends out a search party.’
Without further ado, we left Mistress Margery and followed Master Bede. Servants passed us as we ascended a wide wooden staircase, pausing to doff their caps, bow or curtsey as their curious eyes followed our footsteps. Master Bede called maids and footmen to attention with little more than a look or a pointed finger. There was a variety of accents, different hues of skin, many sets of dark flashing eyes and several who looked as though they belonged on the docks rather than beneath a splendid roof. I wondered where these men and women had come from. There were servants who looked no older than Dickon and some who were bent with age but not above smiling at his lordship. Why, there was a veritable army of them. All the carts began to make sense.
As I tried to take in my new surroundings I realised that many of the men I thought servants were in fact workers hired to paint and repair parts of the house. Plaster was being applied on the first landing, patching a wall with many gouges. The huge lantern windows were being cleaned, while above, the cumbersome chandelier was in the process of being lowered to the ground. Painters were at work in some of the rooms we passed and a sharp smell permeated the corridors. In another area, hammering re
sounded as damaged wainscoting was restored.
‘I’ve had to embrace renovations since I returned,’ explained Lord Nathaniel. ‘The house had fallen into disrepair.’ Master Bede gave a look of understanding.
We passed many tables and cupboards containing lovely objects — glass ornaments, a brass astrolabe, a bejewelled box open to reveal the long ivory-handled dagger within. Portraits adorned the walls, as did large tapestries depicting mostly Arcadian scenes. Candles burned in the darker corners and large windows admitted the grey light of day. The house was surprisingly warm, though the doors of many of the rooms that had fires burning had been left open, letting the heat escape. His lordship must indeed be wealthy if he could be so wasteful. Outside, the poor languished in churchyards and by the conduit; here there was heat and food aplenty. I wondered if Lord Nathaniel gave to his parish or if he alone benefited from such profligacy.
My doubts on that score were quickly assuaged. A few steps ahead, Lord Nathaniel and his steward stopped to talk to a workman who pointed at some panelling and frowned. Nicholas and I paused a polite distance away.
‘Workers be grateful his lordship ordered the fires burn all day,’ said Nicholas, rubbing his hands together. ‘It gets mighty cold in here, what with it being such a big house and all.’
I stared at Nicholas. ‘His lordship keeps the fires going for the workers?’ I glanced into the nearest room. Sure enough, a fire blazed in the hearth, and a rather burly-looking servant tossed more wood on the flames.
‘Oh, aye,’ said Nicholas, grinning and showing two missing teeth. ‘He remembers what it’s like to be cold and says he wouldn’t wish it upon anyone. Anyhow,’ sniffed Nicholas, ‘some of the servants aren’t used to the cold, not being from here and all.’
‘They’re from other lands?’ Suddenly the dark skin of two of the men, their flat noses and tightly curled hair, made sense to me. Another had a copper complexion covered in large dark freckles. His eyes were such a pale blue they were almost white. He carried a tray and nodded at his lordship and broke into a huge grin as he passed.
