by Karen Brooks
‘Where’s Papa?’ I asked. ‘Where has he been taken?’
‘Where all traitors are taken — to the Tower.’
I gave a small cry and sank into the chair. ‘Papa is no traitor.’
Sir Francis neither answered nor sought to comfort me. This was no longer a father before me, but Her Majesty’s spymaster.
I took a deep breath. ‘Sir, forgive me. I know I should have reported Caleb and the goods in his possession to you long ago. Verily, I was torn. But this has nothing to do with Papa. I beg you to release him.’
‘On the contrary, Mallory, it has everything to do with Gideon.’ He held up his hand to silence the protests I hadn’t yet formed.
‘Caleb has been released and even now is on his way to Warham Hall.’
‘Released? Why? How?’
‘Your father and I reached an agreement. In return for the name of the person to whom the chest and seditious material belongs, and a full confession, Caleb Hollis was set free.’
I shut my eyes. Oh dear Lord, please do not desert me now.
I opened them again. ‘To what has Papa confessed?’
‘To treason.’ Sir Francis’s voice was flat, lifeless.
No. I fought to stay calm. ‘Papa would never involve himself in Catholic affairs, in treason.’
‘Would he not?’ asked Sir Francis gently. I knew he spoke of Mamma’s recusancy.
‘That was different and you know it, sir. In fact, you too turned a blind eye to Mamma’s faith and her refusal to convert.’
‘Your mother wasn’t involved in a plot to suborn good English souls. Furthermore, she kept her promise and raised you a Protestant.’
‘Papa is innocent. I know he is,’ I sat on the edge of my seat. ‘You do too.’
‘Innocent of plotting, mayhap, but he’s guilty of being in possession of papist propaganda. He’s admitted as much. Just as he confessed that he ordered Caleb to keep the chest in his room.’
‘I don’t believe it. No. No. Papa would never … It cannot be.’
‘But it is. He’s admitted this is the case. Your father is condemned from his own mouth.’
Good God. This was worse than I suspected. No wonder Caleb couldn’t reveal the name of his friend — it was Papa all along. No doubt he’d been sworn to secrecy.
God damn secrets. I buried my face in my hands. How could I have been so blind? I should have forced Caleb to tell me … only I didn’t believe there was a friend, did I?
‘Why?’ My voice so small, the deed so large.
Sir Francis made a noise of disgust. ‘Because he was given no choice.’
I raised my head. ‘By whom?’
‘By the scoundrel Raffe Shelton.’
My blood turned to ice.
Suddenly, the conversation earlier that day began to make sense. Raffe’s snide references to Papa, to his profession; his suggestion that Papa was both co-operative and helpful; his thinly veiled threats to me. It’s why Lady Joanna knew naught of me, but could speak of Papa. When did they meet? Why had Papa agreed to keep such material? Especially when he knew what it signified, and the consequences.
‘The chest and contents are Raffe’s?’
‘Aye. We’ve known the Sheltons had papist sympathies — why, his father was arrested for harbouring priests — but how far his son’s networks extend, we’re only now beginning to understand.’
‘I am afraid I do not.’
‘Mark me well, Mallory,’ began Sir Francis, taking his seat. ‘According to Gideon, some time ago Shelton wrote to him and asked for a lock to be made. Of course, your Papa refused and threatened the scoundrel with all kinds of consequences. It was then that Shelton said if he didn’t do as he asked, he would go public with what had happened between you and him. He would shred your reputation and make your name a byword. He would declare you weren’t a widow but a whore.’
I flinched.
‘At first, your father laughed; he refused to listen and told him no-one would believe him. Then the varlet hinted there’d been a child; that you’d ensured it didn’t live. He not only claimed there were witnesses, but sent your father copies of sworn affidavits, said those who signed were prepared to swear in court it was God’s truth. He claimed, and these testimonies supported him, that you murdered your babe.’
I swallowed, drew a deep, deep breath and released it slowly.
My mind flew back to the moment I told Papa, the way he’d initially recoiled from me. Dear God. He’d been told the exact same thing by Raffe. No wonder Papa was so enraged. No wonder he had been so vehement in extracting a promise of secrecy from me. Raffe was blackmailing him. He must have felt trapped. Oh, what must Papa have thought when I’d told him? Even knowing how Raffe viewed events, how he would represent me, Papa had exonerated me, tried to free me from the guilt that consumed me. Raffe even claimed there were witnesses. Of course, Katherine and Agnes. The poor souls. What had he done to them to elicit their testimonies? Anger and apprehension rolled over me. I felt light-headed and fought for clarity. Dear God, the man was a rogue of the worst degree — and a papist. How dare he use my failings to blackmail Papa, to use our family to further his subversive schemes.
Nonchalance, nonchalance. I worried my locket. I tried to think what to say, to make sense of this tale.
‘Was there a child?’ The voice was cold as iron.
I stared at Sir Francis, the man who called himself my father. Should I confess my sin? Did I trust him with such a secret? With little Gideon’s soul? No, I didn’t — and I’d promised Papa. A promise, this time, I intended to keep.
I rested my hand against my throat. ‘Raffe always embellished the truth. There was no child, but there could have been.’ My words were not exactly false … ‘It’s clear he intended to ruin me for what I did, not only for escaping from his clutches and threatening to expose him, but also for wounding him. No doubt he threatened these so-called witnesses as well.’
Sir Francis nodded gravely. ‘I wish you’d never stabbed him.’ I was about to make a bitter retort. ‘I wish you’d killed the blackguard.’
Startled, I shrank into my chair.
Before I could respond, he continued. ‘Gideon couldn’t, wouldn’t risk such a story getting out.’
Especially not once I confirmed it. My stomach heaved.
‘He agreed to Raffe’s demands,’ continued Sir Francis, ‘even knowing he courted peril. He’d said he’d no choice but to take Caleb into his confidence. Hollis happened upon him the night the chest was delivered and saw the contents. Shocked by what they found, but knowing they could say nothing, they agreed to hide it. Your father went ahead and made a complex lock. What Shelton still doesn’t know is that Gideon fitted it with a device that would spray ink upon any who tampered with the opening and who were not in possession of the correct keys. He wanted the authorities to be able to find the traitors more easily.’
‘You see,’ I said, leaping to my feet. ‘That proves it. Papa always intended you to find the real traitors. He worked with the government, not against.’
‘The Privy Council, Her Majesty, will not see it that way. Anyway, while that may have been his intention, something changed. It appears he gave the correct keys to the men he believed to be acting with Shelton when the chest was collected.’
I knew what had changed. My secret. Oh dear sweet Lord. My confession had bound Papa even closer to Raffe, embroiled him further in the man’s treachery.
‘Then you must convince them otherwise.’ I strode up to him and grabbed his shoulders before releasing them quickly. ‘Forgive me, but this is my father’s life. You must do whatever you can to have him released. Please, I beg of you. You know Papa is a good man, he would never do anything to hurt the Queen, to hurt this country. He’s a Protestant, a devout man.’
‘Devout may be overstating it,’ said Sir Francis, indicating I should sit. ‘But he is a good man.’
‘He’s your old friend, remember?’ I dared, leaning over the desk. ‘If ever he
needed a friend, one with whom he shares so much —’ I paused, ‘more than most — it’s now.’
Sir Francis’s eyes were unfathomable. ‘You think I would not do what I could for Gideon?’ I refused to look away. ‘Mallory, you don’t understand. This is too big. Someone must pay.’
My stomach clenched. ‘Aye, Raffe Shelton. Not Papa.’
‘Shelton will pay. When we find him.’
‘He’s not in custody?’ My heart fell into my shoes. ‘I saw him today, in Southwark. At the Lewes Inn …’
‘My men are searching but thus far he’s eluded us. No doubt he is cowering in a Catholic safe house somewhere.’
Sir Francis poured himself a drink. The splash of the liquid seemed incongruous during such a conversation. I wanted to pick up the goblet and dash it in his face. My fists clenched, I tried to draw on the mediocrita that had served me for so long. It was elusive. My passions were stirred, my fears as well. This was life and death. This was my Papa … my father …
Sir Francis put his goblet down. ‘You should have told me about this chest, Mallory. In failing to mention the presence of these books, you’ve allowed me to waste valuable time and resources and thus enabled more Catholics to enter our shores. You’ve given them not only a sense of security, but made it genuine. All this time we’ve been looking in the wrong place, watching the wrong people.’ He leaned across the desk. ‘You’ve made us, made me, look like fools.’ He fell back into his chair. ‘I do not like being made to look a fool.’
‘Then I fear you will continue to look one, sir, for Papa is not your man.’
Sir Francis gave a harsh, mocking laugh. ‘If you were not my daughter, I’d have you placed in chains for such a statement.’
Here was my chance. ‘But I am your daughter.’ I came around to the other side of the desk and knelt at his feet. ‘And, as your daughter, I beg you, please do not allow Papa to go to trial. We both know what will happen if it proceeds. The weight of evidence is against him. Yet all he is guilty of is protecting me. It’s Raffe Shelton you want. It’s Raffe Shelton who should be in the Tower.’
Sir Francis was unmoved.
‘Please,’ I said softly. ‘I’ve only ever asked one thing of you … Can you not do this as well? Can you not free him? For me?’
Without looking at me, Sir Francis replied, ‘No, Mallory, I cannot.’ He swung back. ‘This has gone further than I ever intended. There are too many in the Privy Council invested in the outcome of this for me to seek clemency — especially for Gideon. They know we share a past; that we’re friends. If I treat him differently, it weakens my position. I’ve released Caleb, I cannot let them both go. Gideon knew that. He insisted Caleb be freed. As much as it pains me to admit it, we must let justice run its course.’
I saw the truth of this statement in his eyes.
‘This is not justice and you know it.’
‘Perchance I do, but that doesn’t change anything. The best I can do is insist Thomas Norton go lightly on him.’
‘Rackmaster Norton?’ The room spun. There were few who didn’t tremble at the sound of that man’s name. Caleb knew him as the co-author of the play he’d performed so much over the last twelve months, Gorbuduc. To others, he was Sir Francis’s principal torturer. ‘But Papa has confessed …?’
‘Enough. Mallory, as much as I might want to, I cannot change events already set in motion. This must play out to its conclusion. Your father was a fool, a well-intentioned fool, but a fool nonetheless. If only he’d come to me when Shelton first approached him, then none of this would have happened. He did not. You did not.’
I knew why Papa had not. He feared Raffe’s accusations were true, even then. Once I had confirmed them, Sir Francis would be the last person he’d seek out. Hadn’t he made me swear to keep silent? Hadn’t he sought to keep me safe, to protect me — even from my own father?
Understanding Sir Francis was about to leave and that my chance to plead would be lost, I threw myself at him. ‘Please, father, please —’
He raised his arms, refusing to hold me.
‘Do not beg, Mallory. And do not use our relationship to manipulate me. It does not become you.’
Fury rose in me. I sat back on my heels, gazing up at him. ‘Why, sir, I seem to remember you using our relationship to strike your own bargains — and not only with me.’
A look of anger flashed across his face then quickly segued into something else. Sir Francis shook his head, a grimace on his lips. ‘You will not sway me. Now, remain here while I see to final orders. I do not want you rushing about the streets trying to save Gideon, even if you do have Nate at your beck and call.’
It was now night, and Lord Nathaniel was still outside. I wondered how much he’d heard, if our voices had carried.
Sir Francis left, turning the key in the lock as he did so. He would not risk me fleeing, though where I’d go, I wasn’t sure. I could no more break Papa out of the Tower than I could stop what now seemed inevitable — his torture.
Cold gripped me; a great wall of ice formed in my middle, weighing me down. Oh Papa. He would not be spared but examined by a master of the cruellest instruments known to man, instruments that would illicit answers from any who met them. I wanted to bang my fists against the door, scream my frustration, my impotence. Oh, to be a man, to be of Lord Nathaniel’s stature and to force my way.
I scrambled off the floor, slumped into the chair and stared at the candles. What skills did I have? What could I offer? Papa, you foolish, wonderful man; I’m not worthy of your love …
The flames began to thicken and distort as tears filled my eyes. Marry! This was no time for womanly weakness. Brushing the tears away, I sniffed loudly, searching for my kerchief. It was then I noticed the piece of furniture Sir Francis took pride in above all others — his black cabinet. The repository of all his secrets. It had a complicated three-stage lock, a lock that Papa had designed and made.
As I gazed at it, my mind began working furiously. Did not Sir Francis accuse me of using my relationship with him to secure an outcome he disliked? Did I not accuse him of the same? Would Papa be granted a trial, a fair reckoning of the evidence and the right to defend himself? Or was he, as I suspected, to be a scapegoat? What if Sir Francis or one of his lackeys doctored the evidence, in the same way he’d doctored Sledd’s dossier to include Campion’s name? What chance had Papa then?
None. I could not risk letting this happen. An idea at once so awful and so incredible began to form. I dismissed it. But it would not lay dormant. Oh, dear sweet Jesus. Did I dare? Could I?
I glanced over my shoulder, suddenly grateful that Sir Francis had locked me in. It would give me a few seconds of extra time should I be caught. Though I had none of my tools, I was in possession of alternatives that would more than suffice. The day had been windy and I’d used a number of pins to secure my hat to my hair. Removing two, I ran one back and forth through the candle flame before bending one end into a hook.
I lifted one of the candelabras and held it over the cabinet so I might see the locks and their workings more clearly. It was as I suspected — behind the faceplate. Sliding the faceplate back, the main lock was exposed. At the side was another. There was also a small knob, easy to miss unless you knew exactly where to look.
Placing the candles atop the cabinet so the light fell downwards, I slid back the rather plain panel to expose two rare trefoil-shaped keyholes. Papa had made only two of these kinds of locks, and though it had been years since I had unpicked them, I’d not forgotten. It was a triple mechanism. Inserting first the straight rod, I moved it around slowly, feeling the wards and tumblers inside. Confident, I paused. There were raised voices outside, and I worked swiftly. Sliding the bent rod beside the straight one, I matched movements, then hooked a tumbler. First one, then two, then three. Repeating this in the second keyhole, I used my mouth to hold the rods in place, reaching around the side to twist the knob. Turning it the opposite way to what would be expected, I heard the final
bolt retract. Forced to breathe in and out through my nose, a sickly sweet smell emanated from the lock. With a start, I recognised it. Oh Papa … how clever … how deadly. Withdrawing the rods ever so cautiously, I opened the door, extracting my instruments carefully as I did. If I made one wrong move, a blast of poison would strike me in the face.
In the shadowy interior, I could just discern the rows of drawers and shelves. I didn’t need to move the candelabra; I knew what to look for. There, atop a stack of carefully bound papers, was Sir Francis’s Book of Secret Intelligences. I placed it on the desk and quickly relocked the cabinet, respectful of the deadly substance lurking within.
I replaced the candles and, with my back to the door, moved to the other side of the desk and quickly shoved the book down my bodice. I rearranged the ties and buttons, so it sat flat against my chest, then used my partlet to hide the top. I put my cloak over my shoulders and clasped it at the neck, then sat on the very edge of my seat. I cast my eyes over the cabinet. There was nothing to show I’d opened it. Except … a tiny drop of pale wax, no bigger than a tear, perched on the very edge of the decorative capping.
I leapt to my feet, intending to scrape it off with my fingernail, when I heard the key turn in the door. I sat down again quickly.
I prayed he would not see it, would never imagine that I would do something so underhanded as to steal the most important book in his possession. A book that, if it were to fall into the wrong hands, would expose his network of spies, the codes they used, the information they’d uncovered and any plots, plans and people under suspicion. A book that could compromise the country.
If I could not bargain for Papa’s life with this, then I knew not what else I could do. Wondering how I could make my exit without arousing suspicion, I heard Lord Nathaniel’s voice.
‘You locked her in the room? What sort of a man are you to do this to one of your own?’
Pushing past Sir Francis, Lord Nathaniel strode straight towards me and helped me up. With one arm across my chest, as if I was holding together a breaking heart, I adopted the most forlorn of faces.
