The Locksmith's Daughter

by Karen Brooks

  I stood and wiped my hands. ‘Verily, I admit, I was wrong about him — quick to judge and take offence. Though he was churlish and more than a tad cupshotten when we first met, and inclined to dispute. Then there was the matter of his attire. But, as I’ve discovered, clothes do not maketh the man.’ I thought briefly of Raffe and his fine garments. Oh, they did not. I returned to my chair. ‘His sister, Beatrice, says he found it hard to adjust to the losses his family suffered, as well as having been away so long and enduring so much at sea.’

  ‘Allora, it was what set you at odds with each other — recognition you’d both suffered, and suffered while you were away from those who loved you best,’ said Angela. ‘Losses and the gulf that time apart creates, even between loved ones, can make strangers of friends and friends of strangers.’

  I regarded Angela with astonishment. I’d never before considered Lord Nathaniel and I had that in common. But we did. Hadn’t he experienced privations and violence for years on end, separated from hearth and home? And hadn’t he seen death? So much death. Then there was the woman who had betrayed his trust — a betrayal so great it not only broke his heart, but forced him to leave his home and his country. We had a great deal in common.

  Angela and I shared some soft cheese and wine, then went to Caleb’s room and packed what we could of his belongings. I could not yet face sorting Papa’s things. Angela promised to do it later.

  ‘Where do you think they’ll go?’ she asked, shaking one of Caleb’s shirts free from the mess upon the floor.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ I sat on the bed, staring at the devastation the constables had left. We’d managed to clear a little, though there were still papers strewn about and the wood upon the walls had been jimmied away, leaving a rain of fine splinters and exposing the struts and beams of the house. Angela was doing her best to beat the soot out of a brocade jacket that had been flung in the fireplace. ‘A great deal of that will depend on Sir Francis — if he demands a particular location, how much money he provides so they can resettle. Whether or not Caleb wishes to remain with us. I imagine somewhere in France, maybe Italy.’

  ‘You will go with your father?’ she asked softly.

  ‘Of course. There’s no question.’ Why then did the notion make me feel so very sad?

  Angela sank down beside me, the jacket mostly clean. She folded it and stowed it in the burlap. ‘If it were up to me, I would go back to Italy,’ she sighed.

  Papa had mentioned that Angela was struggling without Mamma, without someone to care for and talk to in her native tongue, someone with whom she could share memories of her youth. He said she felt a foreigner all over again, even though she’d lived here for nigh on eighteen years. He wasn’t sure what to do. Switching to Italian, I asked. ‘Would you return? I thought you were happy here?’ My gesture included the house, the city and country. ‘That when you left Italy, it was for good?’

  Angela sighed again, this time from her core — long, sad and deep. ‘It was never meant to be this long. I think, as you grow older and the world changes, you yearn for the familiar again. Maybe it’s your lost youth that makes you seek the places where you were young and happy. Perchance it’s just I want to see home once more before I die … ’ She shrugged. ‘Allora, I would like to go back.’

  ‘To Padua?’

  ‘I lived there only a brief time. I’m Venetian. It’s to Venice I would return.’

  Something in her tone, in her lovely hazel eyes, alerted me. I recalled our conversation about love. I’d wondered then how Angela, whom I’d never known to have a man, could be so aware. ‘Is that where he is?’

  She smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling into familiar wrinkles. ‘Not much gets past you, bella. Si, that is where he was. Whether or not he is still there?’ She shrugged. ‘I do not deserve such patience, as the good Lord knows.’

  ‘Patience?’

  ‘Si. A man can only wait so long … ’

  Twisting slightly to face her, I began folding a cloak. Half in her lap, half in mine, we picked up the ends of it and met in the middle. Angela passed it over to me to pack in the burlap, then rose and began to straighten the paper and discarded quills on Caleb’s desk.

  ‘When Valentina asked me to join her in Padua, I was keen. When she asked if I’d like to go to England and help her with you, I was thrilled. Imagine, for me, a girl born in Venice who’d never been further than Padua, the very idea of sailing to England was an adventure I couldn’t deny. My parents didn’t stand in my way and Guido — si, that was his name, Guido Sapienti — didn’t either. In fact, I went with his blessing.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Time. That’s what happened. When we first arrived here, it was so exciting. A new place, new people, there was you, the locksmithing business, and Valentina was pregnant. Again. When it was time for me to leave, she lost the babe, so I could not. When I was ready to leave again, she lost another, then another and another. Soon, the misery of her losses far outweighed my own. She needed me more than I needed Guido. I wrote to him explaining the situation.’

  ‘And?’

  She leaned on the windowsill and looked down into the yard. The noises of the chickens foraging drifted in. ‘I never heard back.’

  ‘Oh, Angela, I’m so sorry.’

  Angela turned around. ‘Don’t be. Oh, I was sad for a while. Most forlorn, as Caleb would say.’ She gave a wistful smile. ‘I don’t regret it, not really. By then I’d been here five years and Guido was but a memory. A lovely one,’ she smiled. ‘But faded. When I never heard from him, I imagined he’d found someone else. I prayed he’d find happiness. I hope he did.’

  ‘And what about you? Have you been happy?’

  ‘I was, very. Now …’ She screwed up her face. ‘Now, I am just tired. I’m scared. For your Papa, si, but most of all I’m scared for you. I want to see you settled, with a good husband, not embroiled in plots and plans and working for that man, even though he is your father.’ She gave a laugh. ‘Now, look, I wanted to distract you from your sadness, make you think of other things, and I’ve just succeeded in making you melancholy again — and on my behalf. I do not deserve such sympathy. I made my choice. And God be praised, I’m alive to either live or change it.’

  ‘Oh, never fear, you did make me forget Papa for a while.’ I continued to pack things into the burlap: ink, paper, fresh quills, a knife to sharpen them, books, scrolls, gloves, an extra bonnet. ‘What’s stopping you going home, Angela?’ I asked suddenly.

  ‘Why you, you silly chick. You and your Papa. You see, home is not just a place. It’s people, too. You and your Papa are my home. Wherever you go, so will I.’ She stroked my arm. ‘I’d be where I’m loved.’

  Why was love so difficult? Why did it always demand such choices of us? All or naught. I could face the truth. I’d lost my heart all right but I knew exactly where to find it — it was in the keeping of the man who both understood my sins and forgave them. All but one. Papa was the only man who could forgive me that. How could anyone but him, when I could not forgive myself?

  PART EIGHT

  Strange Visitors

  We must pray to God to grant us good masters, for, once we have them, we have to endure them as they are; because countless consideration force a gentleman not to leave a patron once he has begun to serve him: the misfortune lies in ever beginning: and in that case courtiers are like those unhappy birds that are born in some miserable valley.

  — Baldassare Castiglione, The Book of the Courtier: Book Two, 1528

  Gli sospiri ne sono testimoni very dell’angnoscia mia. My sighs are true witnesses to my sorrow.

  — Charles Bailly, servant of the Bishop of Ross, carved in the recess of the northernmost window of his cell in the Tower of London.

  Without torture I know we shall not prevail.

  — Sir Francis Walsingham to Lord Burghley

  FIFTY-TWO

  THE TOWER, LONDON

  The 20th of March, Anno Domini 1582

&n
bsp; In the 24th year of the reign of Elizabeth I

  The moon was a sliver of white surrounded by dusty clouds as we rode through the streets towards Middle Tower. A cold wind snapped at our cloaks, making the horses more frisky than usual, and they shied at shadows and unexpected sounds.

  The streets were mostly deserted. Some watchmen marched out with lamps and pikes held high, hailing those they spied to come forward. Trulls loomed in our path, hoping for custom, before vanishing again. We passed a group of beggars huddled together beneath the eaves of a church, trying to find warmth and comfort on this frigid night. I wondered how many of those we passed were Sir Francis’s men. Had I not donned such disguises and pretended so I too might watch unawares? Watch and report. The sensation of being followed had not left me all day.

  All too soon the vast dark ramparts of the Tower rose, the White Tower within them dominating the scene. The pennants snapped madly atop their poles, black figures moved between the crenulations, guarding those housed below. I cared for none but Papa and hoped and prayed he’d been treated well, though he had been marked as both traitor and enemy.

  Earlier in the day Lord Nathaniel and Sir Lance had been refused admittance to the Tower and thus had not set eyes upon him. They received no explanation and were turned away at the point of swords and pikes.

  ‘Knowing what was planned tonight, I didn’t argue,’ said Lord Nathaniel, and I could hear what such a surrender cost him. ‘Brace yourself, Mallory, I fear it does not bode well.’

  Chick Lane came up on our left and we turned down Petty Wales and the steep slope of Tower Hill towards the gate Sir Francis had designated for our meeting.

  Barely a word passed between us. Sir Lance and Lord Nathaniel were either side of me, their horses dark as midnight, the sound of hooves announcing our presence. Two guards rode with us, one ahead and one behind, each carrying a bright lantern aloft, their weapons on display to deter any thieves or rufflers — ex-soldiers who would turn their weapons upon travellers sooner than fight for their country.

  League’s Mount appeared on my left; Beauchamp Tower, where it was said the Earl of Leicester himself had once been held prisoner, peeped over the walls. We passed under a grand arch and arrived unscathed at the gate to Middle Tower. Behind us was Byword Tower, and between the two the black moat lapped the walls.

  We reined in the horses and waited. Tower constables came through the main gate, lanterns aloft.

  ‘Halt, who goes there?’ demanded a deep voice.

  Upon learning who we were, a messenger was dispatched back inside the Tower. Lord Nathaniel and Sir Lance dismounted. Lord Nathaniel spoke with the man who appeared to be in charge and pointed back towards the Tower and the complex of buildings and walkways swallowed by the darkness, which I knew so well from my work at Seething Lane.

  The moon passed behind a cloud, plunging us into tenebrosity, and I shuddered. My spine turned to ice and the feeling of dread I’d resisted all day refused to be ignored. Just then, the bells tolled the hour. Seven of the clock.

  On cue, guards emerged from beneath Byword Tower gate. They carried a man between them.

  ‘Papa?’ It could not be.

  I slid from the horse and ran forward. Lord Nathaniel put out his arm to stop me. ‘We are forbidden to go any closer,’ he said.

  The echo of the bells filled the night. The hollow trump of the soldiers’ boots upon the cobbles was loud, offering a counterpoint to the churches’ music. A raven launched itself from the parapets and went cawing into the night. I watched its flight, wondering if it was an omen. Light spilled from the constable’s lantern onto the forecourt, making the cobbles appear wet and slick. They seemed to be moving.

  I sucked in my breath and grabbed Lord Nathaniel’s arm. Why, they had the wrong man. Whoever this poor creature was, it was not Papa. Blood dripped from the ends of fingers that were blackened and swollen. His clothes were in tatters, his face puffed, bruised and cut. His legs were useless, dragging on the ground. It wasn’t until the guards came to a halt just feet away, their faces grim, that the person held between them emitted a heartfelt groan.

  ‘Papa,’ I cried.

  He raised his head. One eye latched onto me. There was so much blood. ‘I’m here, sweetling,’ he croaked.

  I tried to reach his side, but Lord Nathaniel caught me about the waist. ‘Mallory, wait.’ His lips were pressed against my hair. I could feel his heart beating. Its pace matched my own. Sir Lance had his hand on the pommel of his sword.

  ‘Stay,’ Lord Nathaniel warned him. In a loud clear voice he addressed the constables, slowly releasing me as he spoke. ‘Who is overseeing this matter?’

  ‘I am, your lordship,’ said a smooth and familiar voice. Looking like he was out for an evening stroll, Thomas emerged from under the gate, his yellow hair blue-grey in the moonlight, his pitted skin shiny. Behind the glasses, his eyes were unfathomable. ‘Mistress Mallory,’ he said, touching his cap. ‘Sir Lance Ingolby,’ he added, ‘and Lord Nathaniel Warham.’

  Somewhere, someone was taking note of our names, recording them for Sir Francis, for yet another chapter in the book that even now weighed heavily beneath my cloak. I scanned the darkness, but there were so many places to hide, windows and arrow slits from which we could be observed or fired upon. It was as if dozens of eyes were marking our every move, evaluating our motives. Had I not done the same? What would I have made of this tableau? How would I report it back to Sir Francis?

  But this was my Papa and I had to get him free. ‘Thomas,’ I said, and pried Lord Nathaniel’s fingers away carefully, squeezing them so he knew I was once more in control. Drawing on all my strength, all the nonchalance I could muster, I walked towards Thomas,

  ‘Do you have the goods?’ he asked.

  ‘I do indeed,’ I said. ‘But forgive me if I do not release them until Papa is safe with his lordship, safe and on the river.’

  Lord Nathaniel had organised his barge to be waiting at the river steps near the Traitors Gate. Fitting, but also convenient. Uncle Timothy would also be on board to offer physic. Dear God, Papa would need his care. From there, his lordship could have Papa rowed away — downstream, upstream, anywhere, depending how this played out.

  ‘Mallory,’ exclaimed Lord Nathaniel, coming up beside me. ‘Give him the book. This is no game.’

  ‘I do not play, my lord, but follow the rules I know so well.’ I stared back at him, praying he would understand my intentions. ‘I know the man and how he arranges the deck. This is how it has to be. Trust me, my lord, I beg of you. Take Papa and get him to your boat. See him safe. It has to be you.’

  Lord Nathaniel glanced at Thomas, then peered at me carefully. About to say something more, he appeared to change his mind. ‘Very well.’ He turned. ‘Lance, you remain with Mistress Mallory and see she comes to no harm. I will collect you both from our agreed place.’

  ‘As your lordship directs,’ said Sir Lance. He moved closer to me and stood looking at Thomas with contempt.

  ‘Will, Mark,’ said Lord Nathaniel to his men, pointing at Papa. ‘Take him. Gently.’ The men who’d accompanied us marched forward and, with great care, extracted Papa from the grip of the Tower soldiers. Papa let out a moan of pain before his head lolled, his eyes rolled back and he lost consciousness. Fury rose in me, fury and terrible presentiment.

  Lord Nathaniel was not fast enough to stop me this time. I darted forward. The guard called Mark passed his halberd to Bill, and hoisted Papa over his shoulder. For all that Papa was not a small man, he was like a broken doll being carted about.

  As Lord Nathaniel gave further orders to his men, I examined my father.

  ‘How could you allow this?’ I hissed at Thomas, my eyes full of tears, my words catching in my throat. I tried to lift Papa’s head, smooth his matted hair back from his forehead. Even in the poor light, I could see the dirt and blood streaking his cheeks. His entire body reeked of piss and shit. How the guard, Mark, could bear it, I knew not. But he did. Papa woul
d be so ashamed. I lifted one of his hands toward the light and saw his fingernails had been torn from their beds, some of his fingers were broken, nay, shattered. Likewise his feet, which were bare, were twisted and maimed. ‘How?’ I railed. ‘I was assured he would be spared this. The poor man had no chance to defend himself. No trial.’

  ‘He is a traitor,’ said Thomas flatly. How could I have ever have thought this man a friend? ‘He can be spared nothing.’

  ‘You don’t know that,’ I spat.

  ‘But you, apparently, do,’ he said calmly.

  ‘I know injustice when I see it. I know cruelty. Does Sir Francis know what you’ve done?’

  ‘Of course. He knows everything.’

  Dismay filled me, dismay and a deep, deep sadness.

  ‘Mallory, do not say things you might have cause to regret,’ said Lord Nathaniel quietly. ‘As soon as I have Gideon in the boat, give the man the book. I want you away from here, away from this place.’ He gazed up at the battlements, an anxious expression on his face. ‘I want you with me.’

  ‘I will be,’ I said. ‘Go. Go. I will join you.’

  Gesturing for Mark to precede him, he paused and spoke to Thomas. ‘I have travelled the world and in that time saw little to match this for barbarity,’ he said.

  ‘Then you did not look hard enough,’ said Thomas.

  Deciding Papa’s welfare was more important, Lord Nathaniel touched his cap, then his chest.

  ‘Cleave to her, Lance, she has my heart in her keeping.’ He clutched Lance’s shoulder. ‘Do not fail me.’

  Sir Lance nodded. We stood together and watched as Lord Nathaniel escorted Papa to where the boat waited in the darkness. At a signal, lamps were lit and it was rowed from the centre of the river towards the edge of the stairs. The tide was high and Mark didn’t have to struggle too far. Jumping into the barge, Will took Papa’s unconscious body from Mark and they lowered it onto the deck. With a last look back at me, Lord Nathaniel leapt on board and ordered the boatmen to cast off.