The Locksmith's Daughter

by Karen Brooks

  Only when the lights appeared to be floating in some vast dark space, and the splash of oars had faded, did I withdraw the book from my cloak. I held it out.

  ‘Here. Please, tell Sir Francis that if I thought there was any other way, I would not have acted so.’

  Thomas took it and gave a crooked grin. ‘I do not pass on messages from traitors.’

  ‘Traitors?’ I gave a harsh laugh. ‘Why, I am no —’

  ‘Guards,’ snapped Thomas. ‘Take her.’

  Before I could react, before Lance could draw his weapon, two of the Tower guards seized and disarmed him. His hands were wrenched behind his back and his own sword was held at his throat. Another guard grabbed me and pinned my arms.

  ‘What’s this?’ I shouted. ‘What are you doing?’ I began to struggle.

  ‘Unhand her,’ shouted Sir Lance. ‘If you do not, you’ll have Lord Nathaniel to answer to.’

  Noise appeared to erupt on the river. There were shouts and the smack of oars on water.

  ‘We don’t answer to Lord Nathaniel’s authority here, sir.’ Thomas spoke with such respect, he could have been conversing in a drawing room. ‘We answer to the Queen, and it is by her authority that I hereby arrest you, Mallory Bright.’

  ‘What are the charges?’ Sir Lance was enraged. Helplessly, he watched as I was wrestled towards the gate, the very same gate Papa had emerged from only minutes earlier.

  ‘Why? Why are you doing this?’ I cried to Thomas, who matched pace with me as we passed through the gate as if we were friends out for a stroll. ‘I had an agreement with Sir Francis — this was to be an exchange.’

  ‘And it is,’ said Thomas, ordering the portcullis closed behind us. ‘One traitor for another.’

  ‘There’s been a mistake, I’m no traitor.’ I tried to yank my arms free, but the guard’s grip was like a vice.

  ‘Oh, but you are, Mallory Bright.’ The great chains of the portcullis groaned as they were slowly wound, the metal teeth descending like a giant maw closing. As I watched it, a great weight crushed my chest, an overpowering sense of doom that made it hard to breathe. This was a terrible dream from which I would awake. ‘Did you not,’ continued Thomas, ‘of your own admission, steal secrets from the Queen’s Secretary, secrets that could endanger not only Her Majesty, but the entire realm?’

  ‘I … I … ’ A wave of terror rose. I could not find words; my thoughts scattered, brittle leaves in a storm.

  ‘And did you not use these same secrets to blackmail Mister Secretary into releasing a felon, a seditious filthy traitor?’ Pressing his face close to mine, Thomas leered. ‘Though you’re excellent at what we do, I always suspected Sir Francis was making a mistake employing a woman and that one day your duplicity would out. I was right.’

  The guards holding Sir Lance released him and slowly backed away, ducking under the portcullis before it closed. As the iron kissed the earth with an empty ring, Sir Lance threw himself against it.

  ‘Let her go!’ he cried, his arm reaching through the bars.

  In reply his sword was flung through the gate and clattered on the cobbles, narrowly missing him.

  I fought against the hands holding me with renewed strength.

  ‘Conserve yourself, Mallory. You will need it for what awaits you.’

  I dug in my heels, trying to prevent the constable from taking me any further, and twisted and turned as I attempted to dislodge his grip. I slammed my head back into his face and there was a resounding crack, followed by sharp pain in the back of my head.

  ‘You little bitch. I’ll give you what-for for that,’ said the constable. The other guards sniggered.

  ‘She be a fighter.’

  ‘She be a wilful wench who needs a good swiving.’

  ‘Enough,’ snapped Thomas and gestured to them to keep moving.

  Dragged across the cobbles, I let out a scream. ‘This is not right! Wait until Sir Francis hears of this.’

  ‘Hears?’ Thomas spun to face me, walking backwards, his cloak undulating about his boots. ‘Who do you think ordered this, Mallory? Who do you think signed the warrant?’ Bidding the men stop, he unrolled a document and ordered a guard to lift his lantern. There, at the bottom of the page listing the charges against me and ordering my arrest, was my father’s signature.

  All the fight left me.

  ‘Take her to the dungeons,’ Thomas ordered.

  I cast one last imploring look behind me and saw Lord Nathaniel reaching through the bars, his face a mask of utter ferocity overlaid with trepidation. He was shouting, but the roaring in my ears, the pounding of my heart and the whispered threats of my gaoler made it impossible to hear. But it was the man I saw in the moonlight behind my lord that caused my knees to buckle.

  Touching the top of his dark head, whether in salute or surrender, was Sir Francis. My father. The man who had signed my death warrant.

  FIFTY-THREE

  THE TOWER, LONDON

  The 20th to the 22nd of March, Anno Domini 1582

  In the 24th year of the reign of Elizabeth I

  It was impossible to measure time in this dark, unforgiving space; the misery of thousands had leeched into the walls, tainted the very air and sucked the goodness out of men’s souls. One such man was responsible for my ‘welfare’, as Thomas coolly termed it. I’d thought at first it would be Thomas Norton, the man who tried to persuade further confessions from Papa, but no. My ‘care’ was reserved for a special sort.

  I met him that night, when I was thrown into a dank, gloomy cell. I’ve no idea which part of the Tower I was in, only that I’d been led along the battlements and down many stairs. Any remaining fight in me had vanished at the sight of Sir Francis and the knowledge he’d not only ordered my fate, but witnessed it as well.

  I’d passed other cells on the way. Voices rose and fell. There was the faint sound of crying as well as prayers being offered. Torches set at intervals along the corridors shed a little light, revealing damp walls, rats slipping away from the mighty tread of the guards’ boots, and a thin rivulet of water flowing like a pungent vein, widening into puddles through which we waded. The smell was thick and nauseating: odorous bodies, vomit, piss, shit and a strong metallic stench that I only understood later was blood. Old and freshly shed.

  Thomas entered the cell with me. He snapped his fingers and one of the warders appeared with a blanket, two buckets — one filled with water, one empty — a cloth and a plate of what passed for food: a heel of dried bread, cheese and a lump of grey meat.

  Sir Francis would not see me starve or freeze. I tried to be thankful but my capacity for gratitude was sorely diminished. Especially when Thomas ordered the men to search me.

  One guard pulled off my cloak, barely allowing me time to undo the ties. Then they both began to pat my jacket and skirts, being sure to squeeze my breasts, fondle my thighs and arse, and place their filthy probing fingers everywhere. They found the dagger I kept in my boot, the very one Thomas had given me, and handed it to him.

  My humiliation was complete when Thomas ripped the coif from my head and pulled out the pins that held my hair in place.

  ‘It would not do for you to keep the means of your escape,’ he said wryly, holding my pins in his ink-stained fingers.

  I stared at him boldly. ‘You will not keep me here, despite what you think. No lock or key can.’

  ‘Bold words.’ He passed the pins to one of the guards who began to clean his teeth with them. I grimaced.

  ‘You will be visited shortly, Mallory,’ said Thomas, gesturing for me to sit upon the pallet of straw tucked against a wall. I obeyed. There was no point doing anything else. He ordered the guard to leave a lantern, so I was not plunged into total darkness.

  ‘Sir Francis?’

  Thomas gave a bark of laughter. ‘Sir Francis does not deign to visit prisoners.’

  My heart dared to hope. ‘Who?’ Could Lord Nathaniel have been granted access? Surely by now he would have appealed to Sir Francis. But then
, if Sir Francis was prepared to arrest and imprison me, his own flesh and blood, what effect would petitions from Lord Nathaniel have? Hadn’t Thomas said the Queen herself had ordered my arrest? Hadn’t Sir Francis watched as I was led away?

  The hope I had beseeched Papa, Caleb and Angela not to lose fled to a place of eternal darkness.

  ‘You will see. Till then, I suggest you rest. Think on what you’ve done.’ Squatting on the floor next to my makeshift bed, careful not to let his breeches or cloak sit in the muck, Thomas regarded me steadily. ‘How could you have been so foolish to think you could beat Sir Francis at his own game? You, a woman as well? Who do you think you are?’

  It was on the tip of my tongue to reveal the truth, but I pressed my lips together. If Sir Francis would not declare me, I would not acknowledge our relationship; nor, truth be told, could I afford to anger him further. Anyhow, who’d believe me? Forsooth, not Thomas, who now only viewed me as a traitor to the Crown.

  ‘I had high hopes for you, Mallory, despite my reservations. So did Sir Francis. Still,’ he said, heaving himself upright, ‘you’ll have time to consider your actions and the choices that have led you here. Till then, I suggest you do what anyone in your position would.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Pray.’ With that, he left me, and the guards trooped out after him. The one I’d given a bloody nose to grabbed his crotch and waggled his tongue at me. I felt sick. Beyond sick.

  Burying my head in my hands, I tried to think. I was a fool to believe Sir Francis would keep his end of the bargain. Had I so quickly forgotten what he had done to Edmund Campion?

  I lay on the straw and pulled up the blanket, grateful for the scant warmth it offered. It was bitterly cold down here and my breath escaped in clouds of white mist before dissolving into the darkness. That’s what I wished to do — dissolve, disappear, be anywhere but here.

  But here I was and, as Thomas said, this was where my choices had led me. But not only mine — Sir Francis’s too. Had he not trained me? Taught me the skills of watching, of staying one step ahead of the enemy? For, as God is my Lord and Saviour, that’s what my very own father had become: my enemy.

  The man I hoped would one day announce to the world I was his daughter, the man I hoped would love and cherish me, was responsible for my current state. He did not love me, he never had and never would. It was Thomas, wasn’t it, who had once said Sir Francis showed special care for me?

  The truth was he cared nothing for me, only for his Queen and country. Only that the Catholic scourge and its supporters were wiped from the land. Forsooth, he’d imprisoned his old friend Gideon, the man who had raised his daughter. To know a Catholic was to conspire with one; dealing with Catholics meant you may as well be one. Whichever way it was construed, add popery to your alleged crime and the law judged you guilty.

  Sinking into dark thoughts, I forgot to eat or drink and simply lay still, my mind a tangle, my heart broken.

  A loud voice shook me from my misery. There was the clank of keys.

  I sat up slowly and stared towards a bobbing lantern. Three men stood in its light. Two were guards, the taller man I hadn’t seen before. Broadly if not brutishly built, he had thick hair that had turned almost completely white. Dressed in black, he wore a stylish bonnet and had a sword buckled to his doublet.

  ‘Well met, Mallory Bright. You be Gideon’s daughter, aye?’

  ‘Aye,’ I said, cautiously, moving towards the bars. The door had still not been opened.

  ‘I knew your grandfather; your uncle as well.’

  ‘I’m afraid you have the advantage, sir, for I know not who you are.’

  Removing his bonnet, the man gave a gracious bow. ‘I am Richard Topcliffe, one of the Earl of Leicester’s Men.’

  I was confused. ‘How may I help you, sir?’ I asked.

  ‘Pretty manners for a caitiff, hey lads?’ said Master Richard, earning sniggers from the guards. ‘Almost as pretty as your self.’

  I bowed my head at the compliment. What was going on? Who was this man?

  ‘I’m here to help you, Mistress Mallory.’

  I ventured closer. ‘Are you a lawyer, sir?’

  ‘I entered Gray’s Inn many a year ago, mistress, but alas, never had the inclination to practise. No, the help I offer you is of far more use than a lawyer’s canting. Open the gate,’ he said to the warder.

  Fumbling at the keys, the warder did as he was bid.

  ‘Come, mistress, I’ve a great deal to show you.’

  Hesitantly, I slipped through the open gate, staring with wide eyes at a man I now began to think might be my saviour. ‘What is it you wish to show me, sir?’ I took the arm he offered, confused, not wanting to hope yet starting to think maybe, just maybe, fortune had not deserted me.

  ‘This way,’ said Master Richard, and led me along the now completely silent corridor. The only noise was the rattle of keys, the belch of the guard and the incessant drip of water. ‘I would have escorted you to my house, but the nature of the accusation against you precludes such a venture, so we have to remain within these gruesome walls instead.’ He smiled and looked about him. ‘My apologies, mistress, it’s not my preference. Forsooth, I find this place most inadequate for my purposes.’

  ‘And what might those be, sir?’ I asked as we rounded a corner, went through a door and down a staircase so narrow, and with steps so uneven, I was forced to keep my hand upon Master Richard’s back lest I tumble.

  ‘You will see, you will see,’ said Master Richard over his shoulder.

  The guards behind me mumbled something I could not catch. I ignored them. It seemed I had an ally in this Godforsaken place.

  It wasn’t until we stopped before a huge wooden door that I began to have doubts. Torches burned in the sconces either side of it. Stools rested beneath one, along with a brimming jug of ale and some leather tankards.

  ‘Lads, let the warder through,’ said Master Richard. The warder found the key and unlocked the door, but left it closed.

  ‘Thank you, Gerald,’ said Master Richard and slipped him a coin. The warder detached the key from the ring and passed it to Master Richard. I tried to read his face, but it was blank. With an obsequious bow, a flash of brown teeth and one last look at me, the warder mounted the steps.

  ‘No-one is to be admitted,’ Master Richard instructed the guards. ‘I’m not to be disturbed. Is that understood?’

  ‘Aye,’ said the guards, and took up positions either side of the door.

  ‘You wish to know my purpose, mistress?’ Master Richard lifted the latch and pushed upon the door. ‘Here it is,’ he said and, grabbing my arm firmly, led me inside. Still holding me, he put down the lantern, then shut and locked the door.

  The room was dark but I could see it wasn’t large. There was great deal of what I thought was furniture in it. Releasing me, Master Richard used the flame in the lantern to light the torches along the walls. Soon the room was brighter than the streets at midday and I was able to behold the place to which I’d been brought.

  Dark brown matter stained the walls. The floor was a slurry, the stench of it made me gag. If I’d eaten anything in my cell, it would have been lost to the floor. Strands of hair, bits of what looked like teeth and God knows what else were splattered beneath the instruments lining the walls and the great, long wooden contraption in the centre of the room.

  I understood Master Richard’s purpose. He was going to torture me. Seeing the alarm on my face, Master Richard began to laugh. I spun back to the door and threw myself against it, pounding my fists against the wood, crying for help I knew would not come.

  ‘They’ll not heed you mistress,’ said Master Richard.

  His words registered. Lowering my hands, I turned back towards him. He retained his friendly mien, which now seemed immeasurably sinister. He offered me his arm once more and I had no choice but to thread my hand through it.

  ‘Allow me to introduce you to my friends, mistress.’

 
; ‘Friends?’ I regarded the assortment of iron, wood and steel with perplexed eyes.

  ‘Oh aye, and soon they’ll be yours too. No, that’s not true. For you see, these wonderful creatures, these marvels of metal and nature’s goodness —’ he led me around them, stroking the chains, caressing the manacles, opening the clamps, running his fingers along the wood, ‘they will become like lovers. Certainly you will know their touch, the kiss of the fetters, the cold, smooth embrace of the manacles, better than that of the most intimate friends.’ He ran the back of his hand down my cheek.

  A small whimper escaped. I pressed my lips together. This was a man who took pleasure from others’ pain. I would not give him the satisfaction of seeing my fear. Not while I had some element of control.

  Dear God, he was just like Raffe … Perchance he was worse. We paraded around the room like a couple out for an evening stroll and arrived back where we started.

  ‘Marry, shall we begin?’

  ‘I can’t stop you torturing me, sir. You run to your own timetable. Do not offend me by pretending I have a choice.’

  ‘Torture you?’ He gave a grin that made my stomach turn to lead. ‘Oh, my dear sweet lady, I did not bring you here to torture you.’

  I didn’t believe him. ‘Then what’s your purpose, as you put it?’

  I saw the leery look in his eye — one I knew all too well. I began to shake.

  ‘As lovely as you are, mistress, I’ll not rape you …’

  Not yet.

  ‘Then why am I here?’

  ‘I told you, I’ve something to show you.’

  ‘What?’

  Before I could resist, he grabbed my hands and hauled me across the floor. With practised ease, he enclosed both my wrists in manacles suspended from the ceiling.

  ‘I intend to show you what will happen should you not co-operate; offer you a taste of what’s to come. Think of me as doing you a grand favour; as sparing you untold misery.’

  The chains were heavy. I could barely lift my arms. Moving to a winch lodged against the wall, Master Richard began to wind it. The great snake of chain on the floor slowly untangled, straightened and, as he kept winding, began to grow taut. My arms were pulled above my head; soon, I was standing on tip-toes. Then I was hoisted into the air. My hands slipped, the only things holding me up were my wrists, jammed against the hard metal of the manacles. Spinning slightly, I tried to remain still. The iron bit into my soft flesh. My arms felt as though they were going to be wrenched from their sockets. Then my feet left the ground and my wrists took all my weight — my wrists and my knotted shoulders.