The Locksmith's Daughter

by Karen Brooks

  Thomas shook his head. ‘Not no-one — you are the spymaster Mister Secretary’s daughter and privy to his secrets — even those he would keep from you.’ The book. ‘Unable to order your death, which would solve everything, Sir Francis is in your thrall. While he is, we all are. You make him weak, Mallory, and thus you make England weak.’

  There was a gust of wind, a spray of water. I shivered. Thomas glanced at me. ‘Sir Francis wants you to leave — for your sake as much as his. But he wants you to go with his blessing and help.’ He nodded towards the papers and purse. ‘He told me to tell you how sorry he is for everything. He hopes one day you will understand why he acted the way he did. Why he can never acknowledge you. He wants you to know, however, that though you cannot have his name, you have his undying affection.’

  As Thomas spoke, it was almost as if Sir Francis were standing there, offering the words himself. I heard the voice of my father, the man I thought had betrayed and abandoned me. I was wrong. What he had done, he had done in a misguided notion of love. That the lesson was wrested from his control was not his fault.

  I searched Thomas’s face. ‘Thank you, Thomas. And thank my father. Tell him I don’t need time to understand. I do.’

  Thomas swept off his bonnet and bowed. ‘I will.’

  We stared at each other a moment longer. We’d shared adventures, a connection, an understanding of the intricate and intuitive work of a spy. We had shared something very few ever did, and that joined us. I couldn’t hate Thomas, though I suspected he hated me. But I also knew he loved my father, Sir Francis. Well, he could love him for me as well. Though I felt a deep fondness for the man, I could never love him or call him father. My father was the man who raised me, forgave me, risked his life for me and held a knife to the throat of a man who dared to threaten me; the man who would give up one country so I might share another with him.

  Gideon Bright was my father. Blood counted for nothing.

  I turned to go, when something occurred to me. ‘Tell me, Thomas, how can I leave under my own name when I’m an escaped criminal? Will I not be detained?’

  Thomas gave a crooked grin. ‘You’re listed on your papers as his lordship’s wife. You’re used to playing a role. Surely that of a lady is not difficult?’

  I slipped one arm through Papa’s and the other through Nathaniel’s. As laughter rang along the wharves we strode boldly to the waiting boat. No more shadows or darkness; no more hiding or lies and secrets. The port authorities demanded papers and we presented them. As they farewelled us, I’d a taste of my new station.

  ‘Safe voyage, my lord,’ called one, who’d clearly had a few ales. ‘And you too, Lady Warham.’

  We approached the waiting craft.

  ‘My Lady Warham,’ said Nathaniel. ‘I like the sound of that.’

  Oh, so did I.

  I tucked my head against Nathaniel’s chest and drew Papa closer as well. I knew if I was going to be anything from here on in, it was both safe and loved.

  Above all, loved — as a wife and a daughter.

  EPILOGUE

  VENICE, ITALY

  The 12th and the 13th of July, Anno Domini 1590

  In the 33rd year of the reign of Elizabeth I

  I thank God I am endued with such qualities that if I were turned out of the realm in my petticoat I would able to live any place in Christendom.

  — Elizabeth I

  It was one of those glorious, sultry days when the sky was a dome of blue, the waters a deep turquoise and the light softly diffused. A gondola drifted past, its occupants seated in the felze, the small cabin, the curtains drawn despite the heat as the gondolier sang sweetly, his oar carving the canal. He saw me upon the terrace and lifted his arm. I returned his wave.

  The children played around me. The sound of their bright voices as they argued over a toy Angela had made them caused the life within me to stir, as if he too wished to join his siblings.

  ‘Not long, mio bambino,’ I whispered, my hands resting protectively upon the swell of my stomach.

  This was to be our third child and I knew, just as I had known the sex of my other two, that this was a boy. This would be Gideon, named in honour of the little life lost, and for Papa.

  It was Nathaniel’s idea. Caleb was to be the godfather and I prayed he and Lance would return in time from their tour of Padua and the northern towns with their new troupe of players. Caleb had adapted to Italy with ease, no doubt helped by the partnership he had formed with Lance. With no desire to be a devout Catholic or Protestant, only to worship God in his own way, he regularly produced plays of such quality his work was in demand.

  Caleb was slowly coming to grips with the language, but in the meantime, I translated his words into Italian and gave him and Lance lessons.

  As well as translating for Caleb, I helped Nathaniel with his business and taught the children, ensuring they were fluent in English and Italian as well as Latin and French. In addition, I spent most of our first few years working for Papa. He never really recovered from the injuries he sustained when he was tortured, and his eyesight continued to fade. Papa entrusted me with the designs of his locks and to oversee the apprentices he hired to make them. Thrilled to have Papa among them, the Venetian guild of locksmiths admitted him as a member, and he would pass many an afternoon enjoying the vino with the other men, reminiscing about the great locks they’d made and opened, and proffering advice to any who sought it. Papa was beyond content.

  Then he died one day last spring. He’d stood after a glass of vino with his friend Guido, clutched at his chest and fallen, never to rise again. I thought perchance our idyllic existence on the lagoon would come to an end once Death had visited. For certes, my heart broke. I wept and fell into a profound sadness.

  But life conspired to force me to count my blessings, so that in the midst of the deepest grief, of feeling my heart had been torn asunder, a child’s smile, the loving caress of my husband, the happiness in Angela’s face as she enjoyed the love she once thought lost to her forever, the way Caleb and Lance could lose themselves in a shared and loving glance (oh, aye, I was wrong about Lance and Beatrice — ’twas Caleb for whom the knight pined, and the feeling was thrice returned), the bark of sweet-tempered old dogs, and lazy ageing cats stretching to capture the sun on hot cobbles — all these things slowly mended my grief.

  I still mourned Papa and wished he was alive to meet his namesake. Our son Jonathan Benet, named for Nathaniel’s brothers, and our daughter Lucia Valentina, had brought him such joy, just as they did to Nathaniel and me.

  Our house seemed to be filled with children, both ours and Guido’s grandchildren. I looked at Guido and Angela, the way they bent together over pots of herbs and flowers on the terrace, their hands in the soil. Angela was a different woman now.

  The voyage to Venice had been long and hard but as we stepped ashore near Piazza San Marco, greeted by flocks of pigeons, it was as if she burst into life. Returned to her home, she was restored, and her restoration presaged ours. We leased a palazzo on the Grand Canal and made a home. Angela took charge, hiring servants, organising the purchase of supplies, and ensuring we had a gondolier at our beck and call, for you could not go far in this water-laced city without a boatman.

  It was during one of her forays to reacquaint herself with the city that she found Guido — or rather, he found her. The father of seven children, it was his eldest daughter, Angela, who, learning about the Inglese family (though I was Italian by birth, I would forever be an Inglese to the Venetians) and their Venetian cousin who happened to possess her name, suspected the connection. Scurrying home to her father, she insisted he pay a call. Reluctant at first, not daring to believe it could be his Angela returned, it wasn’t until Guido saw her upon the fondamenta one day that he knew it was her — his first and, as it turned out, only love. Guido had enjoyed his marriage to Baptista, a cousin of Angela’s. She’d given him four sons and three daughters, including the dark-haired and strong-willed Angela. Aye, hi
s beloved Angela may have disappeared to England, but her memory lived on in his daughter and his eldest son, Angelo. Baptista had died giving birth to her youngest child and Guido never remarried. He rowed the canals, put food in the mouths of his family, and nourished himself with memories of his wife and her cousin who’d once promised to share her life with him.

  I watched Angela brush some dirt from Guido’s face. Older, sturdier, but glowing, they lived in an apartment above the piano nobile — our upper floor. Beatrice, or Contessa Faliero as she was now, and her husband Cesare and their lovely daughter Fiora, had rooms above us too. Well, they were Caleb’s really, but he liked to tell people they belonged to the Conte. He felt it imbued him with significance, having important relations, and opened doors that would otherwise remain locked. Perchance it did.

  Beatrice, Cesare and Fiora divided their time between England, Venice and Cesare’s family’s domains in Padua, and we saw them often. When in England, Beatrice, under the careful stewardship of Bede and Mistress Margery, ensured the Warham estates continued.

  Nathaniel thrived in Venice. Dodona’s Dream was now one of a fleet of ships he owned, and he traded with more countries than I could count. Working with the Muscovy Company, among others, he strode the docks, examining his warehouses, the stock that comprised his imports and exports, ensuring his interests were cared for and his men well compensated.

  Yet while he liked to jest that the sea was his other mistress, he claimed he was most content when he was at home. Nathaniel loved his children — and the companionship of his wife, who adored his company too.

  I’d grown older — I prayed not ugly, though I was currently very fat — and within a few weeks Gideon would come into this blessed world and distract me with his needs. And so I too was content.

  Long ago I learned to abandon mediocrita and embrace my emotions. As I matured, I learned the real meaning of happiness: it came through others, through the love you bore them, and which they returned. It came from family and friendship. It was not something to be doled out or carefully measured, but something that grew and expanded. Like a garden, it had to be tended and nurtured. But happiness could not be achieved without some sadness, without sacrifices, or without truth. That was real equilibrium; embracing opposites was how genuine balance was achieved. Not through pretence or denial.

  ‘Mamma, Mamma!’ I turned at the sound of my daughter Lucia Valentina’s voice. She ran towards me. ‘It’s Papa!’ she cried, her dark straight hair flying out behind her.

  I stood and allowed her to lead me to the railing where Jon, his eyes shielded against the sun, watched our gondola approach.

  Already, at the age of seven, he was so tall. Pointing at the canal, he picked out our craft among all the sleek black vessels gliding upon the waters. Even if our colours were not so bold, my lord made his own statement. Considered a giant in England, here among the Venetians he was a colossus. They called him Il Inglese Mammut — the English Mammoth. He was a spectacle that turned heads wherever we walked. As I ruffled Jon’s black locks, I suspected he would one day be the same.

  As the gondola drew closer and the gates at the water stairs below opened to admit our craft, Jon and Lucia Valentina called out, their little voices full of excitement, their Italian accents no end of delight to their father. I encouraged them to practise their English, and they switched with ease from Italian to English and back again, and from French to Spanish as well. Their Papa was welcomed home in many tongues.

  The children raced downstairs. I returned to my seat to find that Angela and Guido had organised vino, bread, cheese and other delicacies to be brought onto the terrace. With a contented sigh, I reclined and turned my face to the sunshine.

  A shadow fell and a kiss was bestowed and returned. The children giggled at our open displays of affection.

  ‘Beloved, how goes it?’ asked my lord, placing his hand against my stomach then sliding into his seat. He pulled Lucia Valentina onto his lap and slipped an olive into her mouth. Jon leaned against his father. I smiled at the picture they presented.

  My family. Something I once thought forever denied me.

  Then I saw the package on the other chair.

  ‘It goes well, my love. But what is this?’ I gestured to the parcel.

  ‘It arrived this morning from England.’ Nathaniel looked at me gravely. ‘It’s for you.’

  ‘For me? But who would send me a parcel?’

  I’d maintained correspondence with Comfort. After selling our house and dividing the profit among all the servants and apprentices, as Papa insisted, thus ensuring Dickon, Samuel, Matt and Simon had new masters and the others coin to tide them over until they found employ, Comfort had returned to Bath. I could think of no-one else who would send me a parcel.

  ‘I believe it’s from Seething Lane,’ said Nathaniel quietly.

  The sun dimmed. The world darkened. My heart leapt as I pulled myself upright.

  Angela, who had been listening, came forward with Guido. ‘Come, you two,’ she beckoned to the children. ‘Let’s go to the market, shall we?’

  With squeals of delight, the children took Angela’s and Guido’s hands and, touching my shoulder briefly, Angela led them away.

  ‘Grazie,’ I whispered, staring at the package as if it contained poison.

  ‘Mallory.’ Nathaniel stretched across the table for my hand. ‘It arrived with some tidings. Brace yourself, my love. Sir Francis is dead.’

  The colour drained from my face. ‘Dead? When? How?’

  ‘April. He’d been ill a long time.’

  I nodded slowly. Verily, I recalled his many stomach complaints, how he’d endure so his work might be done. Though I’d never written to Sir Francis, news of him reached us from England — how could it not, when Nathaniel was invested in our homeland and our hearts were as well? We knew that though Raffe had initially eluded capture, he was caught two years later when he was embroiled in another plot against the Queen. He died in the Tower. Of his family, we knew naught.

  For all I’d once believed Sir Francis was blinded by his faith and fear of Catholics, seeing plots and treason where often there was none, I was proven wrong. Throckmorton, Babington and many more plotters besides had all sought to bring down the Queen, hand England to Catholic forces and, in doing so, justified every single one of Sir Francis’s actions. All except what he had done to Papa. And what he had done to me. Many died on the scaffold — Jesuits, lay priests, traitors, and, I’d no doubt, innocent souls as well.

  The thought made me sad. It also made me incredibly grateful I’d avoided such a fate.

  Three years ago when Mary Queen of Scots was beheaded as a traitor at Fotheringhay Castle, I wondered if Sir Francis might be able to rest now the Catholic viper in England’s bosom was dead. But it wasn’t to be. Just as one head was lopped, another rose in the form of the Spanish Armada. Against all odds, the Queen drove them back and England triumphed.

  But Sir Francis had suffered his own losses — not just deteriorating health, but the death of his beloved son-in-law, Sir Philip Sidney. Frances was a widow at the age of nineteen. I wondered how she fared. Somehow, I felt that woman would make sure life did not short-change her.

  ‘Are you going to open it?’ asked Nathaniel quietly, squeezing my hand.

  I sighed. ‘Aye. I’d better. It looks like a book.’

  I lifted the parcel onto the table and tore the paper. When the contents were revealed I gasped.

  ‘God’s wounds,’ I exclaimed. ‘I never thought to see this again.’

  ‘What is it?’ Nathaniel half stood as I lifted the book from its wrappings and held it up.

  It was The Book of Secret Intelligences. Nathaniel took it from me and as he did so, a page fluttered out. I snatched it before the breeze could take it.

  It was a letter. I glanced down at the signature. It was from Thomas Phelippes. The terrace blurred, Nathaniel became a grey, hulking shadow, his voice distant.

  ‘Mallory,’ he said. �
�Mallory. Are you all right?’ He put the book down and knelt at my side, pushed the hair from my forehead and smoothed my cheek.

  ‘It’s just shock, ’tis all. After all this time …’ I looked at the letter still in my hands. ‘Can you read it to me?’

  I passed it to him with shaking hands.

  Nathaniel took a sip of vino, cleared his throat and began.

  Mallory,

  I know this letter will find you well as our informants tell us Venetian life agrees with you and his lordship and for that I give praise to God. I write to let you know that Sir Francis passed away on the 6th April at the eleventh hour. He’d been unwell for a long time, as you well know, and in his final week suffered fits and much discomfort. He is in the Lord’s arms now, with Jesus Christ his Saviour and into His infinite mercy his spirit was given. He was buried the following day, according to his instructions, ‘without any such extraordinary ceremonies as usage appertain to man serving in my place’. He rests in the north aisle of St Paul’s, the noise of the operators and booksellers sing to his soul. Dame Ursula and Frances chose to bury him with Sir Philip. Know there is no effigy, nor tomb. There is, however an inscription, to which I thought you should be privy …

  Nathaniel paused.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked, my eyes full, my heart sore. Though he was no father to me, his loss was still a blow and I felt it keenly.

  ‘It is in Latin. Yours is better than mine.’ He passed the letter back.

  I read aloud, translating as I did so. It told of how Sir Francis worked diligently to ensure there was peace, protected the country from danger and served state and sovereign. Of his role as father, husband, of any love borne for him by his wife or daughter, there was no mention.

  ‘Thomas says there’s an English epitaph as well.’ I scanned it quickly, only reading a part.

  In foreign countries their intents he knew,

  Such was his zeal to do his country good,

  When dangers would be enemies ensue,