The Locksmith's Daughter

by Karen Brooks

‘Well met. God give you good day,’ said Sir Francis and gestured to the seats in front of his desk. ‘Punctual as always, Gideon.’

  ‘Some habits are worth maintaining,’ Papa replied as we seated ourselves.

  Though the room wasn’t small, it was very cluttered. Apart from the big desk covered with papers, quills, and inkwells as well as a coven of burning candles, there was a long bench against one wall stacked with boxes, each with its contents inked on the outside. One box was marked ‘Religion and Matters Ecclesiastical’, another ‘Navy, Havens and Sea Cases’, while still another was marked ‘Box of Examinations’. Examinations of what, I was uncertain. Near the hearth, which burnt merrily and provided much-needed warmth and more light, was a series of chests. One was open, and bundles of manuscripts and books poured from it. On the walls were maps of France, Spain and other countries whose identities were obscured by shadow; on a small table behind the door was a huge book titled Book of the Maps of England. Another portrait of the Queen hung to the left of this, along with a rather grand arras portraying a battle scene in which unicorns and satyrs also frolicked. Another chair rested near the only window, which looked upon the courtyard. Directly behind Sir Francis was an elaborate cabinet made from a dark, highly polished — but badly scratched — wood. Two solid doors and an enormous intricate lock protected the contents. I tried to identify the lock, but the light was too low to tell much, though there was something familiar about the patterning of the guard.

  Sir Francis regarded Papa, then his eyes rested upon me. ‘Ah, I see you’re admiring my cabinet. My clerk and brother-in-law, Master Robert Beale, insisted I have one. It’s a fine piece of furniture, is it not? Italian. Cost a pretty sum, too.’ He spun around and ran his hand down its polished surface.

  ‘It is indeed, Sir Francis,’ I remarked, my voice quivering slightly. The man made my teeth hurt and every breath was tight. I forced myself to appear at ease. ‘The lock especially —’

  ‘You recognise your father’s handiwork.’

  Ah, another suspicion confirmed. ‘I do.’

  There was a sharp knock. The man who’d admitted us earlier entered with a tray bearing a jug of wine and one of beer, as well two goblets and a tankard. He poured quickly and placed the vessels before us.

  ‘My thanks, Laurence,’ said Sir Francis, pushing the papers at his elbow to one side to make room for his goblet, gesturing for Papa to take the tankard.

  Laurence grunted ‘milord’, and with a small bow withdrew and shut the door.

  Sir Francis turned to face us, hands wrapped around his goblet. ‘Thank you both for coming,’ he said, his manners implying we had a choice. ‘Mistress Mallory, allow me also to thank you again for the service you rendered when we last met — ’twas November, I believe.’

  Had it been so long ago? ‘It was nothing, my lord,’ I began, thinking how working with locks offered a respite from memory that was lacking in my other activities.

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ said Sir Francis. ‘I propose a toast.’ He lifted his goblet. ‘To the locksmith’s daughter and her fine skills.’

  ‘To the locksmith’s daughter,’ repeated Papa with more force than I felt was warranted.

  I sat mute, slightly uncomfortable as they drank. There was an undercurrent here that I didn’t understand. I took a sip of the claret, enjoying the warmth coating my throat.

  Sir Francis sank into his chair, his mind appeared to be working furiously behind his guarded eyes. ‘I know you’re very curious as to why I summoned you here, Mallory — may I call you that?’ I nodded. ‘Firstly, and this was very remiss of me, may I extend my sympathy for your loss.’

  For a moment my head swam, then clarity came. He was acknowledging my status as widow.

  ‘Thank you, my lord.’ I could not meet his eyes.

  ‘While they go to a better place, the death of a beloved is never easy to reconcile.’ His fingers brushed against a miniature of a young girl that sat upon his desk.

  ‘I heard about Mary.’ Papa leaned forward. ‘Francis. I’ve naught to say except how very sorry I am.’

  Sir Francis bowed his head and, as if aware his fingers were revealing more than he wished, curled them into fists. ‘My dear, sweet daughter was but eight. Eight. She is with God now.’

  Caleb had made mention of Sir Francis’s children. Dear God, the poor man had lost a daughter. My palms grew damp. The portrait showed a cherubic face with rosy cheeks and a pursed mouth beneath a frame of dark, lustrous curls. Sorrow for Sir Francis and this pretty young girl welled. I tried to push it away. I could not allow emotion to dull the lucidity I needed. My temples began to ache. My gaze returned again and again to that dear innocent face and deeper feelings rose unbidden …

  ‘Now,’ said Sir Francis, striking the desk with the flat of his hand, banishing the sadness and forcing my eyes from the painting. ‘Let’s to business. Your father asked me to help acquire you a position, Mallory. One befitting a widow of your education and skills.’

  Papa kept his gaze fixed upon Sir Francis.

  ‘I’ve pondered this request very carefully and it seems the best way for me to be acquainted with your various talents is to observe them first hand.’

  ‘My lord?’ Every fibre of my being strained to understand, and dread lapped the edges of my mind.

  Papa straightened. ‘What do you mean, Francis?’

  ‘I mean, since I’ve been unsuccessful in finding her suitable work elsewhere, but knowing your request was somewhat urgent, I wish to employ Mallory as a companion for my daughter, Frances.’

  A sense of relief unfurled through my veins just as Caleb’s words came back to me: ‘Keeper of Mister Secretary’s Children.’ Not children, sadly, but child.

  Before I could respond, Papa leapt to his feet. ‘No. No. This will not do. When I sought your assistance in this matter —’ he glanced in my direction, ‘I never intended you to be her employer.’

  Sir Francis stood. The desk became a moat between the two men as they stared across the candles.

  ‘Did you not?’ There was a beat. ‘Believe me, if you hadn’t emphasised how important this was, I wouldn’t suggest it.’ Sir Francis’s voice was tight, his words considered. ‘I do not expect Mallory to live beneath this roof. I merely wish to avail myself of her considerable talents … for the benefit of my daughter. She will remain with you. I would hope that would make you content; in this way, you’re able to satisfy many needs and wants, including my own.’

  Papa’s hands were screwed into fists by his side. Why did I feel as if another conversation was taking place beneath the one I was hearing? My eyes moved from Papa to Sir Francis. Tension made the men lean towards each other, though Papa looked as if he were trying to resist. Sweat dotted his brow.

  ‘This is not … proper. Valentina … ’ Papa glanced at me again. ‘She will not like this.’

  My father was right. Mamma wanted me gone completely, not some half-measure.

  Sir Francis held Papa’s eyes for a long time. ‘It’s all I can offer at present, Gideon. Take it or leave it.’ Slowly he resumed his seat and rested his forearms upon the desk, twining his fingers together.

  I didn’t realise I was holding my breath until Papa swung towards me. In his eyes I saw despair, fear and something else. My heart leapt. What made Papa so afraid?

  ‘Mallory —’ he began, but Sir Francis allowed him to go no further.

  ‘I would ask that you come to the house each day. You will work to improve my daughter’s Latin and Greek and, when my daughter doesn’t require your company, that of some of my staff as well. Once you are comfortable with your duties, you will be sent on errands about the city. For this you will be paid a small sum. Think, Gideon, it will do Mallory’s reputation some good, will it not, for it to be known she is biding in good society? It will silence those who would spread salacious rumours, and add to her status.’ Sir Francis nodded towards my coal-black ensemble. ‘Add to yours … ’

  I twisted the ri
ng upon my finger. ’Twas but another prop to shore up the deceit of my costume. But Sir Francis was right. When word got out that the Walsingham household had embraced me, other doors would open, gossip would quieten. What Sir Francis was offering was beyond generous, and a means to even greater opportunities.

  ‘Papa.’ I brushed the sleeve of his doublet. He swung away as if burned. I blinked in surprise and swiftly withdrew my hand. Papa looked from me to Sir Francis and back again.

  ‘It’s the best I can offer — for now.’ Sir Francis gestured for Papa to sit. ‘I would not even consider it if other alternatives were available.’

  I couldn’t understand what was amiss. To me the proposal offered a happy compromise between Mamma’s desires, Papa’s and my own. I could remain at home yet be gone from the house all day. Why Papa didn’t leap at this, I couldn’t fathom. Unless the good relations I’d felt had been restored between us were nothing but a mirage … I lowered my chin and waited; tried to render myself invisible.

  Sinking back onto the stool, Papa released a sigh that came from his boots. ‘You’re right, Francis. Forgive my doubts. It’s a good offer.’ His tone suggested it may as well be a death sentence.

  ‘If it pleases you, shall we sign a contract? Seal the arrangement,’ said Sir Francis.

  ‘Soft,’ I began, half-rising out of my seat. ‘Today? Now? Why such haste? When would I start?’

  ‘What is your objection, mistress? The placement or the haste?’ asked Sir Francis.

  Remember, my inner voice hissed. Nonchalance. The speed at which this is enacted does not alter the course.

  I gave a small shrug and resumed my seat. ‘Nay, my lord, I do not. I object to neither.’

  ‘I’ll summon my secretary.’ Sir Francis rang a small bell. Moments later, a youngish man with straw-coloured hair, glasses and pockmarked skin entered. ‘Thomas, you know Master Bright. This is his daughter, Mistress Mallory.’ Master Thomas bowed. ‘This is my chief assistant, one of my secretaries, Master Thomas Phelippes.’

  ‘Well met,’ he said.

  Sir Francis continued. ‘Mistress Mallory will be joining the household. I would that you and Master Gideon finalise the contract expressing same.’

  ‘Very well, my lord.’

  ‘Gideon, if you would be so good as to accompany Thomas. I’ve taken the liberty of making a draft. Examine it and make any amendments you see fit,’ said Sir Francis, indicating my father should follow Master Thomas.

  ‘Very good,’ said Papa. His face was pale. He didn’t look in my direction.

  I went to rise.

  ‘Mallory, if you would remain,’ Sir Francis said, ‘I will supply you with the details of your new position and answer any questions you may have.’

  I looked to Papa. ‘I’ll be back anon,’ he said and slowly followed Master Thomas from the room.

  Once the door was closed, Sir Francis drained his goblet and stared at me. The candlelight turned his eyes into liquid darkness. ‘I’ve but a short time to speak freely with you, Mallory.’

  ‘My lord?’

  ‘The contract your father is about to sign only refers to the services others believe you’re being hired to render. What I wish to speak to you about, and what’s not included, are the duties you will actually be performing — not for Frances, but for me.’

  EIGHT

  SEETHING LANE, LONDON

  Friday the 13th of January, Anno Domini 1581

  In the 23rd year of the reign of Elizabeth I

  ‘Not one word of what I’m about to share with you must leave this room. This is between you and me.’ His elbows on the desk, Sir Francis leaned so far forward I could see where his servant had nicked the flesh on his left cheek trimming his beard.

  ‘Of course, my lord.’ My throat was dry. I resisted the urge to seek the talisman of my locket. Nonchalance.

  ‘Good. Now,’ Sir Francis eased himself away from the desk, but his spine remained straight and his eyes never left my face, ‘before I tell you what it is you’ll be doing, I need to provide you with a context.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘You’re aware the Pope has renewed the Bull against the Queen?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Gregory XIII exhorts Catholic subjects within England and beyond her borders to spurn their allegiance to Her Majesty. He claims she is no longer their true sovereign. He even promises that should one of them rise up and murder her, they would be pardoned such a grievous sin. They would be hailed a hero of the Church.’

  I knew this — we all did. The pamphlets distributed around Cheapside had found their way into homes, as had the words of the preachers at St Paul’s Cross and the gossip in the market, but the way Sir Francis spoke gave me a chill.

  ‘The Pope, that spider of Rome, panders to Philip of Spain and the Guises in France, all of whom wish to see our Queen dethroned. But Gregory goes further. He is throwing coin and promises at any mad Catholic adventurer who’ll indulge in heresy and treachery — the type of person who wouldn’t think twice about murdering a reigning monarch.’ Sir Francis gave a bark of laughter. ‘Have you heard of the Jesuit seminaries on the Continent?’

  ‘I don’t believe so.’

  ‘With the Pope’s blessing, Jesuit colleges have been established in Douai, Reims, Rome and more. Their sole purpose is to train English priests. Doctor William Allen, a traitor if ever there was one, runs them. Under the guise of godliness, under protestations that faith alone is driving their actions, the first of these priests arrived on English shores some years ago. It turns out they were just a drop in the ocean. Now the steady drip of Jesuits recruits has turned into a tide that threatens to wash away the souls of true believers. A royal proclamation was delivered only three days ago ordering all English students in foreign seminaries to return home, and the arrest of every Jesuit in England. It’s now treason for these priests to be here, and for would-be priests to seek out these European seminaries.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You’ve heard of the Jesuits, Edmund Campion and Robert Persons?’

  There were few who hadn’t.

  Sir Francis continued. ‘They arrived in England last year.’

  ‘You didn’t arrest them?’

  ‘No, we watched them, or at least we tried to. We weren’t expecting that so many English families would be prepared to risk arrest and protect them. Acting upon the advice of his followers here, upon his arrival in England Campion had the gall to write to the Privy Council explaining his purpose in coming.’

  ‘You mean Campion’s “Brag”?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘It was the talk of the household when I … when I came home.’

  ‘It still dominates conversations in the taverns and streets,’ said Sir Francis, looking as though he’d bitten into an apple and found a worm. ‘Though Campion claims, most earnestly, he’s not here to interfere with any matters of state or policy, I know differently. The government knows differently. The Council has been forced to address this “brag”, as it has been dubbed, and show it for what it is and show the supporters of Campion for what they are.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘Traitors. Traitors who utter papist lies. Campion would set father against son, mother against daughter. He cares not for English souls, despite what he writes. He’s an agent of Rome and as such, he’s our enemy. If his intentions were honest, why did he disguise himself as a merchant in order to enter the country? Why does he continue to flee the authorities?’

  ‘Perchance he fears what would happen should he be caught?’

  Sir Francis’s eyes glinted dangerously. ‘And so he should. You heard that we have captured his mate, the student-priest Ralph Sherwin? Aye, such news spreads quickly. What is not generally known is that we’ve also arrested a group of Catholics in Lancashire. Some have been induced to talk. There are plans afoot, Mallory, treacherous plans — spear-headed by Allen, Campion, the God-forsaken Society of Jesus and that canting monk in Rome. Campion’s so-called enterprise ends now. I’ll n
ot allow this Catholic kindling to light the fire of heresy in England. Not after what happened in Paris. Not after what your father and I survived.’ He closed his eyes and sighed. Just when I thought his anger spent, he turned a steely gaze upon me. ‘I imagine you know the tale of how, when Mary Tudor came to power, many of us were forced to flee the country and run for our lives to Switzerland, Italy and the Low Countries?’

  I knew Papa’s story — how he and his brother, my Uncle Timothy, had left England after the ‘Nine-Days Queen’, Jane Grey, was imprisoned in the Tower and it became evident that the new Queen, Mary Tudor, was determined to overturn all her brother Edward’s religious policies and bring the country back under the yoke of Catholicism. A veritable flood of émigrés deserted England for safer religious climes in Venetian and Swiss territories, as if they sensed something in the wind. They were prescient. It was the Queen’s unforgiving treatment of ‘heretics’ that earned her the sobriquet ‘Bloody Mary’. To remain in England was to risk being burned alive or tortured into recanting their Protestant beliefs. Hundreds met their deaths this way — many of Papa’s friends among them.

  It was while he was in exile in Padua that Papa met Mamma. I loved their story. She was the beautiful daughter of the successful blacksmith, Baldassare Zucchero, and was courted by many. But it was the Inglese, the English gentleman, who won her hand. Papa had been studying at the university and sought the services of Signor Zucchero to make a lock for the chest in which he kept his books after a couple were stolen. He was mesmerised by the blacksmith’s skill, the way my nonno crafted keys and locks not simply to secure rooms or possessions, but as works of art in themselves. Casting aside his studies, Papa, the youngest son of a gentleman lawyer who himself was the eldest son of a blacksmith and thus already reasonably skilled in the craft, begged my nonno to train him so he too might make these exquisite locks. So it was at the forge of my nonno that my father met his true calling and his bride. I was born not long after they wed. Papa always said meeting Mamma and my birth were compensation for his time abroad.