The Locksmith's Daughter

by Karen Brooks

  Papa twirled his cup on the bench, watching the patterns it made in the fine metal dust.

  ‘Some of it. He comes here quite often, you know, to the house. We’re men; after a few wines, a few ales, there’s not much we don’t discuss. I think he’s had to endure a great deal. Had his trust shattered many times.’

  He waited for me to speak. I didn’t know what to say. Buffing the key with renewed purpose, I reflected upon what Papa told me. It explained his lordship’s distrust of the female sex; his conviction we were out to gull men. The woman betrayed his heart; he lost a child. No wonder he felt the way he did. Not that his assumptions were just. The bad behaviour of one should not tar an entire sex. But his attitude was understandable.

  Didn’t I want to hold all men to account for Raffe’s sins? In denying my heart, wasn’t I doing the same thing? The small voice in my head was persistent.

  ‘There’s something else you might want to know, Mallory, before you judge my lord.’

  I welcomed Papa’s intrusion. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You’ve seen the terrible scars on his face?’

  ‘It would be hard not to notice.’

  Papa nodded. ‘Happened while he served under Drake. Turns out, Lord Nate was protecting a black woman who’d been brought aboard for —’ he picked up a key and began rubbing the surface vigorously, ‘the sailors’ pleasure. He insisted she be released. One of the men decided to punish Nate after he set her free on some islands in the south and attacked him while he was abed. There was a dreadful fight and Lord Nate almost lost his eye and his cheek was cut very badly. The other man —’ He shrugged. ‘Let’s just say the fish were well fed that night.’

  ‘Did Sir Francis tell you this, Papa?’

  Papa dropped the key, the noise loud in the silence of the workshop. ‘He and others. This kind of tale has a habit of being repeated,’ he said slowly. ‘It’s not something Lord Nate discusses and it put him at odds with Drake and some of the crew.’

  ‘They’re not on good terms?’

  Papa picked up the key and resumed polishing it. He shook his head. ‘Drake, for all his bluster, has few friends, Mallory. He might have made the Queen rich and tormented the Spanish until they bayed for his blood, but he is a pirate at heart, a pirate who plunders and obeys the rules of the sea before those of the land. Men like him make enemies, for all that he might claim to have mates.’

  ‘Much like Lord Nathaniel then,’ I said slowly, uncertainly. Pity stirred. Pity and admiration.

  Papa’s tales of this man, a man I knew, behaving with such gallantry and courage unsettled me. It felt as if the floor had shifted beneath me and I’d lost my footing.

  ‘Perchance.’ Papa was cautious. ‘But for entirely different reasons. Lord Nate, for all his … how do I put it?’ He put down the cloth. ‘Brusqueness? His ability to rub folk up the wrong way? Oh, I’ve seen him put a squire at ease with one word and enrage another with the next. Likewise, a street vendor or a lord. But he’s a man of honour, of duty. He’s the type of man to which others should aspire, yet he’s seen as a threat, for too often he holds up a mirror to those with less noble aims and exposes their weaknesses and petty cruelty. They like him not. No, Drake and Lord Nate may have sailed together, but they’re as far apart as the ends of the earth. But let me tell you this.’ Papa held the key to the candlelight, polishing it until it shone. ‘I know who I’d want to call friend, and it isn’t a braggart sea captain with a newly minted title.’

  Sleep eluded me that night. Images of Lord Nathaniel again invaded my dreams and memories of his lips my waking moments. I tried to replace his face with Raffe’s, to remind myself that men, regardless of who they were and what was claimed for them, were not to be trusted. I well knew the real intentions buried under the false words. Eventually, like a slave freed from his irons, they would burst through with unexpected violence. And it was women who paid the price. Always.

  Yet he’d fought a duel and been forced to quit his family, his home and his country; he’d had his heart riven, and he’d released a slave. A woman. A blackamoor. He had placed her needs above those of the crew; her dignity and honour above his own safety. He was a traitor in the men’s eyes and he suffered the consequences.

  Tangled in my blankets, I tried to toss these thoughts aside, thumping the pillow for good measure.

  Damn the man. Damn his eyes, his mouth, his nobly won scars. Damn his honour.

  PART FOUR

  Avenging Angel

  … Also she must be more circumspect, and more careful not to give occasion for evil being said of her, and conduct herself so that she may escape being sullied by guilt but even by the suspicions of it, for a woman has not so many ways of defending herself against false calumnies as a man has …

  Baldassare Castiglione, The Book of The Courtier: The Third Book, Part Four, 1528

  Who seeks by worthy deeds to gain renown for hire, Whose heart, whose hand, whose purse is pressed to purchase his desire, If any such there be, that thirsteth after fame, Lo! Hear a means to win himself an everlasting name.

  — Sir Francis Drake, 1583, first attributed to him by Caleb Hollis in Drake’s Hind

  [English Protestants who refuse Catholicism] shall be searched and sifted out as the good corn is from the chaff and be put to fire and sword.

  — John Hart, delivering a sermon in Reims, Sunday the 17th of April 1580

  TWENTY-FOUR

  BILLITER LANE AND ST KATHERINE COLEMAN, LONDON

  Mid to late June, Anno Domini 1581

  In the 23rd year of the reign of Elizabeth I

  Despite having once defended myself and womankind from Lord Nathaniel’s accusation that we played parts to hoodwink men, I found myself embracing my dual identities of obedient daughter and intelligencer, and the latter’s requirement I play many roles. The irony of my situation didn’t escape me. But I also worked hard to avoid Mamma’s scrutiny. As a dutiful daughter I sought her blessing each day, but we barely exchanged words otherwise, and I would leave her room with no small feeling of relief. Once at Seething Lane, I would adopt whatever costume and manner was deemed necessary to fulfil my mission that day — goodwife, slattern, lady’s maid, gentlewoman, flower-seller, milkmaid, and many others. I would leave the premises a different person to the one who entered them.

  In mid-June I received orders that required me to maintain the same disguise for a protracted period. It was as my least favourite of all the roles I’d been asked to assume — a laundress’s assistant. I was to work for the woman directly across the road in Billiter Lane. It had come to Sir Francis’s attention she had customers who bore watching. I was to be the watcher.

  I was introduced as a young drab with no family but some experience in laundering (which was the truth), and so I went to work for Mistress Bakewell. Dressed in ragged fustian, shabby boots and a torn cap upon my head, my main duty was to pick up or deliver clothes to various establishments. Sometimes it was a merchant’s house, at other times a gentleman’s. On occasion I was forced to wait in the kitchen of an inn while maids were sent to collect the laundry. I entered the homes of mercers, jewellers, booksellers, ironmongers, bakers, brewers, and, in Lombard Street, even a knight. In the bigger houses, the housekeeper was summoned to check that what I’d returned met the exacting standards of the mistress or that what was being given to me was correctly accounted for. Forced to wait, I would retreat to a corner, sometimes able to enjoy a small ale, while around me the business of the house continued. I kept my eyes and ears open, yet as the days passed, I heard nothing of import. Not a whisper or a murmur, nothing worth sharing with my master or Thomas. I learned of the death of a beloved child, of unwanted pregnancies, of brutal mistresses and lecherous masters — as well as kindly ones; of gentlemen tardy about paying their bills, of illness, fights and infidelity. I entered houses where the servants were slovenly and indifferent and others where loyalty and cleanliness were paramount. But what use was this information to the good government an
d soul of England? When I dropped exhausted into bed each night, I began to believe I was wasting my time.

  Enduring the taunts and shoves of men and boys as I walked the streets, my arms laden with bags of clothing, I became adept at returning insults, at kicking out at the urchins who tried to tug a piece of fabric from my bundle. I wasn’t always successful and twice I managed to lose all I carried, soiling dirty clothes further and ruining a perfectly clean batch as well. Mistress Bakewell was not above offering a scolding and a box on the ears before ordering me to remove the stains. Unable to reveal who I was, my face flamed at the injustice of it. I began to loathe the work, its tedium and the weariness that followed. As the days turned into weeks, I was ready to throw myself on Sir Francis’s mercy, confess defeat and beg another role, admit I was unsuited for such labours. Then everything changed.

  It was late June and the days were growing longer and the air warmer. London filled with the usual folk seeking the pleasures and entertainments only the season and such a city could provide. The crowds each day grew worse, the smells even harder to bear, and it wasn’t long before rumours of pestilence began. This day I was waiting for the laundry of the vicar of St Katherine Coleman. I’d delivered and picked up laundry from the vicarage a few times and was loitering near the back door, downing a cup of very good small ale and stroking a friendly cat who curled itself about my legs. A courier rode into the yard, his horse kicking up gravel, forcing the ostler who ran after him to fling his arms up and protect his face. The vicar was sent for immediately. The courier refused to come inside, instead pacing and inspecting his surrounds. He cast a quick look in my direction and turned away.

  ‘Ah, Master Hamon,’ said the vicar, also peering around as if this wasn’t his home but unfamiliar territory. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘Great news, sir, great news.’

  ‘Come this way then,’ said the vicar, waving him towards the church. I hoisted the cat into my arms and, ensuring the ostler was distracted by the courier’s exhausted horse, sidled up to the corner of the building so that I too might hear this great news. The men were but a few feet away, their heads close together.

  ‘As God is my witness, vicar,’ said Master Hamon, ripping his cap from his head and wiping his forehead with the back of his sleeve.

  Of no great height, Master Hamon sported a close red beard and had a wart tucked in the corner of his nose. Dirt from the road streaked his face. From the look of his horse and the filth on his clothes, he’d been riding a while. Younger than the vicar, he was attired in livery I didn’t recognise. The insignia appeared to be a fox; the colours were a muddy brown and burgundy. He had a bulging satchel slung over one shoulder.

  ‘They were strewn all over the benches in St Mary’s.’ Master Hamon unhooked a flask from his hip and took a long swallow as his other hand rifled through the satchel, extracted a pamphlet and gave it to the vicar, who took it with a shaking hand. He glanced around. I withdrew slightly.

  ‘It was brilliant,’ gasped Master Hamon. ‘No-one saw or heard a thing. The students filed into the church and began to read them before they could be prevented.’

  ‘A miracle,’ said the vicar. The vicar’s name was Mark Forwood. In his mid-thirties, he wore a cap to try to hide his balding pate and robes to conceal his soft body. Neither succeeded. He’d paid me scant attention in the past. I recalled that he hadn’t been long in London, and was purportedly in search of a wife, though the staff felt that eventuality was most unlikely. I’d assumed it was because his tastes lay in different directions and had dismissed the gossip. Now I began to see him in a new light. Where did he hail from? I couldn’t remember. Cursing that I hadn’t paid more attention when the servants talked, allowing my disgruntlement to make me lax in my duties, I focussed on listening to the men now.

  Holding the pamphlet close, Vicar Forwood scanned the contents. ‘Rationes Decem,’ he chuckled, turning it over. ‘Well, well. Campion is unstoppable.’

  Thunder rolled in my ears. Campion? There could only be one Campion. Edmund, the seditious priest. What had he composed now? Ten Reasons. Was this another Brag? I pressed the cat closer to my chest, his purring increased and I leaned further forwards.

  ‘I came as fast as I could, father.’

  ‘You’ve done well, my son,’ said the vicar, his eyes still held by the words in the pamphlet.

  The courier patted the satchel slung over his shoulder. ‘I’m under instructions to deliver as many of these as possible to whoever is —’ he scanned the yard, and I quickly withdrew into the shadows, ‘sympathetic to … the cause.’

  ‘Aye, aye,’ said the vicar quickly in a tone designed to silence the man. ‘Good work, Hamon. Here.’ There was the rustle of a robe, the clink of coins. ‘Go, go. Tell the others we’ll meet at the usual place, at the usual time. There will be much to discuss, much to pray for. And God be with you. God be with Campion, the brave soul.’ He made the sign of the cross and touched the courier’s head in a blessing.

  Aghast at what I’d witnessed, I scurried back to the kitchen door and placed the cat gently on the ground as the courier hailed the ostler and remounted his horse. Master Hamon trotted out of the yard without a backward glance. I entered the kitchen before the vicar saw me, the words I’d heard going around in my head. At last, I’d something of worth to report. Something momentous.

  I couldn’t leave the vicarage quickly enough. I delivered the laundry to Mistress Bakewell, purchasing an orange from a stall in Mark Lane on the way, and without a by-your-leave, left her and entered the house on Billiter Lane from the rear. I asked Mistress Bench for paper and a quill. While I remained composed, perchance there was something about my tone because instead of asking why I was back so early, she fetched the items, as well as a cup of ale and a fresh manchet. I then asked her to send for Master Thomas.

  I prepared my orange juice, then wrote steadily. The noon-day bells sounded and still I wrote, page after page, drawing on my memory to recall every word, every gesture, including complete descriptions of both men and even a rough drawing of the courier’s sigil. I signed it SS and, allowing the juice to be absorbed completely, folded the paper and sealed the pages with wax.

  When I was certain the wax was dry, I sat back in my chair and shut my eyes briefly, hoping I hadn’t omitted a single detail.

  Sunlight streamed through the window, warming my back. Rivulets of perspiration trickled down my neck and my smock clung to my back. Noise carried from the ale-house next door; a hammer rang against metal. I opened my eyes. The click of the front door followed by voices in the hall brought me to my feet.

  ‘Thomas,’ I said, and bobbed a curtsey with no small relief as he entered the room.

  He gave a small bow. ‘God give you good day, Mallory. I believe you have some news to impart?’

  Mistress Bench nodded at me from the doorway before disappearing into the kitchen.

  ‘For certes I do, Thomas, and a report for Sir Francis.’ I indicated the pages. ‘Suffice to say, Edmund Campion has been busy.’

  Thomas took a seat and poured himself an ale. I was disappointed he didn’t appear nearly as excited as I’d hoped. He gestured for me to sit. I was unable to take my eyes from him. He said, ‘You have heard of his latest tract, Ten Reasons?’

  I tried to contain my surprise. ‘H … how do you know?’

  Thomas drank, removed his hat and wiped his brow. ‘Zounds, it be sultry out there.’ He tapped my report with one finger. ‘We wouldn’t be doing our job if we didn’t know, Mallory. News reached us yesterday. Sir Francis is livid. Campion has outwitted us again. Waiting until the scholars met in the main church at Oxford to defend their theses, he had his latest pamphlet scattered about the benches — it was widely read, this Rationes Decem you heard of.’

  ‘Not only heard, I’ve seen it too — though only from a distance,’ I added quickly. ‘But please, go on. What is it?’

  Thomas cocked a brow. ‘It’s an audacious piece of Catholic propaganda w
hich must be destroyed. It purports to be an explanation of the Catholic faith and traditions. Well, it may be. But what it’s really designed to do is to remind those faithful to the old ways to hold fast against the government, to remain loyal to the Pope and to persuade the weaker-minded to revert to the old religion. Whichever way it’s viewed, it’s illegal and demonstrates Campion’s utter disrespect for our country and our laws. He has acted right under our noses. Four hundred copies were made. Four hundred were left for the scholars to find and discuss.’

  ‘I … I’ve reason to believe there may be more.’

  Thomas lowered his ale and gave me his full attention. ‘Oh? What convinces you of this?’

  Quickly, I told him what I’d seen and heard.

  ‘And this is in your report?’ he asked, nodding towards it.

  ‘All of it and more.’

  Thomas stood. ‘Today, you’ve justified the faith Sir Francis put in you tenfold.’ He leaned towards me. ‘My faith as well. Now, get to and remove those garments. You’re a laundress no more. Sir Francis must know what you’ve heard.’

  ‘We’re going to Seething Lane?’

  ‘No. Whitehall. But not before I send a courier to alert him to our arrival and the importance of the information we carry.’

  My heart leapt and I swiftly did as requested. I was again Mallory Bright alias Samantha Short, agent, engaged in the worthiest of enterprises — saving England from the Catholic scourge.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  LONDON AND WHITEHALL

  Late June, Anno Domini 1581

  In the 23rd year of the reign of Elizabeth I

  We travelled to Whitehall on a two-man wherry Thomas hailed for us just down from the fish markets at Billingsgate.

  Surviving the rapids churning around the starlings that stood midstream at London Bridge was no mean feat, and the boat almost tipped twice; my fingernails broke as I held fast to the edge. Fortunately, the rest of the journey was uneventful. If it hadn’t been for what I carried in my basket and Thomas’s reaction to it, I might have enjoyed the river, the wherries and tilt boats manoeuvring between fisher folk, gliding from east to west and along and against the currents. Sunset transformed the sky into ribbons of orange and mauve, deepening into the royal colours of indigo and gold on the horizon. Above us, flocks of birds wheeled before speeding away like arrows.