The Locksmith's Daughter

by Karen Brooks

  Before I could reply, he left the room and shut the door.

  I’d not seen Sir Francis so roused since Campion was caught. ‘Death’ and ‘Tyburn’ tripped off his tongue. Uneasy, I rubbed my arms. Thoughts of those rounded up from the parish of St Katherine Coleman crept into my mind once more. I recalled the men, the women, the children, all of them frightened — but passionate, too. There were no plots being hatched, none that I heard, at least. Were they also to be put to death? Or had they confessed their heresy, recanted and, in doing so, helped to confirm Campion’s guilt?

  Had I ever really believed that my work wouldn’t lead to this? If not for Campion, then for others? No. I knew. I understood. It was only now it had become a reality. Death followed in my wake. And with more to come, I was the avenging angel incarnate.

  Voices rose and fell. There was the scrape of chairs, the sound of boots on the floor. With a sigh, I clasped my hands in my lap and waited, gazing around the room that had become so familiar to me over the past year. Little had changed. The pictures and tapestries on the wall were the same, the candles were in a perpetual state of melting, the view from the window was as bleak and grey as it had been the first time I’d sat here. Only the mounds of paper, the overflowing boxes, had grown in number. I reached out and touched one of the teetering piles on Sir Francis’s desk and, to my horror, it collapsed, sending papers tumbling.

  I managed to catch some and quickly tried to restore order, glancing from the door to the desk and back again, hoping I hadn’t been heard. Laughter began to build within me at the impossibility of my situation. Imagine Sir Francis walking in and catching me with my arms full of his correspondence, no doubt laden with state secrets, and me explaining how an innocent brush, an almost loving touch, had demolished the pile.

  Swiftly stacking the papers, it wasn’t until the tower was complete again that I saw two stray pages had fallen down the other side of the desk — one onto Sir Francis’s work, the other upon his chair. I ran around and put them back where they belonged.

  I’m uncertain what made me linger and caused my eyes to alight upon the pages he’d brought back from the Star Chamber. Nevertheless, I began to read. Was I not a watcher? Someone who observed and interpreted everything around them?

  What I saw was a long list of names, accompanied by physical descriptions, a personal history, and different dates, places and even times. This was familiar. Looking up, I quickly flicked to the front page. Of course, this was the original dossier Charles Sledd had compiled, which Sir Francis had given to me to read and memorise months ago. Yet now there were amendments, marginalia.

  Unable to help myself, I kept reading. There were some crossings out and additions, not always in the original hand. Turning to the next page, I recognised Sir Francis’s writing, Thomas’s too. They’d made notes — perchance to help with their arguments at Campion’s trial. Trailing my finger down the page, I continued reading, reassured as the voices outside the door continued unabated.

  Then I saw a name I hadn’t expected. Above a redacted name was scrawled ‘Edmund Campion, priest Jesuit.’ I frowned. It was the only entry among dozens and dozens that lacked a physical description and a biography. Without a doubt I knew his name had not been there when I first read this material. This had been added since.

  I slowly sank into Sir Francis’s seat as the meaning of this late inclusion dawned upon me. Campion had never travelled among the group of heretics Sledd accompanied throughout the Continent. For certes, he was already in England when Sledd embarked on his journey with Allen and the others. He was not part of their plots. Thomas told me Sledd hadn’t even set eyes on the priest until two days ago when he testified in court. Oh, he knew the others listed here, and intimately. He’d been their courier, lackey and much more besides. Sledd swore the men whose names he recorded, whose conversations he scribed, were all willing participants in King Philip and the Pope’s enterprise against England.

  Now Sir Francis ensured Campion’s name was included among them. And thus he ensured the Jesuit’s death.

  Darkness closed around my vision. My head swam. I’d been told the evidence against Campion was overwhelming. Why would Sir Francis need to falsify anything? I didn’t hear the door open. I wasn’t even aware of Sir Francis on the other side of the desk, watching me from the shadows, until I heard him clear his throat.

  With cloudy eyes, I raised my head and tried to fix upon him. His black clothing and midnight hair made it impossible to distinguish his features. He blurred into the darkness. I didn’t leap from the seat; I didn’t tender an apology. I just remained where I was.

  ‘The traitor must die, Mallory. If he doesn’t, then all this,’ his arm encompassed the room, ‘the suffering of innocents, all my men have done, all you have done, will be for naught.’ He proffered no excuses. He knew what I’d seen, and that I understood the implications.

  ‘What about justice?’ I said hoarsely.

  ‘You think this isn’t just? That a Catholic priest in league with the pox-riddled monk in Rome doesn’t deserve to die? You believe his mission in England righteous?’

  I didn’t answer, and lowered my head and looked at the page. The words ‘Edmund Campion, priest Jesuit’ shouted at me.

  ‘He lies, Mallory. Everything that comes out of that treacherous priest’s mouth is a lie. He refuses to atone, to acknowledge the error of what he’s done. He is unrepentant. Why? Because he sees nothing wrong with breaking the law, with persuading good English souls to his cause, to Rome. And what is Rome’s cause?’

  ‘Death to Her Majesty,’ I said softly. ‘The ruination of the Protestant faith and the return of the Catholic one. Anarchy. War.’

  ‘Exactly.’ His tone changed. Sinking into the seat I’d so recently vacated on the other side of the desk, he folded his arms and waited.

  ‘If what he’s done is so wrong, then why do you need to lie about this?’ I jabbed the page. ‘Why add his name to this list of plotters when his crimes do not require such intervention?’

  ‘Damn it, Mallory, but it does. Have you not heard a word I’ve said? Do you not understand? Every minute he lives, every time he speaks or his words are published for others to read and discuss, he wins souls to his cause, and that means against England. We’re not safe as long as this man breathes.’

  His hand snaked across the desk and found mine. It was limp and cold within his warm, tight grasp.

  ‘I’m merely doing my duty, Mallory, just as you have done yours. Do you doubt Campion’s guilt?’

  I hesitated. ‘No.’

  ‘Should he be put to death like all traitors?’

  This time, I took longer to answer. ‘Aye.’ If that is indeed what they are.

  He released my hand. ‘Then you understand. I’m simply doing what is necessary.’

  I heard the splash of liquid. A goblet was placed before me. ‘Drink.’ He sat back down. ‘Think of it this way. Do you not tell falsehoods to your family in order to protect them?’

  I bridled. ‘I hardly think it’s the same.’

  ‘Is it not? In lying about what you do for me, aren’t you protecting them from full knowledge of your activities? Are you not protecting yourself from their judgement? Are you not keeping the secrets we uncover safe so that those who would suffer if they knew, who would live in dire fear, can instead continue their lives in blissful ignorance?’

  ‘I … I … I hadn’t thought of it that way.’

  ‘You should. Not all lies are bad, Mallory. Intention is the key. You lie with good intent; you omit to disclose the full truth in order not to hurt those you care about. Do you not?’

  My hand found my locket. ‘I have … I do … ’ How much did he know?

  Sir Francis smiled. ‘Then you are just like me. We are one and the same, Mallory, just as I knew we would be. I too indulge in falsehoods on occasion, only I do it to protect the entire realm.’

  ‘But Campion will die because of your lie.’

  ‘What is the lo
ss of a traitor if it means saving one good English soul?’

  I didn’t reply.

  ‘You’ve admitted, this is what he deserves.’

  ‘Aye. No … I don’t know.’ I was confused. If Sir Francis could not deliver retribution honestly, then what was the point? What was the point of having laws? Of courts and judges and trials? What was the point of what I did? And yet I did lie, and for good reason, and not just to Mamma and Papa either. I lied to protect myself. It was not right. It was not good. It was cowardly. Burying my head in my hands, I sat in silence. I sensed Sir Francis stand again. A moment later, I felt his hands upon my shoulders.

  ‘I never said this would be easy, Mallory. We all, whether we’re the sovereign or a pauper, battle with our consciences. It speaks volumes for the woman you are that yours rages — just as it did over the fate of those at St Katherine Coleman.’

  I lifted my head. I felt so weary. The weight of Sir Francis’s hands upon me were nothing to the weight in my heart. I wished I could unburden myself to someone, anyone. Once upon a time, it would have been Caleb or Papa … but no more. I was sworn to secrecy, to a life that precluded sharing. This work separated me from those I held most dear. I was without a friend, without a father … I couldn’t even speak to Sir Francis about how I felt lest I come across as weak or, worse, as a traitor myself.

  And yet, was it not the cruellest paradox that the very work that caused such anguish of the spirit also gave me purpose?

  A groan escaped my lips. Sir Francis shook me gently and helped me to my feet.

  ‘Look at me, Mallory,’ he said. Accustomed to obeying him, I did so. He seemed different. The candlelight made him appear dark and devilish, his beard forked, his eyes cold and hard. ‘I want you to go home; rest and calm yourself. Wait until I send for you again. Do not fret, it will be soon. Have we not more Catholics to bring to justice?’

  He chucked me under the chin. I nodded. He waited as I rose and returned to my usual position on the other side of the desk before resuming his chair.

  ‘I need to return to Whitehall,’ he said. ‘Sentence has been delivered upon Campion and it must be carried out.’

  I stared at the page that would send Campion to the scaffold.

  Sir Francis’s eyes hadn’t left my face. ‘You’ve done well so far, my avenging angel. Rest your wings.’ He gave a half-smile. I rose, curtseyed and turned to go.

  ‘Wait,’ he commanded. ‘Promise me you’ll not go to Tyburn on Friday. I know your inclinations, how you insisted on walking the streets around St Katherine Coleman. Your duty is done. You helped bring a traitor to justice, there’s no need to see him punished. I would you soothe your conscience, not prick it with a thousand cuts. Am I clear?’

  ‘Aye,’ I replied.

  ‘You’ll not go to Tyburn.’

  ‘It shall be as you say, sir.’ I left him knowing another lie had tripped off my tongue. I would go to Tyburn and watch the penalty I’d helped secure be meted out.

  As his avenging angel, it was my God-given duty.

  THIRTY-THREE

  TYBURN, OUTSIDE LONDON

  The 1st of December, Anno Domini 1581

  In the 24th year of the reign of Elizabeth I

  Between my waking and leaving the house, dawn had broken and a thick mist had risen from the river and engulfed the city, shrouding the lanes, drifting through the streets, muffling the sounds of those joining the throng leaving London to witness Edmund Campion’s execution. Anonymous grey shadows emerged out of the dense white fog before being swallowed again. With each step I took, I sensed rather than saw our numbers grow, all of us doggedly heading towards Tyburn; a mostly silent group marching towards death.

  Sir Francis may have forbidden me to attend and, may the dear Lord forgive me, I may have given a solemn promise I would not, but discovering the alterations he’d made to Sledd’s dossier had changed everything. I had to see for myself where those changes led; see the fate of this man who’d preoccupied my master and his men for so long, who’d preoccupied me.

  I’d reached St Paul’s before I was aware I was being followed. As I was forced to a standstill by the growing crowd, a gentleman sidled up beside me.

  ‘I did not think this would be your choice of entertainment, mistress.’ It was Caleb.

  ‘Nor yours, my friend,’ I said quietly. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Caleb stared at me, trying to think of what to say. ‘I heard you leave the house and followed. Why are you here?’

  I considered my words. ‘I need to see if Campion’s the threat I believe him to be, or the gentle priest he protests he is.’

  ‘Mayhap he’s both,’ said Caleb.

  Before I could respond, around us whispers rapidly transformed into cries.

  ‘He comes! Campion comes!’

  The mist began to disperse as the sun tried to bleed through the grey clouds overhead. The murmurs became a roar and the crowds formed a line on either side of the street. Tied to wicker hurdles — woven sledges that offered no comfort or protection — drawn by horses, the priest and his fellow-conspirators appeared. Their feet were bound and elevated, close to the horses’ rumps, while only interlocked straw lay between their heads and the cobbles. The city marshal, a group of armed constables and some dignitaries in their best attire accompanied them on foot and on horseback. Not once did they spare a glance for their prisoners, whose bodies were bounced along the uneven roads, their faces pale, bruised and swollen, their twisted and broken limbs evidence of what they had endured upon the rack.

  I only knew which was Campion because some threw themselves onto their knees and offered prayers for his soul as he was dragged past. He was smaller than I imagined, thinner, and altogether unlike the monster my mind had created. He tried to turn his head and bestow a smile. A smile. His lips moved, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying. There was a calmness about him and it had an effect upon those who saw him. The weeping eased; the praying grew less frenetic.

  Falling in behind the horses, the crowd, now numbering in the hundreds, tramped purposefully. There was crying, some singing, prayers and jeers. Many chose not to speak, but to walk in what I could only describe as a respectful silence.

  Caleb linked his arm in mine and I placed my hand over his forearm, grateful beyond measure that I wasn’t alone. The sheer number of people, from all stations, was daunting. I’m not sure what I had anticipated, but it wasn’t this.

  We passed close to Newgate before exiting the city gates and heading towards St Giles in the Field. Parklands of lush green filled with trees and flowering shrubs sheltered a small village replete with smoking chimneys, grazing cows and busy chickens. Residents poured out of their houses, adding their number to the throng. Children skipped beside the adults; some urchins tried to sell stolen scraps or demonstrate tricks for coin. Cuffed around the ears, pushed out of the way, they were not deterred from their efforts. Along Oxford Street, canny vendors set up carts selling refreshments and hot pies, as if this was a fair or a play. Caleb made me stop and we bought something to quench our growing thirst. I’d no appetite for food.

  The sun parted the clouds, chasing the last tendrils of fog away and melting the frost on the edges of the road, which was becoming churned into mud by the traffic. The edges of my gown were filthy, my boots weighed by the soil clinging to their soles. Bells began to toll as we drew closer to Tyburn and the gallows, their music flat and hollow, a mournful dirge that echoed the growing dread in my heart. We shuffled into the open space, the horse-drawn hurdles and officials heading straight for the huge wooden structure in the centre. Colloquially known as the Tyburn Tree, it could hang over a dozen at one time. The crowd from London joined those already gathered, pressing as close to the platform as they dared. Further back, carts led by donkeys, horses and oxen pulled over, entire families standing on top of them to gain a view. Noblemen on horseback were scattered among them, their features unreadable, their backs stiff. One or two faces were familiar, no doubt Sir F
rancis’s men sent to report on proceedings. I prayed they wouldn’t see me and pulled my hood further over my head.

  Still more gathered to watch from the windows of the nearby buildings. I didn’t want to examine these faces or any of those around me, to take note of what they looked like or what they wore; to see who among them might be traitors or priests. On this day, at this time, I no longer cared. I was not there as a watcher but as a witness. I wanted to be vindicated, but feared I would be condemned.

  Sensing my growing ambivalence, Caleb placed an arm about me. ‘Are you sure about this?’ he asked softly as we were jostled to make room for yet more spectators. A woman next to us openly worried her rosary beads, a short man next to her clutched a cross in his fist. I wanted to shut my eyes tight and un-see this evidence of popery. Whether it was because these people believed or whether it was an expression of support for the priests, I couldn’t be certain.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ I answered. ‘But I must remain.’

  Shouts from the front forced the crowd to shuffle back as officials tried to create space. The press of bodies, the smell of distress, fear and longing made it difficult to breathe. Caleb shoved a scented handkerchief into my hand. I put it to my nose and inhaled gratefully.

  ‘How much longer?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I think the Council would want this done swiftly.’ He stood on tiptoe and peered over the crowd. ‘I don’t remember seeing so many here before.’ He lowered himself. ‘Though most be loyal to the Queen, there’s a great deal of sympathy for Campion. He won many hearts with his eloquence, his protestations of innocence. They dare not draw this out. The mood could turn.’

  Untied from the hurdle and hauled roughly to his feet, Campion — along with the student-priest Ralph Sherwin and Alexander Briant, whose names had featured in reports that crossed my desk — were all but carried on trembling, stumbling legs up the stairs to the platform. Their gowns were torn and soiled, their faces streaked with dirt. While Campion was composed, his wide-eyed gaze uncannily serene, his companions had been crying.