by Karen Brooks
After Caleb left that night, I retreated to my room and reread Papa’s letters, wondering why he did not express his feelings. His letters were descriptions of his days — the locks he was designing, the style of bow upon a key, who had ordered what. But then, wasn’t I doing the same? I too avoided any words of the heart and filled my letters with humdrum details. A formality had crept into our exchanges, making them strangely perfunctory. I initially believed that by writing and sharing my tasks, I was demonstrating how much he was in my thoughts, how much I cared. I was mistaken. I was further excluding him, slowly excising him from my real life — my inner one.
And he was doing the same to me. Through denying ourselves the consolation of each other’s presence, we were either protecting our hearts or splitting them so badly it would only take a single blow to break them.
In order to remind myself what was at stake, I worked upon my latest coded report to Sir Francis. It was a list of all the players in Lord Warham’s Men, information I’d gleaned from Caleb and Lord Nathaniel. Imitating Sledd’s style, I included physical descriptions, where they were from, and what I’d learned of the past of each. I kept a copy to build upon every time I met the men, compiling, I hoped, the equivalent of a dossier.
When I finished, prodded by the poker of guilt, I wrote to Papa. I spoke of my day, asked about his, and was considering asking after Mamma when I decided against it. I hadn’t before and saw no point in starting now.
It was an omission I was to regret deeply.
I spent Christmas at Warham Hall. Papa neither invited me home nor asked what I intended. I was too proud and too heart-sick to beg to share his table just one more time.
At Warham Hall, the repast was grand and the chef Master Connor outdid himself. We spent the morning serving the staff, as was Lord Nathaniel’s custom and a Warham tradition. I was delighted to be included as member of the household and not a servant and thus able to wait upon those who looked after me. Lord Nathaniel took the role of Master Bede and ordered us about, never hesitating to fetch a drink, replace a broken glass or lift the best cut of meat onto a servant’s platter. There were many toasts to his continued good health and the jollity was infectious. Beatrice played music and there was dancing and singing. Master Connor and his wife Virtue twirled their little children in their arms and passed them on to Mistress Margery and a portly man with bow legs, one eye and three teeth in his head, which he flashed at one young babe chuckling happily in his thick arms while Missy danced around him. I hadn’t seen this man, Gully, before, as he worked the yard. After some encouragement, Gully pulled a set of pipes from his pocket and played the sweetest ditties, lulling the room and bringing tears to the eyes of men I’d never have suspected of weeping. This heralded the end of the celebrations.
In the evening, normal roles were resumed and the servants returned to their posts and we surrendered our aprons and went back upstairs. Much to my disappointment, Lord Nathaniel left soon after to attend court, taking Nicholas with him. The Queen demanded her courtiers not only present themselves on Christmas day, but bring a gift as well. Sir Lance, Beatrice and I were left to entertain ourselves.
Wassails were said, songs were sung and some subdued dancing took place. I sat with a cup of mead and would happily have drunk myself into a stupor. With bleary eyes I watched Sir Lance and Beatrice accompanying each other as they sang a carol, while servants swayed and yawned in the corners, their cheeks ruddy, their livery a little mussed. Sounds from the kitchens below indicated the revelry hadn’t ended after lunch.
My mind began to wander and I thought of the presents I’d sent home for the New Year, ones I’d purchased when I was with Beatrice at St Paul’s and the Royal Exchange: a fine pair of gloves each for Mamma and Angela and, after some intense bargaining, a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles, not unlike those Thomas wore, for Papa. For Caleb, I bought a plumed quill and some ink that was so dark it would rival Master Connor’s eyes. For Beatrice, I’d found a beautiful edition of Chaucer’s poems. Knowing she’d attended so many plays, I felt she could more than manage the poet’s earthy bawdiness. For Sir Francis, I also bought a book. Cheekily, I bought him a copy of Castiglione. I hadn’t seen it on the shelves of his library at Seething Lane, though he could well have a copy at Barn Elms. Still, it had a beautiful black cover and the print was elegant.
I had small gifts for my maid at Warham Hall, Tace, and for the apprentices, as well as for Comfort, Mistress Pernel, Master Gib and even Gracious. I’d wrapped them and sent them off with a courier. For all that Harp Lane was only a short ride away, it could have been at the other end of the earth.
Though it would be days before they opened them, I wondered what they would make of their gifts, when it suddenly occurred to me that I’d overlooked a present for Lord Nathaniel.
As if summoned by my thoughts, he swept into the room. The music ceased.
‘Nate.’ Beatrice rose excitedly from the stool and Sir Lance leapt to his feet beside her. ‘What are you doing home so soon? What a delightful surprise.’
He bowed to his sister, then scanned the room. Spying me in my chair as I tried to rise and greet him, he marched over. ‘Mistress Mallory, I … I didn’t expect you to be here.’
‘Pray, my lord,’ I laughed. ‘Where else would I be?’
His frown deepened and I wanted to wipe it from his brow. No I didn’t. I blame the wine, I wanted to kiss it.
‘I’m afraid I’m the bearer of terrible tidings.’
My smile fled. I blinked. ‘Oh?’ Had he forgotten to buy me a gift too? An image of the beautiful necklace in the box flashed into my mind. Had he given that to the Queen? To his latest fancy mistress?
Lowering his voice, he held out a hand. ‘You must come with me immediately. You’re needed at home.’
The world stopped.
‘Papa?’
Lord Nathaniel’s look of pity increased. ‘I’m afraid it’s your mother.’
Am I Satan’s beast incarnate that a wave of relief swept over me?
‘Oh, Mallory.’ Beatrice rushed to my side as, in a daze, I took Lord Nathaniel’s hand, found my feet and set my cup down.
‘Very good.’ My head was suddenly clear. I could hear my breath, the beating of my heart. It had come to this. ‘I will go to her at once. I will go to Papa.’
I don’t recall Beatrice asking Tace to fetch my cloak, or Mistress Margery ensuring I had gloves lined with otter fur to keep my hands warm and a scarf to wear over my mouth and neck, or being escorted into the yard. It was only as we rode out of Warham Hall that I became aware I was sat upon the withers of Bounty, Lord Nathaniel’s horse, and that his lordship was behind me, his arms either side of my body and holding the reins. Mounted on a gelding, Nicholas rode ahead of us, a lamp in one hand, the reins tightly wound in the other.
Lord Nathaniel shouted directions, and Nicholas followed them faithfully, ordering some drunken revellers and trulls out of the way. A light snow fell as we rode through the mostly empty streets. Night watchmen, their lanterns held aloft, hailed us, but when they saw who it was venturing forth, they bowed and wished us merry Christmas instead. Dark shapes moved down side streets and alleys, keen the light would not fall upon them. Shutters banged in the wind.
I was convinced I was in a dream, mounted upon a fine horse, a strong man at my back, riding through snowflakes. The soft light cast shadows that turned derelict houses into mysterious spaces, the arches and gargoyles atop the churches became promising havens of shadows and light where God awaited. The snow upon the ground filled the filthy ditches pristine white. I remembered a similar ride nigh on three years ago. It was colder, more desperate and so exciting. Then I rode into a new life. Here I was heading towards death. A death, God forgive my cursed soul, I’d wished for many a time.
I bit back a sob. Lord Nathaniel took the reins with one hand; the other he curled around my body and pressed me against him. For a moment I resisted, then melted into his solidness, revelling in the warmth of his che
st, the way his chin grazed my hood. His arm squashed my breasts, which suddenly felt full, while his fingers gathered my waist to him. I felt safe, secure. Raffe had made me ride behind him, explaining it was so he could ride faster. I never complained about the cold upon my back, the snow collecting on my cloak that made it so impossibly heavy, or how my arms became lifeless, unable to grip him. I had ridden in fear of falling the entire way. Only later did I understand that it was because he was a poor horseman, something that became apparent when he hired a hack for me outside London’s walls.
‘I’m so sorry, Mallory,’ whispered Lord Nathaniel, ‘I daren’t ride faster. I just hope we’re not too late.’
How could I tell him it wasn’t possible to be too late? My mother had died years ago. The woman dying now was someone who had resented me with every breath she took, who’d never loved or wanted me. Like my entire life, this ride to her bedside as she drew her last was a pretence I maintained for everyone’s sake — including my own. Would Mamma keep the facade going to the last, or would she expose me for what I was?
The weight of Lord Nathaniel’s chin upon my head was a great comfort. If I hadn’t been so selfish, I would have told him to set me down, that he didn’t need to do this. He should be with his sister and his friend, at home. I could scarcely credit I’d thought ill of him so often and yet here he was, returned from court to escort me home in my hour of need.
Then it occurred to me. ‘How … how did you know about Mamma?’
‘A messenger came to court.’
‘From Papa?’
‘No. It came from Sir Francis. I thought you could tell me why. Verily, I was shocked to discover you didn’t know. I didn’t expect to find you at the house.’
‘I do not know.’
Why hadn’t Papa sent for me? Had our relationship so altered? Had he withdrawn his affection to such an extent that he would not want me by his side at such a time? I batted away the tears.
We continued in silence until we reached the shop in Tower Street. The gate was open, allowing Nicholas and Lord Nathaniel to ride in. Master Gib was waiting for us. He took the horses and ushered us towards the kitchen.
Inside sat the apprentices, Mistress Pernel, Gracious, who’d been weeping, and the dogs, Latch and her kittens. Caleb sat at the table, his head in his hands. Sadness filled the room. The fire crackled, a large pot spat and bubbled in defiance of the mood. Upon the table were tankards and jugs. A half-eaten loaf and some cold coney also sat upon a platter. As we entered, the company raised their heads. Caleb leapt to his feet and pulled me into an embrace.
‘I’m so sorry, dear heart.’
There were murmurs of welcome, of sorrow. When the others saw who accompanied me, there was a rush to stand and doff caps. Lord Nathaniel bid them stay.
Caleb released me and I went to thank the others. Before I could say anything, Comfort swept into the room. Her face was swollen, and tears streamed down her pink cheeks. When she saw me, her face brightened before she began to cry.
‘Oh, Mistress Mallory, thank the dear Lord you’re here. Come, come, I think she waits only for you. Forgive me, my lord, I must take the mistress.’
‘Go, go,’ said Lord Nathaniel. ‘I will wait here and pray.’ Once again he took my hand and squeezed it. ‘If you need me, I am here.’
Caleb gave a reassuring nod and waved me to the door. It was all I could do not to drag him and Lord Nathaniel with me. But this was something I needed to do on my own: to say goodbye to the woman I called Mamma. My nemesis.
FORTY-THREE
HARP LANE, LONDON
Christmas Night, Anno Domini 1581
In the 24th year of the reign of Elizabeth I
Papa and Angela kept vigil beside the bed. Candles flickered on every available surface. The rood, usually hidden behind a plate upon the mantelpiece, was on full display. Scattered across the coverlet were Mamma’s Agnus Dei, two sets of rosary beads, her worn missal and silver cross. As custom dictated, her hand mirror had been placed face down lest the living see their own image and follow the dead to the grave. Angela was reading from a prayer book. Papa looked up at my entry and gave a sad, weary nod before turning back to hold Mamma’s hand.
With a heavy heart, I approached the bed. The curtains had been drawn back. Mamma lay propped up on the pillows, her eyes shut. Her face was pale and grey, and her hair, which had been brushed, spilled over her shoulders. Her lips were dry and bloodless; her breath loud, uneven and moist. She inhaled in one long, noisy effort before it was expelled. Not even the incense burning alongside the candles could disguise the smell of illness, of death.
As I went to touch her hand, I saw another man in the room. Of medium height, with dark hair and a clean-shaven face, he was dressed in the vestments for last rites. He stood near one of the bedposts and regarded me coolly, then began to chant from the open book in his hand.
Good God, it was a priest.
Horror rose only to be quickly doused. What did it matter now? Nonetheless, as I came closer, I tried to lodge his appearance in my head. How dare he show his face, repeat words that were forbidden? Wear such clothes? His presence in our house was a sign of growing papist boldness.
Angela gave a sob when she saw me and went to move in my direction. The priest glared at her and she subsided, responding automatically to his words, crossing herself.
Much to my astonishment, Papa did as well. I drifted closer and stood behind him. Resting a hand tentatively on his shoulder, I was about to remove it when he reached up and clasped it tightly in his fingers. It was all I could do not to burst into tears.
‘Mallory,’ he whispered hoarsely.
‘I’m here, Papa.’
Mamma’s eyes flickered open and she looked straight at me. A smile parted her lips and I began to respond, until I understood it was directed at Papa.
‘She came for you, Gideon. She does her duty still. Did I not tell you?’ Every word was an effort. Her free hand rose from the bed and rested upon what I first thought was a pillow beneath her breasts. It was her stomach. What ailed Mamma that her womb, barren of life to the end, was now swollen as if with child?
God, how can you be so cruel?
The priest’s voice continued in the background. I wanted to hush him, to tell him to go lest I report his presence and have him followed. But I could not. If this gave Mamma comfort, if it helped reconcile her soul, then I would not interfere.
‘This,’ she rasped to the priest, a bony finger pointing at me. ‘This is the one of whom I spoke.’
Papa pulled me closer. ‘She has made her confession. Her soul is cleansed.’
Mamma’s head turned. ‘I’m not deaf, Gideon. My soul can never be cleansed. I’ve done great wrong in my life and no more so than to you both. Mallory, come here; I would speak with you one last time.’
Releasing her hand and mine, Papa rose and offered his seat to me. I hesitated, and Mamma tried to laugh, but it turned into an effort to catch her breath. I sat quickly, taking the dry hand that lay on the coverlet.
‘My bite has no teeth, Mallory. Not any more.’
Then you will just suck what little hope of redemption remains out of me.
I waited for Mamma to regain her breath. Angela tried to make her more comfortable, moving pillows, loosening the gown about her throat, but Mamma shook her head. ‘Basta,’ she said. Enough.
Aye, for all of us.
She thrust her chin forward. The action emphasised the hollowness of her cheeks and the way her illness had wasted her flesh, rendering her little more than a skeleton. Whatever beauty she once possessed was now only in her eyes, and I looked into them as they held mine.
I knew what she wanted. ‘I’m sorry, Mamma,’ I began. ‘Sorry for what you had to sacrifice in order to give me a life. A life I chose to ruin. Forgive me, if you can.’
Mamma’s eyes were strange in the glowing light, softer and more than a little afraid. Was it fear of death, or was it me? Had I not just said what she needed to
hear?
‘I do not want you to apologise.’ Her body was seized by a fit of coughing, and I waited for it to pass. ‘What I want,’ she continued hoarsely, ‘is for you to forgive me.’
I froze. Angela’s hand flew to her mouth. Behind me, I heard Papa inhale sharply. None of us had expected this.
‘There’s nothing to forgive —’ I began. With surprising strength, Mamma squeezed my hand.
‘No. No. No more lies. I’ve not the time, or the inclination …’
Her eyes closed. It was some time before she spoke again. Papa, Angela and I remained gazing at her. The priest murmured in soporific tones, his voice rising and falling with the cadence of his prayers.
Mamma wanted my forgiveness? Why? She’d so clearly outlined what my presence had done to her life and Papa’s. How, by simply existing, I’d destroyed their dreams. Was this her faith talking? Did she want forgiveness so her soul would rush to be with the Lord? So she wouldn’t be sent to purgatory?
Why did I hesitate to offer forgiveness? When had I become so ungenerous? Mamma didn’t deserve this. Not now. Nor did Papa. As we waited for Mamma to speak again, if she could, Papa placed his hand on my shoulder. I rested my cheek against it.
‘If you cannot, I will understand.’ His words were faint but made any doubt I’d harboured flee.
Finally, Mamma’s eyes opened. ‘Your tongue is still. Perchance forgiveness begins with the asking.’ She took a breath and it echoed about her struggling ribs. ‘I’m sorry, Mallory,’ said Mamma. Her voice was deep, quivery. ‘For not loving you, for not being the Mamma Lucia would have wished me to be; that God wanted. For blaming you for destroying my life and Gideon’s.’
Angela gasped. Behind me, Papa groaned; his grip on my shoulder became painful.
‘Bah. You did not do any of these things,’ she continued in a rush, as if she might expire before she was finished. ‘I did. I was the architect of my own folly, my own misery. Not you. Allora, mio Dio has, in His wisdom, shown me this.’ She drew me closer. Her breath was rancid, though her nightgown and bedclothes smelled sweet. Pushing the hair from my face, she caressed my cheeks the way I’d always longed for her to do, following the contours, tracking the tears that spilled, her eyes searching mine. ‘Lucia’s eyes, aye, but also your father’s.’ She gave a small smile that was nonetheless filled with the affection she’d denied us both. ‘Do not make the same mistakes I did; do not let the actions of others, of the past, decide your fate. Decide your own.’