The Locksmith's Daughter

by Karen Brooks

  ‘How can I, Mamma?’ The words were difficult, strangled as they were by the grief rising in my chest. ‘You said yourself, we women are doomed to be at the whim of men.’

  ‘Si. I did. But we can choose the men to whom we cleave, if not in heart, then mind. Learn from your mistakes in ways I did not. Your Papa, bless him, equipped you to do that. Do not disappoint him. Do not disappoint me or my memory. Make amends for me as well.’ Lifting my hand, she held it to her lips. They were flaky, hot, but no less tender for that.

  Mamma’s face swam in my vision. My heart, so long deflated when it came to her, filled one last time, and it was as if all its wounds were repaired. I lowered my head against her frail chest, this woman who had battled to live so she might offer an apology. I understood and was quite undone.

  ‘I forgive you, Mamma. I forgive you,’ I whispered.

  I never knew if she heard, only that her hand became slack in mine. The chest beneath my ear grew still and quiet. Papa took me by the shoulders and slowly eased me upright as Angela let out a long wail. The priest came forward and closed Mamma’s eyes. He anointed her with holy oil and said the final prayers. Held tight in Papa’s arms, I watched. Angela joined our embrace and the three of us stood beside the bed, a trio of misery but, also, strangely, joy. With her last breath, Mamma and I had reconciled. The healing had begun. Mamma had ensured that.

  At some stage, Papa left the room and, in the distance, the parish bell began to toll. One stroke of the bell for each year of Mamma’s life. When he returned some time later, snow salting his cloak, he thrust something into the priest’s hand.

  ‘For your services, for the indulgences and candles. Go and God be with you. Our thanks and blessings as well. May you be safe.’

  With a nod and a final dark look in my direction, the priest made the sign of the cross towards Mamma’s body, then towards Angela, and collected his cloak and left.

  Papa watched him go, then went to the bed and with a look of utter desolation, stroked Mamma’s cheeks. ‘You spent most of your life by my side, even though I broke almost every promise I made. How will I go on without you, Valentina, amore mio?’ His voice cracked and he bowed his head.

  Angela put her arm around me to prevent me going to him. ‘Let us leave him awhile. We can return to prepare her body. Comfort will want to help, no doubt Mistress Dorothy and some of the other gossips as well.’

  I nodded. If I spoke, the dam of weeping inside me would break.

  ‘I will go to the others,’ said Angela, her face crumpling into a picture of anguish.

  Taking a candle, I followed her from the room, shutting the door quietly. ‘I will come downstairs shortly. I … I just need some time to myself,’ I said.

  Angela didn’t question me, but descended to the kitchen. I went upstairs, to my old room. As I pushed open the door, the icy air wrapped itself around me. Without a fire, the room was bone-cold and dark. Stumbling across the floor, I used the candle I was carrying to light some more. I sat on the bed and stared towards the window. The closed shutters looked back. Once, they’d appeared hard and unforgiving. Now I saw the grains in the wood, the places where splinters had lifted, creating textures that spoke of history, of changing seasons, other hands and times. Much like people, these shutters were weathered by their experiences.

  Just like Mamma … bitter, brittle, Mamma. Yet in ways I was only beginning to understand, she had been strong beyond measure. In her determination not to love me, to hide the reasons she could not, she had shaped the woman I’d become. She’d also set a path for me to follow, one in which she ensured Papa would be by my side.

  The tears fell freely then and coursed down my cheeks. I cried for Valentina Bright, the woman I called Mamma but never really, until the last moments of her life, knew. I wish we’d had more time. That I could have been more generous in my heart towards her.

  How long I sat there, I was uncertain. The bell ceased to toll, the house was quiet and I was so very cold. I rose and shivers wracked my body. I would catch a chill or worse sitting up here. I went down the stairs, lost in thought. A light flickered in one of the rooms on the next floor. There was a series of dull thuds. Caleb. I could do with his company, ask for solace and provide some. Tell him what had happened in Mamma’s room and how, before a priest no less, a miracle had occurred.

  FORTY-FOUR

  HARP LANE, LONDON

  Christmas Night, Anno Domini 1581

  In the 24th year of the reign of Elizabeth I

  I knocked quietly and pushed the door open. Caleb sat in front of the chest, a pile of books and pamphlets scattered around him. His eyes widened and his face paled when he saw me. ‘Mallory.’ Jumping to his feet, he began to push me out of the room, but not before I’d seen what he was sorting.

  Multiple copies of Motives Inducing to the Catholic Faith — a seditious tract by Richard Bristowe — were strewn across the floor. There were many other publications as well.

  ‘What are you doing with these?’ I hissed.

  For a beat, he locked eyes with me before throwing up his arms and backing away. I knelt down and picked up a pamphlet.

  ‘This is by the priest, Nicholas Sanders. And what’s this?’ I asked, putting that pamphlet down and sweeping up another. I could scarcely believe my eyes. ‘Good God, Caleb. This is Bristowe’s defence of Pope Pius V’s Bull excommunicating the Queen. Are you mad? I thought this chest was your friend’s?’

  ‘It is,’ said Caleb miserably. His eyes filled. ‘I’m so sorry about Valentina, Mallory. I know you two didn’t always have an accord, but she was your mother.’

  ‘No. She wasn’t,’ I snapped. ‘Don’t try and distract me. Caleb, what you have here is the work of heretics, of Catholics.’ I searched through the pile and uncovered writings by William Allen, Luke Kirby and other priests — some already on trial, others, like Bristowe, dead. These were the very books and pamphlets Sir Francis was turning London inside out to find. How dare Caleb bring such danger upon us? What devil-induced folly was this?

  ‘If these are found here, not only will you be hanged or worse, but Papa as well. Caleb, how could you?’

  ‘I tell you, it wasn’t me.’ He sank onto the bed.

  I stared at him. ‘Who then?’

  He shook his head. ‘I promised never to tell.’

  ‘Caleb …’

  ‘Oh, don’t you Caleb me. You refuse to break the promises you make to friends, to Sir Francis, so why should you expect me to break mine?’

  I tried not to lose my temper, tried once again to affect an indifference I didn’t feel. ‘If the chest isn’t yours, then how did you open it?’ I scooped the lock from the floor and brandished it.

  ‘This is no ordinary lock, Caleb, don’t try and persuade me otherwise. Unless you have the keys, and you assured me you did not, it will release a spray of ink or worse, identifying the lock-pick. You’re not capable of picking this. Ergo, you are in possession of the keys. Ergo, the chest is yours and so are they.’ I gestured to the works on the floor.

  I thought Caleb might try and deny my accusations, but he fell silent, staring at the offensive works, at the chest, at the lock in my hand. Anywhere but at me. My frustration mounted.

  ‘Why open it now? Of all times, when Mamma’s just died and the house is about to be filled with mourners? Did that priest make you? Or did he simply inspire you to be such a reckless fool?’

  Caleb gave a strangled laugh. ‘It was the only way I could persuade him to come out of hiding.’

  ‘You found the priest?’

  ‘I didn’t find him. That implies he was lost. I knew where he was. I just had to convince him it wasn’t a trap. That I wasn’t one of Walsingham’s men.’ He shot me a pointed look that I ignored. ‘I had to prove he was being summoned for a genuine purpose — a Catholic one. We needed him to perform the last rites. I took one of these,’ he scattered the pages with a savage thrust, ‘as proof. I didn’t know what else to do —’ He stared dolefully at the materia
l. ‘He couldn’t come quick enough.’

  ‘So you knew what was in the chest all along?’

  ‘Knowing who it belonged to, I guessed it was Catholic propaganda.’

  ‘Guessed? Surely you would know if you’re a friend of this Catholic?’

  ‘He’s not my … it’s … it’s complicated.’

  I wanted to scream. Caleb lowered his eyes.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘What difference would it have made?’

  There was a long cry from downstairs. Widow Dorothy had arrived. I shook my head.

  ‘I still wish you hadn’t brought a priest to the house, let alone this … this material. I don’t care whether you’re storing it for a friend or an arch enemy.’ He shot me a strange look before turning away.

  I sat on the floor and began to put the books and pamphlets back in the chest. ‘Caleb, you don’t know what you’ve done. You’ve placed me in a terrible position. Are you listening to me?’

  With an expletive that had no place in a house of mourning, he knelt beside me and began to help. ‘I have little choice.’

  ‘You once asked if your secrets were safe with me. Caleb, it’s not me you have to worry about. Sir Francis has his entire network focussed on finding these. On finding who possesses them and to whom they’re being distributed. Do you understand? He knows they’re here, in London. He knows exactly what they are. He even suspects they’re with a troupe of actors. His men are watching; they’re waiting. All they need is for one of these to appear —’ I shook one at him and he slapped it away. ‘Just one to be distributed and then Sir Francis intends to track it back to the source. To you. To Lord Warham’s Men. To us.’

  Caleb stared at me in disgust. ‘I was right. You’re one of his agents, aren’t you?’

  I didn’t deny it. The time for dissembling was over. Mamma had decreed it. I had to choose. So I did. ‘I am.’

  Scrabbling across the floor, Caleb leapt to his feet, putting distance between us. ‘I thought I knew you, but I don’t, do I?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Mallory Bright, the woman with a Catholic mother, who shared with me how she lost her virtue to a rogue, bore his child, the woman who took a wrong turn in life and swore to head in the right direction. You’ve spun in circles and become lost. You’re a spy, a turncoat. That’s why you were at Tyburn, wasn’t it? To see your work through to completion.’ He tore at his hair. ‘Oh dear sweet Lord.’

  A note of hysteria had crept into his voice. I tried to calm him. His arms shot out, warding me off.

  ‘Who are you? I thought you were my friend.’

  ‘You dim-witted fool, I am your friend. If I was not, I’d run outside now, call the night watch and have you sent to the Tower. The very fact I’ve not done so must tell you where my loyalties lie. For all our sakes, Caleb, calm down. I need to think. We need to sort this mess out, before it’s too late. We also need to pray that none of Sir Francis’s men are following your priest and if they are, they remain unaware of what he took from this house, that he even entered it. If they know, we’re all undone.’

  Caleb muttered something, but I ignored him and resumed picking up the books. ‘Don’t just stand there, help me. The sooner these are out of sight, the better.’

  We piled the books and pamphlets back into the chest. The number of them was terrifying to behold. I imagined Sir Francis watching us, one of his men hiding in the shadows, upon an adjacent rooftop, ready to report everything back to his master: how his very own daughter was helping the enemy avoid justice.

  Out of the corner of my eye I looked at Caleb, my dear sweet Caleb. My dandy, with his chestnut hair and dazzling blue eyes. The dimples that creased his cheeks and caught his beautifully groomed beard. I took in the fine cut of his clothes, the rich green of the velvet and whiteness of the lace at his cuffs, of his ruff.

  ‘How much are they paying you to distribute these?’ I asked suddenly.

  ‘Me? Nothing. Well, not yet. I told you, I’m doing this for a friend. If and when it’s removed, he’ll pay me.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘How much is he being paid?’

  Caleb closed the lid of the chest. ‘It cannot be reckoned.’

  ‘So you will benefit?’

  Caleb began to laugh. ‘In ways you cannot begin to imagine.’

  I shook him by the shoulders until he stopped. ‘This is no time for mirth. When are you going to understand how dire this is?’

  ‘Oh, believe me, I do, Mallory, I do.’

  ‘You’re not a Catholic are you?’

  He didn’t reply at first. ‘God is not on my side as you well know, Mallory — neither the Catholic nor the Protestant one. It doesn’t matter what I believe, what I am. He punishes the likes of me. God of love? Not my kind. No, the only thing I’ve faith in is human nature — how ugly, beautiful and unpredictable it can be. Just when you’re assured of one thing, something else arises to confound you.’ He began to chuckle uncontrollably. ‘Why, look at you. My friend, the spy. The Keeper of Secrets. How apt.’

  ‘Caleb, please!’ I stamped my foot. ‘Dear God, I need you to be serious for once. Do you even begin to understand the risk that chest and its contents pose? I don’t care whether it’s yours or the Sultan of Turkey’s — it’s dangerous and its very presence marks us all.’

  Caleb’s face fell. ‘It was never meant to be like this. It should have been collected long ago. Now I know why it hasn’t been.’

  ‘But now it is like this. And we have to think of a way of getting rid of it before it’s found.’

  ‘My friend tells me plans are afoot to remove it.’ Gathering my hands in his, Caleb regarded me earnestly. ‘Will you help us?’

  ‘Us?’ I sighed. ‘It seems I have little choice.’

  Time was I thought my loyalty to Sir Francis would always come before all else. That, like the courtiers, I could adopt mediocrita as a way of being. It was time to acknowledge I could not — not any longer. What was life, what was loyalty, without feeling? Without embracing passions and all they offered, good and bad? Without friends? Without family? I loved Caleb and would do anything to protect him, to protect Papa and Angela. I held him close.

  ‘You stood by me when no-one else would. You’ve kept my secret. Of course I will help you. It’s my turn to repay a huge debt.’

  ‘God bless you, Mallory Bright.’

  ‘Someone has to,’ I whispered. Pulling away, I paced back and forth. ‘For now, the chest must remain.’ Caleb tugged his lower lip. ‘Neither it nor the books and pamphlets inside can be moved — not yet. If your friend tells you otherwise, let me know immediately. As to what we can do with them, I will think on it. Perchance we can relocate the chest, destroy the contents. Whatever we decide, we cannot act yet. It’s too risky.’

  I looked him up and down. ‘For now, tidy yourself and prepare to play the finest role of your career.’

  ‘What’s that?’ he said, brushing his breeches and jacket.

  ‘An innocent actor and writer, in mourning for the lady of the house. Put aside all thoughts of this,’ I gestured at the offending piece of furniture, ‘that is, until I’m ready to tell you otherwise. Keep the chest locked and, whatever you do, do not open it again. And for God’s sake, do not speak of what’s inside it to anyone. Tell your friend to do the same. Do I have your word on that?’

  ‘My word, my sentences, an entire page.’

  I reached for his hand. ‘Come then. It’s Mamma who deserves our attention — not these … these … seditious tracts.’

  ‘Our prayers too,’ added Caleb, plucking a kerchief from an internal pocket and dabbing his eyes. ‘Only for now, I’m also going to pray she’s watching over us.’

  ‘Better Mamma than Sir Francis,’ I muttered.

  FORTY-FIVE

  WARHAM HALL, KNIGHTRIDER STREET, AND HARP LANE, LONDON

  St Stephen’s Day, Anno Domini 1581

  In the 24th year of the reign of Elizabeth I


  Shelton Estates, Durham Anni Domini 1579–1580

  In the 22nd and 23rd year of the reign of Elizabeth I

  Lord Nathaniel had intended to banish stygian colours from his house once and for all, but with Mamma’s death he was forced to endure the shade once more, even if it was only upon me. Without a word of protest, he offered nothing but sympathy and understanding for my loss, as did Beatrice. Both refused to accept their Christmas Day had been ruined.

  Rising early, I returned to Harp Lane the following day, St Stephen’s Day, armed with food and wine, anything to distract the household from their grief. I wanted to reconcile how I felt now Mamma had passed. I also wanted to speak to Papa — about everything. Mamma, bless her, had made that possible.

  Insisting I take Bounty, Lord Nathaniel ordered Nicholas to escort me. I left Nicholas in the kitchen with Comfort and Mistress Pernel, along with the fare I’d brought, which the apprentices fell upon when they came to break their fast, offering me a mixture of condolences and greetings. I went to find Angela.

  She was seated before the fire in the parlour, and looked as though she’d barely slept. Her eyes were swollen and red, her cheeks puffy. When she saw me, her weeping began afresh.

  Kneeling at her feet, I placed my hands upon her lap, stroking hers, which were twisting a kerchief into knots. ‘How will you cope?’ I asked softly.

  She took a deep shuddering breath. ‘Allora. I will be fine. Valentina is with God now. She would admonish me most severely for this.’ She raised the sodden kerchief and gestured to her face. ‘She has been fading for a long time and in so much pain. At least she suffers no longer.’