by Karen Brooks
I hadn’t known she had been suffering.
Dabbing her eyes, Angela tried to give me a smile. ‘It’s to the living I look. To you and your Papa. Caleb too, God bless him.’
‘Is Caleb abed?’ An image of the chest and its contents popped into my head.
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He stayed with your Papa and me for hours last night. We talked. He is a resourceful young man. You know he found the priest?’
I nodded.
‘Valentina would have come back from the grave had she not been given the last rites.’
I smiled at the thought. ‘And what of her burial? It’s tomorrow, no? Father Bernard is content to bury her in the churchyard? Even knowing she was a recusant?’
It was Angela’s turn to smile. ‘He’s been given no choice. Your former employer made certain.’
‘Sir Francis?’
‘Si.’
Of course, he would see to that, whether from a genuine desire to help or a sense of obligation, it didn’t matter.
Promising to return, I left Angela and sought out Papa. He was, as I expected, in the workshop, sitting at the bench, his head in his hands.
As I quietly entered, the dogs rushed to my side. They sensed something extraordinary had happened and were extra attentive. Papa looked up.
‘Mallory.’ He rose and opened his arms.
I sailed into them, a ship returning to harbour.
We held each other tightly. ‘Are you well?’ I asked finally, studying him. His eyes were heavy and red-rimmed, his cheeks pallid, his beard unkempt. The stale fumes of beer and wine lingered, and his clothes were disordered.
‘Well?’ Papa scratched his face. ‘How can one be “well” unless all the humours in a body are in balance? Verily, I am not “well”, Mallory. But I am well enough considering I lost my wife just last evening and my daughter weeks before.’ I tried not to react to his last words. ‘How are you?’ he asked, stroking my cheek.
‘I lost the only mother I knew and, weeks before, gained another father. I know not how I ought to feel except I too am not well.’
We drew apart awkwardly. I began to regret coming, but knew I could not postpone this any longer, that I must take advantage of the opportunity Mamma had created — I owed her that at least.
I drew off my gloves and cloak, sat and looked around. The bench was scattered with bits of metal, tools and cloths. The forge blazed, keeping the room warm. Arthur and Galahad sat on the floor between me and Papa, looking from one to the other, their tails wagging.
Papa began to run his fingers along the worktop. I placed a hand over his, stilling them.
‘I miss her so, Mallory,’ he whispered. ‘It’s only been a night and already all I can think of is the empty bed, the quiet room. How she’ll no longer be there to talk with … Sometimes, I’m ashamed to say, an entire day would pass without me seeing or speaking with her, especially once she retreated to her room. The number of times I walked past without saying goodnight, giving her my blessing or asking for hers …’ He sighed. ‘I would tell myself, there’s always the morrow. Now there is no morrow, not where Valentina is concerned. I’d do anything to have those moments back so I might make different choices.’
I could empathise. ‘Guilt is a demanding guest and most unwelcome.’ One that had visited me often of late. I leaned closer. ‘Is that why you risked bringing a priest to the house?’
‘She asked. Who was I to deny her final wish? I’d forced her to deny herself so much. I even organised indulgences to be said. I have no tolerance for such superstitious nonsense, but she was so afraid she’d languish in purgatory, that her soul would not ascend to heaven …’
I nodded and withdrew my hand. We sat beside each other in silence.
‘Mallory,’ said Papa.
‘Papa —’
Our eyes met.
‘I thought in light of all that has happened,’ I began, ‘we should talk.’
Papa nodded. ‘Ignoring Valentina is not the only thing I’m ashamed about. I should not have let you leave the house without an explanation. I should have sought you out, invited you back. It’s not that I didn’t want you here. On the contrary. It’s just …’
‘Papa, you owe me nothing.’
Papa smiled. ‘You’re wrong, Mallory. I owe you everything. You and Francis.’
At the casual mention of his name, I stiffened.
Papa got some ale and brought it over. ‘That is why I want you to know I understand your resentment, your anger, confusion, the veritable cauldron of emotions you must be experiencing. I think, in part, that’s why I never wanted you to know. I guessed knowing would cause more harm than good.’
‘Papa —’ I began, but he raised a finger to silence me. ‘Please, Mallory, I need to say this.’
I pressed my lips together. His pain was so apparent. ‘Go on.’
He studied his cup a moment. ‘Now the truth is out, we have to be pragmatic. As your real father, Sir Francis can give you what I cannot — a good name, a good position. You won’t have to work any more, or try to rebuild your reputation. As a Walsingham, it’s assured.’
‘Papa … I’m sorry, but I cannot remain silent. I’ve something I wish to tell you.’ I slid off my stool and began to pace; the agitation I felt at Papa’s words would not allow otherwise. ‘Before I do, I admit that when Sir Francis first told me I was his daughter, I imagined where such a relationship could take me, how my life would change. What I didn’t understand at first, but Mamma made clear to me, was what you both sacrificed for my sake — for Sir Francis too.’
‘’Twas no sacrifice —’ he began.
‘Now it’s my turn to insist you let me talk,’ I said, touching his arm before moving away again. ‘I left the house believing you were better off without me. That you’d done so much already — not only raised and educated me, loved me —’ Papa’s eyes met mine and any doubts I may have harboured on that score were extinguished in his gaze. ‘But you also took me back and helped restore me when many parents would’ve abandoned their child. I felt you’d paid enough. It was time Sir Francis took some responsibility.’
‘Sir Francis helped me to find you. In fact, it was his men —’
‘I know. He told me. But I also know it was you who came to fetch me, you who reminded me I was strong and believed in me enough to ask the one man you didn’t want anywhere near me to find me work so I might build my confidence again.’
Papa bowed his head. ‘I had to swallow a great deal of pride and fear.’
‘But you did. And for me. Papa … ’ I paused. It was time to discover if my suspicions were correct.
‘What?’ he asked softly.
‘You know I was never a companion to Frances Walsingham, don’t you?’
‘I suspected as much …’
‘You deliberately had me open a difficult lock in front of Sir Francis because you knew he would not be able to resist having an agent with such skills.’
‘That was my hope, aye.’
I sat back down. ‘It was not misplaced.’
‘In you, my hope never has been. Do you remember me telling you about Anne Locke?’
‘How could I forget? Her surname spoke to me. She was the woman who left her husband and went to Geneva so she might translate the works of the theologian John Calvin.’
‘You were listening. Aye, that was her. I used to tell your mother about her — I bought the books. My point was, being a wife and mother did not preclude a woman doing great and wonderful things. Being a woman should not. Mistress Anne wrote the same. She said —’
‘By reason of her sex there were great things she could not do, but it should not prevent her from at least trying to do what she was able,’ I finished.
Papa nodded approvingly. ‘That was what I wanted for you, especially after what Shelton did. You needed to be able to do what little you could to redeem yourself, not through marriage, but through your own actions. I wanted you to remain here so I could protect you,
but I knew that would not work. Francis could provide the means to help restore your self-confidence, your faith in your judgement and in others. Enable you, as Mistress Locke wrote, to do what little you could and more.’ Papa gazed at me with eyes filled with sadness, love and — I could see it glimmering there — pride.
It was not deserved. Not when he didn’t know the complete truth about the girl he’d raised, what I’d done. Just as he lived in fear that should I learn his secret I would reject him, I too had one that made me tremble. Before I could change my mind, I took a deep breath and released it.
‘I had a child.’
There, it was said.
There was a flicker of something — anger? — in Papa’s eyes. He grimaced and the crease between his brows deepened. It was only subtle, but he moved his hand from mine on the bench and his body shifted away slightly. Dear God. I swallowed. This is what I was most afraid of. I bit my lip, searched for my inner strength that now was fading fast. Nevertheless, the truth must out, regardless the cost. Hadn’t Papa’s secret been revealed? Had I not wished he was the one to tell me? I must stand by my beliefs — Papa must know. I must tell him.
‘Mallory, you don’t have to …’
‘I didn’t just bear a child,’ I whispered, holding my locket tight in my palm. ‘I killed him …’
When it had become clear that the baby was determined to stay, despite all the terrible things I’d done once I realised I was pregnant to try and expel it from my womb, I became reconciled. As the months passed and my stomach expanded and I felt the baby move, I began to love the life growing within me. Even so, I kept it from Raffe. At my pleading, so did Katherine and Agnes. It had been easy at first. His visits had become less frequent and were mostly at night. In a darkened room, he simply pushed my skirts aside and had his way. To protect the child, I became more compliant, less argumentative. It didn’t stop him striking me, as he’d begun to enjoy the beatings, the rapes. My humiliation excited him. Often he’d punch me just so I’d react. I’d learned the cost of that, so, with another life to protect, I did not. My shame intensified. I could barely look Katherine and Agnes in the eye, and I avoided mirrors, water, anything that could reflect my complicity and submission back to me. I took whatever he meted out with nary a whimper.
Raffe mocked my thickened waist, my swollen breasts, enjoying them in his own foul way, ignorant of what they signified — until he came to the house unexpectedly one day. He’d been hunting and drinking, carousing with his gentleman friends, and decided to pay a visit to his whore. That’s what he now called me. Any pretence I’d one day be his lady wife had gone. Striding into the house, he caught me bathing. Upon seeing me in the tub, naked, my stomach on display for the world to see, my condition beyond any doubt, he went berserk.
When Agnes and Katherine tried to protect me, he lashed out at them with his riding crop and they were forced to cower.
Before I could escape, he pulled me from the tub, threw me to the floor and stared in horror at my swollen belly, my engorged dugs. I screamed at him, said the world would know what he’d done and nothing he did or said could hide the truth of this child from his mother or wife. He’d fathered a bastard and it would be known and he would be shamed; his wife would cut off his access to her money and he’d be a pauper.
I should have held my peace. Enraged beyond measure, he began to kick. At first it was my head, breasts and legs, but then he hefted his boot at my stomach, at our babe. My babe. I tried to protect the child and curled into a ball so tight Raffe’s boot only struck my spine and buttocks. It was to no avail. He dragged me across the dirt floor, threw me face down on the bed and, as I bled from my nose, the cuts upon my cheek and arms, from between my legs, he had his way. Barely conscious, I remember him parting my thighs, thrusting himself deep inside, excited by what he’d done, aroused by my fear. Striking my arse repeatedly, he pinched the flesh, bit my shoulders and pushed me into the bedclothes so hard I could barely breathe. My womb was being squashed and I feared the baby would be suffocated. I begged him to stop, but he would not. Hot liquid splashed and I thought it was him. Withdrawing from me, he backed away.
Rolling over, I saw his manhood bloodied and limp. I followed the direction of his gaze and saw the carmine flood pouring out of me. I began to scream. Pulling up his breeches, he ordered Katherine and Agnes to attend me. Hurt and terrified, they could do nothing. My son was born hours later. Dead.
They swaddled him and passed my beautiful boy to me. His dark hair was plastered to his blue-white face. His eyes forever closed. I felt a rush of sadness so wide and deep that I would never know their colour. His tiny little hands were clenched in fists, as if he’d arrived fighting a world that would have labelled him, and a brutal father who would have denied him …
Raffe entered the room then. A changed man, he’d tidied his apparel and his temper. He stood over me and studied the dead babe in my arms. Though I hadn’t yet washed, I was dressed in a thick smock, a shawl over my shoulders.
Tears welled and his mouth trembled. ‘If only you told me. You know I can’t deal with shocks like this. This —’ he gestured to the boy, ‘this is your fault. If I’d known, if I’d been warned, then none of this would have happened. You should have told me. This was not your secret to keep.’
The once-handsome face was full of recrimination and innocence, as if he’d played no part in this — the conception or the murder. I tried to reconcile my many failed attempts to take my son’s life with Raffe’s final successful one. I could not. Rage such as I’d never felt overcame me. Placing the baby down on the bloodied bed linen, I stood unsteadily.
‘You’re right,’ I said softly. ‘I should never have kept him from you. Please, my love, please forgive me.’
He opened his arms, even though I could see the distaste upon his face at my state, streaked as I was with fluids and blood, bruised and cut from his attentions. As was his habit, he held me and whispered empty consolation. I wrapped my arms around him and, as I did, I drew the sword he wore at his side, and before I thought about what I was doing, ran him through.
Clutching his stomach, he backed away, staring in disbelief. ‘Why you devil-cursed trull. You’ve killed me.’ He fell to his knees, blood pouring from between his fingers.
‘A life for a life,’ I spat. I dropped the sword, grabbed my baby son and ran.
I ran across the fields, staggering, falling, getting up again. Covered in dirt, cold and weary, aching all over, I ran on and on, following the moon. Dawn broke, rain beat upon us, drenching my skirts, my shawl, my son’s swaddling. Only darkness, when it fell again, shielded us, but I could not stop. Unable to see, I tripped and the baby fell from my arms, his little limbs, his head, striking the ground. Gathering him up again, showering him with kisses, I walked. I walked and walked until my feet bled and I began to have visions.
To stay awake, I told our child stories. So many stories. I told him about the great Odysseus and his ten-year voyage to return home from Troy. How, even after all that time, so many fantastical adventures and terrible catastrophes, his patient wife Penelope and his son Telemachus were waiting. I told him about the sack of Troy and how Prince Aeneas survived, how he escaped the Greeks and their allies and, after a long journey, including a trip to the Underworld, he founded Italy. I spoke of King Arthur and his valiant knights, his less than noble ones and his unfaithful wife, Guinevere. How Arthur never ceased to love them, believe in them, despite their fallibility. I whispered to him of the man he was named after, my beloved Papa and his witch-wife Valentina who, despite her ways, was good and, I believed, kind. I told him of Angela and Caleb and the street where we lived. I named each and every apprentice, describing them in detail. My voice was hoarse as I spoke of good Queen Bess, her court, her many palaces, the marriages she rejected, the men she made. I imagined the man my son would have become.
Even when the words made no sense, I never stopped talking. I didn’t want to sleep. I didn’t deserve any respite from this n
ightmare of my own making.
Two days later, Agnes found me on the outskirts of another village, wandering in circles, babbling. She took me to the house of a beldame who asked no questions. I guessed she too was once a nun. Katherine awaited us there. Starving, thirsty, cold and filthy, I refused succour until I’d buried the baby. The women performed the last rites, baptising and burying him in the one act. They said God would forgive them. Of me and my part in his birth and death they made no mention. Before I placed my tiny little son in the ground, I cut a lock of hair from his head and, opening the locket I’d been given by Raffe, I threw the strands it contained to the ground, grinding them into the mud, and replaced them with my baby Gideon’s.
Only then did I collapse and slumber.
I found out later Raffe survived my sword thrust. Katherine had sent to the main house for a physician and said it was a riding accident; that somehow his sword had dislodged and stabbed him when he fell from his horse. My name and his dead son were never mentioned again. It was as if we had never existed.
Just over four weeks later, three weeks after I’d returned to the cottage with Katherine and Agnes, I was on my way back to London. As Papa and I rode past villages I hadn’t seen in two years, stayed at roadside inns, ate, drank and slept, I swore I’d never mention my son either. His name would be preserved in my memory and in the little locket that would never, ever, leave my heart.
I gazed at Papa with unseeing eyes. ‘I killed him, Papa,’ I whispered. ‘I killed him.’
Papa stared at the ceiling, tears streaming down his cheeks. Lowering his chin, he slowly drew me into his embrace and held me so tightly I thought he would crush me. He made a sound I’d never heard before. Guttural, primal.
‘No, dearling, you did not. Raffe did. That bastard killed the boy. He almost killed you as well.’ He groaned. ‘He killed my grandson …’
Papa’s grandson. My son …
Though he never left my thoughts and appeared in dreams, I’d not spoken my son into existence before. What was it young Beatrice said? Keeping silent doesn’t lessen the pain. Pretending nothing had happened, that a little life had not been cruelly snatched away, didn’t either. Talking about him made my son real; made his loss — and Papa’s — real too. I ached and the guilt that drove me, the hatred I felt for myself, poured from me in a torrent.