The Locksmith's Daughter

by Karen Brooks

  I groaned as pain seared through my body. Even my neck became weak, my head impossibly heavy.

  Master Richard locked the winch and came and stood before me, his head level with my stomach.

  ‘How does that feel?’ He ran his hands down my bodice, clamping me about the waist, taking my weight, raising me slightly. For a moment, the pain eased. The chains loosened. An exclamation of relief escaped. Then he dropped me.

  I let out a scream.

  ‘Come now, come now. It’s not that bad. Imagine hanging there for a few hours, days even? Then you might have cause to complain.’

  I tried to lift my head to rest my neck. Below me, Master Richard bent over a strange metal contraption, undoing bands, opening the gauntlets attached to it. I watched in horror as he worked methodically, swiftly.

  ‘Call it what you will,’ I forced the words out, my body twisting one way then the other, ‘this is torture.’

  ‘Nay, lady, ’tis but trifles, something to torment me. If I’d my way, I’d torture you without blinking an eye. You who protect Catholic scum, you who would bargain a filthy papist life for the safety of our realm, for good Queen Bess. You deserve nothing but pain; pain and death.’

  ‘Papa is no papist,’ I cried.

  ‘And what about his puking beetle-breasted wife?’

  Shocked by the vitriol, the colour flooding into his ruddy face and the deadly seriousness of his voice, I fell silent.

  He finished what he was doing and unlocked the winch. With a series of grunts, he lowered me back to the ground. My arms fell to my sides, the chains cascading in a rain of metal. Tears began to pour down my face, not simply from the agony, but because of the situation I was in. Once again I was the plaything of a brute. Once again I was a puppet whose strings were controlled by a madman.

  I knew his ilk, what he was after. How he derived pleasure and power from the pain he inflicted, the fear he instilled in others. God damn his eyes, I would not give it to him.

  Freed from the manacles, I could do little but follow as he courteously led me to the next instrument. ‘I thought we’d try this one. It’s called the Scavenger’s Daughter.’ He looked me up and down and placed a hand on top of my head, then pushed me to my knees. ‘I might have to rename it Mister Secretary’s Daughter.’

  I twisted beneath his hand, staring up at him in astonishment. ‘How … how do you know?’

  ‘There’s little I do not. You think your father —’ He paused and made a scoffing sound. ‘Aye, let’s call him what he is, shall we? You think your father is the only one with a network, the ability to forage for information, to pay for it as well? Not everyone who works for Sir Francis is loyal to him.’ He gave a bark of laughter. ‘Why, not even his own daughter. I told you, mistress, I’m one of Lord Leicester’s men and head of his network. As such, I look to his needs and, when the pay is right, to those of your father and even Lord Burghley too — especially when they coincide with my master’s. Seems you’ve caught everyone’s attention with your little exchange. But you see, Mallory —’

  As he spoke, he forced me into a crouch and held me in place while he clamped bands around my body. Gauntlets were placed over my hands, irons were fitted to my feet. If I’d thought being suspended hurt, it was nothing compared to this. Furled into a circle, my chin touched the top of my toes, my spine was curved, my arse was thrust against the bars, as was my head. Unable to speak, barely able to breathe, I was forced to endure. Endure and listen as he taunted me.

  ‘Women should never try and gainsay men. You will always lose. You are weaker, smaller, slower of wit and lack heart. All you’re good for is bedding and bearing.’ As he said this, he thrust his fingers under my skirts, lifting and tugging and tearing the fabric as it wrestled with the metal. Finding skin, he crawled his way up the back of my thighs, across my arse, until he was able to spread the cheeks and move lower. Oh dear God, no. Muttering, he thrust his fingers in and out, making grunting noises as he did so. With his other hand he undid the laces of his pants. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him extract his member and begin to rub it, looking at it with narrowed eye, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth. He pushed his cock between the bars, in front of my face, so I might see it. I shut my eyes tight. ‘Open your eyes, slattern, see what a man is, hey? Feel me. This is what you don’t possess — yet.’

  He rubbed it over my cheek. If I could have, I would have turned and bitten it off.

  ‘Would you like to suck on this, mistress?’ If only he knew. ‘I’ll bet you would, hey? Take it in that pretty mouth and lave it with your tongue? If I could put it in your sticky quim, I would, shove it deep inside you and make you moan. All bent over. Shove it up your arse. Some women like it there too. But this will have to do, hey … Come on, moan for me, hey? Moan. Oh God, oh God …’ A warm jet of seed shot onto my face and down my bodice. With one last push, he extracted his fingers, shoved them under his nose and inhaled, then placed them in his mouth, sucking noisily.

  ‘It’s not all torture mistress,’ he said, tucking himself back into his trousers and lacing himself up. ‘But next time when I tell you to moan, you will, understand?’

  I did, but I refused to do those things I could control. Between bouts with his ‘friends’ I was slapped and punched for not complying. At least one tooth flew out of my mouth. My lip split and, after the fourth slap, one of my eyes began to swell shut. At least I wouldn’t have to watch him pleasure himself. Over the ensuing hours, as he placed his fingers inside me again and again, I relived the moment I stabbed Raffe, only this time it was Topcliffe on the receiving end.

  I can’t recall how long I spent in that room, nor how many instruments he practised upon. I only knew I could not let this man break me; if I did, his would be the victory and he would have my soul in his keeping forever. I refused to think about what he was doing, refused to succumb to the weight of his evil. Instead, I thought of the good in the world, of the people I knew who had sacrificed so much — not because they were forced to, or persuaded by cruel means, but for love: Papa, Angela, Lord Nathaniel, Caleb, Beatrice. I thought of my little son, dead because of a man like Topcliffe. Then I thought of Raffe, who might have escaped justice for now, but was trapped in an eternal prison with a virago for a wife.

  When I was taken back to my cold, dirty cell, I found it had become a place of refuge. Sinking onto the straw, I was aware of Master Richard standing over me, staring at me, willing me to look at him. My entire body ached. Unable to walk, he’d carried me back to my room. My wrists were rubbed raw, my ankles too. I was drowning in an ocean of pain.

  ‘Tomorrow, we’ll meet my friends again, and the day after. Then you will chose which among them you’d like to be intimate with. I know my preference,’ he chuckled. ‘Of course, you can always confess before we get to that.’

  ‘Confess to what?’ My voice was dry, rough.

  ‘You know,’ he said, lowering himself, placing his hands either side of my body. I could smell his fetid breath.

  I opened an eye. ‘If I did, I would not ask.’

  ‘To being a papist plotter; to the treason in your heart.’ He cupped my left breast. I’d not the strength to throw him off. ‘And when you do, I’ll rip it out.’ He twisted my nipple as he stood. I bit my lip. I would not scream. No more.

  Topcliffe ordered my cell to be locked and stormed away, his promise to see me on the morrow filling the room.

  I rolled over and began to assess my injuries. I could taste blood on my lips, in my mouth. My groin ached from Topcliffe’s obscene attentions. I stank of his seed, his saliva and my own sweat. I reeked of fear. I had to wash, to cleanse the stain of that man away.

  Forcing myself upright, I crawled to the bucket. Dipping the cloth in, I wrung it out. The water smelled dreadful. Lifting the cloth to my nose, I quickly cast it away. The bastards had urinated in it. Not once, but many times while I was gone.

  Slowly, I made my way back to the bed and, with sharp intakes of breath, feelin
g every single clamp, pinch, gouge of metal, rake of iron, fist and palm that struck me, lowered myself back onto the straw. I could not even pull the blanket over me. It was too much effort.

  There was no light except the lamp, no sounds except the faint caw of the ravens, the whistle of the wind and the drip of water. Even the rats had left.

  I tried to conjure up thoughts of Papa, of Lord Nathaniel, Angela, Beatrice and Caleb. I could not. Like my courage, they too had fled this terrible place. I dared not examine my thoughts too deeply, I was too afraid of what I’d find — a father who allowed this rogue to manhandle, threaten and foully abuse his daughter.

  All I could think was, if this wasn’t torture then, God forbid, what was?

  FIFTY-FOUR

  THE TOWER, LONDON

  The 23rd to the 24th of March, Anno Domini 1582

  In the 24th year of the reign of Elizabeth I

  For more than a day, I begged for fresh water and food. A shambling servant eventually delivered the water. There was no food. I was able to wash and drink. My mouth was dry, my body one enormous site of suffering. What little sleep I’d managed was racked with visions of a white-haired man, of Raffe sneering as he was whipped by a fan, of my dead son’s sweet face, Mamma’s deathbed, and whispered threats. Waking banished the nightmares, but plunged me back into the dismal truth of my situation.

  I shuffled around, sat, listened to the sounds of the dungeons: the somnolence of the stones, the rasp of my straw pallet, the chittering of the rats and the percussive drop of water. I tried to discover if the cells near me were occupied and called softly into the semi-darkness. No-one replied. Apart from the warders, who refused to engage with me, I was alone.

  My thoughts travelled to the outside world. I wondered how Papa was faring and prayed the grievous injuries he’d suffered were not permanent. For certes, the attentions he’d endured made mine but trifles. I tried to raise my arms but could not. My ankles were banded by raw marks, the flesh broken in parts and weeping slightly. It was more than trifles.

  I prayed Papa would not sicken himself with worry for me. I pondered whether Lord Nathaniel had spoken to Sir Francis. Was help on its way or was I as doomed as Topcliffe would have me believe? I prayed Caleb and Beatrice fared better, Angela too.

  I tried to measure time, imagine the weather — anything to distract myself. Despair threatened to break me and send me into a paroxysm of tears and anguish. I would not permit it. Though I hurt in ways I’d not thought possible for a long time, I’d received much worse from someone who used love as an excuse for it. Topcliffe loathed me and that made his attentions easier to bear, even if it did not lessen the suffering after.

  My inner thighs ached. My ribs and breasts. My dignity should be in tatters, but it was not. I considered what the man had done: his base treatment of me, his coarse lust, his disregard for me as a woman, as a human — all designed to instil terror and break me. I would not allow it. I was no innocent. Raffe had subjected me to far worse. For once, I was grateful to the man.

  Love hurt far more than hate.

  Though I would try not to let Topcliffe destroy me, my mind or the knowledge of the goodness I knew existed beyond these walls, it was his so-called friends I was more concerned about. The instruments of torture he’d lovingly introduced me to — the rack, the scavenger’s daughter, the iron maiden, the collar, the gauntlets, irons and fetters in which he’d briefly trapped me, treating each manacle and chain as though they were jewels to adorn his mistress. Placing me in each of his instruments, he’d had me endure only minutes of what they offered — the stretching, crushing, pushing, pulling and, above all, the pain. He explained each and every time what they could do if I didn’t confess, the hours I’d be forced to endure. The very idea of more time in any one of them turned me into a quivering mess.

  On the way back to my cell, he’d paused and shown me the Pit, a deep, dark hole, and Little Ease, a cramped space in which no-one, not even a child, could stand. The implication was clear — there were more friends for me to ‘meet’.

  I could not prevent him breaking my bones, but whether he sapped my resolve was something within my control. For all Castiglione offered, he did not tell a prisoner how to cope with torture. How was one to affect indifference to a man who was a master of the art? How could one not break under the sheer weight of injustice?

  I had to discover the answer to that, and fast. I flexed and stretched my limbs, ignoring my hurts, forcing myself to walk, quoting poetry and Caleb’s plays to sustain my spirits.

  Some time after the midday bells tolled, Topcliffe paid another visit. He was alone. Standing by the bars, he was so still I wasn’t aware of him at first. I was sitting upon the pallet, breathing in and out, recollecting an afternoon spent with Beatrice where we quoted excerpts from Ovid to each other. That led me to think of a time Lord Nathaniel and I had done the same.

  ‘You’re stronger than I gave you credit, mistress,’ said a friendly voice, interrupting my reverie.

  My heart hammered, but I kept my back to him and shrugged. ‘I’m oft underestimated, sir, like most women.’

  ‘I think tonight I will allow you longer with my friends, give you the chance to get to know them better.’

  ‘Say what you want, sir, do what you will. If Sir Francis, my father, knew for certes all you did to me, I think he would be most … displeased.’

  ‘Displeased?’ The tone made me turn. ‘The man who says your very existence is a threat to the realm? That with those pretty long-fingered hands and that sly mind —’ he poked a finger through the bars, as if he were pressing it into my head, pinning my palm to the ground, ‘you think you can open any lock, steal any secret? Even under the noses of the most cautious and highest ranking folk? I doubt that, mistress. Possessed of a papist mother, you’re a curse, a blight he wishes he’d never brought into the world. He’ll be glad to facilitate your exit. So will I. The sooner the better.’

  He struck the bars and left.

  I sat with my back to the wall and rested my chin on my knees. I forced my mind blank and shut my eyes. It was impossible. Once more, I was a blight — Mallory Blight.

  Please God, my Lord in heaven, save me from that man; from the men who would bring about my doom.

  As the hours ticked by and the bell tower’s faint chimes resounded gently through this mighty fortress, I began to think that everyone, even the decent men, had forsaken me: Papa, Caleb, Lord Nathaniel — even God.

  Sir Francis, despite all I’d hoped and all he’d done for me, had never really wanted me. Mamma had warned me: Trust not Sir Francis, she’d said. Just like you, he’s not what he seems. Nothing, not even a daughter, would interfere with his lofty goals.

  That’s exactly what I’d done. Interfered. Worse, I’d made him appear a fool, unable to protect his secrets, to keep his queen safe from a mere chit. And now Topcliffe had added another sin I hadn’t really considered: a papist mother. Whether Valentina or Lucia, it mattered not.

  To think I’d once relished the idea of possessing two fathers. That Sir Francis might be more to me than a master … and I more than his servant.

  Forgive me, Papa. Forgive me, Mamma.

  I was a selfish, dim-witted buffoon. Why should I have two fathers when people like Beatrice, Lord Nathaniel, and so many more besides, had none? If he’d loved me, Sir Francis would never have given me to Papa and Mamma. For certes, he would have claimed me as daughter, not encouraged me to work for him, sent me into danger and kept me a secret. That was not love — forsooth, it was not what a father did. Just like the good Lord, a father protected and forgave his children even the worst of their sins. He didn’t mistreat them or deploy them for his own ends.

  A real father risked being called a traitor and facing certain death for his wayward child.

  But the way Sir Francis coddled the miniature of his daughter Mary — didn’t that suggest a modicum of feeling? I tried to recall if he’d ever shown any to me. Alas, in this cheerless space,
I could not.

  Fighting against the sobs building in my chest, I began rocking back and forth, back and forth, ignoring the pain in my spine, in my hands and feet and sides.

  As the time passed and my next appointment with Master Topcliffe drew nearer, rescue became less likely. No doubt Sir Francis would have Papa and Lord Nathaniel watched; he would place obstacles in their way, make himself elusive. There was no conceivable way they could help me. But did they even want to? Was I not a blight on their lives as well? Was this not a way to be rid of me once and for all? Though he’d been released, Papa had not escaped unscathed because of my actions. As far as the authorities were concerned, he’d concealed papist propaganda, colluded with a traitor — never mind raising one. Exile might not be enough. As for Lord Nathaniel, he’d kept me beneath his roof. He too would be tarnished by my blight. As would Beatrice. Oh dear God, had I condemned her future as well? Though Lord Nathaniel reassured me that my affair with Raffe didn’t reduce his esteem for me, and had even aided me in my scheme to free Papa, he’d have had time to reconsider his words and actions by now. No doubt he regretted both.

  It was better for everyone if I was left here to meet my fate. My wits were becoming addled if I thought they could facilitate my escape. Was I not locked in the most secure prison of them all?

  No-one was coming. It was just me, this cell, Master Richard Topcliffe and his friends. If I wanted help, I had to provide it. Us women, we had to look to ourselves, did we not, Mamma?