The Locksmith's Daughter

by Karen Brooks

  Raising my head, I studied the room once more. The lantern was guttering and though I’d tried to conserve the flame, I doubted it would be replaced. All I had was poor light, a bucket for drinking and washing and another for toileting, a cloth, a blanket and a plate of uneaten food. The walls were thick, the gate securing me possessed of a simple lock. However, without a key or picks to force it, I was still a prisoner at the mercy of my gaolers. I shivered.

  Wood, metal and cloth, much like Master Richard’s special room.

  Wood, metal and cloth …

  A burble of laughter rose. Of course. When there was no metal, a solid piece of wood would often suffice, no matter how thin. If I could make the bucket splinter, then mayhap, mayhap, I had a chance.

  Tipping the food off the plate, I drank some more water, gave my neck and face one last wash — my inner thighs too, anything to cleanse myself of that man’s touch — then poured the rest on the floor. Sitting on the pallet, I began to use the edge of the plate to dig away at the edges of the bucket. It was old, had seen many uses and in parts the wood was soft. Large pieces and splinters came off with ease. Where the metal bands girded it, there was solidity, strength. Gradually I whittled the wood down to the first of the bands. It clanged to the floor. I waited to see if the noise attracted attention, then I picked up the metal and studied it.

  Without tools to refashion it, it was no good as a pick, but it was a sturdy weapon. I concealed it beneath the mattress and kept working. I needed to get to where the wood was firmer.

  As long as the light lasted, I dug away, prying off bits of wood, testing pieces that were long enough in the lock of my cell. My fingers were cut and bleeding, already damaged by the gauntlets. I ignored them.

  None of the pieces were quite firm enough, not yet. They snapped as I pushed them into the keyhole, forcing me to use others to dig them out.

  How long I worked at this, I’d no idea. All I knew was that the hour for my reckoning with Topcliffe was approaching. I was tired, hurting, hungry and soul-sick. Urgency made me work faster. Shards of wood scattered about my feet. Still I tried, until a splinter too thick to be useful broke off halfway in the lock, and no matter what I did, how hard I tried to force it out, it only became embedded further in the keyhole.

  Tears welled. I sank to my knees, my face pressed against the bars. If I could not get out, perchance Topcliffe could not enter. It was a small hope, but a fervent one.

  Before long, I heard voices. Scrabbling about, I collected the wood and threw it in what remained of the bucket, pushing it into the darkness. The iron band that circled the bucket I concealed behind my back.

  I stood, brushed off my skirts and waited. He would not find me broken and trembling, though I was both those things.

  There were footsteps, whispers. Silence. Then some more footsteps. Something was amiss. Topcliffe stalked these corridors as if he owned them.

  Oh dear lord, what new horror was being sent to test me.

  There was the clink of a key, the sound of latch being raised. The outer gate was breached. My fate marched on.

  ‘Mallory?’

  It could not be.

  ‘Mallory?’ A different voice this time. A woman’s.

  I ran to the bars. ‘My lord? Beatrice?’

  There was the sound of running feet and then the face I most wanted to see in the world appeared. Attired in the very clothes in which I first met him was Lord Nathaniel. Larger than life, solid and oh so real, he reached through the bars and pulled me to him, kissing my mouth so hard I cried out.

  ‘What have they done to you?’ He catalogued my face; rage contorted his. ‘My God, they’ll pay for this.’

  ‘Mallory, my sweetling,’ said the woman. It wasn’t Beatrice. The voice was familiar, but the long golden hair, the bright red lips, dark brows and flushed cheeks were strange. Yet the dishevelled dress and coat were not … I’d seen them upon the stage … The woman pushed her arms through the bars and found my hands. ‘Mallory, it’s me.’

  ‘Caleb?’

  He pushed his face against the bars until I could rest my forehead against his. It was a moment of sheer peace and stillness amidst this madness. I began to weep. God curse my womanly weakness.

  ‘Mallory,’ said Caleb again, his voice breaking.

  ‘Come,’ said Lord Nathaniel. ‘We’ve not much time.’

  Caleb touched my cheek and moved to the gate. ‘Here, here,’ he said, waving me over and thrusting a leather pouch through the bars. It was my lock-picking tools. My heart soared. Opening it, I extracted two picks and with unsteady fingers began working. Caleb closed one eye and attempted to peek through the keyhole from his side ‘Something is blocking it.’

  ‘’Twas me,’ I said. ‘I tried to fashion picks out of wood. Here, quick, if I give you one, try and lever the last of it out from your end.’ I passed a rod through the bars.

  ‘Wood?’

  ‘Aye.’ It seemed reckless now. ‘It was mostly rotten and broke.’ Tears coursed freely. Was my ambition also to be my own destruction? Was I about to ruin my chance at freedom and imperil Caleb and Lord Nathaniel as well?

  Scraping at the lock, I managed to get all but the smallest bit out. Reinserting the metal rod, I put my ear to the lock and listened as Caleb extracted the last of the wood and struck metal. Passing me the rod back, I reinserted it alongside the first and, bypassing the wards, I finally heard the click for which I’d longed. The latch popped, Caleb wrenched open the gate. I flew into his arms.

  Turning, I sailed into Lord Nathaniel’s embrace. ‘Mallory,’ he said. His voice was a dangerous purr.

  Relocking the cell, I checked it could not open without a key.

  ‘Come, let us away from this terrible place,’ said Lord Nathaniel and took my hand.

  ‘How did you get in here?’ I asked we crept back up the corridor. ‘Where are the guards? The warder? Where is Topcliffe?’

  ‘Lord Nathaniel will explain,’ said Caleb. He hadn’t let go of my other hand.

  ‘We still have to get out,’ said Lord Nathaniel. ‘Till then, explanations can wait. Just do as I ask and pray all goes well.’

  We reached the top of the stairs.

  There, upon a small table surrounded by three stools was a pile of clothes. ‘Quickly now,’ said Lord Nathaniel. ‘Put these over your garments.’

  Shaking out the gorgeous skirt and jacket, I quickly pulled them over what remained of my own clothes. They were slightly too big for me, but gorgeously decorated, strewn with seed pearls and embroidery. There was also a beautiful hooded cloak, lined with fox fur.

  ‘What is this? Whose? Why do I have to dress so?’ I asked as I hurriedly dressed. ‘Where are the guards?’

  ‘The guards have been sent searching for a prisoner who escaped,’ said Caleb wryly.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your father — the traitor. But in case they find you gone, you’re disguised as a lady.’

  Lord Nathaniel peered up the stairs. Faint shouts could be heard. Running feet. ‘Sir Francis made a fatal mistake with his exchange. He only told those yeoman in his pay. Sir Owen Hopton, the Lord Lieutenant of the Tower, a man who bears no love for Sir Francis, had no knowledge Gideon had been released. Once we learned that, we were able to use it to our advantage — that and my friendship with him. They are searching for your Papa now. As for these guards,’ he waved a hand at the empty seats, ‘the pay is so poor that a few coin to look the other way was gratefully received. They know not why we wished admission and absented themselves to help in the search before they found out. Their ignorance will at least be genuine.’

  I thought of Topcliffe’s fury when he discovered what had happened. He would never accept ignorance as a reason for my escape. But I could hardly feel sorry for the men. Hadn’t they been complicit in allowing him to hurt me?

  Though Caleb helped, I finished dressing with some difficulty. My arms were aching, every movement was agony. I tried to spare Caleb and Lord Nathaniel my complaints.


  Lord Nathaniel looked me up and down. ‘Well met, my lady. My mother’s clothes do become you. No-one will question two sisters visiting the Lord Lieutenant, nor their humble servant.’ He had a sword strapped to his hip. He drew it now. ‘We must confuse the yeomen who will surely be thoroughly questioned once your escape is noted. If we encounter anyone, and I pray we do not, you are Emma and Lettice. Do not refer to me by name.’

  ‘But my lord,’ I whispered. ‘You need to do more than adopt diverse dress and omit a name to confuse anyone. Your height trumpets your identity.’

  ‘Let me worry about that. I’m not patron of a troupe of actors for nothing.’

  ‘He can play his part, Mallory,’ said Caleb.

  The footsteps above us faded, the cries grew more distant. ‘Come,’ said Lord Nathaniel. He took a torch from the wall and began to ascend the stairs. As we climbed, Lord Nathaniel outlined the plan. Avoiding the guards, we were to make our way to the outer ward and the river. A boat was waiting to row us to a ship. From there, we would sail to safety. I did not want to point out the flaw in the plan — where in England would we be safe once my escape, and his lordship’s and Caleb’s complicity in it, was discovered? The authorities had already released Caleb once — they would not show clemency again. I tried not to think about it and followed his lordship, unable to quite conceive that here he was before me. Caleb, as always, looked to my back.

  Dousing the torch and discarding it, we emerged into the darkness between the stones of the Bloody Tower and the wall that separated Tower Green and the Inmost Ward. The White Tower rose ahead, spectral in the gloom. The shouts of the yeomen became louder. Torches lit the battlements and the space near the chapel. In the darkness at the top of the stairs we waited while two guards ran past, then moved swiftly up the slope towards Tower Green. There we turned and, keeping to the wall, ran towards St Thomas’s Tower. We paused to catch our breath beneath the very tower in which I’d been imprisoned. I inhaled the cool air, enjoying its freshness, sending prayers of gratitude heavenward and supplications we’d not be caught. Above us, men’s voices rose in anger. One in particular turned my blood to ice.

  ‘Check the cells, you fools. Bright has not escaped. The highest authorities endorsed his release. This is but a ruse.’ There was a grunt followed by an expletive. A door slammed and more shouts and the hollow echo of footsteps followed.

  ‘What’s that pizzle-headed rogue Topcliffe doing here?’ whispered Lord Nathaniel.

  I didn’t know I’d made a sound until his lordship sucked his breath in. ‘By God, I’ll kill him.’ I wondered if he meant Topcliffe or Sir Francis. At that moment, God forgive me, I wished them both dead.

  We levered ourselves away from the wall and waited until another group of guards had passed. Then we ran across the Outer Ward towards our destination — Traitors Gate. I knew it well, as did all Londoners who glided past it upon the river. The irony was not lost on me. While I may have denied being a traitor before, in fleeing the Tower and the justice of the Queen, no matter how unfair, I had indeed become one. As had the men beside me.

  At the entrance to Traitors Gate stood a huge wood and iron doorway. To my right, I could hear water lapping the banks and see the shadowy outline of a boat. Beyond that, the portcullis was raised and the Thames glimmered in the moonlight. My God, we were so close.

  I withdrew my picks once more, as Lord Nathaniel kept watch, his face contorted into an expression that rendered him nigh on unrecognisable.

  ‘Hurry,’ hissed Caleb.

  ‘Guards approach,’ whispered Lord Nathaniel.

  I risked a glimpse. Torches marched relentlessly along the Outer Ward, indistinct figures breaking away to prod the shadows, searching the darkness for the missing prisoner.

  There were bellows from within the walls of the Bloody Tower.

  ‘Mallory,’ urged Caleb, looking over his shoulder. There was no light, my hands were trembling.

  A voice exploded into the night. ‘Sound the alarum! Sound the alarum! The traitorous bitch has escaped.’ God in heaven help us. ‘Find the wench Mallory Bright, bring her to me.’ Richard Topcliffe shouted my name over and over from the parapet of the Bloody Tower, turning in every direction so he could be heard by all. Like the tolling bells, my name echoed across the entire Tower fortress, down to where we stood upon the wet cobbles, trying desperately to gain admission to the waterway and our escape.

  Guards paused, then leapt to action.

  In the boat below, Lord Nathaniel’s men gazed at us in silence, willing us on.

  Though I shook like a tent in the wind and I swear my heart was in my throat, I concentrated hard. The lock was not that complicated. In seconds the tumbler lifted, the gate clicked and soundlessly swung open.

  ‘Inside, inside.’ I pushed Caleb through, he almost stumbled over his skirts. With one last look at the approaching guards, Lord Nathaniel, still hunched over, scrambled to my side, hurried me through and slammed the gate.

  ‘Lock it, Mallory. Our lives may depend on it.’

  Quivering so badly I almost dropped the pick, I locked the gate, jamming the rod and bending it for good measure. By the time I finished, the boat had moved forward, its prow against the water stairs. I slipped and fell against Lord Nathaniel, stifling a cry as my shoulder was wrenched and my ribs struck his sword. Standing once again at his full height, my lord lifted me in his arms and swung me over the side of the boat. His men reached up and helped me to a seat. Already aboard, Caleb found my hand and it held it gently. Under his breath, he was praying.

  The men wasted no time and pushed off from the stairs and through the gate. The portcullis began to lower just as guards burst through, their torches turning them all into silhouettes — deadly ones. As soon as they sighted us, they knelt on the stones and began firing arrows.

  ‘Take cover,’ cried Lord Nathaniel, throwing himself over me and Caleb. ‘Heave to, men,’ he shouted.

  Never before has a boat moved so fast. It was as if we sped above the water, so swift was our passage. Across the currents, we rowed south, towards the opposite bank. Arrows rained overhead, most missing. Shields were held above our heads and to our sides.

  We hadn’t pulled away very far when a shot rang out. A chunk of the boat exploded and water doused us.

  ‘Keep your heads, men,’ said Lord Nathaniel. Adjusting his position, he turned so he could keep an eye on the receding bank. St Thomas’s Tower rose, the arrow slits and wider windows glowing with the light of torches. In one, a tall, white-haired man could be seen issuing orders. He watched us depart and I could imagine his expression. He would pretend indifference, embracing Castiglione’s notion of the perfect courtier, never letting those under his command see just how rattled, how furious he was. The thought we might both share such a notion and strive to hide our feelings sickened me.

  Rage and fear filled me as I stared at the figure in the window. Not even Dante could find a place in hell deep enough and dark enough for such a one.

  The rain of arrows began to fall short and I dared to think us safe at last. Then another shot rang out. At first I thought it too had missed its mark, until I heard a sound I never wish to hear again issue from my lord’s lips. The world slowed as Lord Nathaniel fell, his hand pressed over his heart, dark liquid welling between his fingers and spilling from his mouth.

  ‘Nathaniel!’ I screamed as he toppled backwards into his men, who with cries of woe tried to prevent him hitting the deck. Scrambling over them, I collapsed beside him, pressing my hands over his, trying to stop his life-blood draining away. I ripped my ruff from my neck and pushed it against the wound only to watch helplessly as the pale fabric changed colour.

  Ahead of us, a huge ship was lighting its lanterns and readying its sails. Dark shapes flitted from prow to stern, throwing out ropes ready to bring us on board.

  ‘We are almost there, Nathaniel. Please, please, hold on. Do not leave me.’ Tears ran down my face, great heavy tears that fell from the en
d of my nose onto his face. His beautiful, kind face; the face that filled my dreams and captured my soul. ‘Please, God, his heart cannot cease. I’ll not let it, not when it’s in my keeping.’

  As if from a distance, I heard Caleb shouting for a doctor.

  Confusion and anger filled his lordship’s eyes before they were replaced with a look of wonder. ‘Mallory Bright, do my ears deceive me? Or did you just confess affection for me?’

  ‘Aye.’ I placed my lips against his, breathing life into his cold ones. ‘Affection that doth fill me from the top to the toes — all for you. Only you.’

  He reached up and stroked my cheek, found my hair and tried to pull me closer. His fingers were heavy, clumsy. His breath came in short sharp gasps, his eyelids flickered. ‘Can it be that I, your boorish knave with the manners of a cur, have found the key to unlock your heart?’ Moonlight glimmered in his laughing eyes before they closed.

  ‘The very same,’ I said, pushing the hair from his forehead. A sob shuddered from me. ‘Hush, hush, save your words, save your strength.’

  ‘Beloved,’ he whispered, and did not speak again.

  PART NINE

  The Last Lock Opened

  If our courtier happens to find himself in the service of one who is wicked and malign, let him leave him as soon as he discovers this, that he may escape the great anguish that all good men feel in serving the wicked.

  — Baldassare Castiglione, The Book of the Courtier: Book Two, 1528

  Videna: A father?

  No: In kinde a father, not in kindliness.

  Ferrex: My father? Why? I know nothing at all,

  Wherein I have misdone unto his grace.

  — Thomas Norton and Thomas Sackville, Gorboduc or The Tragedie of Ferrex and Porrex, 1561

  Private confessions were not enough for Elizabeth’s government. Any malefactor, from the humblest offender to someone as symbolic as Edmund Campion, had to recant, to be seen to recognise his error and then to repent of it.

  — Stephen Alford, The Watchers: A Secret History of the Reign of Elizabeth I