by Karen Brooks
As well as they themselves he understood.
We sat in silence. I stared over the water then back at the page.
‘Look,’ I said to Nathaniel, holding the letter out. ‘It’s an acrostic. The first letter of each line spells out his name.’
‘Clever,’ said Nathaniel.
I gave a half-smile. ‘He would have liked it, I think. Wait. Thomas has more to say.’ I blinked back the tears.
His will was found in his secret cabinet. Among the papers was a bequest to you. While you have no inheritance as such, I believe Sir Francis is giving you what meant the most to him. On his death bed, he asked I send you this book that you once stole and over which you nearly lost your life. He wrote you would understand why and what to do.
I glanced at Nathaniel who was frowning.
May God bless you and keep you …
I put the letter down and picked up the book. ‘How very strange.’
‘Is it?’ Nathaniel poured me a vino and slid it across the table.
I drank. ‘This was Sir Francis’s life’s work. It’s a record of every agent, every code, every plot and particular. Why, he wrote it so those who came after him would know what he did, and know what to do.’
‘Perchance he felt that was no longer necessary? That he’d achieved accord?’
I shrugged. ‘More like he felt it wasn’t worth it. After all, he lost his health, he had no relationship with his family to speak of. He lived only to serve. To serve Queen, country and faith.’
‘He also lost a daughter,’ said Nathaniel.
‘Aye, her name was Mary. If you mean me, he could not lose what he never really had. He gave me up so he might become the man he did. I don’t think he had regrets; they were not within his compass.’
‘Then why give you that?’ Nathaniel gestured to the book.
I frowned. ‘I’m not certain.’
That night, I could not sleep. Dreams I’d not had in years arrived to torment me. Sir Francis featured strongly and yet, for all he appeared to be trying to tell me something, I could not grasp his meaning.
In the still hours before dawn, I rose. Slipping on a nightgown, I walked to the piano nobile and gazed out over the canal, over the tops of the buildings opposite to watch the sky lighten. Birds took wing, vendors wheeled their carts across bridges to market, gondolas launched out onto the water. Though aware of them, my mind was elsewhere.
What are you trying to tell me, Sir Francis? Why give me the book? I wished Papa were here to ask. Though he’d no doubt have insights, Caleb was not due back for weeks.
As the sun’s golden rays struck the windows, admitting a triumphant blast of light and slow-building warmth, the truth came to me. Of course. I understood.
Racing back to the bedroom, I woke Nathaniel and, dressing fast, scurried to explain to Angela what I must do and asking her to help Tace and Alice with the children. Then I went to the terrace and grabbed the shovel she’d been using yesterday, broke off a small piece of the rose bush, and, placing some of the soil from the pot in a bucket, put both the cutting and shovel carefully inside.
In less than an hour we were gliding out of the water gate and towards Isola di San Michele. We’d sought permission from the Camadolite monks who dwelt there to bury Papa in their cemetery. I couldn’t bear the thought of him being crammed into an overcrowded city plot, not when he craved the open spaces the lagoon allowed. He’d loved visiting San Michele, admired the church with its lustrous Istrian stone and bold curves, and had even supervised the making of locks for the crypt. In burying Papa among this Catholic community, I was persuaded I’d reunited him with Mamma.
We reached the small island mid-morning. Nathaniel helped me clamber up the stairs and paid a toll to the gatekeeper who admitted us with a pleasant buon giorno. I knew him well from my regular visits to Papa’s grave.
As we moved along the weed-strewn path, Nathaniel and I spoke softly, not wanting to disturb the monks who wandered among the distant cloisters, lost in their quiet contemplation.
‘Now, tell me why you think Sir Francis sent you the book?’
Drawing a deep breath, I touched where it sat beneath Nathaniel’s arm. ‘Because I think he wants me to dispose of it.’
Nathaniel stopped in his tracks. ‘Dispose of it? His life’s work? The tome that contains the secrets he held so dear and fast? The book, as Thomas points out in his letter, you nearly died for?’
‘Aye.’ We walked a bit further. ‘Do you remember what Thomas said to me when we left Plymouth?’
‘It’s hard to forget.’
‘He said my very existence was a threat to Sir Francis and to England — that people would use me as leverage against him and undermine all that had been done to make England safe. I made Sir Francis weak and thus the country. Don’t you see? This book is exactly the same. This book is another me.’
‘Perchance, but without your sweet curves, my lady,’ he grinned.
I waved away his humour. ‘But there’s more to it than that. Sir Francis sacrificed everything for what’s contained in that book: he gave up his relationship with his wife, his daughter; he gave up me. Even Her Majesty didn’t like him much, for all that she used him.’
‘She threw a shoe at him once,’ said Nathaniel. ‘Humiliated him before the entire court.’
‘She let him use his own monies to keep her and the country safe — by rights, that was her responsibility. The richest woman in England and she ruined him.’ I sighed. ‘I believe by sending me the book, something he always intended to pass on to the next Secretary, he’s telling me it’s not worth it. Not to make the same mistakes he did. He’s imparting a last lesson.’
‘What’s that, my love?’
I swallowed and forced back the tears biting my eyes and threatening to clog my throat. I ignored the pain in my back, my head, the heat of the sun.
‘That love, family, are more important than politics or faith. After all, without them, what are you fighting for? Sadly, what he doesn’t know is that through his own actions, he already taught me that … So did you.’
Nathaniel stopped in his tracks and stared. ‘Mallory, though I never underestimate you, I do forget sometimes how sharp that mind of yours is.’ He held me against him briefly and kissed my lips before we resumed walking. ‘Apart from reminding you what’s of real value, as long as this book exists, England and the Queen are never safe. What do you intend to do?’
‘I’m going to give it to the only member of our family who can keep it secure. I’m going to give it to the locksmith so he might protect its secrets forever.’
‘Ah,’ said Nathaniel, and lifted the bucket and shovel. ‘Now, I understand.’
And so we buried The Book of Secret Intelligences — the record of years of labour of one father — and put it to rest beside another, just by the ground near his tombstone. If any of the religious men thought our actions strange, they didn’t say. Perchance they believed the small cutting I placed in the soil was another memorial that would one day grow into a bush. Little did they know that there, beneath the tiny piece of rose, a beautiful flower replete with sharp thorns, lay some of the greatest secrets ever recorded — secrets that could bring down a Queen and her realm.
Nathaniel patted the soil down then stood and placed his arm around me. ‘Thomas was right. Forget coin or houses, he left you the greatest gift of all. Maybe in his death Sir Francis became the father he never was in life. He trusted you, his daughter, with the safety of the country he loved, the country he died serving.’
I wiped the dampness from my brow. ‘And no-one will ever know. It will be as if the book never existed.’
I said a prayer over Papa’s grave — for him and Sir Francis. Nathaniel added his own words. As we walked back to the waiting gondola, a thought occurred. ‘I’m mentioned in that book. I don’t know whether Sir Francis ever admitted I was his daughter, or used my real name, but I’m there. I saw him write me in.’ I glanced over my shoulder. ‘It will be as if I never existed —
not as a Bright or Walsingham.’
‘Then I’ll write you into another book. Write you back into existence.’
I laughed. ‘You, Nathaniel, write a book?’
‘You doubt me?’
‘I don’t doubt that you can do anything.’ I stroked his face. ‘And what would you call this book?’
‘What else? I would call it The Secrets of Lady Mallory Warham.’
I pulled a face.
‘You don’t like it?’
‘I’ve my own book to confess those in, remember? The one Papa gave me long ago. Anyhow, I do not want my story told. Some doors should remain locked.’ I paused and took a deep breath, pressing my hand into the small of my back.
Nathaniel gave me a look of concern. ‘Are you well, my lady?’
‘Well is such a strange word,’ I said. Thoughts of Papa sprang to mind, bringing with them unexpected tears. This was not the time for sadness, but great joy. I pulled Nathaniel’s arm, urging him forward. ‘We must hurry home.’
‘Why the sudden haste?’ Nathaniel easily matched my stride.
‘’Tis not for me, but for your son.’
‘Jon?’ he asked, when I stopped again and puffed a few times, grimacing as the aches I’d been experiencing but trying to ignore became acute, demanding my full attention.
‘My lady?’ Nathaniel paled. ‘Have your pains begun?’
I could not help but smile at his expression, and his choice of words. ‘Aye, my love, our Gideon Francis has taken this as his cue, but I would prefer he arrives upon a different stage and without an audience — though I doubt even a woman in my state would be a distraction for the holy ones.’
Without further ado, Nathaniel dropped the bucket, hoisted me into his arms and ran to the gondola, earning stares from all we passed. ‘Just like his godfather,’ he gasped. ‘He knows when to make an entry.’
I was gently placed into the boat and crawled in a most ungainly fashion into the felze. Nathaniel promised our gondolier a reward for a speedy passage before joining me.
‘Did I hear aright? Our son is to be named for Francis as well?’
‘Do you object?’
‘On the contrary, I think it most fitting. Gideon Francis Warham.’
I watched the island retreat into the distance, the church’s grand facade shrinking, the sun striking the water, making it appear as if diamonds had been cast over the surface. ‘Sir Francis denied me a place in his family …’ I took a deep breath, gripping the edges of the seat as a cramp took over my body, ‘but I would not deny him a place in ours, through a grandson. Not now.’
Nathaniel held my hand and wiped a cool cloth across my forehead. I smiled at him. ‘The book changes everything,’ he said.
‘It does,’ I agreed. ‘Even so, for all Sir Francis tried to make amends, to reach out beyond the grave, for all he attempted to train me, mould me in his image, present me with opportunities denied most women, to be a father in the only way he knew how, I am and always will be the locksmith’s daughter.’
‘Don’t forget my wife and mother of my children.’
My stomach tightened and pain flowered, the world turned white, the air hot, and I grimaced.
And my lord, what did he do, but laugh and fold me in his arms.
The End
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Whenever I read a work of historical fiction, I love learning how the author integrated fact with fiction — how their imagination intersected with real events and figures from the past. In case my readers are similarly curious, I thought I’d explain how I used known events and people to create the world that is The Locksmith’s Daughter, as well as share some of the fabulous sources I used, including those about locks and keys.
The idea of writing a book featuring a locksmith, or more accurately, a lock-pick, came to me unexpectedly one day in 2012. My husband, Stephen, had broken the key in the ignition of his car. It was late Friday afternoon, so I fetched him in my vehicle and we left his car parked overnight outside the major brewery where he then worked (as a tour guide) and met a locksmith there the next day. It was when I was watching the locksmith, Bruce, repair the damage (he had to replace the entire ignition barrel and craft a new key) that I began to discuss with him his training and what drew him to it. Realising he had a keen audience, Bruce shared his excitement about locks and keys, showing me the instruments he used and how they worked. I returned to my car and, as I drove home, the story of a young woman who was a lock-pick began to form. As usual, she came with an era — it was like a package deal. Somehow, I knew not only must she be using her skills during Elizabethan times, but the book also had to involve Sir Francis Walsingham, a historical figure who has long held me in thrall. So, a female spy named Mallory Bright was born.
I knew nothing about locks, but I was adept at losing keys. My son’s first words were ‘car keys’. Seriously. When I complained to a friend about it, she screeched with laughter. ‘Is it any wonder?’ she said. ‘Have you heard yourself?’ I stared at her, confused. ‘Every time you go somewhere, the first thing you say is, “Where are the car keys?” Over and over … “Has anyone seen my car keys?”’ True story. My poor son. I also had a habit of locking myself out of the house. So, until this book, I had an inauspicious relationship with locks and keys.
Unperturbed, I began my research. This, I have discovered, is often the time when incredibly generous and knowledgeable people unexpectedly enter your life and share their expertise and passion. My search for information about locks was no exception. A wonderful man from the US named Scott Klemm, who is also the author of two terrific books on locks (Unlocking the Portals of History Through the Lock and Key Collection of Scott J. Klemm and Ancient Locks: The Evolutionary Development of the Lock and Key), answered my many questions, as did others who I thank properly in the Acknowledgements. Other great resources were Vincent Eras’s book Locks and Keys Throughout the Ages and Martina Pall’s Prunkstücke Art Treasures from the Hanns Schell Collection — both of which Scott recommended. I also found Eric Monks’s Keys: Their History and Collection, Stephen Tchudi’s The Secrets of Locking Things Up, In and Out and John Chubb’s On the Construction of Locks and Keys incredibly useful. As James Forrestor in his marvellous novel Sacred Treason writes, ‘locks tell you where secrets are hidden’. What better way to explore the notion of secrets, lies and deceptions than through the motif of locks (which were as much works of art as they were cunning and sometimes deadly devices) during the era when, according to many historians, modern espionage was born.
In terms of actual history, the major events depicted in The Locksmith’s Daughter are entirely accurate: from the movements of all historical figures such as Sir Francis Walsingham, the Queen, Lord Burghley, the Earl of Leicester and the various Jesuit priests mentioned to the executions (of Campion and the others) and the names and actions of the other spies in Walsingham’s network. Likewise, all the works of fiction or non-fiction mentioned actually existed — from the books used to educate Mallory when she was a young woman to those she reads for pleasure, the various letters between Spain, France, Rome and Reims, the publications and pamphlets (including Campion’s ‘Brag’ and Raciones Decem — though there were only 400 copies distributed, and only in Oxford), and the dossier written by Charles Sledd, which was interfered with by Walsingham (or under his instructions). The only exceptions are the plays by Caleb Hollis — they are my invention.
Sir Francis Walsingham bore witness to the St Bartholomew’s Day massacre as he was Elizabeth’s ambassador in Paris at the time. He showed remarkable bravery in the face of terrible danger and not only protected many English nationals, but French ones as well. Some of his biographers believe this bloodbath and the treachery of the Catholics against the Huguenots both scarred and changed him for life, and cemented his inflexible attitudes towards Catholicism and his own Puritan-based faith. I take this notion further to explain his unbending attitude as well.
Walsingham did live in Padua during the time des
cribed in the novel. In various non-fiction accounts of his life and biographies (the most popular, and most often cited by other writers, is the three volumes by Conyers Read written in 1925, to which I am indebted as well), they are described as the ‘missing years’. It’s known he attended university in Padua then travelled to Switzerland, but exactly what he did and the date he returned to Padua is not — only that he did return. I asked the eternal question of all writers — what if? — and speculated a love affair resulting in an illegitimate daughter and what the consequences of this would be for an ambitious yet devout man with a promising future.
The agreement to supply munitions between Elizabeth and the Sultan of Turkey that Mallory steals from Captain Alyward Landsey aboard the Forged Friends is also true — though the Captain and his ship are not. The Queen and selected members of her government agreed to supply arms for coin. If word of this had reached any of the major Catholic powers in Europe, never mind some of the Privy Council and leading nobles of the time, it would have resulted in huge civil unrest and war. The correspondence was kept very secret.
The Book of Secret Intelligences did actually exist. According to various contemporary records and some biographers (including Read), it was kept in Sir Francis’s special cabinet (which is also a real object) and contained the type of information described in the novel. When Sir Francis died, it was never found, and to this day no-one knows what happened to it. It’s quite the mystery and I could not resist weaving it and a conclusion into my tale!
All the boxes described in Sir Francis’s study existed and had the labels I have given them. The other watchers and secretaries working for Sir Francis were also real people — Thomas Phelippes (who also use the alias Peter Halins, as well as John Morice), his servant Casey, and Charles Sledd (who among many aliases, used Rowland Russell) — as were Sir Francis’s second wife, Ursula St Barbe, and his daughter, Frances. Frances Walsingham went on to marry the poet Philip Sidney. She was widowed and a mother by the age of nineteen and remarried the infamous Earl of Essex (stepson of Leicester), Robert Deveraux, who was put to death under orders from Elizabeth for, among other misdemeanours, trying to stage a coup. After he was killed, she married her lover, Richard de Burgh, the Earl of Clanricarde, and went to live in Ireland.