The King's Man (7 page)

They undid the manacles and as the key turned in the lock behind Colonel Barkstead, she lay down on the bed and covered her eyes with her left arm. She needed to think clearly.

She wondered if she would be tortured. She'd heard such dreadful stories and doubted that she had the fortitude to withstand such a pressure should it be brought to bear. Would it best to cooperate, present herself as she had to Kit Lovell, as a gentlewoman reduced in circumstances and driven to desperation?

The thought of Kit caused her to stumble in her resolve. She remembered his hand closing on hers and the strength she had felt in that simple gesture. A choking sob rose to her throat. She wanted him here beside her not incarcerated somewhere else behind these unforgiving walls.

The moment of despair had to be overcome; she swallowed back the tears. She sat up and with desperate fingers undid the stitches that held her pathetically small collection of coins, earned from her singing and secured from the twins’ acquisitive fingers in the inside of her petticoat. It would be enough to ameliorate her condition for a little while and she stood a better chance if she met her inquisitors at least clean and strong within herself.

She stood up and crossed to the door. In response to her knock, the pock-marked face of the turnkey appeared at the grate in the door.

"I want a bowl of water."

"Oh yes?” He sneered.

She held up a coin and his attitude changed markedly. He gave her a leering smile. “Anything else, yer ladyship?"

"A comb."

"At your service!” he snarled and stumped away.

He returned with the bowl of water and a revolting comb that was missing half its teeth. She tossed him the coin.

He jerked his head at her. “How much more you got there? Y'know I charge for services like emptying your bucket,” he indicated the slops bucket in the corner. “And if y'want a candle and some decent food, it's all extra. Mind you...” He licked his lips. “...I'd do it for a taste of what's under yer skirts."

Thamsine straightened, looking down on him. Her height often proved to be a blessing when it came to intimidating stupid people.

"Get out of here."

He gave her a contemptuous look. “In a few weeks, ye'll be begging for it!"

"Not unless hell freezes over."

"We'll see, yer ladyship, we'll see.” The man slammed the door behind him.

Her few coins would not last out the week at the rate he charged and she wondered how long she could maintain her defiance. In a few weeks or a month would she be reduced to letting him grope under her skirts for the sake of a decent meal?

Thamsine washed her face and hands, cleaned the comb and pulled it through her hair. She then tried to rinse the worst of the mud and filth from her gown. The result was rudimentary but if nothing else it made her feel better.

She looked around the cell, shivered, wrapped herself in the one blanket and lay down on the hard cot. Exhausted by the shock of her sudden arrest, sleep came with surprising ease and she woke, cold and stiff, to bright sunlight streaming in through the high window.

A hunk of stale bread was provided to break the fast and she tore at it hungrily. Then she washed, tidied her hair and settled herself to wait.

The hours passed with nothing to relieve them except the noises from outside the cell: The sounds of soldiers in the courtyard, the slam of doors, rattle of keys and, incongruously, the laughter of children playing nearby. The waiting proved to be worse than any interrogation could possibly be and she wondered if it was a deliberate ploy to unsettle her. If so, then it proved very effective.

It had gone dark when the key rattled in the lock and the turnkey flung the door open with a thud. He held up a lantern.

"You've been sent for."

"By whom?"

"By whom?” he scoffed. “You'll see soon enough. Up.” She rose stiffly to her feet.

He held up a set of manacles. “Hold out your hands."

She recoiled. She had not expected irons. “I don't need those! I'm not going to escape."

"Orders is orders.” He grabbed her arm and jerked her hand out. “Such pretty hands too."

The hard metal felt cold on her skin and the unfamiliar weight dragged her spirits down with them. For a moment she panicked, her firm assurance of the morning evaporating. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, remembering who she was. With her back straight and her head held high she marched out of her cell.

Her courage failed her again as the door to the room where her inquisitor waited opened. She held back, her breath coming in short, frantic bursts, her hands sweating.

The turnkey put a hand to her reluctant back and she stumbled across the threshold, the door slamming shut behind her. She stood for a moment, gathering herself, staring at the well-polished floorboards. Then slowly she raised her eyes, taking in the pleasant, wood-paneled room with its low, plaster ceiling. Two wax candles stood on the table and a cheerful fire burned in the grate. It gave the room a homely feel she found more disquieting than the cold cell.

A man in the dark clothes of a clerk sat to one side of a large table, paper and pen in hand. He gave her a cursory glance and returned to sharpening his pen. A second, dark-haired man stood by the window, his back to her, his hands loosely clasped behind him. He did not turn around as she entered.

"A pleasant outlook, Mistress Granville. Come and join me."

Her knees shook as she walked across the expanse of floor that stood between them. At every step the rattle of the chains filled the quiet room. She stopped beside him, her hands resting on the windowsill. Below her the lights of the wherrys on the river danced and swayed.

"Do you know Queen Elizabeth herself once looked out of these very windows? She was a prisoner too. She must have thought, as you are now, out there is freedom. In here is only death and despair.” He turned to face her. “Mistress Granville, I trust they are treating you well?"

"Well enough."

He inclined his head. “I am glad to hear it. Do you know who I am?"

She shook her head.

"My name is John Thurloe and I am the Secretary to the Council of State. Now tell me, Mistress Granville, is that your name?"

"Of course it is my name."

"Who is your father? Where are you from?"

She met his eyes, dark, hooded eyes that froze her blood, and found herself unable to speak.

He closed his eyes and with a sigh of impatience asked again. “Mistress Granville, do not trifle with me. When I ask you a question, I require you to answer me."

"I am from Hampshire,” she said. “My family home is ... was Hartley Court. My father, William Granville, is dead.” She squared her shoulders. “I mean to protest my innocence."

"Your innocence of what? Do you know why you are being held?"

"Some foolish allegation that I hurled a brickbat at the Lord Protector."

He raised an eyebrow. “A foolish allegation is it?” He paused, studying her face, “Among my many duties I have the pleasure of weeding out enemies of the Lord Protector."

"That must be an interesting task. I am sure the Lord Protector has many enemies."

"He does and you, Mistress Granville, can count yourself among them."

His eyes narrowed and his face hardened. This was a man not to be crossed. Thamsine felt her knees go weak and she swallowed.

"Sit down.” He turned and indicated a chair that stood by itself in the middle of the room. Thamsine complied, sitting rigid, her hands clasped in her lap.

Thurloe gave a barely perceptible nod to the clerk, who began writing.

"Mistress Granville, do you deny that you threw a brick bat at the carriage of the Lord Protector on the eighth day of February?"

"I do."

Thurloe sighed. “I see. Do you know what the punishment is for the attempted assassination of the Lord Protector?"

Thamsine stared at him.

"Hanging, drawing and quartering. Have you ever seen a man hanged, drawn and quartered?"

She shook her head.

"First they will take you to the gibbet and hang you until you are not quite dead. Then you will be cut down and you will be disembowelled, your head and limbs cut from the body and dispersed about the kingdom as a warning to others.” He watched her face from beneath his hooded eyes. “It is an unpleasant way to die."

"For a woman?” Thamsine's voice shook.

"There may be some leniency but it cannot be guaranteed."

"What proof do you have that I committed this deed?"

"I am afraid my dear, Mistress Granville, I have a witness who has clearly identified you as the perpetrator of this heinous act."

"Who is this eyewitness?"

"Someone who saw you hurl the brickbat and then saw you again singing I believe, another violation of the law by the way, in a tavern. There is no mistake."

She took a deep, shuddering breath. “If, just if, I were to admit to such an offence would it...? Would it make it easier?"

Thurloe moved from his place by the window to the fire. He prodded the logs for a moment or two as if deep in thought.

"It may depend on the reason why such an act was committed,” he said at last. He crossed his arms and fixed her with dark eyes over a hawkish nose. “Do you admit you threw the brickbat?"

She nodded.

"Did you act alone or in concert with others?"

She looked up at him. “Quite alone."

"The State has many enemies, Mistress Granville. There are those who would use any means to see the death of the Lord Protector. You have never had any business with such malignants who might have ordered you to take this step?"

She shook her head. “Master Thurloe, I assure you I acted quite alone."

"What of those who were also taken at the Ship Inn? What dealings have you had with them?"

"None,” Thamsine protested.

"You have never attended any of their meetings. Been privy to their plotting?"

"No.” Thamsine's voice rose. “I knew none of them, except...” She bit off the last name.

"Except?"

"Except Captain Lovell."

"And how do you know him?"

"He ... he was a friend of my brother.” The lie came easily.

"How do you come to be working in a tavern known to be haunted by Lovell and his friends?"

Thamsine swallowed. Her mouth was dry. “He helped me gain some employment there."

Thurloe did not respond, watching her face from under his hooded eyes. “You are evidently well born. What about your family, Mistress Granville? How do you come to be singing tavern ditties and serving ale in a common inn?"

"I have told you the truth Master Thurloe. I have no family. They are all dead.” Her voice began to waver. “I have been forced to vacate my home and have been living on the streets of London for nearly six months. That day I reached a point of despair. There was no pre-meditation. It was an impulsive act of desperation, nothing more sinister than that."

Thurloe was silent, regarding her thoughtfully. “I am inclined to believe you, Mistress Granville,” he said at last. “The question is, did you intend by your actions to kill the Lord Protector?” He crossed to the table and sat down on the far side of it.

Thamsine managed a wan smile, spreading her hands in a dissembling motion. “My lord, I'm a woman. Do you truly believe that I had the strength or capability to hurl such an awkward missile with an intent to kill?"

"Well, for a frail woman, you made quite a dent in the carriage, Mistress Granville.” He sat back considering her, one finger laid against his mouth. His silences were disconcerting.

"Will I die?” Thamsine looked down at her manacled hands, twisted together so tightly that the knuckles showed white.

"I shall make a report to Council and they shall make the decision on your fate, Mistress."

Thamsine's hand instinctively went to her throat and for the first time Thurloe smiled, a cold, unpleasant smile that did not touch his eyes.

"The Council of State is not likely to look kindly on a murderess, however pitiful her tale."

"I haven't murdered anyone. All I have done is dent a coach.” She could hear the desperation rising in her voice.

Thurloe did not respond. He rang a small bell on the table and the turnkey appeared at the door with the sort of speed that indicated he had been listening at the keyhole.

"See Mistress Granville back to her cell."

Kit pressed his hands against the damp, unyielding brick wall of the prison. If he closed his eyes, he could almost feel the centuries of misery ingrained in the stones. He squinted upwards at the small aperture that admitted a pitiful degree of light and air. The Tower was well built and offered no chance of escape. He turned around and leaned against the wall, his ankles crossed, and surveyed his silent companions.

His gaze fell on Dutton who sat on the filthy straw, his head in his hands, his shoulders heaving.

"We're dead,” Dutton groaned. “We're all dead."

"Keep your peace, Dutton,” Whitely said with a voice of authority. “They have no evidence against us, just a map of London."

"And the word of an informer,” Cotes said, his narrow eyes darting from man to man.

Dutton raised his head. “What do you mean?"

"Someone told them we were meeting and why."

"You're surely not suggesting one of us turned cloak,” Whitely said.

"I'm not suggesting anything,” Cotes said. “I'm telling you."

"And who more likely than you,” Kit said.

Cotes paled. “Me?"

"The mouse that squeals loudest is the one with the cheese, as my old nurse used to say,” Thomas Smith muttered darkly.

"Well it wasn't me!” Cotes protested, his voice rising an octave in alarm.

"Throwing allegations isn't going to help. Look at who wasn't there.” Whitely's sensible voice stilled the anxiety. “Young Gerard, Willys or Fitzjames. It is more likely one of them."

"Not Fitzjames,” Kit declared stoutly.

"What about Willys,” Smith said. “It's my betting that this is the work of the Sealed Knot."

There was silence.

"What did you say?” Whitely said at last.

"'Tis well known in Paris that there is a committee holding the King's Commission with orders to undermine any other plans. My bet is that this is their work,” Smith said.