Page 10 of The King’s Man (Guardians of the Crown #2)

A s the cart crossed the stinking moat and passed through the gates of the Tower, tales of misery, despair and the deaths of Queens dragged screaming to the block crowded Thamsine’s mind. Those long-forgotten history lessons did not relate tales of those who walked free through its gates.

Kit’s fingers tightened on hers and she closed her eyes against the fear that rose like gall in her throat.

The cart rumbled into a cobbled courtyard and drew to a halt.

The soldiers pulled Thamsine from the cart and she fell to her knees on the stones.

As she struggled to rise, Kit jumped down beside her, putting his body between the soldiers and her.

‘Quite the gentleman, aren’t you?’ the sergeant sneered. ‘Out of the way, Lovell!’

Kit stood his ground. The sergeant gave an exasperated grunt and swung his fist. Thamsine flinched at the resounding crunch of fist on bone, and Kit reeled back against the cart, sliding to the ground beside her in an ungainly heap.

Thamsine had no time to see to him. A soldier pulled her to her feet and, barely allowing her time for a backward glance, thrust her towards a door.

Despite the almost cloying warmth of the room in which she found herself, she shivered, clasped her manacled hands tightly together and stared fixedly at the ground.

‘Is this the woman?’

Thamsine raised her eyes to look at the speaker. A well-dressed, heavyset man rose from behind the table and circled her as if she were an animal in the market square.

‘It is. Denies it of course but the description fits.’ The sergeant who had brought her in pushed her forward into the light.

‘You had to drag her through the mud to get her here?’

The man resumed his seat, put his forearms on the table, clasped his hands and leaned forward.

‘What’s your name, woman?’

Thamsine didn’t answer.

‘Tell me your name or the sergeant here will add another black eye to the one you already have.’

Thamsine swallowed, and remembering Kit’s words about finding the strength within her, she looked up, meeting the man’s eyes. ‘Thamsine Granville.’

‘Granville, is it? Well, my name is Barkstead, Colonel Barkstead, and I am the Lieutenant of the Tower.’

She straightened. ‘Colonel Barkstead, I must protest at my treatment.’ She summoned her last shreds of dignity. ‘Whatever it is I am accused of, I am completely innocent.’

He looked her up and down, his eyes taking in the old, broken shoes, the torn and mended petticoats and stained bodice.

‘Well, well, that is the voice of a gently born woman, I warrant. Makes no difference. I have a Tower full of innocent babes just like you, m’lady.’ The last word was uttered in a tone heavy with contempt.

He rose to his feet and gave her a mocking bow. ‘Now if you have a mind to it, allow me to show you to your accommodation. Sergeant!’

The promised accommodation proved somewhat better than she could have hoped for; a grey stone cell, barely large enough to contain a low cot, a small table and a stool.

A narrow window high up on the wall admitted light and air and a tiny, but empty, fireplace had been built into the corner.

It could have been much, much worse. She doubted Kit and his fellows enjoyed such luxuries.

The turnkey undid the manacles, and as the door slammed 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 pressure should it be brought to bear.

Would it be best to co-operate? Maybe present herself as she had to Kit Lovell, a gentlewoman reduced in circumstances and driven to desperation? That at least was the truth.

The thought of Kit caused her to stumble in her resolve. She remembered his hand closing on hers and the strength he had conveyed 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 and sat up.

With cold, desperate fingers she tugged at 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 pockmarked face of the turnkey appeared at the grate.

‘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?

Putting that thought to one side, 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.

She tore at the hunk of stale bread that had been provided to break the fast, washed, tidied her hair, and settled herself to wait.

The hours passed with nothing to relieve them except the noises from the world beyond the walls.

Soldiers paraded in the courtyard, doors slammed, keys rattled and, incongruously, she could hear the laughter of children playing nearby.

The waiting proved to be worse than any interrogation could 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 it.

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 on her back and pushed her forward.

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-panelled 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 sombre 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 and his hands loosely clasped behind his back. He did not turn around as she entered.

‘A pleasant outlook, Mistress Granville. Come and join me.’

Her knees shook and her stomach roiled 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 wherries 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.