‘There was a particularly nasty rumour,’ Fitz began, then waved a hand. ‘Doesn’t matter … I don’t like to spread gossip.’
‘What?’ Kit persisted.
Fitz sighed. ‘There was a murder. A woman and her daughter. Nasty thing – rape, mutilation. Renegades were blamed, but odd thing was that Morton and his men were the only troops in the area.’
Kit shrugged. ‘Proves nothing. Just because he was in the area, doesn’t implicate him.’
‘No, no, you’re quite right,’ Fitz slurred drunkenly.
Kit shivered. As he had looked into Morton’s cold eyes, he could well imagine the man capable of such an atrocity.
‘Where are you going now?’ he changed the subject. ‘Your lodgings are not in this direction.’
Fitz smiled. ‘A beautiful nymph awaits me … ’
‘I hope she gives you a discount for persistence,’ Kit said with a laugh.
‘Not that sort of nymph!’ Fitz protested. ‘You don’t think me sufficiently desperate that I must pay for my pleasure!’
‘Not at all,’ Kit smiled.
‘Well, this is me. See that light in the window? My darling awaits. Good night to you, Lovell.’
Kit watched Fitz weave across to the door and open it. He smiled and shook his head before turning his own heels towards Lucy, waiting for him on Holborn Hill.
~ * ~
Kit returned to The Ship Inn the following night with a heavy heart. The inn spilled warm, golden light and drunken ’prentices into the cold London street. It had snowed earlier in the day but the snow had already turned to slush in the mire, soiling Kit’s boots. He pulled his cloak around him and looked on with distaste as one of the ’prentices vomited loudly and messily against the wall of the inn. His fellows gathered him up and they pushed past Kit, singing discordantly.
Kit opened the door and caught Jem’s eye.
‘Busy tonight,’ he commented.
‘Aye. It’s that lass of yours, Thamsine. Word’s got out, quite an attraction she is.’ Jem looked pleased.
The fiddler struck up a tune and Thamsine was hoisted onto a table. Kit smiled. In her tattered gown with her hand on her hip, any semblance between the gentlewoman and this taproom songstress had long since dissipated.
‘Of all the brave birds that ever I see,
The owl is the fairest in her degree.
For all day long she sits in a tree,
And when the night comes away flies she.
This song is well sung, I make you a vow,
And he is a knave that drinketh now … ’
Kit winked at Thamsine who smiled in return as he joined in the rousing chorus of the familiar soldier’s drinking song.
‘ … Nose, nose, nose, nose,
And who gave thee that jolly red nose?
Cinnamon and ginger, nutmeg and cloves,
That’s what gave me this jolly red nose.’
When the song was done, Thamsine shoved a man whose hand strayed to her backside. He fell back among his companions, laughing as Thamsine jumped off the table and pushed her way through the crowd towards Kit.
He inclined his head. ‘Mistress Granville. You have a fine repertoire of songs guaranteed to make your late father turn in his grave.’
She smiled. He liked the way her smile lit up her face. ‘My poor father. If he could only see me now. He loved madrigals and sad ballads. My brother and I would sing to entertain his friends. Now … ’ She waved a hand at the crowded taproom. ‘I sing bawdy songs in a tavern and consider myself fortunate.’ The smile fell away and she looked into his face, earnestly seeking his eyes. ‘I do consider myself fortunate, Captain Lovell. If I haven’t thanked you properly … ’
An unfamiliar heat rose to Kit’s face and he waved a deprecating hand. ‘I am glad it has worked out for you,’ he said. ‘Now if you would excuse me, my friends are awaiting me.’
Thamsine nodded. ‘They’re in the parlour.’
May tugged at Thamsine’s arm. ‘Thamsine, another song … ’
~ * ~
With the opening stanza of a ballad of love lost filling the taproom behind him, Kit knocked on the door to the private parlour. Cotes let him in. It seemed an unusually good turnout. Despite the absence of Willys, Fitzjames and young Gerard, Dutton had assembled eleven in all. Kit looked around at the remaining familiar faces. Spirits seemed high. Men without hope suddenly had a cause they could turn to.
Kit bent over the map of London unfurled on the table, feigning an enthusiasm he did not feel. Even with 600 mythical men the task seemed hopeless. Seize Whitehall? Kidnap Cromwell? Take the Tower for God’s sake! Oh well, let them dream. Dreams hurt no one, he thought
‘I’ve come up with a few pounds,’ Dutton said. ‘Enough for the fare.’ He pushed the purse across to Whitely.
Whitely looked at it. ‘What did you sell?’
‘My pistols,’ Dutton replied gloomily.
‘You don’t think you might have needed those?’ Kit asked, the sarcasm heavy in his voice.
‘Lovell, if you have no wish to be a part of this, then go now,’ Whitely said.
Kit pulled out his own purse. ‘Apologies. There is my contribution.’
Whitely nodded. ‘Good, that should be enough.’
Cotes opened the door to a gentle knock. Thamsine stood there with two jugs of ale.
‘Come in, lass,’ Cotes said. ‘We’ve thirsty work ahead of us.’
‘You’ve a good voice,’ Whitely said. ‘Should be on the stage.’
‘Thank ’ee, sir,’ Thamsine said. ‘But there’s no theatres and nowhere else for the likes of I.’
Kit hid a smile in his tankard. She did a good cockney accent. He would have sworn she’d been born and brought up within the sound of Bow Bells.
‘Perhaps you can give us a song – ’ one of the others began, only stop abruptly at the sound of a crash and loud, raised voices from the taproom. ‘What was that?’
Cotes opened the door to the parlour a crack. He turned to back to face the room, the colour draining from his face. ‘Soldiers. Dutton, you fool, get that map onto the fire.’
Even as Dutton hurled the paper onto the flames, the door crashed open and an officer stepped into the room, to be met with the hiss and rattle of swords being eased from scabbards.
The man put his hands on his hips and surveyed the pathetic band of conspirators.
The officer smiled. ‘Gentlemen, good evening. What do we have here? A pretty bunch of conspirators, so I hear tell. Put those weapons down. I have men in the taproom and behind that window.’
Whitely stood up. ‘I must protest. We are doing no more than enjoying a quiet ale and a pipe.’
The officer strolled over to the fireplace and retrieved the singed map. He blew out the glowing embers, scrutinized the remains of the parchment, then looked around at the faces in the room. ‘You can tell that to the Council of State. In the meantime, the Lieutenant of the Tower has some pleasant accommodation planned for you.’
He looked around the room and his gaze looked on Thamsine. A slow smile spread across his face.
‘Well, well, ’tis my lucky night,’ he said.
His hand closed over Thamsine’s arm and he drew her towards him. He took her chin in his fingers and turned her head to the light.
‘A red-headed woman with a black eye,’ he said. ‘I hear tell you tried to kill our Lord Protector.’
‘Tweren’t me, sir,’ Thamsine said. ‘I must be getting back to my work.’
The man pulled her closer.
‘What’s your name, girl?’
Thamsine said nothing. Her eyes, in her thin face, had become huge with fear. Kit’s fingers clenched and unclenched in impotent fury.
‘I asked your name.’ The officer’s voice had become low and menacing.
‘Thamsine Granville,’ she stuttered.
‘There must be some mistake,’ Kit said.
‘Oh, there’s no mistake. Seen here and clearly identified, she
was.’
‘I knew I’d seen her before!’ Dutton almost screamed. ‘I can confirm, Captain, that this is indeed the woman. Saw her with my own eyes.’
The officer turned to look at Dutton.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I never forget a face. Now, Captain, I have confirmed you have a dangerous assassin in your custody. Perhaps you will let me go.’
The officer laughed. ‘I think not. You’ve enough troubles of your own without minding others. That’s the allegation against her. Not up to me to say if she did or she didn’t. Now let’s get this lot out of here.’
He gave a nod and two of his soldiers grabbed Thamsine’s arms. Thamsine cast Kit a brief, despairing look as the manacles were fastened around her slender wrists.
They were pushed into the taproom.
‘What you got our girl for? You leave her be, yer girt thug!’ One of the customers rose to his feet to be joined by the others. The level of outrage rose, and chunks of bread and pint pots began to fly.
The soldiers ducked. Shielding Thamsine with their bulk, they dragged her out onto the street and flung her against the tray of one of two carts that stood waiting.
‘Kit!’
Kit heard her despairing cry and shook off his captor’s hand. ‘Let me go with her.’
‘Friend of yours, is she?’ The officer pushed Kit towards her. ‘Well, you both keep bad company.’
Kit fell against Thamsine and they lost their footing on the icy mire, falling to their knees in the filth of the street.
‘Get up.’ A muddy boot swung in Thamsine’s direction. Kit flung out his arm, catching the full brunt of the boot on his elbow. He subsided, cursing in French. A soldier seized Thamsine’s arm and hauled her roughly to her feet.
Kit managed to pick himself up, shaking his arm and flexing his numbed fingers. They were both thrown bodily onto the back of the second cart. The first cart, bearing Dutton and the other conspirators, already lurched down the street ahead of them.
Thamsine began to shiver. She lacked a cloak and the night air was perishing. Kit moved closer to her, his fingers closing over her icy hand.
‘I’m sorry, Thamsine.’ He spoke in French.
‘It wasn’t your doing,’ she replied in the same language. ‘That awful man Dutton. He’s signed my death warrant, hasn’t he?’ She leaned her head against his arm. ‘What will they do to me?’ Her voice quavered.
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’ He gripped her hand. ‘Thamsine, whatever happens, remember who you are. Don’t be bullied or intimidated.’
‘I wasn’t trying to kill him. I really wasn’t.’ She choked back a sob. ‘What about you? Why were you arrested? What were you doing in the parlour?’
He gave a hollow laugh. ‘Conspiring to overthrow Cromwell.’
‘Were you? I thought you just played cards.’
Kit lowered his voice. ‘Every drunken Royalist conspires to overthrow Cromwell.’
Silent tears ran unchecked down her face. Kit stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. He bent his head, so it rested on hers. Her hair smelt of rosemary and chamomile.
‘Thamsine,’ he whispered, ‘I wish I could say it will all be right.’
‘I’m so scared,’ was her small, tight reply.
‘Take heart. You have great strength. I think you will find the courage to get through the next few weeks,’ he said.
She leaned her head against his shoulder. ‘You make that sound so easy!’ she said in English.
Chapter 4
As 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.
She felt Kit’s fingers tighten on hers and 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 up 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’ve 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’ve 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.
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 a 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 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 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 possibly be, and she wondered if it was a deliberate ploy to unsettle her. If so, then it proved very effective.
The King's Man Page 5