The King's Man

by Alison Stuart

  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 to 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 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 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.

  He gave a sigh of impatience and 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 brickbat 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.

  He shrugged.

  ‘What proof do you have that I committed this deed?’ Her voice wavered.

  ‘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 eye-witness?’

  ‘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 and looked down at her manacled hands. ‘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, watching the sparks flying up the chimney, as if deep in thought.

  ‘It may depend on the reason why such an act was committed,’ he said at last. He turned to face her, crossing his arms, his dark eyes skewering her to her chair like a moth trapped in the light. ‘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 had been forced to vacate my home and had been living on the streets of London for nearly six months. That day, the day I … I threw the brick at the coach, I reached a point of despair. There was no premeditation. It was an impulsive act of desperation, nothing more sinister than that.’

  Thurloe regarded her thoughtfully for a long moment. ‘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?’ As he spoke, he crossed to the table and sat down on the far side of it.

&nb
sp; Thamsine managed a wan smile, spreading her hands in a dissembling motion. ‘My Lord, I’m a woman. Do you truly believe that I have 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. Thamsine shifted in her chair. 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 offered no chance of escape. It had been built for just this purpose and it served it well. He turned around and leaned his back 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 said, with a pang of guilt.

  ‘What about Willys?’ Smith said. ‘It’s my betting that this is the work of the Sealed Knot. They want us out of the way.’

  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. They call themselves the Sealed Knot. My bet is that this is their work,’ Smith said.

  ‘What committee? Who’s on it?’ Dutton asked. From his face it was evident that the existence of the Sealed Knot was news to him.

  Smith shrugged. ‘No one knows, but there is word that Willys is one of them.’

  ‘They hold the King’s Commission you say?’ Dutton was incredulous. ‘If Willys is one of them, then why not confide in us? Together we could have raised an army.’

  ‘An army? For Christ’s sake Dutton, we couldn’t organise a small riot!’ Kit said. ‘You didn’t really believe we could muster 600 men?’

  ‘With the King’s Commission we could have done.’

  ‘Enough!’ Whitely rose to his feet. ‘In case you gentlemen haven’t noticed, we are in the Tower of London and these walls have ears. Not another word.’

  ‘What about the girl?’ Smith broke the ensuing silence. ‘Is it true she threw a brickbat at Cromwell a week or so back?’

  ‘I saw her!’ Dutton looked up. ‘Dammit, I knew her face was familiar. A bit thinner and a bit grubbier but it was her right enough. I saw her throw the brickbat. Only missed by a couple of inches.’

  ‘Well, you can just keep quiet about it,’ Kit said sharply. ‘No point sending the girl to the gallows for nearly succeeding at something we have come nowhere close to doing!’

  ‘You’re quick to defend her,’ Dutton sneered. ‘Got a hand under her skirts, have you?’

  Kit cast Dutton a filthy look that was lost in the dark. He slid down the wall and sat with his hands hanging loosely over his knees. He closed his eyes and wondered how Thamsine fared, locked within these same forsaken walls.

  ~ * ~

  A fitful ray of sunlight struggled through the foetid London air, penetrating the warm, panelled room and briefly illuminating the large, oaken table behind which John Thurloe, Secretary to the Council of State, sat waiting for his visitor. As Kit strolled into the room, Thurloe looked up from perusing the scattered papers before him. He set down his pen and, leaning his elbows on the table, placed the tips of his fingers together and said in a low, purring voice, ‘Captain Lovell. I trust you are well?’

  Kit gave the Secretary of State the benefit of a flourishing bow, which lost something when executed wearing manacles. Without waiting for an invitation, he seated himself in one of the solid oak chairs facing the table.

  ‘Tolerably well, Master Thurloe. The hostelry is overrun with bed bugs and lice, the rats are a truly incredible size and the food is execrable, but my day is much improved for seeing you of course.’

  Thurloe sighed. ‘Spare me the charm, Lovell. You know it’s wasted on me.’

  Kit casually flicked at a piece of imaginary lint on his sleeve, causing the chains on his wrists to rattle. The gesture was purely an affectation. The sleeve of his jacket, like the rest of his attire and indeed himself, after a week’s incarceration, was very much the worse for wear. Unshaven, soiled, and stained and carrying the unmistakable stench of prison, Kit was far from his sartorial best. Thurloe’s long nose wrinkled in distaste.

  Kit caught the gesture. ‘I pray your pardon for my appearance, Thurloe, but as you are well aware the accommodation has afforded me few luxuries.’

  ‘Indeed, but then it was not intended to,’ agreed Thurloe.

  Kit raised a hand to a livid bruise on his right cheekbone. ‘Was this strictly necessary?’

  Thurloe shrugged. ‘Adds a degree of authenticity. I trust Sergeant Harris was not too rough on you?’

  Kit glared at the Secretary of State. ‘I am lucky he did not break bone.’

  ‘How are your fellow captives?’

  Kit shrugged. ‘Surprised that their idiotic plan was discovered.’

  ‘And who do they suspect of betraying them?’

  Kit shook his head. ‘The suspects abound. Roger Cotes now seems to be the principal object of their blame. Never one to be trusted, was Roger. Shifty eyes.’

  Thurloe smiled. ‘Not you?’

  ‘Never me, Thurloe.’ Kit’s finger traced the carving on the arm of the chair. He looked up and met Thurloe’s eye. ‘What do you intend to do with them?’

  Thurloe’s long fingers drummed the table. ‘They’re a sorry enough crew. Very quick to talk and there are titbits of information I find quite intriguing. As for the plot itself?’ He shrugged. ‘Pathetic, laughable in fact.’ He shook his head. ‘When all is considered, there is precious little evidence to hold them on. To be honest I doubt that they will see trial. We’ll hold them long enough to make them think twice about entering into conspiracies and then let them go again.’

  ‘Good of you. What about me?’
r />   ‘Well, I can hardly let you go without attracting some sort of suspicion.’

  Kit narrowed his eyes. ‘You enjoy this, don’t you? You’re like a cat playing with a mouse. You allow me so much freedom and then haul me back in. Is that why you’ve waited so long to see me?’

  ‘I wouldn’t want you to be in any doubt about your position, Captain Lovell. If you don’t care for the life I allow you, there is always an alternative!’ Thurloe leaned forward. ‘Now pay your dues! What do you know about a committee sanctioned by Charles Stuart?’

  Long practice prevented Kit’s face from betraying his surprise. His eyes widened. ‘A committee?’

  Thurloe sat back in his chair. ‘Don’t play the innocent with me, Lovell. Do I need to remind you of the reason you work for me?’

  Kit’s mouth tightened and he leaned forward. ‘Thurloe, our arrangement is at an end. I gave you the girl. I have given you Dutton and the others. You cannot ask any more of me.’

  ‘An overwrought woman and a pack of fools? Hardly the stuff to unsettle the Commonwealth,’ Thurloe sneered. ‘And in the meantime you have been more than a drain on the purse, Captain Lovell. May I remind you how much it cost to settle your debts and get you out of the Clink over that matter of the horse?’

  ‘A gentleman must maintain his standards, Thurloe.’ A sardonic smile lifted the corners of Kit’s mouth.

  ‘A gentleman of no means must learn to lower his standards,’ Thurloe rejoined. ‘Now tell me what you know.’

  Kit looked down at his right hand. He had gripped the arm of the chair so hard the knuckles showed white. ‘All I know is that there is a new committee that holds a commission from the King to organise a general insurrection.’

  ‘The Sealed Knot?’

  Kit blinked in surprise. ‘You know about them?’

  ‘I know they call themselves the Sealed Knot. Now tell me something I don’t know.’

  Sudden anger flared in Kit’s eyes. ‘If you already know about it, then why ask me?’