Page 1 of The King's Man
Chapter 1
London February 1654
Thamsine Granville had not begun the day with the intention of killing Oliver Cromwell.
Around her a jovial crowd pressed against the barricades, determined to enjoy the spectacle of the Lord Protector's ride in state to dine with the Lord Mayor of London. The bells of London, silenced for so many years, rang out, and above her, the flags of the City Guilds flapped in the chill wind.
But from across the road, she had been seen and recognised. A triumphant smile crossed her nemesis's handsome face and he raised his hand to his hat, doffing it as he bowed. He mouthed her name and started to push his way towards the barricade.
Thamsine swallowed, her mouth dry with fear. She only had a few moments to make good her escape, but the press of people to her rear hemmed her in, pushing her towards the barriers.
A roar went up from the crowd as the coach bearing Cromwell approached. As it drew closer, the Lord Protector, clad in a reddish-coloured suit embroidered with gold, inclined his head to acknowledge the cheers of the crowd with all the aplomb of aman born to such a station. She could see no trace of the simple farmer he had once professed to be.
Thamsine's heart beat a rapid tattoo as she stooped and gathered up the broken piece of brick at her feet. Oliver Cromwell, Lord Protector, the false King, was about to become Thamsine Granville's unwitting protector.
Oblivious to his fate, Cromwell smiled, his right hand raised in a parody of benediction as if forgiving them their sins. At the sight of his face, solid and pudding-like, framed by the open window of the carriage, she raised her arm and threw with all the strength that she could muster.
The brickbat hit the body of the coach barely inches from the open window. She got a brief impression of surprise on her intended victim's face. The coach stopped, the horses rising in their traces, whinnying in alarm. The crowd, stunned into silence, held its collective breath, every eye fixed on the ugly graze on the coach's paintwork where the brickbat had struck.
A roar of approbation went up, but Thamsine Granville had disappeared. In the instant her fingers uncurled from the missile, someone had grabbed her from behind. Strong fingers dug into her arm and drove her with force through the crowd that parted before them like the Red Sea.
The world roared in Thamsine's ears. She was only dimly aware of a commotion in the press around her. Soldiers yelled and a woman screamed but all she felt was utter despair. Despite her reckless act, somehowhehad reached her.
Her captor thrust her down a dark, noisome alley. It was all going to end here, she thought.
Her knees buckled and she could feel herself slipping into unconsciousness, only to be drawn back by a sharp, agonising tug on her arm as it was cruelly and expertly bent behind her.
‘Don't faint. Don't you dare faint. Now, unless you want to end your life on a gibbet on Tower Hill, you will co-operate fully in what we are about to do,’ he said.
She didn't recognise the voice, and her senses sprang back. She nearly screamed with relief. It wasn'thimbut her relief was short-lived as he turned her to face him, pushing her back against the wall and pinioning her arms at her side.
She closed her eyes as his body pressed against her and she braced herself for the blow or whatever punishment or unspeakable act was coming her way.
She did not expect to be kissed, firmly and expertly.
Her instinctive reaction was to resist, but with her arms and her head immobilised she was reduced to trying to kick her assailant. He responded by placing a booted foot on her instep. She gave a muffled yelp of pain.
‘Who's down there, then?’
A voice from the entrance to the alleyway caused her assailant to break off, allowing Thamsine the luxury of taking a deep breath. The fingers holding her arm tightened, digging into her flesh. It was a warning not to move, not to make another sound.
The soldier gave a ribald whistle. ‘Got yourself a tasty piece, then?’
In the shadows, she saw her assailant turn his head towards the soldier. ‘Now then, sergeant. Can't a man get a bit of privacy around here?’ he said in a low and well-modulated voice, with an unusual undertone to the accent that she could not place.
‘What's her charge?’ The soldier said.
Thamsine shifted, determined to protest the insinuation, but the firm and painful pressure on her upper left arm deepened and she kept her peace.
‘My dear sir, there are some pleasures beyond price.’
‘We're looking for a woman.’ The soldier's voice became clipped and businesslike. ‘Just tried to kill the Lord Protector. Has she come this way?’
‘I doubt I would have noticed. I have been otherwise occupied these minutes past.’
Thamsine squirmed in the tight grasp. The easy, lascivious intonation of his voice made her want to slap him. He may well have saved her life but his intentions seemed far from honourable.
‘Good day to you, sir. I wish you the joy of it.’
