Page 23 of The King's Man
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.
He sighed and asked again, his tone slow and heavy with threat. ‘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.
