Page 21 of The King's Man
Kit fell against Thamsine and they lost their footing on the icy mire, falling to their knees in the filthy 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 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 6
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.
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 tosee 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.’
