Page 22 of The King's Man
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 have 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 have 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. She doubted Kit and his fellows enjoyed such luxuries.
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 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 he had conveyed 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 and sat up. With cold, desperate fingers she tugged at 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 be, and she wondered if it was a deliberate ploy to unsettle her. If so, then it proved very effective.
