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Authors: Alison Stuart
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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 was well built and offered no chance of escape. He turned around and leaned 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 declared stoutly.
"What about Willys,” Smith said. “It's my betting that this is the work of the Sealed Knot."
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. My bet is that this is their work,” Smith said.
"Who's on this committee?” 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 organize a small riot!” Kit said. “You didn't really believe we could muster six hundred 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."
There was silence, then Smith spoke. “What about the girl? 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 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 her 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
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 was well built and offered no chance of escape. He turned around and leaned 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 declared stoutly.
"What about Willys,” Smith said. “It's my betting that this is the work of the Sealed Knot."
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. My bet is that this is their work,” Smith said.
"Who's on this committee?” 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 organize a small riot!” Kit said. “You didn't really believe we could muster six hundred 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."
There was silence, then Smith spoke. “What about the girl? 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 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 her 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
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