He tried to prevent himself from stumbling as the stout figure forced him through the archway, but it had been no use. He tripped to one side, smacking his entire weight against the wall. He slumped to the floor, thankful at least that he hadn't fallen to the ground. The chains around his wrists grew tighter every time he moved; he had only just been able to stop his face from smashing against the floor without the iron cutting deeply into him.
They reached the top of the staircase. Lord Bingham gripped the back of the young man's shirt with one hand and fumbled for a key with the other. He found what he was looking for, clutched it tightly, and turned to his prisoner.
"By the order of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, you are to remain locked up until Her Majesty has delivered your fate." The stench of port was strong on his breath as he snarled, moving closer to the man's face. "If I catch you so much as thinking about escaping, you'll regret the day you ever messed with me."
The glee on Bingham's face was as evident now as it had been when he had triumphed over the Irish at Burrishoole. Tibbott had been certain he would be invincible. There had been a plan devised, and he was sure it was finally going to be the key to victory. The men had been assembled and they were ready to take action.
But perhaps he hadn't thought it through properly. Their strategy had been formed in haste. Why he ever thought the small cluster of fighters he'd gathered would have been enough to overthrow Bingham, he wasn't certain. He had declared that nothing would be able to stop him, but he had spoken too soon.
He only had himself to blame for his capture.
Bingham flung him through the open door and into the tiny room, his eyes flaring with a thirst for revenge. Tibbott fell backward, banging his head against the wall. His clothes seemed to instantly attract the thick dust that coated the floor, accentuated as the narrow window out of reach at the top cast a sickly beam of sunlight onto his torn shirt. He lifted his hand to the back of his head. There was no sign of blood. He would be okay.
"Good morrow, sir," Lord Bingham grinned as he banged the metal door shut before skipping down the flight of stairs, abandoning Tibbott Bourke to his suffering.
Her Majesty would be pleased with him. He could feel it in his bones as he rubbed his hands together excitedly, satisfied with his triumph over that vermin Irish boy. Soon rewards would be bestowed on him for bringing the boy to her, and he would stand proudly in Her Majesty's favour. This was his chance to prove his worth to her, and nothing was going to ruin it for him now.