The King's Man

by Alison Stuart

  He crossed to the virginals, where Mary had risen to her feet, her plain face colouring as he took her hand and kissed it.

  ‘Oh, Baron,’ she giggled.

  ‘And who is this exquisite creature?’ The Baron spoke in English as he turned to Thamsine.

  No one had ever described Thamsine as an “exquisite creature” before. She bit her lip and lowered her head as she curtsied so as to hide the smile.

  ‘Mistress Granville is my new music teacher, Baron,’ Mary Skippon said.

  The Baron minced towards Thamsine and took her hand, pressing it to his lips.

  ‘Baron de Baas, my dear lady. Why have I not seen you before?’ This time he spoke in French.

  Thamsine looked blankly at him.

  ‘Mistress Granville does not speak French, Baron,’ Mary Skippon explained, speaking French with an appalling accent. She addressed Thamsine in English. ‘He asked why he has not seen you before.’

  ‘I am sorry Baron, but I have been in London but a short time,’ Thamsine responded in English.

  ‘Ah, an English country rose … perhaps you will allow me to sing a little duet with dear Mistress Skippon here.’ De Baas returned to his heavily accented English.

  ‘Please.’ Thamsine held herself in rigid control, resisting the urge to laugh at this absurd creature. What was it about him that so intrigued John Thurloe?

  ‘When did you arrive back in London, Baron?’ Mary asked in French.

  ‘Yesterday evening,’ he replied, also in French.

  Thamsine had to school her face not to display any interest in the conversation. This, she supposed, was the sort of intelligence that Thurloe wanted.

  ‘How was Paris?’ Mary continued, ignoring Thamsine.

  The Baron rolled his eyes. ‘An oasis of civilization compared to this dank country. How I suffer!’ He pressed a kerchief to his lips as he raised his eyes heavenwards.

  Mary Skippon’s lips tightened. ‘England is not that bad, surely?’ she continued in her atrocious French.

  ‘No, no, of course,’ the Baron replied, ‘but your English politics are causing much concern at court in Paris.’

  ‘How is that, Baron?’

  ‘The presence of Charles Stuart is an embarrassment. A king with no throne and no money! It is only the generosity of his cousin that keeps him in Paris. God willing, this is a situation will not continue long.’

  ‘Why do you say that, Baron?’ Mary asked ingenuously.

  ‘There are ways of returning your King to his rightful throne.’ The Baron smiled. ‘But come, Mademoiselle Skippon, we are being impolite to your teacher, who is waiting patiently for us.’

  The Baron smiled at Thamsine. ‘My apologies, Mademoiselle Granville,’ he said in English. ‘We have been rude. I see the music you have selected. Perhaps you will allow me to take the lute part?’

  De Baas picked up a lute and began to strum with some talent, Thamsine conceded, and indeed he had quite a fine tenor voice.

  At the conclusion of the lesson, the Baron lingered as Thamsine collected her music and put away the instruments. As he nattered on about the latest French fashions, Thamsine nodded and made the appropriate noises. As she walked to the door, he intercepted her, seizing her hand and placing it to his lips.

  ‘You are a very talented musician, mademoiselle.’

  ‘You are too kind, Baron.’ Thamsine tugged at her hand. ‘You are a fine musician yourself.’

  He inclined his head. ‘Merci, mademoiselle.’

  Thamsine freed her hand. ‘Good day to you, Baron.’

  He opened the door to her. ‘Until next time, chere Mademoiselle Granville.’

  ~ * ~

  Kit lay in Lucy’s commodious bed, reflecting that life did have its compensations. With the exception of Dutton and Whitely, who remained incarcerated, the conspirators had been cast out into the dank streets the previous evening. It would not be long before they reassembled for cards and a continuation of the endless game of trying to restore the King. Kit would go on encouraging them and turning them in.

  Thinking of that miserable band of plotters, he sighed. He despised himself, but Thurloe had left him little option.

  Lucy sat at her dressing table, twisting her hair into the complex pattern of ringlets that suited her so well.

  ‘I think we shall go shopping this morning,’ she said, ‘if you have nothing else to do.’

  Kit went through a mental list of things that required doing and found none that were sufficiently pressing as to delay a shopping trip.

  He had no desire to find Thamsine Granville and impart his nasty little secret. She could wait. He could already see the hurt and betrayal in her eyes as she realised that the man who had professed to be her friend had only been waiting for the opportunity to turn her over. She would hate him, but nowhere near as much as he hated himself.

  He rolled over to watch Lucy finish her toilette. He liked the way her small hands tweaked and tugged at her hair, forcing it to her will. Thamsine could learn a trick or two from Mistress Mouse, but then, he reflected, he doubted Lucy’s curls would suit Thamsine. The untamed chestnut locks would look ridiculous.

  As they stepped out into the cold, damp streets, Kit knew that if he played his cards right and endured Lucy’s vacillations, he might end up with some new bit of frippery. While he did not consider himself a fop, he did like to dress well, and with the current state of his purse and his wardrobe any contributions were gratefully accepted.

  He endured Lucy’s indecision over a dozen pairs of embroidered gloves and a length of Belgian lace, and a long discussion on the merits of apricot satin over green velvet. She rewarded him for his patience and well-chosen comments with a fine pair of embroidered kid gloves.

  As they walked back to High Holborn, Lucy tucked her arm into his. ‘It’s so nice to have you all to myself for a little while,’ she said.

  He drew her little hand closer. ‘I count myself a very lucky man,’ he said, ‘to have such an undemanding woman on my arm.’

  Lucy gave him a coquettish smile. ‘Undemanding, am I? Just wait till we get home, Captain Lovell, and then you will see just how undemanding I can be!’

  Kit laughed. The prospect of an afternoon in bed with Lucy stretched ahead of him. Life could be worse.

  ‘Captain Lovell, is it not?’ A tall, dark-haired man stepped into their path and bowed, sweeping his hat from his head.

  Kit acknowledged the bow. ‘Colonel Morton.’

  Morton straightened, allowing Kit the first real look at the man’s face in daylight. Long, thick, coal-black hair, peppered lightly with grey at the temples, curled to his shoulders, framing an oval face. Kit saw the arrogance in the man’s light grey eyes and in the twist of his full lips, and felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Even if he had not been apprised of Morton’s reputation, he knew his type and instinctively disliked it.

  Beside him, Lucy stirred as Morton’s eyes turned to her.

  ‘Mistress Talbot, Colonel Ambrose Morton.’ Kit made the introduction with some reluctance. He did not like the way Morton’s gaze slithered over Lucy’s small but perfect body, lingering on her heart-shaped face.

  ‘Mistress Talbot, your servant.’ Morton lifted Lucy’s gloved hand to his lips.

  Kit felt a shiver run through Lucy’s body, and he put a hand possessively over the small hand that clasped his arm.

  ‘A pleasure, Colonel Morton. Are you and Kit old friends?’

  Morton’s eyes flicked onto Kit’s face. ‘Not so much friends perhaps as casual acquaintances, Mistress Talbot. We share the unhappy circumstance of having wasted our youth in pursuit of a losing cause.’

  ‘I am not sure I quite share that sentiment,’ Kit demurred.

  ‘Oh come, Lovell, you must admit that it is time to make a fresh start in life. Or do you still hanker after what cannot be?’

  Kit stared at the man’s handsome, smiling face, unsure of how to answer the question.

  Lucy interposed before he
could reply. ‘Are you staying in London, Colonel?’

  He shook his head. ‘At the moment I lodge with friends at Turnham Green, Mistress Talbot.’

  ‘Oh, a pretty village,’ Lucy exclaimed. ‘I know of someone who lives there. Who is your friend?’

  ‘Master Roger Knott. He is a lawyer of some repute. Are you acquainted with him?’

  Lucy’s face lit up and she withdrew her hand from Kit’s arm.

  ‘Oh, I know him well. My late husband used his services as a lawyer, and he has been a great support to me since Martin’s death.’

  Ambrose raised an eyebrow. ‘Ah, so you are Martin Talbot’s widow?’

  Lucy’s head bobbed, the feather in her hat rising and falling. ‘Indeed. Did you know my husband?’

  Ambrose shook his head. ‘No, but I have heard Knott speak of him … and you.’

  Kit shifted his feet. ‘Lucy, it’s getting late and it’s cold … ’

  Lucy looked up at him and smiled. ‘Of course.’ She held out her hand to Morton, curtseying as he bowed over it. ‘I bid you good day, Colonel.’

  ‘And I you, Mistress Talbot.’ Morton inclined his head to Kit. ‘Lovell.’

  Putting his hand under Lucy’s elbow, Kit propelled her forward. Only when they were well past Ambrose Morton did he slacken his pace, allowing them both to fall back to an amble. Lucy tucked her hand into the crook of Kit’s arm again.

  ‘What a charming man,’ she mused.

  Kit grunted.

  Lucy continued, ‘And so handsome.’

  ‘What makes a man handsome in your eyes?’ Kit struggled to keep the irritation from his voice.

  Lucy flicked her hand at his upper arm. ‘You wouldn’t understand,’ she said. Kit gave a snort of disgust.

  Lucy sighed and leaned her head against his arm. ‘Do I detect a hint of jealousy, Captain Lovell?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Kit scoffed. ‘There is just something about the man I neither like nor trust. It has nothing to do with his handsome face or his charming manners.’

  ‘If you say so,’ Lucy said, and smiled.

  Chapter 6

  Kit’s respite from the troubles of the world in the arms of Lucy had to come to an end. He rose early on Monday morning to go in search of Fitzjames and the others. He knew better than to look for them at The Ship Inn, but there were a number of other inns where they could be found. He came across Fitzjames drinking with Jack Gerard at the Saracen’s Head in Carter Lane.

  As Kit sat down Fitz raised his cup and sent for a jug of ale.

  ‘I heard they’d let you go,’ Fitz said. ‘Those of us they felt they couldn’t hold. Only Dutton and Whitely are being held.’

  ‘Poor old Dutton. Will they hang him?’ Gerard asked.

  Kit shook his head. ‘I doubt it. There is really very little evidence against him.’ He sighed and stretched his right leg. After the cold and the damp of the Tower, the wound he had sustained at Worcester was playing merry Hell with him. ‘I am getting too old to play amateur games such as that Dutton had in mind,’ he grumbled.

  ‘Then you were lucky to slip through the net.’

  ‘Damned lucky,’ agreed Kit. ‘You and Willys were wise to stay away.’

  ‘No doubt they suspect one of us of informing on them?’ Fitz asked.

  Kit shrugged. ‘What do you expect?’

  Fitz’s face tightened. ‘Well, I can assure you I had no part in it. Whatever my feelings about the stupidity of the plan, I would not have turned them in. I have no time for turncoats.’ He leaned forward. ‘Nor do we have time for amateurs. As I intimated at our last meeting, there are plans in the wind that Dutton and his cronies nearly put paid to.’

  Gerard took a thoughtful sip of his ale. ‘Are we wise to involve another, Fitzjames?’

  Fitz cast Gerard a hard look. ‘Lovell could be useful. He speaks fluent French, among his many talents. His name was mentioned before as being a possible.’

  A possible what? Kit wondered.

  ‘I’ve had my fill of plots and plans, Fitz. Two weeks in the Tower saw to that. My leg hurts damnably, and all I want is a few quiet evenings of cards to restore my fortunes.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Lovell,’ Fitz smiled. ‘I know you. You’ll be bored within two days. You see those gentlemen who have just entered?’

  Kit turned to look at the two plainly dressed men who stood at the entrance looking around the gloomy taproom.

  ‘Do you know them?’ Fitz enquired.

  Kit nodded. ‘The shorter one is Henshaw. I presume the other to be his brother, Wiseman. Not men I would want dealings with.’ It struck him as ironic that he would trust neither of them as far as he could throw them. Thurloe’s web stretched wide, and he was almost certain these two were in Thurloe’s pay.

  ‘At least listen to what they have to say,’ Fitz whispered.

  Fitz caught the eye of the taller man. They removed their hats and cloaks and sauntered over to the table with the look of studied casualness, as if such a meeting was pure coincidence. The introductions to Gerard were made quickly.

  ‘Lovell,’ Henshaw said as he sat down, ‘I heard tales that you were one of The Ship Inn Plotters.’

  ‘So they have a name now, do they?’ Kit shrugged. ‘I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  ‘Lovell was against the plan,’ Fitzjames said. ‘It was unfortunate that he was rounded up with the rest of them.’

  ‘So, Lovell,’ Gerard leaned forward. ‘Are you interested in a more serious game?’

  ‘A more serious game?’

  ‘To kill Cromwell,’ Wiseman said in a low voice.

  Kit swallowed. This was not what he expected. He doubted very much that these two were agents of the Sealed Knot, which meant they, like Dutton, were off on a dangerous frolic of their own.

  ‘What will that achieve?’ he asked carefully.

  ‘Without Cromwell, this Commonwealth is nothing. There is no one to succeed him, they will be begging the King to return,’ Wiseman said.

  ‘What about Ireton?’

  Henshaw’s mouth twisted into a grim smile. ‘We kill him too.’

  ‘You make that sound easy! What of the other generals? Knock off one head and another will replace it,’ Kit scoffed. ‘Does the King know of this plan?’

  Gerard spoke up. ‘Not yet. Henshaw and Wiseman are leaving for France tonight. My uncle has arranged an introduction to Prince Rupert. With that, they hope to see Charles.’

  ‘And if he won’t see you?’ Kit gave both men a hard look.

  Henshaw shrugged. ‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.’

  ‘So why include me? Surely The Ship Inn debacle should teach you that the fewer who know the better.’

  ‘Because you’re a good man, Lovell. We can trust you, and let’s face it, you speak French,’ Fitz said.

  At the word “trust”, a shiver ran down Kit’s spine.

  ‘All of you speak French. So why does me being fluent in French make me useful?’

  ‘You don’t just speak French, you are French, Lovell,’ Fitzjames said and caught his friend’s eyes. ‘Well, half-French. There is someone we must meet with and we don’t want any French tricks. If he knows we have one of our number who can’t be fooled, he’s less likely to try to outsmart us.’

  Kit’s ears pricked. ‘Why would the French get involved in such a plan?’

  ‘Cromwell is treating with the French King over the Huguenot business. Not all the French agree with what is being discussed,’ Henshaw said.

  ‘They would like to continue massacring innocent women and children just because they are Protestant?’ Kit curled his lip in distaste.

  Fitzjames laughed. ‘You’re a damned cynic, Lovell. Yes, let them do it if it keeps Charles in Paris and the French on his side.’

  Kit kept his peace. This was not the time or the place to discuss the politics of the French, or to mention that his mother’s family were Protestants. ‘Who is this Frenchman you are meeting wit
h?’ he asked.

  ‘It doesn’t matter for now,’ Henshaw replied.

  Kit looked around the circle of faces with a heavy heart. Another tavern, another plot.

  ‘If you have need of me, my sword is yours,’ he said, trying to keep the tone of dull resignation from his voice.

  ‘Good man.’ Fitzjames nodded approval and turned to Henshaw and Wiseman. ‘God speed you both on your journey.’

  They clasped hands across the table. ‘We will get word to you as soon as we can.’ Henshaw said with a smile

  After Henshaw and Wiseman left, Kit turned to Gerard and Fitzjames.

  ‘You trust them?’

  Fitzjames shrugged. ‘We have to. There are so few left, Lovell.’

  ‘Charles won’t see them, Fitz. Their reputations stink as high as a week-old corpse. You know their history? They’re deserters and opportunists.’

  ‘Rumours, Lovell, just rumours.’

  What truth there was to those rumours, Kit had no idea. Thurloe was not in the habit of disclosing who else was in his pay. He could just as easily have Fitzjames as Henshaw in his pocket, and there would be no way of knowing. At the end of the day, no one could truly be trusted.

  ‘What of the Sealed Knot?’ he ventured.

  Fitz looked at him. ‘What about it?’

  ‘Are they involved in this or is it another frolic?’

  Gerard narrowed his eyes. ‘Fitzjames is right. I detect a tone of cynicism, Lovell.’

  ‘I’ve just spent three long weeks in the Tower of London, Gerard, so forgive me if I sound cynical,’ Kit snapped.

  Fitz placed a restraining hand on his arm. ‘To answer your question, Lovell, no, the Knot is not involved, but with the influence of Lord Gerard in Paris, the King’s consent to this venture can be obtained and with it the co-operation of the Sealed Knot.’

  Kit ran a hand through his hair. ‘I wish I had your confidence, Fitz.’

  Fitz shrugged. ‘Confidence or foolhardiness, Lovell?’

  Kit shook his head. ‘Whatever it is, shall we leave all talk of it for now? Are either of you game for cards?’

  Chapter 7

  Thamsine chewed the end of her pen and scratched a few more notes of her small composition onto the paper. She felt it would suit Mary Skippon’s limited musical abilities and give the girl some confidence. Fortunately the taproom was quiet and the fire burned brightly, making it a more congenial place to work than her room.