The King's Man

by Alison Stuart

  When they were done they lay without moving, their bodies slicked with perspiration. Thamsine stared at the bed hangings above her, her breath coming in short gasps. Kit’s head rested on her chest, his arms encircling her, his weight pressing on her but not crushing her. He would always be part of her from this moment on.

  Slowly he moved, sliding apart from her with a groan. Her arms tightened around him but he fell to one side of her, drawing her into the circle of his arms, kissing her hair, his hand gently stroking her cheek.

  She propped herself up on one elbow and looked down at him.

  ‘What do you see?’ he enquired.

  ‘You are beautiful,’ she said.

  He laughed. ‘No one has ever called me that before.’

  Her fingers found his scars, tracing each one; the twisted scar on his left shoulder, the long silvered slash on his upper right arm, and ugly scar that marred his right thigh, the legacy of Worcester that had almost succeeded in killing him.

  ‘Will you tell me about these?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not tonight, Thamsine. Tonight is for us, not who we were and where we come from.’ His eyes widened as her hand slid down the long length of his torso. ‘And, my dear wife, if you keep doing that to me, we will probably forget ourselves completely.’

  Chapter 17

  Kit’s fingers drummed the windowsill of John Thurloe’s room in the Palace of Whitehall. Below him, soldiers drilled in the courtyard and dark-suited men came and went with purposeful steps, but his mind was elsewhere.

  He had left Thamsine at first light, still sleeping, her hair tousled and her lips slightly parted. He had not quite come to grasp the extraordinary power of their relationship. No liaison he had known with a woman had ever had this effect on him. Thamsine was – Kit struggled for superlatives – wonderful, beyond comparison. He longed with all his being to be back with her, in the private world of their own making that they had enjoyed for the past few days.

  Curled up on the big, old bed, they had talked of their childhoods, hopes, dreams. He’d told her of his father’s death on the steps of Eveleigh Priory, but he still couldn’t bring himself to talk about Worcester … or Daniel.

  He had not neglected Thurloe’s business. There had been meetings in smoky taverns for which he had no heart. He had done what needed to be done and hurried home to be with her, intent on not wasting a single moment of their time together.

  ‘Lovell?’ Thurloe’s voice snapped. ‘Pay attention!’

  He turned back to look at Thurloe. ‘Sorry. You were saying?’

  ‘I was saying that I intend to do nothing.’

  Kit’s hand tightened. ‘Thurloe. This Frenchman is dangerous.’

  Thurloe pressed his fingertips together. ‘If the Protector does not go to Hampton Court as is his custom, the finger of suspicion will point straight at you. However, if he were merely to change his mode of transport, it may look less suspicious. He will travel to Hampton Court by water, not road.’

  Kit nodded. ‘That is acceptable.’

  Thurloe leaned forward. ‘However, I presume there is an alternative plan?’

  ‘Sunday – when he is leaving chapel.’

  ‘Audacious!’ Thurloe’s eyebrows rose.

  ‘It stands a reasonable chance of success, particularly if Ireton is with him. They will take him too.’

  Thurloe steepled his fingers, as he did when in thought.

  ‘If I were thinking as them, as a plan it probably stands a better chance of success than the original concept. It’s a public place; His Highness would be quite unprotected.’ Thurloe frowned. ‘I’ll let word get around that the Lord Protector travels to Hampton Court by water. In the meantime we must try and find the Frenchman. Do you know where he is?’

  Kit shook his head. ‘No. I’ve tried following him, but he keeps himself well hidden and changes his apartments every few days. I doubt even De Baas knows where he is. If I were to start asking too many questions I might arouse suspicions.’

  Thurloe nodded. ‘So what is your role in all of this?’

  ‘I have to organise the final meeting.’

  ‘They’ll all be there?’

  Kit nodded.

  ‘Good.’ Thurloe narrowed his eyes. ‘You make whatever arrangements need to be made. I’ll let matters go ahead for the moment and step in when I judge the time is right.’ Thurloe looked up at Kit. ‘Make no mistake, Lovell, I’m quite serious. I want as many of these misguided malcontents as possible, and I want the evidence to deal with them appropriately. They must be made an example. I also want De Baas. All you need to do is tell me where and when this meeting is to take place.’

  Kit’s head went up. ‘And you will move then?’

  Thurloe nodded.

  ‘And me?’

  ‘In the confusion I’m confident you will make shift for yourself, Lovell.’

  Kit made for the door and stopped at Thurloe’s voice. ‘And, Lovell … a little concentration, please. You seem distracted. Whoever she is, forget her!’

  ~ * ~

  Kit stared at the shuttered windows of The Ship Inn and his heart stopped. When he had left that morning, all had been as normal. The inn never closed unless something was wrong, very wrong. He knocked on the door and Jem opened it to him. The big man’s face was uncharacteristically pale and strained.

  ‘Thamsine?’ Kit’s voice caught in his throat as he flung himself through the taproom door.

  ‘I’m all right, Kit,’ Thamsine rose from a stool by the fire. ‘Morton’s been here, looking for me. He bided his time, waited until you and Jem were gone, then he struck.’

  Kit took her in his arms and kissed the top of her head. ‘Thank the Lord he didn’t find you.’

  Thamsine broke from the embrace and placed her hands on his chest. ‘I was well hidden but … ’ She looked up at Jem and then at Nan, who sat hunched on a stool by the fire, her face hidden by a curtain of hair, ‘ … he took May.’

  ‘He said … ’ Nan looked up, her eyes red-rimmed. ‘He said he’s to be found at the house in High Holborn. You are to bring Thamsine with you and then May will be released.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’ Kit’s arm tightened around Thamsine’s shoulders.

  ‘If you don’t come by midnight, he said he’ll kill her.’ Nan’s voice bordered on hysterical.

  ‘He’s bluffing,’ Kit said without conviction.

  Thamsine shook her head. ‘No, he doesn’t bluff.’

  Three anxious faces turned on him, willing him to find a solution to the problem.

  ‘Jem, what time is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Must be gone eight,’ Jem said. ‘We’ve not much time.’

  ‘I’ll go with you,’ Nan said. ‘He’ll be looking out for a woman. With a cloak and mask I can pass in the dark. I’ve some pattens half a foot high, that’ll give me height.’

  Thamsine shook her head. ‘No. I must go. Perhaps he can be persuaded to see reason?’

  ‘Didn’t seem in the mood to be too reasonable this afternoon,’ Jem commented. ‘Do you have a plan, Captain?’

  His former sergeant’s eyes were fixed on Kit with the absolute certainty of a soldier who trusts his commander implicitly. In the absence of a dozen men, Jem would have to do.

  Kit looked at the two women. ‘Neither of you are going with me. I’m not negotiating with him.’ He looked at the three taut and anxious faces. ‘Just you, Jem. It’s only Morton and Lucy. Between us we should manage.’

  ~ * ~

  Kit and Jem stood outside the house in High Holborn, looking up at the shuttered windows and solid oak door.

  ‘How’re we going to get in?’ Jem asked doubtfully. ‘It’s shut up well and proper.’

  ‘Through the garden at the back. The kitchen won’t be quite as impenetrable.’

  A lane ran down the side of the house, and the men scaled the rough stone wall without too much difficulty. Keeping to the shadows, they crept up to the kitchen that stood out from the main part of the hous
e to lessen the risk of fire.

  The door stood open, and Kit could see Bess the scullion sitting on a stool beside the great open fireplace, her head in her hands, weeping. He scanned the room but could see no sign of the odious Mag. He crept up to the open door.

  ‘Bess!’ he hissed.

  She looked up. Her eyes, wide and terrified, darted around the kitchen. Kit stepped into the light of the doorway so she could see him and, putting his finger to his lips, he beckoned to her. She came to the doorway.

  ‘Cap’n Lovell,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, there’s terrible doings upstairs. Mag won’t let me out of the kitchen. Says I’m not safe.’

  Mag went up in Kit’s estimation.

  ‘What terrible doings?’

  ‘It’s that Colonel Morton,’ Bess said. ‘He’s been here the last few days, in a terrible temper. He and the mistress have been yelling at each other fit to burst. Then today he goes out and comes back with a girl.’

  ‘Are they upstairs now?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Where’s Mag?’

  ‘Up there with them. She won’t let the mistress alone with him.’

  Kit beckoned for Jem, who stepped out of the shadows. Kit looked at the girl’s pale, spotty face.

  ‘Leave this house, Bess and don’t ever come back.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Mag is right, you’re not safe here. Do you have somewhere to go?’ Kit asked.

  ‘My sister in Blackfriars.’

  ‘Go there and stay there. And if you need work, this here is Master Marsh, owner of The Ship Inn near the Old Bailey. He’ll help you out.’

  She opened her mouth to protest, but saw the grim determination on the men’s faces and thought better of it, running from the kitchen.

  ‘You know your way around?’ Jem enquired as Kit stepped into the kitchen.

  ‘I lived here, Jem.’

  ‘Didn’t think you’d got much beyond the bedroom,’ Jem commented.

  ‘That’s enough insubordination from you,’ Kit growled.

  The stillness of the house was oppressive, as if Morton’s presence had descended on it like a black cloud. They crept through the house, traversing the space of the ground floor that had been Martin Talbot’s place of business. Apart from a few remaining barrels it was now empty, dusty and unused. Kit led Jem up the back stairs to the first floor, where the parlour and a small room Talbot had used as a study served as the main rooms of the house. On the floor above there were two bedchambers.

  A light shone from beneath the parlour door. The floorboard creaked under Jem’s weight. It sounded like a shot in the gloom but no one stirred from the parlour, so they edged closer to the door, one on each side.

  As they stood poised to kick it open, the door opened and Mag came through it.

  She didn’t see them until it was too late. Jem brought the pistol butt down on the back of her head and she fell sprawling to the floor. Stepping over Mag’s large, prostrate form, the men burst through the door. Lucy and Morton sat at the table, evidently at their evening meal. Both jumped to their feet as the men entered the room. Lucy screamed and Ambrose Morton reached for a pistol that lay on the table.

  ‘Don’t move a muscle, Morton,’ Kit said, closing the distance between them, his pistol pointed at Morton’s head.

  ‘Where’s the girl?’ he demanded

  Morton straightened and smiled. Kit’s blood ran cold.

  ‘Well, well … I underestimated you, Lovell.’

  ‘Where’s my sister?’ Jem stormed across the room and seized Morton by the neck. Morton was a large man, but Jem overtopped him both in height and weight.

  ‘Upstairs,’ Morton spluttered.

  Jem released him, pushing him down on the chair with a pistol at his head. Kit looked at Lucy for the first time. The pretty face looked strained, her eyes red from weeping or exhaustion.

  ‘Well, Lucy, shall we go and fetch her?’ Kit jerked his pistol towards the door. ‘Jem, watch Morton.’

  Lucy did not move.

  Kit narrowed his eyes. ‘You may recall, Lucy, I have a rather nasty side to my nature when I’m crossed. Did you enjoy your stay in Bedlam?’

  Lucy shot him a glance of pure hatred and rose to her feet. Kit took her arm, keeping his pistol at her head.

  As they reached the door he said, ‘And I want the letters, too.’

  She stopped and looked at him. ‘What letters?’

  ‘Roger Knott’s letters.’

  She drew her lips back, baring her teeth like a cornered rat.

  ‘They’re in my bedchamber,’ she said.

  He stood at the bedchamber door while she retrieved the letters from a locked cabinet. In the second bedchamber, he found May lying on the bed, bound hand and foot and gagged. She raised a tear-streaked face as they entered the room.

  ‘Untie her,’ Kit ordered and Lucy complied.

  May tumbled off the bed and threw her arms around Kit’s neck, sobbing hysterically. He disengaged her and, with one arm around the girl, he prodded Lucy with the pistol and they made their way back down the stairs.

  As soon as May saw Ambrose, she cowered and the tears began anew. Kit cast her a sideways glance, taking in the dishevelled clothing and bruised and tear-stained face. It didn’t take much to deduce how Ambrose had spent the afternoon. He turned to Morton.

  ‘You whoreson.’ Kit breathed the words, white-hot anger flaring behind his eyes. He jerked his head at Lucy. ‘This baggage too obliging, is she? You like it a bit rough?’

  ‘The girl’s a doxy,’ Ambrose replied and shrugged. ‘And I got bored,’ he added.

  Jem, a little slower on the uptake, looked from one man to the other, then to his sister. As realisation dawned, he gave a bellow of rage and struck a fist into Morton’s face. Ambrose’s nose exploded in a fountain of blood and a howl of pain.

  Jem raised his arm again, but Kit stepped forward and put his hand on the man’s shoulder.

  ‘Leave him to the law,’ he said. ‘Let’s get out of here. Lucy, the letters?’

  Lucy tossed the letters onto the floor at Kit’s feet. He stooped to retrieve them. As he straightened he saw that Lucy held a small, neat pistol to May’s head. He cursed himself for a stupid lapse. She must have kept it in her bedchamber and retrieved it when he sent her for the letters.

  Lucy’s lips curved in a tight-lipped smile. Morton, holding his nose, snorted something unintelligible and picked up the pistol on the table.

  Jem and Kit exchanged glances. Kit scanned the room trying to formulate a plan. Lucy obstructed their exit by the door and Morton between them and the window. A large sconce with half a dozen candles burned on the table in front of them.

  ‘Put your pistol down Kit, and you … ’ She gestured to Jem.

  Kit held Lucy’s eyes, wondering how badly he had misjudged her. He raised his pistol away from his body and slowly moved towards the table, making to place the pistol on it. As he reached it, he swept the candlestick from the table. It fell clattering to the floor, the candles extinguishing, plunging the room into darkness. In that moment, Jem launched himself at Lucy with a roar. Lucy screamed and her pistol fired as Jem knocked her to the ground with one swipe of his massive arm.

  Jem gathered his sister in his arms and looked to Kit.

  ‘Get out of here,’ Kit yelled.

  Jem picked up his sister and flung her over his shoulder. He rushed for the door with Kit behind him. They vaulted Mag’s still recumbent body and headed for the stairs. Jem took them first, his feet clattering on the wooden boards. A candle burned from a sconce at the head of the stairs, casting enough light to take them safely.

  Jem scrabbled at the front door as Morton, diving over Mag, fired his pistol. Kit, poised at the top of the stairs, felt the pistol ball whistle past his ear, slamming into the wall behind him. He turned to face Morton, who came at him with his sword drawn.

  Kit fired his pistol and heard Morton grunt as the pistol ball found its mark somewhere on his body
, but the impetus of Morton’s charge carried him forward. He fell on Kit, the weight causing him to lose his balance. Locked together, they tumbled down the steep stairs.

  For a moment neither man moved as they caught their breath. Kit lay face down on the dusty floor of the old shop with Morton’s weight on top of him. Just a few inches beyond his outstretched right hand, Morton’s sword glinted tantalizingly in the faint light cast by the candle in the sconce. Kit inched his fingers towards it.

  A hand grasped his wrist, pinning it to the floor. Suddenly Morton was off him, and with a bellow of fury the man brought the heel of his boot down on Kit’s hand. Before Kit had even registered what had been done, Morton repeated the act, grinding his heel into the bones. He followed this up with a boot to Kit’s ribs.

  With a howl of pain, Kit doubled up, clutching his hand to his chest as Morton, panting heavily, his face a mask of blood from his broken nose and his left hand dripping blood, most likely from Kit’s pistol shot, retrieved his sword and stood over him.

  With his right hand, he hauled Kit upright and flung him against the wall, pinning him by the throat.

  ‘You don’t want me dead,’ Kit said, holding the man’s crazed eyes with his own. Morton stood half a head taller than Kit, with a longer reach and a greater body weight.

  ‘No, you’re right, I don’t want you dead. I want you to tell me where Thamsine Granville is,’ Ambrose snarled, tightening his grip on Kit’s throat.

  For a moment Kit weighed the possible consequences of telling Ambrose that Thamsine had married him, but decided that if Morton knew the truth, then he would certainly be a dead man. Alive, he was of considerably more use both to Morton and to Thamsine.

  Ambrose Morton’s hand crashed against his face. Kit’s head snapped back against the wall and panoply of bright lights and stars flashed before his eyes.