The King's Man

by Alison Stuart

  Thamsine nodded. Stebbings and her staff had no great love for Isabelle. She would have died unmourned by anyone except possibly her son and daughter. She wondered if Ambrose even knew of his mother’s death. Isabelle had exerted a strong influence over her son. He would feel her loss.

  A commotion could be heard on the stairs. Thamsine flung open the door and a wild figure broke free of the housekeeper and threw herself on the ground at Thamsine’s feet, wrapping her arms around her ankles as if she intended never to let go. Thamsine looked down at the head of tangled black hair as the housekeeper and the steward both ran forward.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Thamsine said.

  She bent down to touch Annie Morton’s shoulder, afraid if she tried to move she would topple over.

  ‘Annie, please let go of me. I’m going to fall.’

  Annie just tightened her grip.

  ‘No one is going to hurt you. Give me your hand.’

  Annie looked up. Slowly she extended a thin, dirty hand, releasing her vice-like grip on Thamsine’s ankle. Thamsine pulled her upright and the girl snuggled against her, her stick-like arms wrapped around her waist.

  ‘I’ll have her sent back.’ The steward stepped forward and took Annie’s arm. Annie cowered closer to Thamsine, shaking off his hand.

  ‘Where’s she been living?’

  Stebbings looked embarrassed. ‘Well, ever since … ’ He coughed. ‘After Colonel Morton’s unfortunate accident, he had her sent back to Beverstock. She’s been there ever since.’

  ‘Well, she’s supposed to have been there but she’s been coming around, looking for you,’ the housekeeper put in. ‘We keep sending her back. They promise to keep her under lock and key but she keeps escaping.’

  ‘Look at the state she’s in,’ Thamsine said.

  She tilted Annie’s face towards the light, showing up the scabs and sores, the pitiful thinness and the dirt.

  ‘She looks like a ragamuffin from the poorest streets of London, not a gentleman’s daughter. Stebbings,’ she addressed the steward, ‘send someone to Beverstock to let them know she is here.’

  Stebbings nodded.

  ‘Annie, you can only stay here a little while,’ Thamsine said. ‘Then you must go home.’

  Annie shook her head. ‘No,’ she moaned. ‘Not there … ’

  ‘Go with Mistress White.’ Thamsine pointed out the housekeeper. ‘And you are to have a bath. Mistress White will give you some clean clothes.’

  ‘Poor girl,’ Mistress White said with a sniff of disapproval as she took Annie’s arm. ‘’Tis shameful the way you’ve been treated. Come with me and I am sure Cook will find some dainties for you.’

  But Annie wasn’t listening. She reached out and fingered the black stuff of Thamsine’s gown. ‘Tham, sad … ?’ she said.

  Thamsine drew the girl to her and stroked the dark head. How could it be possible to feel so much affection for this girl and yet hate her brother so very much?

  ‘Yes, I am sad,’ she said, disengaging Annie. ‘Someone I loved very much has died.’

  ‘Is ’Brose dead too?’ Annie’s large, grey eyes filled with tears.

  Thamsine felt a cold prickle at the back of her neck. Did Annie think Ambrose had died that night she shot him?

  ‘No, Annie. Ambrose isn’t dead.’

  Tears trickled from Annie’s eyes. ‘Mama is dead. Are you sad because Mama is dead?’

  Thamsine swallowed and lied, ‘Yes, I am sad your mother is dead.’

  Annie had loved her mother and her brother. She had to respect that.

  ‘Now, Annie, go with Mistress White.’

  Mistress White straightened and held out a hand. ‘Come on, then. Don’t waste Mistress Lovell’s time. I’ll make a lady of you yet!’

  As the evening drew on, Thamsine sat beside Roger Knott at the wide bay window looking out onto the terrace, where Roger’s daughters and Annie were locked in rapt concentration in a game involving dolls. Two young girls and one grown, but with the mental age of a three-year-old. She thought she had never seen Annie looking so happy.

  ‘She’s Morton’s sister,’ Roger said as if reading Thamsine’s thoughts. ‘She can’t stay here. If he has word that she’s with you, there’ll be nothing more guaranteed to bring him running than his sister.’

  Thamsine shook her head. ‘What can I do, Roger? Stebbings says Beverstock is deserted. There is no one to care for her. In the name of Christian compassion I have to keep her.’

  ‘She’s addled,’ Roger said. ‘Perhaps an institution where she will be cared for?’

  Thamsine looked at him with loathing.

  ‘You forget, Roger. I spent three days in Bedlam. She’s not mad, or bad, just different. She didn’t ask to be dropped by her nursemaid. If God was merciful she should be a beautiful young woman, maybe married with a family of her own. I’ll not turn her away. She’s welcome to stay.’

  ‘She’ll bring you trouble, Thamsine,’ Roger said.

  ‘Well, that is my concern, not yours, Roger,’ she said and turned away.

  ~ * ~

  ‘You can’t catch me, Kit!’

  In the well-kept gardens of Eveleigh Priory, Kit played hide-and-seek with his young brother Daniel and his sister, Frances. Always fearless, Daniel often had to be retrieved from the tallest oak tree by a hot and impatient brother.

  ‘I’m over here.’

  Kit heard Daniel’s challenge and turned to see the boy’s fair head disappearing behind a hedge. He set off after him, running hard, his booted feet sinking in the soft lawn.

  Every so often Daniel’s head would appear from behind a tree or a hedge, with a cheeky grin that split his freckled face from ear to ear.

  ‘Catch me!’

  Kit ran on. The well-kept grass gave way to tussocks and mud. He stumbled and looked down to see he had tripped over the body of a man, his dead eyes staring sightlessly into a grey sky. Around him were the bodies of other men and horses. A heavy pall of powder smoke hung over the battlefield.

  He scoured the field around him, looking for his brother. He called his brother’s name.

  ‘Kit!’

  Daniel was just ahead of him, running for his life as two burly foot soldiers bore down on him, their muskets raised like clubs.

  Kit tried to run, but his legs would not move and his feet had become pinned to the ground. He screamed the boy’s name again but the soldiers had caught up with Daniel, an up-swung musket carrying him to the ground with a dull thud.

  Moving as if his feet had become anvils, Kit reached his brother, who lay face down in the crushed grass, his fair hair lifting in a slight breeze. With shaking hands he turned him over, to find himself looking into the face of a rotting corpse.

  Kit woke with a shudder, his heart pounding, his breathing ragged. He sat up in the bed and tried to steady his racing pulse. He put his hand to his face and it came away wet. Kit ran the sleeve of his nightshirt over his face, fell back on the bolster, and stared up at the faded, red bed hangings.

  His head felt clear and no longer hurt to move. He put a hand to his throat, touching the bruising, remembering. It hadn’t been a dream. He really was alive.

  ‘So, ye’re back with us?’

  He turned his head to see Nan standing in the doorway.

  She set down the tray she was carrying and stood over him, her hands on her hips.

  ‘Nan,’ he croaked.

  Nan shook her head. ‘You’ve given us a scare, Lovell. We thought we was going to lose you all over again.’

  Kit coughed and tried to speak again. He frowned and beckoned for Nan to come closer. Nan leaned forward to hear, affording him a good view of her ample bosom.

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Five days, lover,’ she said.

  Five days?

  ‘Thamsine?’

  Nan straightened and considered him a moment, biting her lip.

  ‘It’s like this, lover. We sent May’s Tom to Turnham Green but when he got there, the house wa
s all closed up. He asked around and someone told him the whole family had gone but they didn’t know where. The maid thought it were somewhere in Hampshire they was going. Anyways, by the time Tom came back,’ she grimaced, ‘it didn’t look too good for you and we thought it would be cruel to tell Thamsine you was alive just to have you die again, so we thought we’d wait until we was sure you were going to live before we went looking some more.’

  Kit ran a shaking hand over his eyes, trying to remember the name of Thamsine’s home in Hampshire. Hartley? Where was that? Hampshire was a large county. He had no idea where to look for her.

  Should he send Jem with a note? No, that would not be right. Breaking the news to his wife that he lived was something better done in person. For the moment he needed time to recover his strength. He doubted he could stay on a horse as far as Ludgate, let alone Hampshire.

  Nan held out a cup. ‘Here, drink this. ’Pothecary said it would help.’

  Kit lifted up his right hand to take the cup. When he saw his fingers, misshapen and useless, a red mist of anger flared. The twisted fingers represented everything that had been done to him in the last year, things over which he had no control, that had left him broken and crippled.

  Exhausted in mind and body, he had passed beyond the point of endurance. With an animal cry of rage and frustration, he struck the cup from Nan’s hand. It flew against the wall, shattering and spraying its contents across the floor. He had a brief impression of surprise in Nan’s face before turning away from her, hunching down in the bed with his back to her.

  Chapter 23

  Jem slapped a jug of wine down on the table so hard the ruby contents slopped over the edges.

  ‘That’s it!’ he declared. ‘That’s the last ye’ll have of me.’

  Kit raised his head and without responding refilled his cup. ‘You don’t mean that, Jem.’

  ‘I do, Lovell, and make no mistake. I’ve had two weeks of watching you drinking yourself into oblivion. Two weeks of your foul tempers is all the gratitude we get. It’s time you pulled yourself together and went looking for your wife.’

  ‘She’s better off without me.’ Kit downed the cup of wine in one swill. ‘I’m no good to her.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Oh Christ, Jem.’ Kit’s mouth twisted. What did the truth matter now? ‘Why do you think Thurloe had me cut down from the gallows?’

  Jem shrugged.

  ‘Because I’ve been in his pay for the last two years. Because I was the one who sent the rest of them to their deaths.’

  Jem stared at him. ‘You were the turncoat?’

  Kit picked up the wine jug. His hand shook as he tried to pour the wine, slopping some on the table. When his cup was full, he looked up at his old friend, meeting Jem’s incredulous eyes.

  ‘I was the turncoat. I turned them all in.’

  He could almost see Jem’s thought processes as he digested the information. The man he had followed into battle, had respected and maybe even loved, was a traitor. It didn’t matter. Jem could not hate him any more than he hated himself.

  ‘You turned her in, too?’ Jem said at last.

  Kit nodded.

  Jem’s massive fist swung at him without warning. It caught him on the jaw and knocked him off the stool. When he opened his eyes, Jem stood over him, his fist poised to deliver another blow. Kit flinched, bracing himself for the blow or a well-deserved boot to his still-aching ribs.

  ‘You’re a bastard, Lovell,’ Jem said but without anger.

  Kit opened one eye and Jem reached out his hand to pull him up. He returned to his stool, ruefully rubbing his jaw, and Jem sat down with a heavy sigh.

  ‘I’ve known you these ten years past,’ he said. ‘You don’t do anything without a good reason. Are you going to tell me what it is?’

  ‘My brother, Daniel … ’ Kit swallowed. After all these years of lies, the truth came with difficulty. ‘I was promised his release.’

  ‘Lovell.’ Jem shook his head and leaned forward. ‘You told me that the boy is dead.’

  Kit shook his head. ‘No. They sent him to Barbados but under Thurloe’s protection. He’s still alive.’

  But even as he said the words, the nightmare that haunted him came back. What if Daniel was dead and it had all been for nothing?

  ‘Does Thamsine know?’

  Kit nodded. ‘She knows everything about me. The very darkest corners of my soul.’ He reached for the jug, pouring himself another cup. ‘It was only a marriage of convenience, Jem. Let her think I’m dead and find someone better.’

  ‘Someone better? Someone like that Morton, perhaps!’

  Kit snorted.

  ‘He’s back in London.’

  Kit looked up. ‘Back from where?’

  ‘I hear he’s been on the Continent these last few weeks. Come back to find his lady love up to her ears in creditors, he has.’

  ‘So?’ Kit feigned disinterest.

  ‘It hasn’t occurred to your wooden head that as far as the world is concerned, your Thamsine is now a widow?’

  Kit shrugged.

  ‘A wealthy widow,’ Jem added.

  ‘He can’t force her to marry him. Any agreement with her father is nullified. She’s safe enough from him.’

  Jem reached across the table and grabbed the front of Kit’s shirt, hauling him up until they were nose to nose.

  ‘And you think that matters to him? Remember Bedlam? What he did to our May? He can force her to do anything he damn well wants, and you’re just going to sit there and let it happen?’

  Kit stared into Jem’s one bloodshot eye.

  ‘Let go of me, Marsh,’ he commanded in a voice Jem knew well.

  The big man’s mouth tightened but he let Kit go and he subsided back on the stool and picked up his cup.

  ‘How do you know what Morton is up to?’ Kit asked

  ‘I’ve been keeping an eye on him, these last months,’ Jem said, tapping his one good eye. ‘Don’t want him paying any unexpected calls on me and mine again.’

  Kit raised the cup to his lips and set it down without taking a drink. ‘Do you really think he’ll go after Thamsine?’

  Jem shrugged. ‘What choice does he have? The Talbot woman’s no good for him now, and he’s not a man to survive long without money.’

  Kit ran a hand through his greasy and knotted hair. . He hadn’t dared to look in a mirror since the day he had “died” and dreaded he would see the face of a hanged man. Little wonder he had tried to expunge his nightmares with alcohol.

  He swept the cup from the table, rose unsteadily to his feet and went in search of a looking glass.

  Peering into the mottled depths of Nan’s pride and joy, for a brief moment he didn’t recognise himself. The eyes of a madman stared back at him, the whites obscured by the red of broken capillaries. Nearly three weeks’ growth shadowed his chin and his hair, as he had suspected, hung in greasy, knotted, unkempt strands. Both his beard and hair had shadows of grey where none had been before.

  He tugged at the cloth he had tied loosely around his neck to reveal the livid shadow of the noose still marring his skin. He shuddered as his fingers traced the line of the rope, the very twists of the hemp still discernible.

  He set the mirror down and leaned his head against the wall. He couldn’t go on pretending to himself that Thamsine was better off without him. The truth was that he was no good without her. He needed her as a starving man needs food. Jem had been right. The time had come to find her, if she would have him back.

  ~ * ~

  Thamsine drew her knees up to her chin and stared out of the window at the well-ordered gardens and familiar view of her childhood.

  ‘What are you thinking, Aunt?’ Her niece’s voice made her jump, and she turned to look at Rebecca.

  Rebecca’s serious face studied her from beneath an immaculate white cap. She looked older and wiser than her fourteen years. Thamsine patted the window ledge and the girl sat down beside her, her
back rigidly straight.

  ‘I was thinking about my childhood,’ she said. ‘My brother and I used to climb the trees in the apple orchard and ride our ponies in the home paddock.’

  Rebecca’s eyes widened. ‘You used to climb trees?’

  Thamsine nodded.

  ‘I would never … ’ Rebecca looked down at the prayer book in her hand. ‘Aunt … ’

  ‘Rebecca?’

  ‘Is mother really dying?’

  Thamsine sighed. ‘Yes, dearest. I doubt she will see the week out.’

  ‘What will become of us?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Father says that we must leave Hartley and return to the house in Turnham Green.’

  ‘Don’t you want to go home to London?’

  Rebecca shook her head.

  Thamsine put a hand over the small, fine-boned hand clasping the prayer book. ‘You will always be welcome to visit me here.’

  Rebecca’s face brightened. ‘Promise?’

  Thamsine nodded. ‘I promise.’

  ‘Will you come back to London?’

  ‘No,’ Thamsine said with absolute certainty. London held too many painful memories. Nothing would induce her to return to London.

  ‘Will you marry again?’

  Thamsine smoothed the folds of her black skirt and shook her head. ‘No. I shall never marry again.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your husband.’

  Thamsine swallowed and looked away. ‘I can’t talk about him, dearest.’

  ‘I would have liked to meet him. Mother says he was a rogue but in a nice way,’ Rebecca continued.

  ‘Yes, he was a rogue in a nice way.’ Thamsine smiled. ‘A terrible rogue, but you would have liked him.’

  ‘There you are, Bec!’ Rachel, her fair curls escaping from beneath her cap, bounded into the room. ‘We’ve been looking for you everywhere! What are you talking about?’

  Thamsine looked at Rachel and smiled. She had just turned ten.

  ‘We were talking about Thamsine’s husband,’ Rebecca said.

  ‘Was he terribly handsome?’ Rachel asked.

  Thamsine smiled, ‘Yes, he was terribly handsome.’