The King's Man

by Alison Stuart

  Rachel sighed. ‘You must be sad he’s dead.’

  Thamsine drew a heavy breath. ‘Let’s not talk about him anymore. Rachel, come here, your hair is a mess.’

  She made a fuss of Rachel’s hair, trying to pin it back under the cap. If Rachel had been her daughter she would have given up the unequal struggle, but for Jane’s sake she persisted.

  ‘Now,’ she addressed both girls, ‘shall we go and sit with Mama? I promised I would play her some music.’

  Rebecca held up the book of prayers. ‘And I said I would read to her.’

  Taking Rachel by the hand, Thamsine straightened her back and led the girls into Jane’s bedchamber. Despite the airy atmosphere and the bright vases of roses picked from the gardens, the bedchamber smelt of imminent death which Thamsine remembered from her own childhood, as her father had forced her to sit for long hours in her mother’s sick chamber.

  Jane’s life ebbed away as each day passed in a battle to breathe. Even propped up on the pillows her thin face was ashen, the lips blue. Thamsine stooped to kiss her sister’s brow. Jane’s eyes flickered open and a faint smile lifted the ravaged countenance. Thamsine no longer asked how she felt. Rachel bounced onto the bed beside her mother.

  ‘What have you been doing?’ Jane asked her daughters.

  Rachel curled up against her mother with her head on her shoulder. ‘I’ve been down in the stable. Brown’s dog has just had a litter of puppies. He said I could have one if Papa will let me.’

  Rebecca sat down on the side of her mother’s bed. ‘I’ve brought some prayers to read with you, Mama, and Aunt Thamsine said she will play for you.’

  Thamsine picked up the lute from where she had left it on the seat by the window.

  ‘That will be lovely,’ Jane whispered.

  The sun streamed through the long casement windows, the stained glass scattered in the panes casting jewelled shadows on the floor and across the bed.

  ‘Will you open the window?’ Jane asked.

  Rebecca looked at Thamsine, who nodded, and the girl threw open the casements. The smell of newly mown hay drifted in with soft sunlight.

  Rebecca returned to her mother’s side and began to read as Thamsine picked out a quiet, contemplative piece. Rachel lay snuggled in her mother’s arm, listening to the words and the music, her eyes half closed.

  ‘Mama?’ Rachel cried out.

  Thamsine glanced across at the bed. Jane’s eyes were open, staring at the open window. The breath rattled in her throat, then there was silence.

  ‘Mama!’ Rebecca jumped up from her chair, her face stricken.

  Thamsine laid down the lute and crossed to her sister’s bed. She leaned over and kissed her sister’s forehead, feeling the last warmth of life just beneath the skin. Her hands passed over her sister’s eyes, closing them forever.

  Rachel rolled off the bed and threw herself at Thamsine, the tears flowing. Rebecca stood still. The open prayer book dropped to the floor. Thamsine moved to put an arm around the girl but Rebecca moved away.

  ‘Go to your father,’ Thamsine said, ‘and bring him here.’

  Rebecca turned and left the room, her face immobile. Thamsine sat down on the chair Rebecca had been occupying and pulled the weeping youngster onto her lap, holding her until the tears subsided into deep, gulping sobs.

  ~ * ~

  Thamsine stood in the doorway of her parlour looking down at Roger Knott’s bowed head. Jane’s death had left him broken. He had not stirred from his chamber since the funeral two days previously and now she found him on his knees, his hands clasped in prayer.

  ‘Roger?’

  He looked up sharply.

  ‘Prayer will not bring her back,’ Thamsine said without warmth. She had little sympathy for the pathetic specimen of manhood.

  ‘I pray for my soul, not hers. Jane has gone to our Lord with a soul unblemished and spotless, whereas I feel the fires of Hell already licking at my feet.’

  ‘Rightly so,’ Thamsine responded. ‘You’re an adulterer. You betrayed your marriage vows and allowed yourself to become a party to a despicable plot.’

  Roger’s thin lips moved but no sound came out.

  ‘I always loved Jane,’ he said at last.

  ‘Not enough, Roger. Now, I wish to speak with you about the future.’

  ‘Of course.’

  He rose to face her, his shoulders bowed. He cringed from her like a whipped dog.

  ‘If it were my choice,’ she said, ‘I would pray to God I never saw you again. However, you’re the father of my sister’s children and I must consider them. My dearest wish is that they will never have to suffer what I have endured. I have therefore decided that I shall settle upon them a comfortable amount to allow them to live independently should they so choose.’

  ‘A dowry?’

  ‘Not a dowry. It shall be a condition of my gift that it shall remain the property of the girls and not devolve upon any future husbands they might have.’

  Roger looked up, life sparking into his dead eyes. ‘But that is unheard of.’

  ‘It is the condition of my gift,’ she said and named the amount.

  Roger looked down at his hands again. ‘They don’t deserve such generosity.’

  ‘They are my only blood kin, Roger. When are you planning to return to London?’

  ‘Do you want me to go?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  She had shed no tears for Jane. It was as if her grief went so deep it would never be expressed. In less than a year she had lost her father, almost murdered a man, become a beggar on the streets, and lost her sister and the man she loved so much that she could not even bring herself to think of him without a shard of pain so physical it made her ill.

  ‘Thamsine, you owe me nothing, yet I have one last thing to ask of you. Can I leave the girls here?’

  Thamsine stared at him. What was he asking her? He was the children’s father and they should be with him.

  ‘Their place is with you,’ she said.

  Roger drew a deep breath. ‘I have been a poor husband and a worse father. I do not deserve them. This will be my punishment.’

  ‘Let me think about it,’ Thamsine said and left the room.

  In her own bedchamber, Thamsine stood by the window contemplating the peaceful countryside that had remained relatively untouched by the recent wars. Her father had been clever in his support of the King, never allowing his loyalty to his monarch to undermine his loyalty to his family.

  She wrapped her arms around herself. She would never remarry and would have no family of her own. When Kit had first been taken from her, she had prayed that she was with child but it was not to be, and she had cried when her body betrayed her.

  She had nothing left of Kit except a battered copy of Francis Bacon that she kept under her pillow and the contents of an old chest, still at The Ship Inn. Her lips tightened. The time had come to collect up the remnants of Kit’s life.

  And what of Kit’s family still alive at Eveleigh Priory; his grandfather, his stepmother, and his sister? Did they know of his death? She thought she would like to meet them and learn a little more of his life before she had known him and the boy he had sold his soul to try and save. Hopefully, even now, Daniel Lovell was on a ship returning back from exile to the people who loved him.

  That would have to wait. She didn’t have the strength to face his family just yet, but she would retrieve his belongings from London.

  She crossed to the desk and penned a short note to Jem Marsh.

  Chapter 24

  Kit balanced the sword in his left hand, studying his opponent’s eyes. They circled each other. His opponent thrust and he parried, throwing his opponent off balance. As he moved in for the kill, Jem dropped his sword and backed up against the wall of the inn courtyard, his large face florid and sweating, and pushed the point of the sword away from his throat.

  ‘That’s it, Lovell. No more. Seems to me it don’t make much difference if it isn’t your sword
hand, you’re still damned good with a sword.’

  ‘You’re getting old and slow, Jem.’ Kit, coughing, sheathed the sword and gave the man’s substantial belly a thump. ‘And fat.’

  He doubled over coughing. The cough seemed to be a legacy of being hanged. His voice had returned but in a different form, lower and with a crackling edge to it. It would take a little getting used to.

  A new voice, a new persona. Thurloe had been right in a number of ways. Kit Lovell, adventurer, gambler and spy, had died at the end of the noose. However, he still had no clear idea who had emerged from the shadows of the gallows.

  Nan Marsh appeared at the door and stood there, her hands on her hips.

  ‘If you two have finished playing sword games,’ she said, ‘I’ve something that might be of interest to you.’

  She held out a piece of paper. Jem took it, squinted at the writing on it and handed it to Kit.

  ‘You know I don’t read. You read it.’

  Kit took the paper and frowned. The writing seemed familiar. He opened the seal and read:

  Dear Jem,

  I trust this note finds you and the girls well. My sister died a week ago and I grieve for her as I still grieve for my husband. I would be much obliged if you could arrange the conveyance of his belongings to me. I am to be found at Hartley Court, beyond the village of Milston. I hope you may come in person.

  Yr friend, Thamsine Lovell.

  Jem clapped his large hand over Kit’s.

  ‘You’re shaking like a leaf. What does it say?’

  Kit read the note aloud.

  ‘No more excuses, Lovell,’ Jem said. ‘You know where she is and I reckons a personal delivery is called for.’

  Kit pocketed the note and fought to control his shaking hands as he looked up at his old friend.

  ‘What do I do? How do I …?’

  Jem thumped him on the back. ‘You’ve a sizeable ride to figure on it, Lovell. I’ll get you a horse in the morning.’

  ‘Another day or two …’ Kit began.

  Jem fixed him with a glare. ‘Ye’re a coward, Lovell.’

  Kit looked up at his friend.

  ‘I just can’t appear, Jem.’

  ‘Then write her a note!’ Jem’s voice betrayed a degree of impatience.

  ‘’Ere, Jem!’ A ragged boy appeared at the gate to the courtyard.

  ‘That’s Master Marsh to you, Harry!’ Jem growled. ‘What news?’

  The boy gave a cheeky grin. ‘You asked me to tell you … ’

  ‘Go on,’ Jem interrupted.

  ‘They left this morning first thing. Hired a coach and I followed for a while but they crossed the bridge and I couldn’t keep up.’

  ‘Headed south?’

  The boy nodded.

  Kit glanced from the boy to Jem’s livid face.

  ‘Morton?’

  Jem nodded. ‘Harry here’s been watching the house in Holborn Hill these weeks past.’

  Kit felt in his purse for a coin and tossed it to the boy.

  ‘Thanks, Harry, you’ve done well.’ The boy touched his forehead and vanished into the busy street.

  Kit looked at Jem. ‘If they’ve gone south, they could be heading for Portsmouth … ’

  ‘Or Dover or Southampton or … ’ Jem’s mouth tightened.

  ‘Or Hampshire.’ Kit finished the sentence.

  If they were leaving England, it seemed likely Ambrose might choose to visit his old family home and see his sister well cared for, or he could simply be after Thamsine again. His blood ran cold.

  ‘Seems like you’ve no choice, Lovell,’ Jem said.

  Kit nodded. ‘I’ll need you.’

  ‘What? You just want me to up and leave the Inn?’

  ‘Nan will manage quite well without you. I’m not up to facing Morton by myself, you know that.’

  He held up his right hand with the bent and twisted fingers.

  Jem shrugged. ‘Two ’orses it is, then.’

  ‘Two good horses, Jem. Hang the cost.’

  Jem gave a splutter. ‘Hang the cost? Ye’ve not a farthing to yer name. I wouldn’t mind betting that was your last coin you gave the boy.’

  Kit smiled. ‘I’ll repay you, Jem. You know I’m good for my debts.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Jem clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Pack your things, Lovell. I’ll be back shortly.’

  ~ * ~

  Thamsine stood by the window, her arms crossed, watching the rain lash against the glass. The wind bent the trees, crushing the heads of the unharvested crops and bringing the day to an early end.

  She sighed and turned back to the parlour. Roger sat by the unseasonable fire, reading his Bible. Rebecca and Rachel sat on a settle opposite him, their heads also bent over Bibles. The Sabbath had always been dutifully observed in the Knott household. Annie sat by herself in a corner, absorbed in the dolls, an activity forbidden the other girls. Thamsine saw Rachel casting Annie envious glances.

  She forced herself to sit down at the table, where she had been working on some music. Music had been her solace in the days since Jane’s death and this anthem to honour her sister had become an obsession.

  Somewhere in the house, a door crashed. Everyone looked up.

  ‘Just the wind,’ Thamsine said.

  She heard the sounds of heavy footsteps coming down the corridor and the door opened. She looked, expecting to see Stebbings and ready to berate him for not knocking.

  ‘What a pleasant family scene.’

  The voice of the man standing in the doorway in the act of removing his gloves made the blood in her veins freeze.

  Roger gave a yelp, and the two girls looked up from their books with puzzlement and interest as they turned to look at the stranger.

  ‘’Brose!’ Annie gave a cry of delight and hurled herself at her brother.

  ‘Hello, Annie,’ Ambrose kissed his sister before disengaging her arms. He took a few paces into the room. ‘Thamsine, my dear. Black is not your colour.’

  ‘If you came for Annie – ’ Thamsine began but was interrupted by Roger’s hysterical voice.

  ‘I told you! I warned you!’ Roger rose to his feet.

  Ambrose glanced at the man, who stood wringing his hands. ‘Sit down, Knott.’ He turned back to Thamsine. ‘I’ve not come for my sister. Just a neighbourly call to see how you are faring in your sad widowhood.’

  Roger subsided onto his seat and Ambrose wandered over to his daughters. Rachel slipped her hand into her sister’s as he smiled at them and patted Rachel on the head.

  ‘These must be your daughters, Knott.’

  Roger gave a strangled response and Ambrose turned his attention to Thamsine.

  Thamsine raised her chin and looked him squarely in the eye.

  ‘I let Annie stay because she was plainly being neglected at Beverstock,’ she said. ‘I would have thought as she is your only responsibility … ’

  ‘Don’t presume to lecture me on my responsibilities, Mistress Lovell.’ The last word was spat from his mouth while his eyes blazed with hatred. ‘News must travel slowly in this part of the country. The creditors have taken Beverstock. Annie has no home.’ Ambrose shrugged and his face softened as he looked at his sister. ‘But I thank you for the care of her.’

  ‘Annie is not responsible for your actions, Ambrose.’

  Annie looked from one to the other, aware she was being discussed but not comprehending what she had done.

  ‘I haven’t forgotten she helped you escape. That was wrong, Annie.’

  He glared at his sister and Annie shrank from his fierce, angry eyes, sensing but not understanding her brother’s displeasure with her.

  Thamsine swallowed, fighting to keep the control on her voice. She could not let him see how her heart hammered beneath her bodice and her knees felt as if they had turned to water.

  ‘If you’ve not come for Annie, then why are you here, Ambrose?’

  Ambrose reached out and curled a lock of Thamsine’s hair in his finger.

>   ‘That is an excellent question.’

  ‘He’s here to claim what is rightfully his.’

  A woman’s voice came from the doorway and Lucy stepped into the room. Kit’s Mistress Mouse looked pale, travel-stained and weary, a far cry from the bright-eyed creature of London that had sold Thamsine into the hands of this man.

  Ambrose glanced at his mistress. ‘London has become a little … uncomfortable, hasn’t it, dearest?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Thamsine demanded.

  Ambrose sighed, ‘Too many debts, too many memories. Time for a new start, in a new place.’

  ‘What do you want, Morton?’ Roger rose to his feet again, his voice strong.

  ‘Oh, it’s quite simple. I need money to finance my life in France. In short, Thamsine my dear, I want anything of value in this house.’

  Thamsine straightened, almost faint with relief. If all he wanted was money, he could take the pictures from the wall.

  ‘You’re surprised? Did you think I still wanted you?’ He stroked her face. ‘No, you’re soiled goods now. Why would I want you after Lovell has swived you? Pity he’s dead. I would have taken great pleasure in killing him myself. But you make a desirable widow, Thamsine. Mourning becomes you.’

  He stepped away from her and removed two pistols from his belt. These he laid them on the table before turning back and looking around the room with a genial smile on his face. He sat down on a chair and crossed his legs.

  ‘I think some refreshments are in order before we discuss the contents of your strongbox. It has been a long, tedious journey, made more so by my companion’s delicate condition.’ Thamsine stared across his head at Lucy, who averted her eyes.

  ‘You’re with child?’ Thamsine’s barely aspirated words hung in the air. ‘You told me you could not conceive.’

  ‘Apparently the doctors were wrong. I have conceived.’ She threw aside her cloak, revealing a high-waisted gown below which the swell of her stomach was clearly visible. ‘I am told the child will be born about Christmas,’ she said, lowering herself into a chair with a sigh.

  Thamsine did a quick mental calculation. The child must have been conceived in late February or early March, when Kit was still with Lucy Talbot.

  Oh Kit, she thought to herself, is there no justice in the world? How could you leave this woman with child and not me?