The King's Man (24 page)

"Morton,” Knott said, with disgust in his voice, “through Mistress Talbot, apprehended her and brought her here. I hoped to be able to persuade her to the sense of the marriage without recourse for further violence but..."

"You failed?"

"She continued to refuse him. Obstinate,” Knott said.

"He threatened my children.” Jane's eyes glinted with tears.

"Jane showed more courage than I did,” Knott said again, his head lowered.

Kit leaned forward. “Where is Thamsine now?"

They looked at each other then at him.

"I don't know,” Knott said. “I really don't know. He came for her three days ago and took her away."

Jane's face twisted. “You may be too late, but please, Captain Lovell. You are her only hope."

"Where has he taken her?” Kit persisted.

Jane's face dissolved. “He said he was taking her to hell."

Kit felt a cold hand claw at his guts.

"He said within a few days she would be begging him for marriage. I am so scared for her.” Jane swallowed and rose to her feet, her hands clasped in front of her. “If you love her, Captain, you will find her. Find her and keep her safe."

Kit put the spurs to the lazy horse and drove it hard back to the city. Jane had said something strange. She had said, “if you love her". Did he love her? Kit had told a dozen women he loved them. They liked to hear it. The pretty words had pleased them and suited him but what he had felt for those girls was nothing like the emotion he felt pulsing through his veins now.

If loving someone meant that life without them was unendurable, if it meant that thoughts of that person occupied every waking moment than yes, he conceded, maybe he was in love with Thamsine Granville and if that was the case he was a fool. The biggest fool in the country. How had he allowed himself to fall in love with a woman he knew nothing about? He didn't need the distraction of a woman at this point in his life.

He returned the horse and took some refreshment in the inn while he tried to gather his thoughts. Damn it, where was she? He was quite sure Morton had meant it when he said he would take her to hell but where was hell? Somewhere in the City of London or ... where? He shook his head in despair. She could be anywhere.

He dismissed the thought of tackling Ambrose Morton without at least a dozen armed men at his back. Even if knew where Morton was, he was no match for a man of Morton's size and cunning and formidable reputation as a swordsman. However there was one other person who might know where Thamsine was being held and who could be more easily managed. He risked overplaying his hand but the risk was worth it.

He slipped a small knife into his sleeve, clapped his hat on his head and strode to the house in Holborn Hill.

He found Lucy alone, working on embroidery by the window in the parlor. He paused at the door, watching her for a moment. Bitter, angry thoughts seethed in his brain, providing a stark contrast to the scene of pleasant, domestic bliss that she presented and that he had begun to crave so badly.

She looked up, setting her work down in her lap.

"Where have you been?” she demanded in a petulant tone, destroying the illusion.

He laid his hat and gloves on the table. “That is my concern, Lucy."

"I waited up for you till late last night and all today. No word, not even a note.” She stood to face him.

"Well, that was foolish. You should know me well enough now to know not to expect such things of me."

He crossed to her and took her by the forearms. He bent his head and kissed her with a savage ferocity, his arms circling her, drawing her into towards him. As he felt her respond, pressing up against him, he broke away from her, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, revolted by her.

He saw fear flicker in her eyes.

"Kit, dearest, is something wrong?” She placed her hands on his chest and smiled a cherubic, wheedling smile which two days ago would have reduced him to clay in her hands. “Have I done anything to upset you?"

Kit looked at her with disgust, seeing her for what she was: a pretty, spoiled, manipulative little woman who within a few years would lose her teeth and her looks and end up an embittered, ugly hag.

She looked up at him and her eyes widened when she recognized the grim purpose in his face. She played a desperate card, laying her head against his chest.

"Kit, dearest Kit, you must know I love you."

He almost laughed. “Don't be ridiculous. You mistake love for lust, Lucy. You wouldn't know what love is. I've had my box sent around to my new lodgings. Our little bit of fun is over."

"Kit, please...” She fell against him, clinging to him, crying soft tears.

With a deft movement he slipped the knife from his sleeve and, seizing her by the shoulder, twisted her away from him. He wrenched one arm up behind her back and held the knife to her throat.

She gave a gurgling cry, her eyes bulging with fear.

"Where is Thamsine Granville?” He hissed in her ear.

"I don't know,” she spluttered.

"Yes, you do. Where is she?"

"It's no concern of yours."

"You're wrong. It is every concern of mine."

"Why?” Lucy's tone was defiant. “She's nothing, a nobody."

"I suspect you know that's not true. What has Morton told you?"

At Morton's name Lucy stiffened in his arms. “Morton?"

"I'm no fool, Lucy. I know he's the one who's been warming your bed in my absence. Now where is Thamsine?"

"I can't tell you. He'll hurt me,” she whined.

Kit twisted her arm higher. She gave a yelp of pain. “Like this? Lucy, I've no time for games. I am holding a very sharp knife and I am not the most patient of men. Like you I have little aversion to removing annoying obstacles. The fact you are a woman makes no difference. Do I make myself clear?"

Lucy nodded. Sweat beaded her pretty face. “I c-can't tell you!” she stammered in one last display of bravado.

Kit sighed and shifted his grip on the knife. “Don't be under any illusions about me, Lucy. I can cause you a great deal of pain before you die and I will find out what I want to know. Now are you going to deal with this sensibly?"

Lucy swallowed. “You don't know what he'll do to me if I tell you."

"I couldn't care less what he does to you! It's the other women I care about, the ones he takes by force. You know, you're very alike, you and Morton. When you see something you take it.” He paused, realization dawning on him. “Tell me, Lucy why you chose me. What do I have that you want so badly?"

"I know who you are!” she screamed.

The answer shouldn't have surprised him but it did. It wouldn't have been hard for her to find out who he was. There were a few who knew, Fitzjames for one. Morton could have extracted that information without much prompting.

"So you know I am or who I will be? Well that explains a great deal. You want a title? Did you think to snare me into marriage with you?” He twisted her arm a little harder, making her squeal. “Well I hate to disappoint you, but you're not the sort of woman men like me marry."

He twisted her arm a little harder.

There were tears in her voice. “Kit, please. You're hurting me."

"Good!"

"She's in Bedlam.” The words were so faint, he had to strain his ears to hear them.

"What did you say?” Kit slackened his grip and she broke away from him, rubbing her arm, tears of anger running down her flushed face.

"She's in Bedlam,” she spat. “Where she deserves to be!"

He had taken her to hell. Hell on earth had a name and that name was Bedlam. No need to ask why. A few days in Bedlam would make the sanest person beg to marry Ambrose Morton.

His fingers closed over Lucy's arm. When she resisted he tightened his grip, forcing her to her knees, gasping from the pain he was inflicting. “Let us fetch your cloak and your purse, Mistress Talbot, we're going out."

"Where are we going?"

"To hell."

The stench of death and despair hung over Bedlam like a pall. Kit looked up at the grim, grey walls and shuddered. Ordering the carriage to wait, he thrust Lucy before him and hammered on the heavy, oak door.

The porter who answered the door looked at them doubtfully.

"We've come to see one of the inmates,” Kit said.

"I don't know,” the porter said doubtfully, “'tis very late for visitors."

"Give him some money,” Kit hissed in Lucy's ear. Lucy complied, her fingers shaking. The porter handed Kit a lantern and unlocked the door.

"In yer go. Good luck."

Keeping one hand on Lucy's arm and the other, concealed by the cloak, holding the knife pressed against her back they entered the dark, noisome place. The stench caused him to cough and he swallowed down the bile that rose in his throat, pressing his arm to his face. Lucy recoiled against him, her hand going to her mouth and nose. The floors were mired with human filth and the inmates lay supine and oblivious or gibbered about, pulling at Kit's coat or Lucy's skirts. Lucy squealed as one touched her face.

The women's ward was, if anything could be, worse. Even as they entered, women sidled up to them, baring their breasts and spreading their legs. Kit still propelled Lucy before him, scattering them in his path. Keeping his knife in Lucy's back he took the lantern, swinging it from side to side trying to make out Thamsine among the shapeless forms on the filthy straw.

"Who are you?” A slatternly wardress in a filthy gown and cap appeared out of the gloom. “How dare you come in here upsetting the lodgers."

"I am here to retrieve one of your lodgers,” Kit spat out the last word with contempt.

"Think you can find her here, do you?” the wardress sneered.

"I'll find her. In the meantime, do you have an empty room with a key to the door? Lucy, your purse."

Lucy opened her mouth and closed it again as the knife pricked flesh. She thrust the purse into his outstretched hand. Kit held up a gold coin. He saw the wardress’ eyes open wide for a moment.

"Through here, sir,” she said obsequiously

She opened a heavy oak door on a room only a little bigger than a cupboard, with barely enough room to lie down in the same filthy, mouldy straw as the main room.

"We uses it for those patients who get a little upset,” the wardress said.

"Good. My friend here is somewhat overwrought and could do with a peaceful night,” Kit said.

"You're not going to leave me here,” Lucy wailed.

"What would you rather I do, Lucy?” Kit asked with a pleasant smile as he closed the door, pocketing the key.

"Oi, how d'yer think we're going to get her out?” the wardress protested.

Kit shrugged. “Break the door down I expect.” He tossed her a couple more coins. “Now I'm looking for a young woman brought in within the last couple of days. Chestnut hair, name is Thamsine Granville."

"No one by that name here.” The woman frowned. “Only one come in the last few days was a woman by the name of Morton, Annie Morton."

Ambrose's imbecile sister. Kit closed his eyes in disgust.

"Take me to her,” he said in a low, uneven voice.

The wardress indicated a dark, dank corner. Hardly daring to hope, Kit touched the shoulder of the huddled woman who lay manacled to the wall. She recoiled beneath his touch, hunching herself smaller.

"Thamsine,” he said. “It's me."

At the sound of her name she uncoiled and turned towards him. The few days in Bedlam had wrought a frightening change. The Thamsine he knew had vanished within herself. Even in the faltering light of the lantern he could see that beneath her filthy, matted hair, her face was pallid, her lips grey and her eyes sunken in great, dark holes.

Her manacled wrists came up in a defensive gesture. “Don't hurt me,” she pleaded looking into his face and not seeing him.

He knelt down beside her and stroked her hair. “Thamsine? It's Lovell.” He raised the lantern up to his face.

She stared at him for a moment or two, her brow furrowed. Her breath came in short flurries. “Kit? Oh Kit!"

He put his hands on her shoulders. She wore only her shift and the material was wet and cold to the touch.

Kit stood up and looked at the wardress. “Why has she been treated this way?"

The wardress put her hands on her hips. “Man what brought her in said she had a nasty, violent nature and suggested she be kept manacled.” She looked down at Thamsine's shivering form. “We find cold water normally quiets ‘em down."

Kit spared her a withering glance. “I dare say it does! Undo those manacles."

Taking her time the wardress knelt down and turned the key in the rusty locks. Kit took Thamsine in his arms. She clung to him, shivering, icy to the touch.

"Where are her clothes?” he demanded.

"Oh they're long gone, ducky."

"Well, fetch a dry blanket. She'll catch lung fever left like this."

"Most of ‘em do,” the wardress muttered as she ambled off.

Kit took off his cloak and wrapped it around her slight figure. He held Thamsine to him, rocking her like a child. Another few days of this and she would have agreed to marry the devil himself. Morton had a refined method of torture.

"This is a dream,” she whispered. “I'm going to wake up and you will be gone."

"No, I'm real enough.” He stroked her face.

The wardress threw down a ragged blanket. Kit looked up at her. “Well, are you going to help me?” he asked, his voice icy with politeness.

Grumbling to herself the woman helped Kit wrap Thamsine in the blanket's grimy folds. Rising to his feet, Kit walked over to the cell where Lucy sulked in a corner.

"Are you comfortable, Mouse?” he said.

He jumped at the shriek of rage from behind the door. “Now, now, Mouse. If you behave like that they will throw cold water on you."

"Let me out, Kit!” The voice changed to a pathetic wheedling.

"I don't think so. By the time you've found a way out of there, Lucy, dearest, I shall be gone from your life."

"We'll find you, Lovell."

"Not in London, you won't,” he lied.

He hoped Lucy would be fool enough to believe him. Dearly as he would like to take Thamsine and flee with her to France, he couldn't. Circumstances tied him to London. The little matter of Thurloe's business had to be completed first.