The King's Man (6 page)

"Well you're probably right.” Fitz clapped an arm around Kit's shoulder and they wove an unsteady path towards Holborn. “He ran with Goring's crew during the war. You'll have heard the stories..."

George, Lord Goring, had command of the King's Army in the west; the actions of his unruly rabble had done more to damage the King's cause then the whole of the New Model Army.

"There was a particularly nasty rumour,” Fitz began, then waved a hand. “Doesn't matter ... I don't like to spread gossip."

"What?” Kit persisted.

Fitz sighed. “There was a murder. A woman and her daughter. Nasty thing—rape, mutilation. Renegades were blamed but odd thing was that Morton and his men were the only troops in the area."

Kit shrugged. “Proves nothing. Just because he was in the area, doesn't implicate him."

"No, no, you're quite right,” Fitz slurred drunkenly.

"Where are you going now?” Kit changed the subject. “Your lodgings are not in this direction."

Fitz smiled. “A beautiful nymph awaits me..."

"I hope she gives you a discount for persistence,” Kit said with a laugh.

"Not that sort of nymph!” Fitz protested. “You don't think me sufficiently desperate I must pay for my pleasure!"

"Not at all.” Kit smiled.

"Well, this is me. See that light in the window? My darling awaits. Good night to you, Lovell."

Kit watched Fitz weave across to the door and open it. He smiled and shook his head before turning his own heels towards Lucy and her pretty house on Holborn Hill.

Kit returned to the Ship Inn the following night with a heavy heart. The inn spilled warm, golden light and drunken ‘prentices into the cold, London street. It had snowed earlier in the day but the snow had already turned to slush in the mire, soiling Kit's boots. He pulled his cloak around him and looked on with distaste as one of the ‘prentices vomited loudly and messily against the wall of the inn. His fellows gathered him up and they pushed past Kit, singing discordantly.

Kit opened the door and caught Jem's eye.

"Busy tonight,” he commented.

"Aye. It's that lass of yours, Thamsine. Words got out, quite an attraction she is.” Jem looked pleased.

The fiddler struck up a tune and Thamsine was hoisted on to a table. Kit smiled. In her tattered gown with her hand on her hip, any semblance between the gentlewoman and this taproom songstress had long since dissipated.

"Of all the brave birds that ever I see,

The owl is the fairest in her degree.

For all day long she sits in a tree

And when the night comes away flies she.

This song is well sung I make you a vow

And he is a knave that drinketh now.

Nose, nose, nose, nose,

And who gave thee that jolly red nose?

Cinnamon and ginger, nutmeg and cloves,

That's what gave me this jolly red nose."

Kit joined in the rousing chorus of the familiar, soldier's drinking song.

Thamsine caught his eye and gave a wry smile. When the song was done, she shoved a man whose hand strayed to her backside and jumped off the table, pushing her way through the crowd towards him. The offending hand's owner fell back among his companions, laughing.

Kit inclined his head. “Mistress Granville. You have a fine repertoire of songs guaranteed to make your late father turn in his grave."

She smiled. He liked her smile. It lit up her face. “My poor father,” she said. “If he could only see me now. He loved madrigals and sad ballads. My brother and I would sing to entertain his friends, now...” She waved a hand at the crowded taproom. “...I sing bawdy songs in a tavern and consider myself fortunate.” The smile fell away and she looked into his face, earnestly seeking his eyes. “I do consider myself fortunate, Captain Lovell. If I haven't thanked you properly..."

Kit felt himself flush and waved a deprecating hand. “I am glad it has worked out for you,” he said. “Now if you would excuse me, my friends are awaiting me."

Thamsine nodded. “They're in the parlor."

May pulled at Thamsine's arm. “Thamsine, another song..."

With the opening stanza of a ballad of love lost filling the taproom behind him, Kit knocked on the door to the private parlor. Cotes let him in. It seemed an unusually good turnout. Despite the absence of Willys, Fitzjames and young Gerard, Dutton had assembled eleven in all. Kit looked around at the remaining familiar faces. Spirits seemed high. Men without hope suddenly had a cause they could turn to.

Kit bent over the map of London unfurled on the table, feigning an enthusiasm he did not feel. Even with seven hundred mythical men the task seemed hopeless.
Seize Whitehall? Kidnap Cromwell? Take the Tower for God's sake! Oh well, let them dream. Dreams hurt no one
, he thought.

"I've come up with a few pounds,” Dutton said. “Enough for the fare anyway.” He pushed the purse across to Whitely.

Whitely looked at it. “What did you sell?"

"My pistols,” Dutton replied gloomily.

"You don't think you might have needed those?” Kit asked, the sarcasm heavy in his voice.

"Lovell if you have no wish to be a part of this, then go now.” Whitely said impatiently.

Kit pulled out his own purse. “Apologies. There is my contribution."

Whitely nodded. “Good, there should be enough here."

Cotes opened the door to a gentle knock. Thamsine stood there with two jugs of ale.

"Come in, lass,” Cotes said. “We've thirsty work ahead of us."

"You've a good voice,” Whitely said. “Should be on the stage."

"Thank ‘ee, sir,” Thamsine said. “But there's no theatres and nowhere else for the likes of I."

Kit hid a smile in his tankard. She did a good cockney accent. He would have sworn she'd been born and brought up within the sound of Bow bells.

"Perhaps you can give us a song—” one of the others began only stop abruptly at the sound of a crash and loud, raised voices from the taproom. “What was that?"

Cotes opened the door to the parlor a crack. “Soldiers,” he said, his face paling. “Dutton, you fool, get that map on to the fire."

Even as Dutton hurled the paper on to the flames, the door crashed open and an officer stepped into the room. Several swords were eased from scabbards with a hiss and rattle but resistance of any sort seemed pointless. There were soldiers at the window and a taproom full of them. They were trapped like rabbits in a snare.

The officer smiled. “Well, gentlemen. What do we have here? A pretty bunch of conspirators, so I hear tell? The Lieutenant of the Tower has some pleasant accommodation planned for you."

Whitely stood up. “I must protest. We are doing no more than enjoying a quiet ale and a pipe."

The officer strolled over to the fireplace and retrieved the singed map. He blew out the glowing embers, scrutinized the remains of the parchment then looked around at the faces in the room. “You can tell that to the Council of State."

He looked around the room and his eyes fixed on Thamsine.

"Well, well, ‘tis my lucky night for certes,” he said.

His hand closed over Thamsine's arm and he drew her towards him. He took her chin in his fingers and turned her head to the light.

"A red-headed woman with a black eye,” he said. “I hear tell you tried to kill our Lord Protector."

Thamsine shrank away from him but his grip on his arm tightened.

"What's your name, girl?"

Thamsine said nothing. Her eyes, in her thin face, had become huge with fear. Kit's fingers clenched and unclenched in impotent fury.

"I asked your name.” The officer's voice had become low and menacing.

"Thamsine Granville,” she stuttered.

"There must be some mistake,” Kit said.

"Oh, there's no mistake. Seen here and clearly identified she was."

"I knew I'd seen her before!” Dutton almost screamed. “I can confirm, Captain, that this is indeed the woman!"

The officer turned to look at Dutton.

"Are you sure?"

"I never forget a face. Now, Captain, I have confirmed you have a dangerous assassin in your custody, perhaps you will let me go."

The officer laughed. “I think not, you've enough troubles of your own without minding others. That's the allegation against her. Not up to me to say if she did or she didn't. Now let's get this lot out of here."

He gave a nod and two of his soldiers grabbed Thamsine's arms. Thamsine cast Kit a brief, despairing look as the manacles were fastened to her slender wrists.

They were pushed into the taproom.

"What you got our girl for? You leave her be, yer girt thug!” One of the customers rose to his feet to be joined by the others. The level of outrage rose and chunks of bread and pint pots began to fly.

The soldiers ducked. Shielding Thamsine with their bulk they dragged her out on to the street. Her feet slipped on the icy mire and she fell to her knees. With no gentleness, they hauled her up and flung her against the tray of one of two carts that stood waiting.

"Kit!"

Kit heard her despairing cry and shook off his captor's hand. “Let me go with her."

"Friend of yours, is she?” The officer pushed Kit towards her. “Well, you both keep bad company."

Kit fell against Thamsine and manacled as they were, they stumbled to the filthy mire of the street.

"Get up.” A muddy boot swung in Thamsine's direction.

Kit flung out his arm, catching the full brunt of the boot on his elbow. He subsided, cursing in French. A soldier seized Thamsine's arm and hauled her roughly to her feet.

Kit managed to pick himself up, shaking his arm and flexing his numbed fingers. They were both thrown bodily onto the back of the second cart. The first, cart bearing Dutton and the other conspirators, already lurched down the street ahead of them.

Thamsine began to shiver. She lacked a cloak and the night air was perishing. Kit moved closer to her, his fingers closing over her icy hand.

"I'm sorry, Thamsine.” He spoke in French.

"It wasn't your doing,” she replied in the same language. “That awful man, Dutton. He's signed my death warrant, hasn't he?” She leaned her head against his arm. “What will they do to me?” Her voice quavered.

He shook his head. “I don't know.” He gripped her hand hard. “Thamsine, whatever happens, remember who you are. Don't be bullied or intimidated."

"I wasn't trying to kill him. I really wasn't.” She choked back a sob. “What about you? Why were you arrested? What were you doing in the parlor?"

He gave a hollow laugh. “Conspiring to overthrow Cromwell."

"Were you? I thought you just played cards."

Kit lowered his voice. “Every drunken royalist conspires to overthrow Cromwell."

Silent tears ran unchecked down her face. Kit stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. He bent his head, so it rested on hers. Her hair smelt of rosemary and chamomile.

"Thamsine,” he whispered, “I wish I could say it will all be right."

"I'm so scared,” was her small, tight reply.

"Take heart. You have great strength. I think you will find the courage to get through the next few weeks,” he said.

She leaned her head against his shoulder. “You make that sound so easy!” she said in English

Thamsine had never felt as utterly wretched as she did when the cart crossed the stinking moat and passed through the gates of the Tower. Tales of misery, despair and the death of Queens dragged screaming to the block crowded her mind. Those long forgotten history lessons did not relate tales of those who walked free through its gates.

She felt Kit's fingers tighten on hers and closed her eyes against the fear that rose like gall in her throat. The cart rumbled to a halt in a cobbled courtyard.

With no time for farewell, the soldiers pulled Thamsine from the cart. She fell to her knees on the cobbled stone. Kit jumped down beside her, putting his body between the soldiers and the girl.

"Quite the gentleman, aren't you?” The sergeant sneered. “Out of the way, Lovell!"

Kit stood his ground. The sergeant gave an exasperated grunt and swung his fist. Thamsine screamed at the resounding crunch of fist on bone and Kit reeled back against the cart, sliding to the ground in an ungainly heap.

Thamsine had no time to see to him. A soldier pulled her to her feet and, barely allowing her time for a backward glance, thrust her towards a door.

Despite the almost cloying warmth of the room in which she found herself, she shivered and clasped her manacled hands tightly together. A well-dressed, heavyset man seated behind a table looked her up and down.

Distaste at what he saw written on his face, he asked, “Is this the woman?"

"It is. Denies it of course but the description fits.” The sergeant who had brought her in pushed her forward into the light.

"You had to drag her through the mud to get her here?” the man at the table enquired.

Thamsine raised her eyes to her captor and saw him shrug.

"What's your name, woman?"

Thamsine didn't answer.

"Tell me your name or the sergeant here will add another black eye to the one you already have."

Thamsine swallowed and looked up, meeting the man's eyes. “Thamsine Granville."

"Granville is it? Well my name is Barkstead, Colonel Barkstead, and I am the Lieutenant of the Tower."

She straightened. “Colonel Barkstead, I must protest at my treatment.” She summoned her last shreds of dignity. “Whatever it is I am accused of, I am completely innocent."

He looked her up and down, his eyes taking in the old, broken shoes, the torn and mended petticoats and stained bodice. “Well, well, that is the voice of a gently born woman, I warrant. Makes no difference. I've a Tower full of innocent babes just like you, m'lady.” He rose to her feet and gave her a mocking bow. “Now if you've a mind to it, allow me to show you your accommodation. Sergeant!"

The promised accommodation proved somewhat better than she could have hoped for: a grey stone cell, barely large enough to contain a low cot, a small table and a stool. A small narrow window high up on the wall admitted light and air and a tiny, empty fireplace was built into the corner. It could have been much, much worse.