The King's Man (2 page)

"Got somewhere to go?"

The thought of plying her trade in the pathetic room that had been her lodgings for the past month horrified her more than the thought of what she was about to do. She shook her head.

"Never mind. Down ‘ere will do as good as any."

Propelling Thamsine by the arm, he thrust her down a filthy alley. A small part of Thamsine's brain registered the irony that it was the second time in one day a man had dragged her down just such a laneway. This time there would be no escaping the consequences.

The bearded man pushed her up against the slimy wall. His mouth clamped on to hers, his beard rasping her skin. His tongue, hard and insistent, penetrated her mouth, thrusting inside her while his spare hand grappled with her skirts.

She felt his hand on her thigh and his fingers between her legs. His vile, stinking breath, the taste of him, the insistent probing of his tongue began to suffocate her. Nausea rose in her throat and she tried to twist away from him but he held her too close. Her struggles were as useless as a reed against the wind.

He broke his face away and leered at her. “You're a tight little bitch. I reckon you need a bit of softening up."

The blow came with such ferocity that she fell sideways, her head ringing, her world exploding into a thousand different colored lights. Hard fingers closed on her arm hauling her to her feet.

She heard her own voice pleading with him not to hit her again and sensed rather than saw the shadow of his hand ready to strike. With the last of her strength, she braced herself. The blow did not come. The man gave a strangled cry and released her arm, causing her to fall to her knees in the stinking mire. She covered her face with her hands and did not move.

"Oi!” she heard her client say. “What's yer game! There'll be plenty left for you,"

"Leave the lady be.” The low, menacing voice was painfully familiar. Thamsine felt the tears prick the back of her eyes. Her humiliation was complete.

"Lady—?"

The sound of fist on bone cut short the scoffing voice. A heavy body fell to the ground beside her. She felt, rather than saw, the man rise and heard the sound of feet scuffling and the grunts of a struggle in progress. Someone spat at the ground by her feet.

"Take her! She's yours if you want her that bad, but you'll get no joy of her. Not worth a farthing."

"Get out of here!” The words were followed by the soft hiss of a sword loosened in the scabbard. She heard the sound of running feet and then silence.

A hand touched her shoulder. “Let's see the damage."

"I can't,” she mumbled into her hands.

"Come on, lass, he fetched you a mighty wallop. You weren't much to look at before. I doubt your appearance has been much improved by his handiwork."

She was aware that he had crouched down beside her. She screwed her eyes tightly shut as he pried her hands away from her face and gave a low whistle. With surprising gentleness, she felt his fingers probing along her right cheekbone. She flinched.

"You've the makings of a truly spectacular black eye but I don't think anything's broken. Now, open your eyes and look at me!"

With a supreme effort, she obeyed and found herself looking into a pair of grey-green eyes.
Nice eyes
, she thought, with the lines of humor crinkling at the corners. But she saw no humor in them now, only pity and pity was the last thing on earth she wanted. The shame overwhelmed her and the last of her rigid self-control evaporated. She lowered her head to her knees and began to weep, not hysterically but slow, silent sobs.

He made no move towards her; just let her cry until there was no more misery to expend. She brought herself back, wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her dress and forced herself to look up at the man who still crouched beside her.

Her nemesis had a sharp, clever face dominated by a nose that was slightly too long and a mouth that curled as if about to break into a smile. He could not have been much above thirty.

His hat lay on the ground beside him and a cowlick of dark hair fell over his eyes. He pushed it back and reached out a finger, curling a lock of her hair in a gesture that was more paternal than sexual.

He shook his head. “You'll be dead by week's end if you persist in this chosen vocation,” he said. “Whoever you are, you're no whore by nature or, I warrant, necessity."

"You're wrong. I've no choice,” she mumbled. The vile taste of the man who had violated her rose in her mouth. She leaned away and retched pathetically onto the revolting cobbles.

Her rescuer picked up his hat and stood up, fastidiously brushing the mud from the brim. She expected to see him walk away but he remained standing, looking down at her. She lowered her head, her hands hanging limply between her knees. She could debase herself no further.

"Go away,” she said.

"When did you last eat?” he asked

She wiped the back of her hand across her lips that felt bruised and swollen and looked up at him. “Yesterday."

"Come.” He held out a hand to her. “At least permit me to buy you a decent meal."

With an effort she pulled herself to her feet, declining his proffered hand. He strolled to the end of the lane and stood waiting for her, his back turned to her. She re-laced her bodice and straightened her skirt, giving herself time to collect her scattered thoughts.

When she was ready, she took a deep breath and addressed him in a stiff, formal voice. “I thank you for your assistance, sir, but I beg you leave me. I'm not fit company for you."

He turned to face her. “I'll be the judge of that.” A slow, sardonic smile crossed his face. “It may be that I'm not fit company for you."

She regarded him through narrowed eyes. “Who are you? How do you come to be here? Were you following me?” The questions rushed out.

"As to the first, my name is Christopher Lovell, although my friends call me Kit.” He swept her a bow. “Your servant, ma'am. As to the second and third questions ... yes, I admit I was following you."

"Why?"

"I was concerned for you."

"Concerned for me?"

"Yes, concerned. Are you so far lost that you don't recognize genuine concern when you see it?"

She was tempted to answer in the affirmative. It had been so long since anyone showed her any kindness that of course she viewed it with suspicion.

"You don't know me, sir. You know nothing about me.” She brought her chin up and met his eyes defiantly.

"True, but I've seen your like before. Unless I'm gravely mistaken, you are like me, the flotsam of war, one of the survivors. We're what are left when our friends and our family have nobly sacrificed their fortunes and their lives for a lost cause. I am right, am I not, Mistress...?"

"Granville,” Thamsine said, too tired to lie. “Thamsine Granville."

Her teeth began to chatter and she drew her inadequate cloak tightly around her. It afforded little protection from the biting cold.

His fingers tugged at the cords of his cloak and he swung it around her shoulders. It settled on her thin frame, still warm from his body. Thamsine pulled it closely around her.

He hunched his shoulders and gave a deep, indrawn breath. “Well, Mistress Granville, it's cold and we've both had a trying day. I meant what I said about a meal."

She looked down at the toe of her scuffed and leaking shoe. Her head still rang from the blow. She put her fingers to her face, tentatively exploring the bruising.

There seemed little point in any more displays of stubborn pride. For the first time in weeks she was warm and the offer of food was one that she would be a fool to decline. God alone knew she had already played the fool enough times in one day.

She raised her face and met Kit Lovell's eyes. She inclined her head as if accepting an invitation to dance and he smiled and crooked his arm.

"Mistress Granville?"

He drew her close, shielding her from the icy wind that blew down the narrow streets. Through the sturdy cloth of his jacket, she felt the warmth of his body. It seemed to permeate her icy bones, thawing the cold places of her soul.

Kit threw open the door on the busy taproom of the Ship Inn. Beside him, Thamsine pulled his cloak tightly across her thin body as she surveyed the sea of people. He put an arm around her and began to guide her towards his usual table. He could feel her trembling with no more substance to her slender frame than a sparrow.

A young woman with a riot of blonde curls falling from beneath a disreputable cap bounded forward, hooking her arm into his and beaming into his face.

"Cap'n Lovell! We didn't expect to see you out so soon!” Her eyes switched to Thamsine and the smile disappeared. “Got company I see."

Kit suppressed a smile at the jealous suspicion in May's voice. “A friend of mine, May,” he replied. “Now, a slice of pie and a jug of ale for both of us would be appreciated."

May sniffed and disappeared into the kitchens as Kit led Thamsine to a secluded corner of the taproom.

"What did she mean when she said she didn't expect to see you ‘out so soon'?” Thamsine asked.

Kit gave one of his sardonic smiles. “I have spent the last couple of months in the Clink. A small misunderstanding concerning a horse. Now happily resolved,” he added

Thamsine's eyes widened. “You've been in prison?"

He shrugged. “I'm often in prison. It's an occupational hazard. Ah, here come the girls with our food."

May was accompanied by her twin. May and Nan were identical in nearly all respects, although Nan was slightly taller with a more wary, knowing expression on her face and a sharper tongue in her head.

The girls slapped the food and drink down in front of Thamsine. May gave her one last, baleful glance before tending to the demands of another customer. Nan stood behind Kit and ran her fingers through his hair, no doubt giving Thamsine a hateful look as she did so, before returning to the kitchen.

"They seem to regard you as their own private property,” Thamsine observed. “Is this pie safe to eat?"

Kit laughed. “Those two girls have the biggest hearts in London."

"And the widest legs, I wouldn't mind betting,” she observed, her eyes on May, who flirted outrageously with a bearded man by the fireplace.

"You are hardly in a position to cast stones on that count, Mistress Granville!” Kit reminded her. “Now eat before it goes cold. I'll warrant it's the best pie you'll have tasted for some little while."

Kit picked up the pot of ale and took a deep draught as he regarded the woman who sat opposite him, demolishing the pie with all the grace and elegance of the roughest soldier he had ever known.

Thamsine Granville, if that was her real name, appeared a highly intelligent but not conventionally beautiful young woman. Even if properly nourished she would still have been considered too thin for beauty. However, beneath the grime, she did have an arresting face with high cheekbones and large brown eyes. Her mouth was wide and mobile. Her long nose curved slightly upwards, a strong nose on an interesting face. In the right circumstances Thamsine Granville would not go unnoticed.

He finished his ale and poured himself another one. His reasons for going to her aid, not once but twice, went beyond altruism. True, her haunted eyes had touched something within him. He, more than anyone, knew what it was to be balanced on the edge as this woman seemed to be. However, he also recognized that she could be useful; a card to be played when the time was right.

In the meantime it seemed he was stuck with her.

He pushed his platter, with his serve of pie, across to her. She looked up at him and he inclined his head. After a momentary hesitation, she polished it off, wiping the last of the gravy up with a piece of bread. When she had done, she set aside the shining platters, taking a deep draught of ale from her tankard.

"You have some color in your cheeks again. Do you feel better?” Kit remarked, refilling her cup.

She nodded. “Better than I have for months. Thank you, Master Lovell, or is that Captain Lovell?"

He made a dissembling motion with his free hand. “Kit. I think after what you and I have been through today, we can dispense with formalities. May I call you Thamsine?"

She hesitated for a moment and nodded.

He leaned forward. “Well, Thamsine Granville, as I have saved your life twice today, I think it is time to claim some form of reward."

Her eyes widened and her cheeks colored. Her lips parted slightly and she swallowed. “Do you have a room we could go to? I have no wish to try another alley and no coin to pay you."

It took a moment for Kit to comprehend what she implied. He stared at her. Did she think that after everything she had been through that day, that he wanted her body? The idea was preposterous. Anyway why would he want this scrawny, dirty scrap of womanhood when Lucy waited for him in her warm, comfortable house in Holborn?

Without thinking, he laughed out loud. “My dear Thamsine, did you think I meant that sort of payment?"

"Well I have nothing else!"

His smile faded at the look of misery on her face. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have laughed. Believe me, I'm not so mean-minded as to demand such a recompense.” The smile crept back onto his face. “Anyway, I prefer my women with a bit more meat on them. No, Mistress Granville, all I request by way of reward is your story."

"My story?"

He nodded. “I would like to know how the gently born Thamsine Granville came to be trying her hand, somewhat unsuccessfully, at whoring in the streets of London? Oh yes—with a bit of attempted assassination on the side."

"How do you know I was gently born?"

"Call it a guess.”
Your voice, your demeanor, everything about you
, he thought to himself. “Let us start with a simple question. Where are you from?"

She took a deep breath, her eyes flitting to a space above his head. “You've been very good to me, Master Lovell, but you owe me no more kindness. You must have a wife and a home to go to."

"Neither. I told you I am like you, flotsam adrift on the streets of London. I have all night to hear your tale if that's what it takes."