The King's Man (21 page)

He hated every moment spent in Paris, except for those snatched hours with Eloise and Suzanne and her rowdy family. He realized that he wanted, for the first time in his life, a home and hearth and a woman. He tried to imagine a life with Eloise's mother, Yvette, and failed. Yvette had been young, pretty but rather dim. With the benefit of hindsight, he had been bored with her long before her father threw her out of his door.

Women! He took a deep draught of his ale. He should have learned by now that women were nothing but trouble, a distraction he did not need.

Why, for instance, did he spend more time thinking of Thamsine Granville than he did of Lucy? Lucy was easy, cheerful and willing company but Thamsine—when he thought of Thamsine, he saw the tilt of her chin, the warm, brown eyes, the humorous lift of her mouth. He missed her intelligent companionship and her high-handed disrespect for him.

"Deep in thought, Lovell?"

Kit looked up sharply. He knew and disliked the man who sat down unbidden at his table. Colonel Bampfield was known to turn his coat with the frequency of his linen. Despite having executed a daring rescue of the young Duke of York from under Parliament's nose some eight years previously, he enjoyed a worse reputation than Henshaw.

"Colonel Bampfield. The air in here has suddenly grown rather pungent,” Kit snarled into his ale.

"My dear Captain Lovell, you are hardly one to start throwing stones, are you?"

"What do you mean?"

Bampfield leaned towards him and said in a low, conspiratorial voice, “I mean that I know that you and I serve the same master. Our loyalties are not necessarily what they seem to the rest of the world."

"I have no idea what you are talking about.” Kit set the empty pot down with a thump. “If you are calling my loyalty to the King into question then I should call you out here and now."

"You could do that but I know you won't. I have some letters for delivery to London,” Bampfield continued in the same low voice. “Call them love letters to someone I care for deeply. I could send them in the usual manner but I would rather they went in safe hands."

"That is all you ask of me?"

"Of course. I am not asking you to confess your dirty little secrets to me, merely act as my courier."

Kit bridled. “I have no dirty little secrets, Bampfield. However, if you insist, I will take your papers."

Bampfield rose to his feet. “You are a gentleman, sir.” He handed Kit a small packet of papers. “To your safekeeping."

Kit thrust the papers into his jacket. “I hope our paths do not cross again, Bampfield."

"I am sure we can avoid that."

As Bampfield rose to leave, Fitzjames, Henshaw and the younger Gerard entered the inn. Bampfield stood still, forcing Kit to introductions. He wondered if any of them had seen the letters pass from Bampfield to himself. If they had, nothing in their faces betrayed any suspicion. It was evident that Fitz and Gerard had news. They sat down, their faces taut with expectation.

Kit looked up at Bampfield. “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance again, Colonel."

Bampfield bowed. “And yours. Be sure to give my regards to my friends in London. Gentlemen."

Fitz watched Bampfield's departing back and then leaned forward. “We have reached an agreement, Lovell."

"At last,” Kit said with genuine relief in his voice.

"We have spoken with the Queen and Prince Rupert and we are agreed that we will continue with our plan,” Gerard said. “You and Fitzjames are to leave now for London to start the arrangements."

"And you?"

"We have some business still to do here but we will follow by week's end."

"Rupert wants an army of ten thousand,” Henshaw said.

Kit looked at him in disbelief. “In England? We can't raise an army of ten!"

Jack Gerard's eyes burned. “Scotland, Lovell. The Queen believes that if my uncle were to take the Duke of York and Rupert to Scotland, we will get the support."

"We did that in ‘50, Gerard, and look what became of that venture!” He looked at Fitz. “We were lucky to escape with our lives."

"This time it will be different. If our plan goes well, Cromwell will be dead and the army in disarray, England will fall."

Gerard's eyes burned with a passion Kit remembered only too well from his youth: the absolute certainty of the rightness of a cause. However, he kept his peace and forced himself to recall that it was not his place to argue against the plan but to go along with it.

He nodded. “And the King?"

"To remain safely on the Continent until such time as his kingdom is secure,” Gerard concluded.

Kit looked at Fitz. “So we leave now?"

"I suggest the morning. A hard ride to Calais to catch the evening tide.” Fitz said.

Kit grimaced at the thought of the sea voyage.

Fitz leaned forward. “What of Eloise? Will you have time to see her before you go?"

Fitz was one of the very few people in the world who knew about Eloise. Kit shook his head. “No. There'll be no time."

Henshaw caught the girl's name and dug Kit in the ribs. “Leaving a girl to pine for you?"

Kit stared down into his ale. “In a manner of speaking,” he replied.

Kit had faced death in many forms and had always managed to stare it down. Now he lay wrapped in his cloak on the rough bunk bed praying for a speedy demise. God had never intended him to be a sailor. He had puked until he had nothing more to puke and dry retched into the noisome bucket by his bunk and now woke from a fitful sleep.

The lantern, illuminating the cabin in a sickly yellow light, tossed and swayed with the motion of the boat. He closed his eyes hastily then realized that what had woken him was the sound of scuffling.

He opened his eyes again, averting them from the swaying lantern. He turned his head and saw Fitzjames bent towards a lantern. He held Kit's jacket in one hand and in the other were Bampfield's papers. He could hear the crackle of paper as Fitz opened one of the letters.

In the confined space of the cabin, Kit could not move without Fitz detecting it. He shifted his weight slightly to allow himself leverage from the bunk and with half an eye saw Fitz turn to him. With his normally sharp reflexes dulled by seasickness, he had not anticipated the speed with which Fitz could move. Fitz turned on him, grabbed his shirt and pulled him into an upright position, his eyes burning with anger.

"You bloody traitor!"

"What?"

Fitz waved the paper in Kit's face. “What the hell is this about?"

"I have no idea. Bampfield asked me to deliver them in London. He told me they were love letters."

"Love letters?” Fitz spat. “Reports of all our meetings. Reports that leave me in no doubt that you are the one referred to as ‘our friend'. How long have you been in Thurloe's pay, Lovell?” He stared at Kit as realization of the extent of Kit's duplicity crossed his face. “Every move we've made, every discussion we've had has gone straight back to Thurloe, hasn't it? The Ship Inn, was that your work?"

"Let go of me, Fitz. I haven't the faintest idea what you are talking about."

The anger began to die in Fitz's face and the grip on Kit's shirt slackened. “I'd heard whispers after the Ship Inn but I couldn't believe them. Not of you, Lovell. I thought I knew you better."

Kit removed Fitz's hand from his shirt. “Fitz, as God is my witness, I had no idea what these letters contain. You know Bampfield's reputation."

"And Henshaw and Wildman, but you, Lovell...” Fitz shook his head.

"Bampfield told me they were for his mistress."

"How do I believe you?"

"You can't, Fitz. You just have to trust me."

Fitz thrust the paper he was holding into his pocket. “I need fresh air."

Kit looked at the pitching, swaying lantern. “Fitz, it is blowing a gale up there."

But his friend did not hear him. With heavy steps he dragged himself to the ladder and up into the cold air of the Thames Estuary.

Kit sat on the edge of the bunk for a minute, his head in his hands. Slowly he pulled on his boots and jacket and climbed the narrow ladder. It still lacked a few hours to dawn. The night was dark and the sea a boiling, angry cauldron. Only a dark mass on the horizon gave any indication of their proximity to land.

Fitz leaned against the rail, his hair and cloak blowing in the gale. They were alone except for the helmsman who stood at the wheel, seemingly impervious to the pitching deck.

Kit grasped the rail beside Fitz.

"Why, Lovell?” Fitz did not even turn to look at him.

Kit sighed. No more lies. He could tell no more lies. “I have my reasons, Fitz."

"Is that reason anything to do with Daniel?"

Kit was silent for a moment. “Yes. It is everything to do with Daniel."

"He's dead, Kit. You sold your soul for a vain hope."

"No,” Kit said with emotion choking his voice. “No, I won't believe he's dead until I dig his stinking corpse from the ground."

"I thought I knew you,” Fitz said with dull resignation in his voice.

"Nobody can really know another person, Fitz.” Kit grimaced.

"Well you are good at what you do,” Fitz acknowledged bitterly.

"I take that as a compliment, however it was meant.” Kit turned to look at his friend. “What are you going to do, Fitz?"

"I have no choice. I have to advise the King and the others that you are not to be trusted. You're finished, Lovell. When word gets around you are probably even a dead man."

Kit felt momentary panic. “Give me time, Fitz. Let me fade into the background. I will go to the Colonies as I planned, as we discussed so often."

"I can't, Lovell. You know that. You know too much and we don't have the time. I have no choice.” Fitz turned quickly, the light from the helm flashing on his pistol.

Kit didn't flinch. He lifted his hands away from the rail and turned to face his friend.

"I'm unarmed, Fitz. My sword's below. You can kill me now if you have to,” he said quietly, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on his friend's face.

Fitz hesitated and in that fraction of a second the boat pitched, throwing them both off balance. Fitz staggered backwards, falling against the rail. The boat heaved; Kit fell forwards towards Fitz. He put out his hand to hold onto his friend but in the space of a heartbeat, Fitz had overbalanced, tipping over the rail of the boat.

Catching at the rail to stop himself falling as well, Kit saw his friend's mouth open in a silent scream, his arms flailing wildly as he dropped into the dark abyss. Kit's hands grasped frantically at thin air. He screamed Fitz's name, the wind carrying his voice away unanswered into the dark, foul night.

He pulled himself up and leaned over the rail but the dark, seething water had claimed the only man he had called his friend.

He looked up at the helmsman. “There is a man overboard!"

The man shrugged. “I saw. There is nothing I can do, m'sieur. He is gone."

Kit stared at the man, torn between seizing the wheel and beating him to a pulp.

"Why do you care? He would have killed you,” the helmsman observed.

The boat pitched and Kit staggered against the rail, his hands clasping at the slimy wood. He cast the sea one last regretful glance and like a man in a daze, returned to his bunk in the cabin where he was violently ill. This time it had nothing to do with seasickness. He curled up on the narrow bed and faced the damp wood and waited for the morning.

Kit awoke to find himself lying in a filthy alley where he had evidently been thrown. Kit pulled himself into a sitting position, laid his arms over his knees, lowered his head onto them and as the memory of Fitz's death came back with cruel, clear clarity, he wept. Heavy, dismal rain soaked him through to the bones.

Once ashore, Kit had found the nearest inn and drunk himself into insensibility. Alcohol's amnesiac properties were only illusory. Slowly he raised his head and considered the grey, unappealing sky. He let the rain wash his face and then rose to his feet. A quick check revealed his pockets had been turned out for the few coins they contained but the papers he carried, that Fitz had died for, were still safe.

He stumbled through the narrow streets, oblivious to the sidelong glances and looks of disgust that his filthy, disreputable state attracted. He stopped outside the respectable house he sought and looked up at it. There were already lights in several of the rooms as the dismal afternoon drew in.

Slowly, as if his feet were made of lead he ascended the stairs and banged on the front door. A manservant opened the door, took one look at Kit and made to shut it again but Kit had pushed past the man and stood in the respectable entrance hall that smelt comfortingly of beeswax and wood smoke.

"Where's Thurloe?” He demanded.

"The master'll not see you. You must leave at once.” The man's nose wrinkled with distaste as he made a grab for Kit's jacket. “Now get out before I call the watch."

Kit shook him off. “He'll see me."

He paced the front hall.

"Thurloe!” he yelled, his voice echoing up the stairwell. “Thurloe, come out and face me, you whoreson."

A respectably dressed woman appeared at the top of the stairs, her face pinched with fright. “Who are you? How dare you! Get out of my house."

A door opened and Thurloe appeared in the hallway.

"John? Who is this frightful man?” The woman's voice quavered with apprehension.

"It's all right my dear, I'll deal with it,” Thurloe said calmly, adding in a hard voice, “In here now, Lovell!"

Mustering what was left of his dignity, Kit marched past the supercilious manservant through the door that Thurloe held open. The door shut behind them both.

"What is the meaning of this intrusion?” Thurloe's voice was icy.

Kit reached into his jacket and slapped the packet of papers down on the table.

"These are for you."

"They could be delivered in the usual manner."

"No, they couldn't. These reports have been bought and paid for with a life, Thurloe. You will find one of them missing. If you care to drag the Thames Estuary you will find it on the body of my friend Fitzjames."