The King's Man (36 page)

The instinct for survival was strong and he struggled for breath—for life—before a red mist closed over his eyes, blocking out the memory of the slender woman with chestnut hair standing in the yard of Westminster Palace. Her face replaced by other images—Daniel's fear-filled face on a smoky battlefield, Fitzjames’ eyes as he had gone over the side into the murky blackness of the Thames Estuary, other memories of his mother, his home, then nothing.

Thamsine needed only one look at Nan Marsh's red-rimmed eyes and trembling mouth to know what news she brought. Nan held out a letter. Thamsine shook her head in denial.

"No,” she whispered. “I had hoped ... a reprieve, surely."

Nan's lips trembled as she shook her head.

"This morning,” she said. “They said it was this morning at dawn. Said he died like a gentleman. Jem said I was to bring it to you without delay.” Nan proffered the letter again. “Take it, Mistress Thamsine. Take it. They said ‘tis from him."

"No!” Thamsine felt a shiver run through her body.

She snatched at the paper and looked at her name written in an awkward scrawl. She clutched it to her chest and from deep within her a howl of despair rose, an animal noise that had nothing to do with human reason but came from the very depth of primal despair. She sank to her knees on the floor, doubling over as the dry, retching sobs shook her.

She felt Nan's arm around her shoulder, her head resting on her back. She heard the girl's sobs but had no comfort for her. Kit was dead.
Dead
, the word reverberated in her mind. Everyone she had ever loved was dead. Even Jane would leave her before many more months were out.

"Mistress is asking what the trouble is.” Thamsine heard the maid's voice.

Nan lifted her head. “He's dead."

"Who?"

"Her husband, you great ninny. Here, help me get her upstairs. She needs her sister, not us two useless lumps."

Her limbs stiff and unresponsive, Thamsine allowed herself to be lifted upright, supported on either side and led, almost as a blind person, up the stairs to the chamber where Jane sat in a well-cushioned chair before the window. She gained a brief impression of Jane's pale, anxious face looking up at her full of concern and love.

Like a child she ran to her sister, falling at her feet, burying her face in Jane's skirts. She felt a loving hand on her hair and the tears began, an unstoppable flood of grief.

"There, dearest,” Jane whispered, gently stroking her hair, “you cry."

There was a pause and Jane's tone changed as she addressed Nan.

"When?"

"This morning,” Nan replied. “They brought a letter for her.” The letter Thamsine still held, crushed and unopened. “Mistress, I cannot stay. I've got the loan of Jack's pony and he needs it back this afternoon."

"Thank you...” Jane hesitated.

"Nan Marsh, ma'am. I'm a friend of Thamsine's and Captain Lovell.” Nan's sharp voice cracked.

"Thank you, Nan,” Jane said. “I'm sorry for your loss. Peggy, see that Mistress Marsh gets some refreshment before she returns to London."

The door closed. Jane lifted Thamsine's face. “Dearest, I'm so sorry."

Thamsine rose to her feet. The well stream of tears had stemmed and she felt as if life had been drained from her. She turned to the window, looking out over the garden, bright with summer flowers. She looked down at the paper in her hand and laid it on the windowsill, smoothing out the creases, trying to get some sense of the man who had written her name. So much life, snuffed out like a candle, reduced to a cold corpse. Yet he had been alive when he had written this. Not even twenty-four hours had passed.

She wondered where he was, what had they done with him. Had they buried him already? She frowned. Should she claim the body and return him to Eveleigh?

She ran down the stairs to the kitchen where she found Nan just about to leave.

"Where is he, Nan?"

"Jem asked where he were. Said you would want a proper burial for him but they said he were already...” The girl swallowed. “...already buried. There in the Tower. Do you want...?"

Thamsine shook her head. “No. Let him be for now."

When she was stronger, when the shock had passed, then maybe she would claim him. For now, let him have peace.

Nan sniffed. “His things ... They brought his things. They're at the Inn. I didn't think to bring ‘em wiv me."

Thamsine felt her mouth tremble. She didn't have the strength to make any decisions.

"Keep them for me. I will send for them shortly. Thank you, Nan, thank you for everything."

She returned to Jane's room. Her sister had been weeping, her eyes red and swollen. Thamsine picked up the letter from the windowsill where she had left it and broke the seal.

"Dearest Thamsine...” she read aloud.

Her eyes filling with tears, she slid down to the floor and sat with her back against the wall, trying to decipher the terrible handwriting and make sense of Kit's last words to her. At least she had this. At least she knew he loved her. It was more than many women had. She thought of those women who had lost the men they loved in the past years of strife. What comfort did they have? When she had finished, she pressed the paper to her lips and inhaled deeply, trying to see if some scent of him remained.

"Thamsine, come here,” Jane said quietly, holding out her hand.

Thamsine rose slowly and slid to the floor at her sister's feet, laying her head against her knee. Jane stroked her temple.

"What will you do?” Jane asked.

With a slight shake of her head, Thamsine replied. “I'll stay with you, Jane. You and the girls are all I have left."

"I think we should go home, Thamsine, back to Hartley where we were both happy. I want to die at Hartley not here where there are so many difficult memories."

Thamsine nodded. “If that's what you want, Jane?

"We will leave tomorrow,” Jane said.

"Tomorrow,” Thamsine echoed.

She was drained of life, incapable of moving, thinking, and making decisions. She just wanted to sleep, to sleep and forget that the man she loved was dead.

Beyond darkness so profound that it had a force of its own, a distant light seemed to grow stronger and brighter. Kit took a step towards it, wanting to reach it with a desperate longing. He reached out his hand and took another step but there were long fingers holding him, dragging him back into the darkness. He tried to cry out but could not make a sound. The light faded and a red and black mist of pain enveloped him.

Distantly he became aware of voices, of searing pain as his lungs struggled to regain air. He opened his eyes. Heaven or hell? Surely hell. Heaven brought peace, not this torment of pain and bright colors that flashed before his eyes.

"Praise the Lord, he's coming around,” a man said. “It seems he'll live. Another couple of seconds and you would have been too late."

Live? He lived? Kit tried to say the word but nothing came out but a strangled croak.

A hand rested on his chest. “Ah, don't try to talk. It will be some time before you'll talk again. There's a great deal of bruising."

Kit put a hand to his throat and swallowed with difficulty.

"Can you see?” A bright light waved in front of his face and he put up a hand to shield his eyes from the intensity of the light that hid the man.

The voice again, soothing and elderly, a voice of authority. “Now lie quiet. It hurts. That's to be expected."

How had he not died? The memory of the rope closing on his throat came back with cruel, stark clarity. Kit threw off the hand and tried to sit up but the effort was too much. He subsided, coughing and closed his eyes.

He put his hands to his face. The thudding in his head felt as if his temples would burst, his throat hurt unbearably and every breath seared in his lungs. His back arched in agony. Strong hands held him down, forcing him back on to the bed. Someone held a cup to his lips and he coughed and gagged as a sweet liquid dribbled down his tortured throat. He turned his head away and tried to control the shaking in his limbs.

He must have slept. When he opened his eyes again, the light in the room seemed to have changed. He blinked, trying very hard to focus as he looked around the small room but everything remained resolutely blurred. The room appeared to be illuminated by a brace of expensive wax candles that lacked the smell of the more usual tallow.

The man standing over him wore the robes and tight-fitting cap of a physician. Another man now moved across his field of vision, leaning over him, regarding him thoughtfully, his arms crossed, one hand raised, his finger against his lips.

"Welcome back, Captain Lovell. You had me worried. I thought for a moment I was too late."

"Thurloe!"

Again nothing but a croak emanated from Kit's throat. The effort caused him to cough, racking coughs that made him to contract in pain.

"It was the only way, Lovell,” Thurloe answered the unspoken question. “We cut you down before any serious damage could be done. Although, as the physician said, probably just in time. You will hurt for a while but Dr. Munn here assures me that you should make a full recovery."

Kit opened his eyes and stared at Thurloe, wishing his face would come into focus so he could try to understand how this man could let him go to the gallows, just to snatch him back from the jaws of death.

"I couldn't save you from the gallows without it appearing suspicious.” Thurloe read his mind again. “A last-minute reprieve was not possible without awkward questions. This way Christopher Lovell is dead. You are free to start a new life. All debts repaid."

Kit shook his head. A mistake: the world roared in his ears and he pressed his hands to his head to try and ease the pain.

The doctor raised his head and held a cup to his lips. Kit drank gratefully, the cool, unidentifiable liquid soothing the pain of his tortured throat.

"Get him up,” Thurloe said. “My coach is waiting."

"He needs rest,” the doctor protested.

"He can have plenty of rest but I want him out of here. I want him off my hands."

Kit groaned as the doctor hauled him upright. It took both the doctor and Thurloe's bulky coachman, who had to be summoned to assist, to half carry, half drag him downstairs and out through a sally port to where the coach stood waiting in the shadows.

Kit subsided against the expensive leather seats and closed his eyes. Thurloe gave a sharp order and the coach moved off. He did not speak until it stopped again.

"Well, this is it, Lovell. This is farewell."

Thurloe's voice came from the pale circle of his face.

He continued, “You will come to thank me, Lovell. At least you have your life and a chance to start again. However I think it prudent you avoid your previous haunts for some time. Your Lazarene resurrection from the dead may excite comment among your former comrades. In a few years, maybe they will have forgotten about you. Ah, we're here. Back to the warm and welcoming arms of your friends. All shuttered up, I see. There must have been a death in the family."

The door of the coach opened.

"Goodbye, Lovell,” Thurloe said as his coachman hauled Kit bodily out of the coach and deposited him on the doorstep of the Ship Inn.

The coachman banged on the door and left Kit balanced unsteadily against the doorjamb. By the time he heard footsteps on the flags of the taproom, Thurloe's coach had gone.

"We're closed.” Jem's voice boomed gruffly from behind the door.

Kit rested his face against the door and raised his hand to the wood, his feeble efforts making no more impression than the scratching of a mouse. The bolt was drawn back with a thud and the door flung open. Kit got a brief impression of Jem's surprised face before falling forward into his arms.

There were voices in the dark, this time familiar voices.

"What sort of ‘orrible joke is this?” Nan asked indignantly.

"'Tis no joke,” Jem said. “'Tis Kit Lovell all right and I can tell you this, girls, he ain't dead. Fetch me some of the brandy."

Slowly Kit opened his eyes and coughed.

A squeak, a female cry of alarm and he turned his throbbing head to find himself looking into the eyes of May Marsh.

"You're really alive! I can't believe it."

She'd been crying. Her face looked red and blotchy. He reached out a hand to touch her face and she grasped his fingers pressing his hand to her wet cheek.

"Don't cry, May."

He thought the words came out but she didn't seem to hear.

Jem Marsh's concerned visage hove into view. He held up a hand.

"Don't even try and talk. ‘Twill be a while afore you've a voice of your own.” Jem's arm slipped beneath his head and a cup of brandy was put to his lips. Kit let a little of the burning liquid slide down his throat. He felt life creep back into his fingers and toes.

"They told us you was dead and buried. They even brought a letter for Mistress Thamsine...” May sobbed.

The letter. He had written her a letter. Thamsine would think he was dead. He propped himself up on an elbow and scanned the faces in the room: Jem, May and Nan. No Thamsine.

"She's not here. She's with her sister at Turnham Green.” Jem answered the question in Kit's eyes. “I'll send May's Tom in the morning to fetch her."

"Proper cut up she was when I told her...” Nan put in.

Thamsine wasn't here. She thought he was dead. Kit closed his eyes against this new pain. He wanted to hold her, to reassure himself that he had survived, that they could be together.

Jem brought the candle lower and turned Kit's head, inspecting his neck.

"Another minute on the gibbet and you'd've been done for,” he said.

Had this really been the only way Thurloe could find to save his life or another or his cruel tricks? Well he owed him no thanks. Slowly the memory of what he had thought his last moments on earth forced their way into his aching mind and he put a shaking hand to his eyes. Thurloe's legacy was a nightmare that would haunt him for the rest of his days.

Jem put an arm around his shoulders and raised him gently to his feet.

"Come on, lad. You should be in bed. We'll hear the story in the morning."