The King's Man (38 page)

"Does she know?"

Kit nodded. “She knows everything about me. The very worst corners of my soul.” He reached for the jug, pouring himself another cup. “It was only a marriage of convenience, Jem. Let her think I'm dead and find someone better."

"Someone better? Someone like that Morton perhaps!"

Kit snorted.

"Ye know he's back in London?"

"Back from where?"

"Bin on the Continent these last few weeks. Come back to find his lady love up to her ears in creditors he has."

"So?” Kit feigned disinterest.

"It hasn't occurred to your wooden head that your Thamsine is now a widow?"

Kit shrugged.

"A wealthy widow,” Jem added.

"He can't force her to marry him. She's safe enough from him."

Jem reached across the table and grabbed the front of Kit's shirt, hauling him up until they were nose to nose.

"He can force her to do anything he damn well wants and ye're just going to sit there and let it happen?"

Kit stared into Jem's one, bloodshot eye. “Let go of me, Marsh."

Jem's mouth tightened but he let Kit go. He subsided back on the stool and picked up his cup.

"Anyway, how do you know what Morton is up to?"

"I've bin keeping an eye on him, these last months,” he said. “Don't want him paying any unexpected calls on me and mine again."

"Do you think he'll go after Thamsine?"

"What choice does he have? The Talbot woman's no good for him now and he's not a man to survive long without money."

Kit set his cup down and ran a hand through his hair. It felt knotted and unwashed. He hadn't dared to look in a mirror since—since—even now he couldn't bear to recall the nightmare of his hanging. Little wonder he had tried to expunge it from his memory with alcohol. He rose unsteadily to his feet and went in search of a looking glass.

For a brief moment he didn't recognise himself. More than two weeks of growth shadowed his chin and his hair hung in unkempt strands. He tugged at the cloth tied loosely around his neck to reveal the livid shadow of the noose still marring his skin. He shuddered as his fingers traced the line of the rope. More alarming were his eyes, the whites obscured by the red of broken capillaries. He set the mirror down and leaned his head against the wall. He couldn't go on pretending to himself that Thamsine was better off without him. The truth was that he was no good without her.

Thamsine drew her knees up to her chin and stared out of the window at the well-ordered gardens and familiar view of her childhood.

"What are you thinking, Aunt Thamsine?” Her niece's voice made her jump, and she turned to look at Rebecca.

Rebecca's serious face studied her from beneath an immaculate white cap. She looked older and wiser than her fourteen years. Thamsine patted the window ledge and the girl sat down beside her, her back rigidly straight.

"I was thinking about my childhood,” she said. “My brother and I used to climb the trees in the apple orchard and ride our ponies in the home paddock."

Rebecca's eyes widened. “You used to climb trees?"

Thamsine nodded.

"I would never...” Rebecca looked down at the prayer book in her hand. “Aunt Thamsine..."

"Rebecca?"

"Is mother really dying?"

Thamsine sighed. “Yes, dearest. I doubt she will see the week out."

"What will become of us?"

"What do you mean?"

"Father says that we must leave Hartley and return to the house in Turnham Green."

"Don't you want to go home to London?"

Rebecca shook her head.

Thamsine put a hand over the small, fine-boned hand clasping the prayer book. “You will always be welcome to visit me at Hartley."

Rebecca's face brightened. “Promise?"

Thamsine nodded, “I promise."

"Will you come to London?"

"Not unless I absolutely have to,” Thamsine said. London held too many painful memories. Here at Hartley she could almost imagine that her life and her love were but imagination.

"Will you marry again?"

Thamsine looked down at her black skirt and shook her head. “No. I shall never marry again."

"What was he like?"

"Who?"

"Your husband?"

Thamsine swallowed. “I can't talk about him, dearest."

"Why not? I would have liked to meet him. Mother says he was a rogue but in a nice way."

"Yes, he was a rogue in a nice way.” Thamsine smiled. “A terrible rogue but you would have liked him."

"There you are, Bec!” Rachel, her fair curls escaping from beneath her cap, bounded into the room. “We've been looking for you everywhere! What are you talking about?"

Thamsine looked at ten year-old Rachel and smiled. She had just turned ten.

"We were talking about Thamsine's husband,” Rebecca said.

"Oh, was he terribly handsome?” Rachel asked.

"Yes,” Thamsine smiled, “he was terribly handsome."

"You must be sad he's dead!"

Thamsine drew a heavy breath. “Let's not talk about him anymore. Rachel, come here, your hair is a mess."

She made a fuss of Rachel's hair, trying to pin it back under the cap. If Rachel had been her daughter she would have given up the unequal struggle but for Jane's sake she persisted.

"Now,” she addressed both girls, “shall we go and sit with Mama? I promised I would play her some music."

Rebecca held up the book of prayers. “And I said I would read to her."

Taking Rachel by the hand, Thamsine straightened her back and led the girls into Jane's bedchamber. Despite the airy atmosphere and the bright vases of roses, picked from the gardens, the bed chamber smelt stale, a smell of imminent death Thamsine remembered from her own childhood as her father had forced her to sit for long hours in her mother's sick chamber.

Jane's life ebbed painfully. Every day the battle to breathe became harder and harder and even propped up on the pillows her thin face was ashen, the lips blue. Thamsine stooped to kiss her sister's brow. Jane's eyes flickered open and a faint smile lifted the ravaged countenance. Thamsine no longer asked how she felt. Rachel bounced on to the bed beside her mother.

"What have you been doing?” she asked her daughters.

Rachel curled up against her mother with her head on her shoulder. “I've been down in the stable. Brown's dog has just had a litter of puppies. He said I could have one if Papa will let me."

Rebecca sat down on the side of her mother's bed. “I've brought some prayers to read with you, Mama, and Aunt Thamsine said she will play for you."

Thamsine picked up the lute from where she had left it.

"That will be lovely,” Jane whispered.

The sun streamed through the long, casement windows, the stained glass scattered in the panes casting jewelled shadows on the floor and across the bed.

"Will you open the window?” Jane asked.

Rebecca looked at Thamsine who nodded. Rebecca threw open the casements and the smell of newly mown hay drifted in with soft sunlight.

Rebecca returned to her mother's side and began to read as Thamsine picked out a quiet, contemplative piece. Rachel lay snuggled in her mother's arm, listening to the words and the music, her eyes half closed.

"Mama?” Rachel said suddenly and sat up, her eyes wide. Jane's eyes were open, staring at the open window. The breath rattled in her throat, then there was silence.

"Mama!” Rebecca jumped up, her face stricken.

Thamsine slowly laid down the lute and crossed to her sister's bed. She leaned over and kissed her sister's forehead, feeling the last warmth of life just beneath the skin. Her hands passed over the wide eyes, closing them forever.

Rachel rolled off the bed and threw herself at Thamsine's skirts, the tears flowing. Rebecca stood still. The open prayer book dropped to the floor. Thamsine moved to put an arm around the girl but Rebecca moved away.

"Go to your father,” Thamsine said, “and bring him here."

Moving slowly and stiffly, Rebecca turned and left the room. Thamsine sat down on a chair beside the bed and pulled the weeping youngster onto her lap, holding her until the sobs subsided into deep, gulping sobs.

Thamsine stood in the doorway of her parlor looking down at Roger Knott's bowed head. Jane's death had left him broken. He had not stirred from his chamber since the funeral, two days previously.

"Roger?"

He looked up sharply.

"Prayer will not bring her back,” Thamsine remarked coldly.

"I pray for my soul, not hers. Jane has gone to our Lord with a soul unblemished and spotless whereas I feel the fires of hell already licking at my feet."

"Rightly so,” Thamsine responded, unsympathetically. “You're an adulterer. You betrayed your marriage vows and allowed yourself to become a party to a despicable plot."

Roger's thin lips moved but no sound came out. “I loved Jane."

"Not enough, Roger. Not enough. Now I wish to speak with you about the future."

"Of course.” He rose from his knees. His abject cringing almost made her turn from the room.

"If it were my choice,” she said, “I would pray to God I never saw you again. However,” Thamsine continued, “you're the father of my sister's children and I must consider them. My dearest wish is that they will never have to suffer what I have endured. I have therefore decided,” she said, “that I shall settle upon them a comfortable amount."

"A dowry?"

"Not a dowry. It shall be a condition of my gift that it shall remain the property of the girls and not devolve upon any future husband they might have."

Roger looked up, life sparking into his dead eyes. “But that is unheard of."

"It is the condition of my gift,” she said and named the amount.

Roger looked down at his hands again. “They don't deserve such generosity."

"They are my only blood kin, Roger."

Roger swallowed. “I must return to London."

"When you are ready."

"Can I leave the girls here with you?"

Thamsine hesitated. Why was he asking her? He was the children's father and they should be with him.

"Surely their place is with you,” she said.

Roger drew a deep breath. “They're happy here,” he said. “I have been a poor husband and a worse father. This will be my punishment."

With his head held high he withdrew from her presence.

Thamsine walked to the window and stood contemplating the peaceful countryside that had remained relatively untouched by the recent wars. Her father had been clever in his support of the King, never allowing his loyalty to his monarch to undermine his loyalty to his family.

Thamsine felt tears prick the back of her eyes. She would have no family, no one to pass Hartley to, except for the two girls. When Kit had first been taken from her, she had prayed that she was with child but it was not to be and she had cried when her body betrayed her. She had nothing left of Kit except a battered copy of Francis Bacon that she kept under her pillow and the contents of an old chest, still at the Ship Inn.

The time had come to collect up the remnants of Kit's life. Perhaps, if she had the courage, she would go to France and meet his daughter. The letter to Eloise's guardian had been the hardest she had ever written. Suzanne's reply had been warm and generous and full of love for her wayward cousin and had concluded with a hope that Thamsine would come to France. There was also his family at Eveleigh. She thought she would like to meet his sister and learn a little more of his life before she had known him.

She swallowed and walked quickly to the desk where she penned a short note to Jem Marsh.

Kit balanced the sword in his left hand, studying his opponent's eyes. They circled each other. His opponent thrust and he parried, and while his opponent was unbalanced he moved in for the kill, the point of his sword resting against the throat.

Jem dropped his sword, and backed up against the wall of the inn courtyard, his large face florid and sweating. “That's it, Lovell. No more. Seems to me it don't make much difference if it isn't your sword hand, you're still damned good with a sword."

"You're getting old and slow, Jem.” Kit, coughing, removed the sword point from his friend's throat and gave the man's substantial belly a thump. “And fat."

He sheathed his sword and waited for the coughing to ease. It seemed to be a legacy of being hanged that took a while to disappear. His voice had returned but in a different form, lower and with a crackling edge to it. It would take a little getting used to. A new voice, a new persona. Thurloe had been right in a number of ways. Kit Lovell, adventurer, philanderer and spy, had died at the end of the noose. However he still had no clear idea who had emerged from the shadows of the gallows.

Nan Marsh appeared at the door and stood there, her hands on her hips.

"If you two have finished playing sword games,” she said caustically, “I've something that might be of interest to you."

She held out a piece of paper. Jem took it, squinted at the writing on it and handed it to Kit.

"You know I don't read. You read it."

Kit took the paper and frowned. The writing seemed familiar. He opened the seal and read:

Dear Jem,

I trust this note finds you and the girls well. My sister died a week ago and I grieve for her as I still grieve for my husband. I would be much obliged if you could arrange the conveyance of his belongings to me. I am to be found at Hartley Court, beyond the village of Milston. I hope you may come in person.

Yr friend,

Thamsine Lovell

Kit took a deep breath and saw that his hand shook.

"Well?” Jem enquired. “No more excuses, Lovell. You know where she is and I reckons a personal delivery is called for.

Kit looked up at his old friend. “What do I do? How do I...?"

Jem thumped him on the back. “You've a sizeable ride to figure on it, Lovell. I'll get you a horse in the morning."

"Another day or two...” Kit began.

Jem fixed him with a glare. “Ye're a coward, Lovell."

Kit looked up at his friend.

"I just can't appear, Jem."

"Then write her a note!” Jem's voice betrayed a degree of impatience.