The King's Man (4 page)

Kit turned his concentration to the carrot. “That is a harsh remark given I barely know you, Mistress Granville and, indeed, the circumstances of our meeting."

Thamsine ignored the twinkling grey-green eyes and looked down at the carrot in her hand. She gave it a couple of vicious swipes.

"The idea is to remove the skin, not the entire carrot,” Kit remarked. “And I apologize. I didn't mean to remind you of events you'd rather forget."

Thamsine sighed and looked up at Kit Lovell. His concentration was on the carrot, and it gave her an opportunity to study his face. She could see the attraction that seemed to set half the women in London falling at this man's feet. The dark hair and the unusual green eyes were an irresistible combination.

Even in London, in February, his skin held a tanned glow, but the lines of a hard soldier's life were etched around his nose and in the shadows of his eyes. She felt a prickle at the back of her neck. She had no doubt that the echoes of laughter in the corners of his mouth could disappear in an instant should he be crossed.

A lock of dark brown hair fell into his eyes and he unconsciously flicked it back, drawing attention to the thin, pale line of a scar that ran from above his right eye to his temple, transecting his eyebrow.

"You were lucky not to lose your eye. Was that Worcester?” she said aloud.

Kit looked up at her and frowned, puzzled by her question. “Oh this,” he said, his fingers going to the scar. “No. It was a running skirmish in ‘43. Looked worse than it was."

"You were there from the beginning?"

"Stormed down a hill at Edgehill and just kept going until the bitter end in ‘46. I returned in ‘48 and ‘51 but I don't need to tell you what disastrous campaigns those were,” Kit said. “I joined the court in exile, fought a few foreign wars I cared nothing for. Saw things I should never have seen...” He lapsed into a silence that spoke more eloquently than words.

For a long moment the only sound in the kitchen was the soft rasp of knife on carrot.

"And then?” Thamsine prompted.

He shrugged his shoulders. “I abhorred exile so I swallowed my pride, apologized for my past misdeeds and came back to England.” He looked up at her and smiled. “That, Mistress Granville, is my life."

"And do you truly earn a living playing cards?"

"And dice and whatever else I can find.” He looked at her, his eyes dancing. “I'm very good at what I do."

Thamsine gave a sniff of laughter. “I can see."

His clothes were not ostentatious but now she looked at them she could see that they were well cut and made from good fabric. Instead of the old-fashioned collar favored by her father, he wore the more fashionable falling bands that were pristinely white and starched. If you passed Kit Lovell in the street, you would probably think him a conservative man of business.

"Is this how you plan to spend the rest of your life?” she asked.

"No.” The single word was spoken with a hard edge to his tone.

The easy camaraderie on his face had been replaced by a sharp, appraising look. She had overstepped the unseen line in their relationship.

"What of you, Thamsine Granville? When are you going to tell me what has brought you to the kitchen of The Ship Inn?"

When she didn't answer he smiled and shrugged. “I see. If that is how it is to be, Thamsine, let us agree that I will ask you no more questions about your past if you ask none of mine."

May poked her head around the door. “There y'are, Cap'n Lovell!” she said. “Your friends have been waiting on you this half hour since."

She walked over and looked down at the pile of carrots, picking up one of Thamsine's efforts. “'Ere, what did this carrot ever do to you?” she asked.

Kit stood up. “Patience, May, she's never done this before."

"Aye well, I need them carrots so you take your hide out of here where you don't belong, Cap'n. I'll bring some pheasant pie in for you."

"God bless you, May.” Kit put an arm around the girl's shoulders and kissed her forehead.

She colored and pushed him away. “Get away before I start remembering as how's you never come visiting no more."

May watched as the kitchen door closed behind him and sighed heavily. “He's a one."

"What do you mean?"

"Charm the birds out of the trees, he can, but cross him and he'll show no quarter."

"How do you know?"

"Jem told me. Jem was his sergeant in the war. Said the men would have followed him into the depths of hell if he'd just say the word."

Kit opened the door to the private parlor. The air within the confines of the room was heavy with tobacco mingled with smoke from the fire. Kit felt his eyes begin to water and he coughed. The half dozen men taking their ease around the table looked up.

"Lovell! As I live and breathe!” Dutton jumped to his feet, slapping Kit on the shoulder with such force that Kit had to take a step to steady himself. “I'd not expected to see you again so soon!"

"I thank you for your warm welcome.” Kit bowed. “You would think I had been gone years instead of a mere two months."

"More to the point, how in God's name did you get out this time? The amount you owed, I thought you would never see the light of day! I told you that horse was a bad buy,” Colonel Whitely, a hard-bitten veteran with a cynical sense of humor, remarked, tapping out his pipe on his boot heel.

"Lovell has acquired a most valuable asset.” Fitzjames moved into the circle. “A wealthy mistress."

"Lucky dog!” Dutton said.

Kit smiled. “Indeed, my dearest Lucy could not bear to be without me. Her bed grew uncommon cold in the winter air."

As the paths of Lucy and these men were never likely to cross, the lie came easily.

Dutton scoffed. “God rot you, Lovell. Why can't I find some pretty little widow to keep me?"

"One look at your face in the mirror should give you the answer to that question,” Kit rejoined.

"You know everyone here?” Dutton ran an expansive hand around the circle.

Kit recognised the faces of his old companions in arms: his friend Fitzjames, Colonel Whitely, Roger Cotes, Richard Willys and a couple of other familiar faces. The last man was a stranger.

Whitely pulled the young man forward. “Jack Gerard, meet our friend and fellow sufferer, Captain Christopher Lovell. Jack is the nephew of Lord Gerard, who is with the King in Paris,” Whitely said.

Both men bowed politely.

"Welcome to this den of lost causes, Master Gerard,” Kit said.

Gerard smiled. “No cause is a lost cause, Captain Lovell. Not while we still have breath in our bodies and a King denied his rightful throne."

Kit did not reply immediately as he regarded the youngster thoughtfully. Jack Gerard was younger than the others, too young to have fought in the wars, Kit observed cynically. A young, dangerous idealist.

"Those indeed are sentiments we all hold dear to our hearts,” Kit said at last. “Come, gentleman, a toast to our King."

Wine sloshed into the glasses and the brimming cups were held aloft. “To the King.” But the words were said quietly so as not to carry to the taproom beyond.

Kit set his glass down and settled himself in a chair beside the fire. “So, what is the news about London? One hears nothing behind the solid walls of the Clink except what your purse can tell you, and mine was mostly empty."

"I did hear tell that some woman took a pot-shot at the Lord Protector the other day,” Fitzjames said.

"Quite true,” Dutton said. “I was there. Saw it myself. Hurled a brickbat at him during the parade. Only missed him by a few inches."

"Women never could throw,” Cotes put in with a snort. “Did they catch her?"

"Vanished,” Dutton said. “Disappeared like smoke. Some say it was witchcraft."

"They'd say that about anybody. Fact is they were too incompetent to catch her,” Whitely said. “Well, good luck to her, wherever she is. Pity is, she missed."

"Cromwell conducts himself more and more as if he were King, not the usurping yeoman that he is,” Gerard spat.

Kit laughed. “My young friend, like it or not, he is our head of state. I for one would not have the task!"

"Pssh!” Whitely snorted. “Gone soft in gaol, Lovell."

Kit sighed. “Getting old, Whitely. So what brings you sorry band together?"

The men looked at each other.

Gerard leaned across the table to Whitely. “Is he to be trusted?"

Whitely gave the young man a hard look. “Of course he's to be trusted. Lovell's a King's man to the bone. He stood behind the King's colors at Edgehill and at Worcester."

Fitzjames placed a hand on Kit's shoulder. “He's one of us, Gerard."

The others nodded agreement.

"So, Dutton,” Fitz said. “What's the news?"

There was silence. All eyes in the room turned to Richard Dutton. The man raised his wineglass, took a sip and set it down with a dramatic flourish.

"There is a plan,” he announced.

Kit's heart sank. There was always a plan and if Dutton had anything to do with it, it was unlikely to be a very good plan.

Dutton leaned forward, his voice lowered. “As we discussed in Lovell's absence, it's early days yet but steps have advanced."

"And?” Whitely tapped his boot with obvious impatience.

Dutton shook his head. “I am loath to say much more for the present. However if we meet back here in a week, I will then have something to report."

Hiding his frustration with a shrug, Kit produced a battered pack of cards. “Well, until next week then. In the meantime I for one would welcome a diversion, not to mention a small boost to the purse. Anyone willing to take me on?"

At the end of the evening, Dutton rose unsteadily to his feet.

"Go to go,” he slurred. “Busy day tomorrow."

Kit shot to his feet. “I'll see you to your lodgings,” he said.

The two men lurched into the cold street. Snowflakes fell on their hats and shoulders but melted before reaching the slushy filth of the ground.

"Well, your damned luck hasn't changed,” Dutton remarked, swaying to one side of the road. Kit took his arm and propelled him back in a straight line. Dutton was a heavyset man some years older than he was. As with the rest of the company at the Ship Inn, the recent conflicts had dealt ill with him. He had lost his home and family, and the war had left him embittered and penniless and with a fondness for wine that loosened his tongue and made him dangerous.

"Plenty of time in the Clink to hone my skills. You should try it some time,” Kit said.

"Prison!” Dutton spat into the gutter. “I did. Remember those stinking cells after Worcester?"

Kit suppressed a shudder. There were some memories he preferred not to recall. “Tomorrow night, Dutton? You and me, a couple of comely wenches...?"

Dutton stopped in the middle of the street, swaying slightly. “Tomorrow ... No, tomorrow I must go away."

Kit deftly caught the man as he staggered forward. “So where are you off to then, Dutton?"

Dutton tapped the side of his nose and gave Kit a heavy, conspiratorial wink. “Secret."

"Good God man, we don't have secrets from each other. Look at all we've been through. Remember Naseby? Damn it, you saved my life that day.” This was so far from the truth as to be almost the opposite but Dutton's wine-soaked mind would remember what he wanted.

"Oh yes, my friend, I remember Naseby and Worcester. Can't forget Worcester."

"That's right. God's death Dutton, we've been through a lot together."

They had reached Dutton's squalid lodgings. Kit helped him up the stairs and set him down on the bed, pulling off the scuffed and shabby boots. The stench of Dutton's feet made his lip curl.

"So where did you say you were going tomorrow?” he asked.

Dutton lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. He patted his jacket. “All over. Letters to deliver. Tell you next meeting."

"Let's get that jacket off you then."

Kit hauled Dutton's bulk up and undid the jacket. Dutton let himself be ministered to and when Kit had pulled his arms from the jacket he fell back on his bed, snoring stentoriously.

Kit jerked the covers over the man and pulled the letters from the jacket. Dutton was known to be a fool and only other fools would entrust him with such a mission.

There were twelve letters sealed with a plain seal and addressed to well known royalists in the neighboring counties. Kit looked at the names and shook his head in disbelief. If these men had any sense they would give Dutton short shrift.

He heated his knife over the candle and slid it under the seal of one of the letters. The signature was that of a Robert West. Not a name known to Kit but he doubted it was real. The message read simply that their uncle was anxious for news and hoped that the recipient would be able to join him soon as the time was almost upon them.

Really
, Kit thought as he carefully resealed the letter,
they made a poor fist of using code
. The meaning was plain to even the most untrained observer; “uncle” was a thinly veiled reference to the King, although he doubted Charles knew anything about this latest scheme.

His unfortunate sojourn in the Clink meant he had some catching up to do. He scoured Dutton's room and found a pen and some paper and carefully copied the message and the names of the recipients. When he was done, he resealed and replaced the letter with its companions and blew out the candle. He cast poor, stupid Dutton a regretful glance and slipped from the room.

Every time the door to the taproom opened, Thamsine looked around in anticipation. It had been a week since she had last seen Kit Lovell, and as the other men slipped into the private parlor, she knew tonight he would come.

Nan passed her with two full jacks of ale. “You're like a she-cat on heat,” she remarked. “He'll be here soon enough. In the meantime go and make yourself useful. There's tables to be wiped and those ‘prentices over yon could do wiv some female company."

Thamsine cast a glance at the table of rowdy ‘prentices and shuddered. If they required female company, they could look elsewhere.

She tightened her apron strings, pulled the grimy rag from the pocket and began the task of wiping down the long oak table.