The King's Man (40 page)

Rachel had fallen asleep, her head on her father's lap. Roger's eyes were closed, his lips moving in prayer. Rebecca and Annie sat hand in hand, their eyes not leaving Ambrose's face. Thamsine's hands moved over the keys on the virginals, her eyes also watching Ambrose.

Ambrose picked the jug that Lucy had brought with the tray of food up and thrust it at Annie. “Annie, go to the kitchen and find me more ale."

Annie didn't move.

His voice rose. “Annie!” She jumped to her feet and took the jug from him. “More ale!"

Her lips moved and her unhappy eyes darted from Ambrose to Thamsine.

"Do what he says, Annie.” Thamsine tried to give the girl an encouraging smile.

Thamsine stopped playing. “My fingers are tired, Ambrose."

He shrugged. “Then rest them. You...” He indicated Rebecca. “Come here..."

Roger's eyes flashed open and he put an arm around his daughter. Rebecca didn't move.

Ambrose's tongue flicked at the corners of his lips.

"Come here, girl.” The pistol pointed at the girl.

Rebecca rose to her feet and walked slowly towards him. She stood just out of his reach, her eyes large and fearful.

"Now take that ridiculous cap off,” Ambrose said.

Thamsine rose to her feet.

"What are you doing, Ambrose?"

Ambrose ignored her. “Take that cap off!"

The girl complied, her brown hair tumbling to her shoulders.

"That's better,” Ambrose said. “Now the collar."

"Father...” Rebecca turned to her father.

Roger stood quite still, his face stricken. At the range of barely two feet, the pistol would not miss. If he moved, Rebecca was dead. He stared at his daughter with large stricken eyes.

"You unspeakable animal,” Thamsine said. “Let her go, she's only a child."

"Jealous, Thamsine? Don't worry, your turn will come later, we have all night—now if either of you lift a finger, the child dies. Which do you prefer? The collar!"

With shaking fingers, Rebecca started to undo the knot on her collar.

"Hurry up!” Ambrose jerked the pistol at the girl.

"'Brose! No!"

There was a crash as the jug of ale Annie was carrying fell to the floor. She gave a cry like a wild animal in pain and hurled herself at her brother. Ambrose jumped to his feet and turned to face her. The pistol discharged, its sound muffled by Annie's body as she fell on him.

Kit dismounted and walked his horse up the long drive to the house. The rain had soaked him to the skin, and he longed for a warm fire and a hot meal. He was too soon out of his sick bed to endure this sort of a soaking.

Jem's horse had lost a shoe and Kit, anxious to keep moving, had left him behind in Alton, a decision he now regretted. If Morton had gone to Hartley, it meant that he risked facing him alone again, and he was even less confident of his ability to survive such an encounter than he had been three months previously.

Kit's soldier's instincts prickled. Through the rain the fine Elizabethan house seemed quiet. A rain-soaked, mud-spattered carriage stood in the stable yard, no horses in the traces. He led his horse across to the dark, lifeless stables.

Cursing he groped around and found a lantern and tinder and struck a light. The carriage horses had been brought in but still wore their harness. They looked up and whinnied at him. He patted a soft nose.

"Where's your coachman?” he asked.

The horse's ears twitched. Kit found a bucket and filled it with oats and another with water for his horse and the two coach horses. He heard a muffled noise from behind a door at the end of the stables.

"Hello, anyone here?” he called.

For answer he heard the sound of voices and a frantic rapping on the door. He leaned against the stout oak of the padlocked door. “Who's in there?"

A barrage of voices met him.

"One at a time."

"Unlock this door!"

Kit looked at the massive padlock. “It's padlocked and there's no key."

A stable yard expletive returned from the other side of the door.

"Tell me what's happened here?"

A London voice spoke. “I was hired to bring a lady and gentleman here from London. As soon as I gets here, he puts a pistol to me head and orders me into the stables..."

A local voice broke in. “He then orders us all in here and bolts the door."

"How long have you been there?"

There was momentary silence. “A couple of hours."

"And the man's name?” Kit asked, although he already knew the answer.

"Morton.” The Londoner spat the name out. “Are my horses all right?"

"They've been brought in. I've fed them but they need to be rubbed down."

This time the expletive definitely came from the gutters of London.

"Listen, Mister, is there nought you can do with the lock?” The local man spoke.

He looked at the lock again. He could try shooting it out but he didn't want to risk the shot being heard. They would just have to wait.

"Not at the moment. You'll just have to sit on your hands for a while longer. I'll be back."

"Don't be too long."

"I'll be as long as it takes,” Kit replied gloomily.

He spent a couple of minutes removing the harnesses from the two coach horses and gave all three horses a quick rub down, while he considered his next move. The thought of being on the wrong end of Morton's sword with only the use of his left hand made him break out in a cold sweat. Kit had never thought of himself as a coward but he had to admit he was terrified.

He slipped around the house in the direction of the kitchens. A light shone from a window. Through it he could see a woman moving around. A pretty girl with dark hair. Her clothes indicated she was not a servant. She carried a jug, which she set down on the table. As he watched she wandered aimlessly around as if looking for something. There was no sign of any of the house servants.

Kit looked at the kitchen door. While he had the benefit of surprise, he didn't know the layout of the house and he didn't want to ruin it by blundering through the house. He decided he would be better to scout around the outside of the house and try and determine which room they were in.

Every nerve strained to breaking point, he pulled the pistol from his belt and balanced it in his left hand, hoping that he wouldn't have to use it. The powder was damp and he had less confidence in his ability to fire a pistol left-handed then he did in his left-handed swordsmanship.

He crossed the kitchen garden and through a gate in the wall on to a well-groomed bowling green. The contrast with the ravaged gardens at his own home, Eveleigh Priory, was jarring. Even in the dark and the rain he could see the front of the house faced down a pretty valley, the gardens well laid out and tended. Between the house and the garden was a wide, paved terrace stopped only by a low wall that afforded him some cover from prying eyes.

Only one window burned with light. A ground floor room with a bay window. The gravelled terrace would ordinarily have made it difficult to get close but in the rain his footsteps were muffled. Kit followed the low wall to the darkened end of the house and swiftly crossed the terrace. With his back to the house, he crept along the wall until he reached the window. The bay afforded him a reasonable chance to look in without being seen.

His blood turned cold. Thamsine sat at the Virginals, her hands still, her body poised and watchful. Roger Knott stood beside the fireplace, his face twisted in anguish. The object of their concern appeared to be a young girl of about twelve or thirteen who stood before Ambrose Morton.

Morton sprawled in a chair, a pistol balanced in his hand and aimed at the child. Even though the girl had her back to him, Kit could see from the line of the shoulders that the child was plainly terrified.

He did not need to see any more and he knew he could not afford to wait for Jem. As he turned away to find an entry to the house, he heard a crash of falling crockery.

He spun on his heel in time to see the dark haired woman from the kitchen throw herself at Ambrose. He flinched at the sound of the pistol shot but did not wait to see more. He turned and ran back towards the kitchen door, flinging it open. A child's hysterical screams provided all the directions he needed.

Outside the door to the parlor, he paused, peering through the crack formed by the open door, long enough to take stock of what was happening within the room.

From the angle of his line of sight he could see the girl who had been standing before Morton. She held a younger girl cradled her in her arms, hiding her face from the sight before them.

Morton had dropped to his knees beside the dark-haired woman he had shot, his face ashen. With infinite gentleness he turned her over, resting her head in his lap.

"Annie, oh God, Annie! I didn't mean...” His voice broke. He looked up at Thamsine who stood behind him. “She's still alive. Help her!"

Kit swallowed as he recognised the name; the woman he had shot had been his own sister.

Thamsine knelt down on the other side of Annie Morton, her hands fluttering helplessly over the growing crimson stain on the girl's bodice. Kit could see blood-stained bubbles flecking Annie's lips.

"You fool! Now you add murder to the crimes already to your account?"

Kit started. He knew that voice. Lucy! He'd not seen Lucy in the room.

Ambrose shook his head. “Not murder. Not Annie. I never..."

Kit stepped into the room.

Morton looked up and his eyes widened in fear. Lucy followed his gaze and screamed. Morton let his sister's head down to the floor and rose to his feet, taking a step backwards.

Kit kept his eyes on Morton. There would time for the others later but peripherally he was aware of Thamsine's horror-struck face. Mercifully the child stopped screaming.

They all stared at the apparition in the doorway in absolute silence.

"You're dead!"Morton's voice held a note of hysteria.

Kit's eyes met Morton's. He saw fear in the handsome face. Real fear. The surprise needed to be acted on.

"Dead?” Kit shrugged and took a step into the room. “I may be just an apparition ... or I may not be. Are you game to find out?"

Kit balanced the pistol lightly in his hand, trying to give an impression of confidence he did not feel.

"I assure you the ball in this pistol is real enough."

"As is the ball in this one!"

Kit grimaced. He had forgotten about Lucy. She stood to his left with a large, heavy pistol pointed at him.

"Shoot, Lucy,” Morton said.

Kit turned his head to look at Lucy. Their eyes met and he knew that she wouldn't fire. She lowered the pistol.

"Well, Kit Lovell,” she said. “This is between you and him."

Morton gave a strangled cry and Kit turned back to face him. Kit tightened his grip on the pistol butt and raised it, his finger resting on the trigger. With his thumb he pulled the hammer back and fired. Nothing happened. The powder was damp. He threw the useless pistol to one side and reached for his sword.

Morton seized the advantage.

"You really do have a death wish, don't you, Lovell?"

Ambrose's own weapon hissed from the scabbard. He balanced it lightly in his hand.

"This will be interesting. You were a good swordsman, Lovell, so I hear. But I'm better and left-handed, you'll be no match for me."

Kit hardly heard his words, only saw the red flashes of anger before his eyes. He did not need reminding of the reason he now fought with his left hand. With a steel will he forced his breath to slow. Never, never fight in rage, his sword master had told him. The same sword master who had forced him to learn to fight with his left hand.

Kit stepped forward. The two swords engaged with the barest ring of metal. Kit, calm now, met his opponent's eyes and they circled each other gaining each other's measure. Ambrose gave first with a lightning attack. Kit countered with a stop thrust, his blade grazing the sleeve of Morton's jacket. Morton stepped out of measure and regarded Kit with a new wariness in his eyes. He had underestimated his opponent.

Kit took advantage of his opponent's uncertainty, striking on the pass. This time his blade seared through Ambrose's sleeve, drawing blood. Ambrose hissed and responded with a furious forward attack, forcing Kit back against the table. Kit parried and riposted, thrusting Ambrose away from him and allowing him to slide out from underneath his opponent's sword.

Ambrose moved in again, forcing Kit on to his back foot. Backwards and forwards they moved across the room, their swords making sparks in the dim light. A right-hander faced with a left-handed opponent would take time to get the measure of his opponent; Kit could see the beads of perspiration on Morton's brow.

They knew each other's weaknesses. Kit had a bad leg and was weakened by illness and hampered by fighting left-handed. Morton had the advantage of height, reach and fitness but the injury to his left ankle, the legacy of his encounter with Jem, obviously troubled him so Kit did what he could to force Ambrose on to that foot.

Back and forth they moved across the room. Kit could feel himself tiring. Only sheer determination and a burning desire to kill this man pushed him on. Morton also seemed to be tiring. He panted slightly and drew back before renewing his attack, his mouth set in a line of cruel determination. He feinted, drawing Kit's sword out of line and then closed in with a redoublement. Kit stepped out of measure but, with a wall to his back, there was nowhere to go.

With a flick of his sword, Morton twisted Kit's sword from his hand, the point of his sword resting neatly at the base of Kit's throat.

"You surprise me, Lovell,” he said. “You're a far better swordsman than I gave you credit for."

Kit met his eyes, bracing himself for the end but Morton's sword wavered and his face contorted in pain. Kit seized the moment and slipped out from beneath the blade. He scrambled for his sword and as he straightened, prepared to meet Ambrose again, the other man staggered backwards, his sword falling to the floor with a clatter. With a cry of pain, he fell to the floor, doubled over and vomiting.