‘That’s right. God’s death, Dutton, we’ve been through a lot together.’
They had reached the man’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 neighbouring 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 Kit 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.
Chapter 3
Every time the door to the taproom opened, Thamsine looked around. It had been a week since she had last seen Kit Lovell, and as the other men slipped into the private parlour, she knew tonight he would come. She felt her heart skip a beat with anticipation.
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 with some female company.’
Thamsine cast a glance at the table of rowdy ’prentices and shuddered. If they required female company, they could look elsewhere. Instead she tightened her apron strings, pulled the grimy rag from the pocket and began the task of wiping down the long oak table.
‘Well, well, I hardly recognised you.’
At the sound of Kit’s voice she looked up, unable to stop the smile that crept to her lips.
He stood back and looked at her with a critical eye. ‘The black eye is now a fetching shade of yellow. As for the clothes, the bodice is perhaps a little immodest and the petticoats a little short, perhaps, but you pass.’
Thamsine looked down at the clean, serviceable, but faded cloth of the petticoats and tugged at the gaping bodice.
‘The twins found them for me. The previous owner was a little shorter and rather fuller of figure,’ she said ruefully.
‘Well, Lovell.’ Jem Marsh sauntered over and placed a hand on Thamsine’s shoulder. ‘Quite a little find you dropped on my doorstep. Broken just about every dish in my kitchen and dropped more jacks of ale than I can count, but she has one redeeming feature.’
Kit raised an eyebrow. ‘And that is?’
‘Voice of an angel.’ Jem waved a hand around the crowded taproom. ‘See this crowd? All thanks to her.’
Thamsine felt the heat rise to her cheeks. ‘All those years of music lessons have finally been put to good use,’ she said, ‘although I am not sure that Signor Capelli had tavern songs in mind when he was teaching me.’
‘You’re taking a risk, Jem. Public performances of song are frowned upon, you know.’ Kit raised a quizzical eyebrow at his friend.
Jem made a contemptuous gesture with his hand. ‘Let ’em try and close me down. As long as your girl here fills my taproom, I’m willing to take the risk.’ He thrust a jack of ale at Thamsine. ‘Here, I don’t pay you to stand around gossiping with the customers, go and give this to Abel and tell ’im to get his fiddle out.’
Thamsine took the ale and turned without looking, colliding with a man who had just entered. Ale slopped from the pot over his jacket.
‘You stupid girl,’ the man roared.
‘Why doncha watch where ye’re going?’ Thamsine snapped back, employing her best cockney accent.
‘Now then, Dutton, it was an accident,’ Kit said as Thamsine set the jack down and grabbed the cloth from the table where she had left it and began dabbing ineffectually at the man’s damp coat.
‘Don’t I know you?’ Dutton demanded, peering at Thamsine’s face.
Thamsine straightened and looked him in the face. The man, middle-aged with fair, greying hair and a moustache and beard of a style fashionable ten years ago, was a complete stranger to her.
‘I don’t think so, sir,’ she said.
‘Damn it, I never forget a face,’ Dutton persisted.
‘Too many taverns, Dutton,’ Kit said. He clapped a hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘Forget about this wench. The others are waiting.’
Dutton cast Thamsine one long, last furious look before allowing Kit to propel him in the direction of the private parlour.
Jem clapped a hand on Thamsine’s shoulder. ‘Don’t take Cap’n Dutton to heart, lass. He’s a sad excuse for a man. Reckon he’s already had a skinful tonight.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the fireplace. ‘Go on, give us a song. Abel’s waiting.’
In the corner by the fireplace an elderly man had produced a fiddle and struck up a tune. Thamsine set the remains of the jack of ale down beside him and climbed up onto an empty stool.
‘Come cease your songs of cuckold’s row,
For now ’tis something stale,
And let us sing of beggars now,
For that’s in general,
In city and in country,
Men from high to low,
In each degree of quality,
Are beggars all a row.’
The taproom fell silent, the audience listening in rapt attention and occasionally adding an intercession in agreement with the sentiments of the words.
At the door to the private parlour, Kit Lovell leaned against the doorframe, a jack of ale in his hand, to listen. Even with the light behind him and his face in darkness, she felt the dark pools of his eyes on her face and she felt as if she sang just for him.
‘I saw a handsome proper youth,
And he was wondrous fine,
But when I understood the truth,
His case was worse than mine,
On wine and drabs, he did all spend,
Which wrought his overthrow,
So fortune plac’d him in the end,
With beggars all a row.’
Kit’s shoulders shook with laughter and he raised his jack to her. A taller, fair-haired man appeared behind Kit and whispered something in his ear. Kit nodded and the door closed behind them.
~ * ~
‘Who’s the singer?’ Fitzjames asked.
Kit shook his head. ‘Some new girl of Marsh’s.’
‘She’s got a good voice,’ Fitz commented. ‘Good to hear music again.’
‘Little bitch is a better singer then she is a skivvy. Spilt half a jack of ale over me,’ Dutton growled. ‘Sure I’ve seen her before somewhere. Damn me if I can think where.’
Kit viewed the drunken sot with distaste. ‘Forget her, Dutton. Are you going to tell us your plan?’
Dutton, his face flushed with drink, d
ark circles under his eyes from his recent travels, unrolled a map on the table. The men leaned over it, their faces taut with expectation.
‘I believe that we can raise 600 men,’ Dutton said. ‘With 600 men we can seize Whitehall, St. James’, the Tower and the Guards.’ His stubby finger stabbed at the map.
Kit choked on his ale. ‘We can do what?’ he spluttered.
Six faces turned to look at him. ‘Lovell, you have something to say?’ Colonel Whitely asked, a cold edge to his voice.
Kit stared at them. ‘You make that sound so simple! Just walk in and seize Whitehall? And what happens when we have accomplished this amazing act of daring?’
‘The King will be waiting in a ship off shore. We send a signal to the ship and he lands in triumph,’ Dutton concluded.
‘And we are certain of the support of 600 men?’ Kit failed to hide the incredulity in his voice.
‘I have promises of that many.’ Dutton’s voice was a little less sure.
‘And the King knows of this?’ Kit honed in on the man’s uncertainty.
‘Not at the moment. That is our next task. We must send someone to meet with the King and advise him of our plan.’ Dutton looked around the circle of faces. ‘Whitely, I for one think that you should go.’
‘Well of course, I would be honoured, Dutton, but there is the small matter of financing my trip to Paris. I haven’t two farthings to rub together, let alone a boat fare to France, hire of horses, accommodation … ’
Dutton started to roll up the map. ‘Well I’ve no money,’ he said. ‘Cotes? Willys? Fitzjames?’
He was met with downcast eyes and a concerted shaking of heads. ‘Lovell?’
Kit raised his hands. ‘Don’t look to me, Dutton, I’m only one step away from debtors’ jail.’
Dutton sank down onto a chair, his face heavy with gloom. ‘We can’t act without the King’s connivance. The money must be raised for Whitley’s passage. Gentlemen, I suggest we adjourn and meet back here the day after tomorrow. In the meantime, see what can be done about raising funds.’
Kit shook his head. ‘Dutton, if we’ve not the funds to send Whitely to France, how do you plan to finance 600 men? What happened to the loyal subjects you visited over the last week?’
Dutton’s mouth took on a stubborn cast that Kit recognised all too well. His requests had, no doubt, met with the refusal they deserved.
‘Once we have seized Whitehall and the Tower we will have access to as much money as we like.’ Dutton’s eyes narrowed. ‘I sense doubt, Lovell. Those not with us … ’
Kit held up his hands. ‘I know, Dutton. Of course I’m with you.’
He held his tongue and surveyed his companions. What a miserable band of conspirators we are, he thought. Let them dream. It was not his task to play Devil’s advocate.
The party dispersed, leaving Kit alone in the parlour with Fitzjames and Willys. Fitzjames lit a pipe and propped his feet on an abandoned stool and watched the smoke curl up into the beams of the parlour.
Richard Willys toyed with his empty pot before slamming it on the table. ‘This is a bad business, Lovell.’
‘What is?’
‘This mad plot of Dutton’s. It’ll ruin everything.’ Willys’ fingers drummed on the rim of his empty pot.
Kit raised an eyebrow. ‘What will it ruin?’
Willys looked around the parlour. ‘It has no chance of success. You both know that. I saw it in your faces.’
‘I agree, but I do not see that it can be prevented,’ Fitz said, removing the pipe from his mouth.
Willys looked away. ‘No. It has gone too far already.’
‘What other plans is it going to ruin?’ Kit asked again.
Willys gave him a considered glance. ‘You’re a good man, Lovell. I’ve no reason to doubt your loyalty to the King.’ He lowered his voice. ‘There’s a committee with the King’s Commission set up to organise an insurrection.’
Kit set his tankard down and leaned forward. ‘With the King’s Commission?’
Willys nodded.
‘Who’s on it?’
‘That doesn’t matter. What matters is that part of the commission is to prevent such madness as this.’
Kit sat back and shook his head. ‘Willys, you, they, whoever this committee is, can’t stop it. While the King sits in France and Cromwell in Whitehall there are always going to be hotheads like Dutton who will be plotting in their cups.’
Willys stroked his moustache. ‘I know. All I can do is suggest that you disassociate yourself from this plan and try and persuade as many of your comrades as you can. Maybe it will die its natural death.’
Kit sat back, his fingers playing thoughtfully around his tankard. ‘They meet tomorrow night. Will you be there?’
Willys shook his head. ‘No. I will have no further truck with them.’
‘So what does this committee of yours plan?’
Willys shook his head. ‘I haven’t said I was on the committee, Lovell, but if they should have need of you, can we … they rely on you?’
‘If your enterprise has the King’s Commission, then of course you have my sword.’
‘Fitzjames?’
‘I’m with you both.’
‘Good man.’ Willys stood up. ‘I wish you luck, Lovell. If they can be dissuaded, you’re the man to do it. Dutton trusts you.’
Kit watched Willys as he left the room, shutting the door behind him. In the taproom, Thamsine was singing a sad, mournful ballad. Beggars all in a row, Kit thought and stared gloomily at his cup.
‘Aren’t you tired of this, Fitz?’ he asked.
Fitzjames shrugged. ‘Of course I am, but I’m tired of this hand-to-mouth existence, Lovell. I want the King back on his rightful throne. If there is a chance that this Committee of Willys’ can organise something then yes, I will be there. What will you do?’
‘Dutton meets tomorrow night,’ Kit said. ‘I shall hear what he has to say and try to turn his mind to joining his enterprise with this committee.’
Fitz leaned forward. ‘The Sealed Knot,’ he said with a wry grin. ‘They call themselves the Sealed Knot.’
‘What sort of fanciful name is that?’
‘That’s what they style themselves.’ Fitz drained his cup. ‘I for one will not attend tomorrow night. I’m with Willys. I want no further part of this plot.’
‘Sensible man,’ Kit agreed.
‘It’s getting late.’ Fitz rose to his feet.
‘I’ll walk with you,’ Kit said. ‘I need some fresh air after that vile tobacco you smoke.’
Fitz smiled and clapped his friend on the shoulder. ‘We all have our vices, lad. Yours are women and cards. Mine are tobacco and wine.’
‘And execrable poetry,’ Kit added. ‘Don’t forget your talents as a poet, my friend!’
In the taproom, Thamsine turned and he raised a hand in farewell. She smiled in response. He felt a pang of regret. It would have been pleasant to have passed the rest of the evening sparring with Mistress Granville.
Outside the cold air hit them like a belt of sobering water.
‘I’ve no mind for my bed, yet a while,’ Fitz said. ‘I hear there is a card game at the Saracen’s Head. Fancy a chance to improve your purse?’
They lurched down the Strand towards ‘the Head’. Another dingy, smoke-filled tavern, Kit thought gloomily as Fitz wove his way between the tables to the private parlour.
Through the haze of tobacco smoke, he could make out a table of card players with about a dozen men standing around watching the game.
They waited until the hand had finished and took the seats of the losers.
‘Well, well.’ The man shuffling the cards set them down. ‘Fitzjames, unless I’m mistaken.’
Fitz’s face flashed with recognition. ‘My God. Ambrose Morton. I haven’t seen you since … must be ’47. I heard you were in The Hague. What brings you to London?’
‘Personal business,’ the man replied, moving his gaze to Kit. Kit met the col
d eyes in the dark, handsome face of a man some years older than him.
‘Do you know Lovell?’ Fitz enquired.
‘No, but I have heard the name.’ Morton held out his hand. ‘Colonel Ambrose Morton.’
‘Captain Christopher Lovell,’ Kit replied.
Morton spread his hands in an encompassing gesture. ‘Shall I deal?’
With practised ease the cards flew from his hand. Kit took the first hand and Morton dealt the cards again.
‘Lovell?’ Morton mused, his eyes on his cards. ‘Ah yes. I have heard of you. Your reputation precedes you. There are few that can best you at cards, as I hear tell.’
‘I have some poor talent at cards,’ Kit replied without looking up.
‘There are many ways of winning at cards, are there not, Captain Lovell?’
Kit felt the hackles on the back of his neck rise and he glanced up to see Morton’s narrowed eyes were fixed on him. ‘Are you implying something, Morton?’
Morton raised a placating hand. ‘Not at all, Captain Lovell.’
Kit pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. ‘I have never met you before tonight, Morton, but I will not sit here and have my honour so impugned. Come, Fitz.’
Fitz rose to his unsteady feet. ‘But I’ve a good hand, Lovell.’
Kit turned his cards over. ‘I would have had no need of tricks to win this hand, Morton, but I’ve lost my taste for cards tonight.’
For a moment the two men’s eyes locked. Morton inclined his head. ‘I meant no insult, Captain Lovell. Perhaps some other time?’
‘Perhaps,’ Kit said.
Outside in the cold air, he pulled his cloak around him.
‘Not like you to take on so,’ Fitz grumbled.
‘I have no time for that sort of man,’ Kit said striding ahead of Fitz.
‘What sort of man?’ Fitz asked, puffing to keep pace with his friend.
Kit slowed his pace to allow Fitz a chance to catch up. ‘You know the type, Fitz. Cold and vicious bastards.’
‘Well, you’re probably right.’ Fitz clapped an arm around Kit’s shoulder and they wove an unsteady path towards Holborn. ‘He ran with Goring’s crew during the war. You’ll have heard the stories … ’
George, Lord Goring, had command of the King’s Army in the west, and the actions of his unruly rabble had done more to damage the King’s cause then the whole of the New Model Army.
The King's Man Page 4
