‘Lucy Talbot is a very easy person to like.’ Thamsine made no attempt to hide the bitterness in her voice.
‘I didn’t say I liked her,’ Jane said, frowning. ‘I should have said, irresistible to men.’
Thamsine looked at her sister. Did she know that her own husband had fallen under the spell of Lucy Talbot’s charm?
‘She professed a great interest in my stillroom,’ Jane went on. ‘She asked me questions about herbs and roots; which ones had healing properties and which ones were poisonous.’
Thamsine stared at her sister. ‘Poisonous?’
‘It was autumn and I had been drying some herbs and roots. She seemed particularly interested in the monkshood.’
Thamsine thought of the dried slivers of root in the earthenware crock and felt goosebumps rising on her arm. ‘What does it do?’
‘It causes vomiting and prostration. The victim has difficulty breathing and dies in great pain.’
‘What a horrible way to die. Your poor rats,’ Thamsine commented, trying to keep her tone light.
‘I wasn’t talking about rats, Thamsine. It can kill a person very quickly. Of course, it was not many months later that Martin Talbot died.’ Jane looked at her sister, her meaning clear.
‘You think … ?’
‘I don’t think anything,’ Jane said hurriedly, ‘but I do know that after she left that day, a couple of the roots of monkshood I had been drying were missing. Now, enough talk of Lucy Talbot. We have work to do.’ Jane pushed open the door of the stillroom again. ‘You see those empty jars? They must all be washed and scrubbed.’
The sisters were so engrossed in the task that they did not hear Roger until he coughed. As one they looked up to see him standing him in the doorway.
He smiled, almost pleasantly. ‘Well, I am pleased to see this sight.’
Thamsine straightened and curtsied.
‘Jane? Has your sister behaved?’
‘She has been exemplary, Roger.’
Thamsine swallowed. She knew the words she was about to say would gall her but for Jane’s sake, if not her own, they needed saying. She lowered her head, clasping her hands, like a true penitent, in front of her.
‘Roger, I have had much time in the past few days to consider my past actions, and I see that I have acted wrongly.’
Roger narrowed his eyes. ‘I am pleased to see you have reconsidered your wilful behaviour, Thamsine. Am I to understand that you will no longer resist marriage?’
Thamsine hesitated for a very long time. ‘I seem to have no choice in the matter.’
Roger let out a heartfelt sigh. ‘I am relieved that you have seen sense, Thamsine. Morton will be delighted when I tell him when he returns tomorrow. You have made the right decision.’
Thamsine lay awake that night staring at the small, square window, where a distant moon cast a sickly, silvery light over her. All the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place, and the players in the drama took their rightful places on the stage.
Pretty, frivolous, empty-headed Lucy was not the person she professed to be, or that men thought her. She remembered Lucy’s hard, implacable face on the day Ambrose had come for her. Nothing stood between Lucy and what – or who – she wanted. The question was, who did she want now – Ambrose Morton, Roger Knott, or Kit Lovell?
Surely Kit had nothing to offer her except whatever talents he had in bed. Roger? He was a married man with a sickly wife and unexciting prospects. Ambrose? If he married Thamsine he would be a wealthy man and more significantly, a wealthy widower.
Thamsine shivered. When she married Morton, would there be a deadly dose of monkshood waiting for her in the future?
Despair engulfed her. If she ran now, she left Jane at the mercy of Ambrose Morton. Anyway, where could she go? Not to Kit Lovell. He was as much in Lucy’s thrall as Roger. He would no more believe his mistress was a scheming murderess than Roger would. She was on her own again.
~ * ~
Ambrose Morton returned to Turnham Green the next evening. Thamsine heard his voice downstairs and crept to the head of the stairs. She could not make out the conversation, but Morton and Knott appeared to be arguing. Occasionally Jane’s voice interceded, and after a little while Jane came out of the parlour.
She stood at the bottom of the stairs looking upwards.
‘Thamsine? Ambrose is here. You must come.’
Thamsine stared down at her. ‘Jane, I can’t.’
Roger appeared behind his wife. ‘Thamsine, come down here at once.’
His voice compelled her to move. At every step she felt nausea rising in her stomach. Roger took her by the shoulder and steered her into the parlour.
‘Curtsey,’ he hissed in her ear.
She complied, forcing her stiff, wooden legs to bend.
‘Thamsine.’ Ambrose smiled and took a step towards her. She recoiled.
‘I have nothing to say to you, Ambrose.’
‘Now, Thamsine, that is not what you told me,’ Roger wheedled.
Ambrose took her hand, enclosing it firmly within his own. ‘Thamsine, I wish for nothing more than we should be the friends we once were.’
She tried to withdraw her hand but he held it secure, his grip tightening.
‘You betrayed any vestige of friendship a long time ago, Ambrose. Let go of my hand.’
He looked pained, almost sorrowful, and the grip tightened, causing her to wince. ‘Thamsine, what happened between us was a terrible misunderstanding.’
‘There’s been no misunderstanding, Ambrose. You tried to rape me. I have no illusions about you. You see only my fortune and you will stop at nothing to obtain it.’ The words tumbled out, impervious to her resolutions to play along as the meek, penitential bride.
His eyes flashed for a moment and then, with what appeared to be masterly control, he smiled. ‘Thamsine, how wrong you are. I have always loved you.’
‘Loved me?’ she spat. ‘The only true feeling you have ever entertained for me is one of greed – for my body and for my estate.’
He raised her hand to his lips, his eyes glittering. ‘Please, Thamsine. I’ve changed. I want to settle with you by my side. We could be happy, you and I.’
She gave a strangled cry and wrested her hand from his grip, turning sharply on her heel to face her sister and brother-in-law.
‘Roger, Jane. You are my witnesses. Please do not allow this travesty to happen,’ she appealed helplessly.
Roger remained standing at the door and Jane, a helpless spectator, turned her eyes to her husband, willing him to act.
Ambrose’s eyes narrowed. ‘You have no choice. We will be married, and we can do it on terms of truce or we can do it as enemies. It is entirely in your hands.’
Thamsine leaned on the table as she sought to control her thoughts. For her own sake, she needed to make peace. It would be the only way she could survive. Perhaps once they were wed, the relationship could be renegotiated.
She swallowed. ‘Ambrose, I’m tired.’ She looked up at him. ‘I can’t go on fighting you. I don’t have the strength.’
Ambrose smiled. ‘Ah, Thamsine, I knew you would see reason. Roger is in agreement. We will be married as soon as it can be arranged.’
Thamsine felt a wave of nausea engulf her. Her head dropped. Ambrose moved behind her and took her by the shoulders, forcing her down onto a chair. She felt his hands, hot and heavy through the cloth. The fingers tightened, grinding her bones. She gritted her teeth against the pain.
‘There is one more thing you owe me, Thamsine Granville,’ he hissed into her ear.
‘I owe you nothing!’
‘You tried to kill me. I want to hear you apologise.’
‘I should have killed you,’ she said between gritted teeth.
His fingers tightened.
‘This is wrong!’ Jane stepped forward. ‘No court in the land will force her to marry against her will. Roger – ’ she turned to her husband ‘– stop this madness.’
�
�If you have any wisdom, wife, you will not interfere.’
Ambrose released Thamsine and took a step towards Jane. Jane’s eyes widened as he loomed over her slight figure. ‘She is my sister,’ she said. ‘I can’t allow this travesty to occur.’
Ambrose struck without warning, a ringing blow to Jane’s face that sent the frail woman flying against the door. Roger uttered a cry and Thamsine rose to her feet. Ambrose pushed her down as Roger knelt down beside his stunned wife, cradling her in his arms.
‘You see, Thamsine, it’s not just you,’ Ambrose said. ‘There are others involved. Your sister, those two pretty little nieces of yours … ’ He left the sentence unfinished but his meaning was clear. Thamsine shuddered.
‘And what of your sister?’ she said. ‘What has become of Annie? Did you punish her for handing me the pistol?’
‘Annie has nothing to do with this. You know I would never hurt her.’ The nerve in Ambrose’s temple began to twitch, and she knew what she had always suspected. Annie, with her bright, innocent eyes, was his Achilles’ heel.
‘But you think nothing of hurting other women. That maid I found you with, my sister, who knows how many others … ’
Ambrose turned away, waving his arm in a gesture of disgust. ‘Enough of this talk, Thamsine. We will be married within the next few days, whether you consent or not.’
‘And who will you find willing to marry us if I have to be dragged to the altar?’
‘There will be someone,’ Ambrose said. ‘There is always someone whose conscience can be eased with a few coins. You will marry me, Thamsine, or someone close to you is going to be hurt.’ He looked meaningfully at Roger, who shrank away from his gaze, still holding Jane in his arms.
‘Morton, I must protest,’ Roger said, his voice lacking conviction. ‘If you wait just a little longer … ’
‘I’ve had enough of waiting, Knott. You have had your chance to make her see reason and she shows no sign of repenting her past stubbornness. Our arrangement is at an end. I am taking her with me and I assure you I have far more effective ways of breaking this stiff-necked pride.’
‘I will rot in Hell first!’ Thamsine spat as she leaped to her feet.
‘Indeed you will,’ Ambrose hissed in her ear. ‘Because Hell is precisely where you are going. You need some time to consider your future, Thamsine Granville, and after a few days I can guarantee you will be crawling to me on your knees.’
He made to grab at her but Thamsine ducked out of his reach. An absurd game of tag around the table ensued, until Ambrose drew his sword. He pushed Roger aside and pulled Jane to her feet, holding the tip of the sword to her throat.
‘Come here, Thamsine,’ he said.
Thamsine gasped and Ambrose smiled as he drew the sword lightly across Jane’s throat, leaving a thin, bloody line. She had no doubt that he would kill Jane if she did not obey.
As soon as she was within arm’s reach, Ambrose thrust Jane at her husband and struck out at Thamsine, the same ringing blow that had sent Jane to the ground.
Her head reeling, Thamsine fell back against the table and slid to the ground. Unable to move, the world fading from her consciousness, she heard Roger’s shaky voice.
‘Where are you taking her?’
‘I told you. I’m taking her to Hell.’
Ambrose lifted Thamsine up, throwing her across his shoulder like a bag of chaff. His shoulder dug into her abdomen. Unable to breathe, she lost consciousness.
Chapter 12
Kit stared into his ale. The French really did not know how to make good ale. He took a swig of the tasteless beverage and set the pot down, his fingers clenching and unclenching around the handle.
Henshaw, Fitzjames and Gerard appeared to be turning in ever-decreasing circles, meeting first with one party and then another. No decisions, no promises of help. The King remained obdurate. He would not countenance a move on Cromwell without the support of the Sealed Knot. The delay frustrated Kit beyond measure.
The Sealed Knot – the Sealed Knot seemed aptly named. The composition of this mysterious committee was one of the few well-kept secrets in the court. He had nothing to take back to Thurloe.
He hated every moment spent in Paris, and realised that for the first time in his life he wanted a home and hearth and a good woman. He took a deep draught of his ale. Experience had taught him that women were nothing but trouble, a distraction he did not need.
So why, then, did thoughts of Thamsine Granville keep him awake at night? In the dark hours he imagined the tilt of her chin, the warm, brown eyes, the humorous lift of her mouth. He missed her intelligent companionship and her high-handed disrespect for him.
‘Deep in thought, Lovell?’
Kit looked up. He knew and disliked the man who sat down unbidden at his table. Colonel Bampfield was known to turn his coat with the frequency of his linen. Despite having executed a daring rescue of the young Duke of York from under Parliament’s nose some eight years previously, he enjoyed a worse reputation than Henshaw for suspect loyalty.
‘Colonel Bampfield. The air in here has suddenly grown rather pungent,’ Kit snarled.
‘My dear Captain Lovell, you are hardly one to start throwing stones, are you?’
‘What do you mean?’
Bampfield leaned towards him and said in a low, conspiratorial voice, ‘I mean that I know that you and I serve the same master.’
‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’ Kit set the empty pot down with a thump. ‘If you are calling my loyalty to the King into question then I should call you out here and now.’
‘You could do that, but I know you won’t. I have some letters for delivery to London,’ Bampfield continued in the same low voice. ‘Call them love letters to someone I care for deeply. I could send them in the usual manner but I would rather they went in safe hands.’
‘That is all you ask of me?’
‘Of course. I am not asking you to confess your dirty little secrets to me. Merely act as my courier.’
Kit bridled. ‘I have no dirty little secrets, Bampfield. However, if you insist, I will take your papers.’
Bampfield rose to his feet. ‘You are a gentleman, sir.’ He handed Kit a small packet of papers. ‘To your safekeeping.’
Kit thrust the papers into his jacket. ‘I hope our paths do not cross again, Bampfield.’
‘I am sure we can avoid that.’
As Bampfield rose to leave, Fitzjames, Henshaw and the younger Gerard entered the inn. Bampfield stood still, forcing Kit to introductions. He wondered if any of them had seen the letters pass from Bampfield to himself. If they had, nothing in their faces betrayed any suspicion.
Kit looked up at Bampfield. ‘It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance again, Colonel.’
Bampfield bowed. ‘And yours. Be sure to give my regards to my friends in London. Gentlemen.’
It was evident that Fitz and Gerard had news. They sat down, their faces taut with expectation. Fitz waited until Bampfield had left the room before leaning forward, his face alive with the news he had to impart.
‘We have reached an agreement, Lovell.’
‘At last,’ Kit said, with genuine relief in his voice.
‘We have spoken with the Queen and Prince Rupert and we are agreed that we will continue with our plan,’ Gerard said. ‘You and Fitzjames are to leave now for London to start the arrangements.’
‘And you?’
‘We have some business still to do here but we will follow by week’s end.’
‘Rupert wants an army of ten thousand,’ Henshaw said.
Kit looked at him in disbelief. ‘In England? We can’t raise an army of ten!’
Jack Gerard’s eyes burned. ‘Scotland, Lovell. The Queen believes that if my uncle were to take the Duke of York and Rupert to Scotland, we will get the support.’
‘We did that in ’50, Gerard, and look what became of that venture!’ He looked at Fitz. ‘We were lucky to escape with our lives.’
; ‘This time it will be different. If our plan goes well, Cromwell will be dead and the army in disarray. England will fall.’
Young Gerard’s eyes burned with a passion Kit remembered only too well from his youth: the absolute certainty of the rightness of a cause. However, he kept his peace and forced himself to recall that it was not his place to argue against the plan but to go along with it.
He nodded. ‘And the King?’
‘To remain on the Continent until such time as his kingdom is secure,’ Gerard concluded.
Kit looked at Fitz. ‘So we leave now?’
‘I suggest the morning. A hard ride to Calais to catch the evening tide,’ Fitz said.
Kit nodded with relief. There was nothing he wanted more than to be back in England.
~ * ~
Kit had faced death in many forms and had always managed to stare it down. Now he lay wrapped in his cloak on the rough bunk bed praying for a speedy demise. God had never intended him to be a sailor. He had puked until he had nothing more to puke and dry-retched into the noisome bucket by his bunk and now woke from a fitful sleep.
The lantern, illuminating the cabin in a sickly yellow light, tossed and swayed with the motion of the boat. He closed his eyes to avert the wave of nausea and realised that what had woken him was the sense of another person being in the room, of a shadow obscuring the light and a furtive shuffling.
He opened his eyes again, and saw Fitzjames bent towards a lantern. He held Kit’s jacket in one hand, and in the other were Bampfield’s papers. The paper crackled as Fitz opened one of the letters.
Kit shifted his weight slightly to allow himself leverage from the bunk, and through half-closed eyes he saw Fitz turn to him. With his normally sharp reflexes dulled by seasickness, he had not anticipated the speed with which Fitz could move. Fitz turned on him, grabbed his shirt and pulled him into an upright position, his eyes burning with anger.
‘You bloody traitor!’
‘What?’
Fitz waved the paper in Kit’s face. ‘What the Hell is this about?’
‘I have no idea. Bampfield asked me to deliver them in London. He told me they were love letters.’
The King's Man Page 16
