The King's Man

by Alison Stuart

  ‘Love letters?’ Fitz spat. ‘They contain reports of all our meetings. Reports that leave me in no doubt that you are the one referred to as ‘our friend’. How long have you been in Thurloe’s pay, Lovell?’ He stared at Kit as realisation of the extent of Kit’s duplicity crossed his face. ‘Every move we’ve made, every discussion we’ve had has gone straight back to Thurloe, hasn’t it? The Ship Inn, was that your work?’

  ‘Let go of me, Fitz. I haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about.’

  The anger began to die in Fitz’s face and the grip on Kit’s shirt slackened. ‘I’d heard whispers after The Ship Inn but I couldn’t believe them. Not of you, Lovell. I thought I knew you better.’

  Kit removed Fitz’s hand from his shirt. ‘Fitz, as God is my witness, I had no idea what these letters contain. You know Bampfield’s reputation.’

  ‘And Henshaw and Wildman, but you, Lovell … ’ Fitz shook his head.

  ‘Bampfield told me they were for his mistress.’

  ‘How can I believe you?’

  ‘You can’t, Fitz. You just have to trust me.’

  Fitz thrust the paper he was holding into his pocket. ‘I need fresh air.’

  Kit looked at the pitching, swaying lantern. ‘Fitz, it is blowing a gale up there.’

  But his friend did not hear him. With heavy steps he dragged himself to the ladder and up into the cold air of the Thames Estuary.

  Kit sat on the edge of the bunk for a minute, his head in his hands. Slowly he pulled on his boots and jacket and climbed the narrow ladder. It still lacked a few hours to dawn. The night was dark and the sea a boiling, angry cauldron. Only a dark mass on the horizon gave any indication of their proximity to land.

  Fitz leaned against the rail, his hair and cloak blowing in the gale. They were alone except for the helmsman who stood at the wheel, seemingly impervious to the pitching deck.

  Kit grasped the rail beside Fitz.

  ‘Why, Lovell?’ Fitz did not even turn to look at him.

  Kit sighed. No more lies. ‘I have my reasons, Fitz.’

  ‘Is that reason anything to do with Daniel?’

  Kit was silent for a moment. ‘Yes. It is everything to do with Daniel.’

  ‘He’s dead, Kit. You sold your soul for a vain hope.’

  ‘No,’ Kit said with emotion choking his voice. ‘No, I won’t believe he’s dead until I dig his stinking corpse from the ground.’

  ‘I thought I knew you,’ Fitz said with dull resignation in his voice.

  ‘Nobody can really know another person, Fitz.’ Kit grimaced.

  ‘Well, you are good at what you do.’ Fitz could not hide the bitterness in his voice.

  ‘I take that as a compliment, however it was meant.’ Kit turned to look at his friend. ‘What are you going to do, Fitz?’

  ‘I have no choice. I have to advise the King and the others that you are not to be trusted. You’re finished, Lovell. When word gets around you will probably be a dead man, and it will all have been for nothing.’

  Kit felt momentary panic. ‘Give me time, Fitz. Let me fade into the background. I will go to the Colonies as I planned, as we discussed so often.’

  ‘I can’t, Lovell. You know that. You know too much and we don’t have the time. I have no choice.’

  Fitz turned to face him, the light from the helm flashing on his pistol. Kit didn’t flinch. He lifted his hands away from the rail and turned to face his friend.

  ‘I’m unarmed, Fitz. My sword’s below. You can kill me now if you have to,’ he said quietly, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on his friend’s face.

  Fitz hesitated, and in that fraction of a second the boat pitched, throwing them both off balance. Fitz staggered backward, falling against the rail. The boat heaved; Kit fell forward towards Fitz. He put out his hand to hold onto his friend but in the space of a heartbeat, Fitz had overbalanced, tipping over the rail of the boat.

  Catching at the rail to stop himself falling as well, Kit saw his friend’s mouth open in a silent scream, his arms flailing as he dropped into the dark abyss. Kit’s hands grasped frantically at thin air. He screamed Fitz’s name, the wind carrying his voice away unanswered into the dark, foul night. He pulled himself up and leaned over the rail, but the dark, seething water had claimed the only man he had called his friend.

  He looked up at the helmsman. ‘There is a man overboard!’

  The man shrugged. ‘I saw. There is nothing I can do, m’sieur. He is gone.’

  Kit stared at the man, torn between seizing the wheel and beating him to a pulp.

  ‘Why do you care? He would have killed you,’ the helmsman observed.

  The boat pitched and Kit staggered against the rail, his hands clasping at the slimy wood. He cast the sea one last regretful glance and like a man in a daze, returned to his bunk in the cabin, where he was violently ill. This time it had nothing to do with seasickness. He curled up on the narrow bed and faced the damp wood and waited for the morning.

  Chapter 13

  Once ashore, Kit found the nearest inn and drank himself into insensibility. Alcohol’s amnesiac properties were only illusory. He awoke to find himself lying in a filthy alley, where he had evidently been thrown from the last inn he had visited. Heavy, dismal rain soaked him through to the bones.

  He pulled himself into a sitting position, laid his arms over his knees, lowered his head onto them and, as the memory of Fitz’s death came back with cruel, clear clarity, he wept. Slowly he raised his head and considered the grey, unappealing sky. He let the rain wash his face and rose to his feet. A quick check revealed his pockets had been turned out for the few coins they contained but the papers he carried, that Fitz had died for, were still safe.

  He stumbled through the narrow streets, oblivious to the sidelong glances and looks of disgust that his filthy, disreputable state attracted. Outside the respectable house he sought, he stopped and looked up at the lighted windows. Although it still lacked an hour or so until nightfall, the afternoon had drawn in dark and dreary.

  Dragging his feet, he ascended the well-scrubbed steps and banged on the front door. A manservant opened the door, took one look at Kit and made to shut it again, but Kit had pushed past the man and stood in the respectable entrance hall that smelt of beeswax and wood smoke.

  ‘Where’s Thurloe?’ he demanded.

  ‘The master’ll not see you. You must leave at once.’ The man’s nose wrinkled with distaste as he made a grab for Kit’s jacket. ‘Now get out before I call the watch.’

  Kit shook him off. ‘He’ll see me.’

  He paced the front hall.

  ‘Thurloe!’ he yelled, his voice echoing up the stairwell. ‘Thurloe, come out and face me, you whoreson.’

  A respectably dressed woman appeared at the top of the stairs, her face pinched with fright. ‘Who are you? How dare you! Get out of my house.’

  A door opened and Thurloe appeared in the hallway.

  ‘John? Who is this frightful man?’ The woman’s voice quavered with apprehension.

  ‘It’s all right my dear, I’ll deal with it,’ Thurloe said calmly, adding in a hard voice, ‘in here now, Lovell!’

  Mustering what was left of his dignity, Kit marched past the supercilious manservant through the door that Thurloe held open. The door shut behind them both.

  ‘What is the meaning of this intrusion?’ Thurloe’s voice was icy.

  Kit reached into his jacket and slapped the packet of papers down on the table.

  ‘These are for you.’

  ‘They could be delivered in the usual manner.’

  ‘No, they couldn’t. These reports have been bought and paid for with a life, Thurloe. You will find one of them missing. If you care to drag the Thames Estuary you will find it on the body of my friend Fitzjames.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean Fitzjames discovered Bampfield’s little love letters. He would have betrayed me.’

  ‘You killed him?’ Thurloe sank onto a
chair.

  Kit took a deep breath. ‘No. It was an accident. A bloody, tragic accident.’

  ‘I see.’ Thurloe looked down at the papers. ‘It was clever of you to put the papers on him. When we recover the body, the word will go about that Fitzjames was the spy. You did well, Lovell.’

  Kit turned away, his face contorted in grief and disgust.

  ‘Poor, bloody Fitz,’ he said. ‘He was as loyal a servant as Charles Stuart would ever find and you will paint him the traitor?’

  Thurloe looked up at him. ‘You’re overwrought. Go home, Lovell. After you’ve cleaned up and had a good night’s sleep, you will see that you had no other choice.’

  Kit flung himself down on a chair and buried his face in his arms on the table. ‘I’m heartsick of this, Thurloe. I want to be left in peace.’

  Thurloe’s voice was icy. ‘It’s too late for you to be developing a conscience now, Lovell. Go home and tumble your mistress. Amazing what a few hours of female company can do for the soul.’

  ‘I don’t have a soul,’ Kit mumbled into his arms. ‘I sold it to you, remember?’

  ‘And you can have it back when this job is done. You can give me your report on matters in Paris when you are in a fit state.’ Thurloe stood and crossed to the door. ‘Oh, and by the way, your little friend has disappeared.’

  ‘What friend?’ Kit raised his face.

  ‘Mistress Granville.’

  Kit rose uncertainly to his feet and looked Thurloe in the eye. ‘What do you mean, disappeared?’

  ‘Failed to appear for her lessons with Mistress Skippon. She’s been missing for over a week. I would like her found. She still owes the Commonwealth money.’

  Thamsine? Kit’s tired mind tried to grapple with the concept of Thamsine’s disappearance but exhaustion was asserting itself. Thamsine was a problem he would face in the morning.

  He passed through the door Thurloe held open for him without conscious thought. Outside it still rained, more heavily if that was possible, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to get any wetter or colder or more miserable than he already was.

  ~ * ~

  At Holborn, Lucy’s maid, Mag, opened the door.

  ‘Well, well,’ she said, with a sneer of distaste, ‘look who’s back.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure to see you too, Mag,’ Kit replied coldly. In his experience round people like Mag were generally pleasant and jovial. Mag was neither. ‘Is your mistress at home?’

  ‘No, she isn’t,’ Mag said.

  ‘Good. I’d rather she didn’t see me looking like this. Draw me a bath in the kitchen, Mag, and be quick about it.’

  Mag opened her mouth to protest and muttering to herself, stomped off to the kitchen.

  Kit followed her and downed a glass of Martin Talbot’s best brandy while Mag and the kitchen maid drew the bath. Completely oblivious to Mag and the kitchen scullion, who stared at him with large eyes, her hands wrapped in her grubby apron, he stripped off his filthy, reeking clothes and climbed into the small tub, his knees absurdly around his chin. With some of Lucy’s favourite rose-scented soap, he scrubbed at his own self-disgust.

  Thurloe had been right about one thing: being clean did make a difference to his view of the world. He retired to the parlour with a plate of cheese and a hunk of fresh bread and waited for Lucy.

  He did not have to wait long. Lucy, her hair damp from the rain, came through the parlour door, her eyes lighting up when she saw him.

  ‘Kit. Oh Kit, you’re home!’ She flung herself at him, covering his face with kisses that he returned with fulsome enthusiasm.

  When they both paused for breath, Lucy exclaimed, ‘You smell nice! Is that my soap?’ She held his face in her hands and looked at him. ‘You look terrible! Have you been ill?’

  ‘I had a trying journey,’ he mumbled, sitting down.

  ‘Oh, you poor thing!’ Lucy stroked his face with tender concern in her eyes. ‘Was Norfolk that dreadful? How was your aunt?’

  Kit shrugged. ‘I’m very tired, Mouse.’

  Lucy sat on his knee and laid his head against her shoulder, her hand slipping under his shirt to run her fingers through the hairs on his chest. She smelt divine, and despite his exhaustion he could feel his ardour rising. Thurloe may have been right. There was nothing like sex to make a man forget.

  ‘Did you bring me a present?’ she teased.

  ‘From Norfolk?’ Kit said. ‘What do you think I would find for you there? No, dearest, I am afraid all I bring you is myself.’

  She made no protest as he began unlacing her bodice, exposing her two perfect breasts. He gave an appreciative sigh and allowed oblivion to wash over him.

  ~ * ~

  Kit didn’t stir from the house in High Holborn for two days. On the third morning he woke to a grey and gloomy day. He lay for a long time, staring at the dark fingers of rain beating at the casement. Beside him, Lucy stirred but did not wake. He slipped from the bed, wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and crossed to the window.

  He stared up at the bleak sky, obscured by the pitched roofs of the houses, and thought of Eveleigh Priory, what was left of it. It seemed as if the very air of the city tainted him. He had tried not to think about his home in Cheshire for a long time but now he had a sudden, desperate urge to escape London and return to the soft, green countryside and bury himself in the obscurity of restoring the estates.

  He sighed and stretched. He had spent the hours with Lucy trying to forget what had transpired on the Thames Estuary. Now, he had convinced himself that nothing he could have done would have prevented Fitz’s death, and he no longer felt it like a sharp pain, more a dull ache. A dull ache he could live with.

  Now he needed to get back to work.

  ‘Kit?’ Lucy’s sleepy voice made him turn around. She had turned over and was looking at him, her eyes half closed. ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘I am thinking it is time I was dressed and abroad, Mouse. I have loitered too long.’ He located his clothes and began to dress.

  She patted the bed. ‘It’s early and pouring with rain. Come back to bed.’

  He looked at her for a moment and shook his head. ‘Sorry, Mouse, I have things to do.’

  She pouted. ‘What things are so important?’

  He crossed to bed and bent down, kissing her on the forehead. ‘Things that are no concern of yours.’

  She frowned and flung her arms around his neck. ‘Oh Kit, you’re so tiresome. Since you’ve been home it feels as if you are not here at all.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Kit extricated himself from her Medusa tendrils.

  ‘You are no fun anymore!’

  ‘I have things on my mind, Mouse.’

  ‘Well, if you are still concerned over that little music teacher, forget her.’ Lucy’s mouth took on a downward cast.

  Kit looked sharply at his mistress. There was something in the tone of her voice he disliked. He had asked her a couple of times about Thamsine, and both times she had dismissed his question with a wave of her hand and a comment about Thamsine failing to turn up at the appointed hour.

  ‘I am afraid, Mouse, my principal concern at present is the earning of some coins,’ he said coldly, ignoring her petulance.

  Lucy rolled over again. ‘I can give you money.’

  Kit smiled. ‘Thank you but no, Mouse. I prefer to earn my own way, where and when I can.’

  Lucy sighed. ‘How long will you be gone?’

  He shrugged. ‘However long it takes.’

  Lucy sat up in bed, the covers slipping away from her. For once Kit regarded her naked body with dispassion.

  ‘Be home tonight.’ The sharp and querulous tone smacked of an order.

  Kit raised an eyebrow. ‘I will return when I am ready, Mouse.’

  He turned towards the door. A bolster hit him in the back. He straightened but did not turn to look at her. With deliberate care he closed the door behind him. Domestic life had begun to pall.

  As he walked the fa
miliar streets to the Ship, he went through the matters in hand. He had a rebellion to organise. Lord Gerard was following close behind and would be back in London by now. The plot would be gathering momentum and he still did not have the names of the Sealed Knot.

  Then there was the irritating matter of the missing Thamsine Granville. Damn the woman! Why did he have to go looking for her? He had enough to worry about.

  ‘Cap’n Lovell.’ May wrapped herself around him as he stepped into the warm, familiar taproom.

  Kit took off his coat and shook his wet hair. As soon as he sat down, May perched herself on his lap and ran her fingers through his hair while Nan fetched him a pot of ale.

  Nan set the ale down. ‘You look tired,’ she commented.

  ‘Travelling,’ Kit took a welcome draught of the ale.

  ‘So where have you been?’ May asked.

  ‘France.’

  ‘Did you bring me back anything special?’ May asked.

  Kit shook his head. ‘No! No presents for anyone. It was business.’

  Nan pulled a face. ‘Shame on you!’

  Kit looked at both girls, his face serious. ‘Does either of you know where Thamsine Granville is?’

  The twins looked at each other, then at him. ‘We thought you might know,’ Nan said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She went out last Friday and ain’t been home since. Not a word, not to collect her things, nothing. We asked around but no one’s seen neither hide nor hair of her.’

  ‘Where did she go?’

  Nan looked at her sister. ‘That new person she started going to just before you went away.’

  ‘Mistress Talbot?’

  May shrugged. ‘If that’s her name.’

  Jem wandered over. ‘If you’re talking about the Granville woman,’ he said, with a voice that had a grumble in it, ‘I needs to know if I hold on to her room, ’cos if not, I’ll pack her things up and let it.’

  ‘Come on, Jem, it’s not as if you have customers beating a path to stay at this inn,’ Kit commented.

  ‘It’s been over a week,’ Jem said. ‘These your friends?’ He jerked his head towards the door, where Lord Gerard and Willys stood, shaking the rain from their hats.