The King's Man

by Alison Stuart

  Ambrose appeared to ignore the tension between the two women as he looked around the pleasant room.

  ‘And to think this was so nearly mine,’ he said.

  His eyes came to rest on Thamsine as Annie crept up next to him and put her hand on his knee.

  ‘’Brose?’ she said.

  With his eyes still fixed on Thamsine, he raised his right hand and hit out at Annie, a brutal blow that flung her several feet. The two little girls gave a shriek of alarm and Rebecca ran to Annie’s side.

  ‘You hurt her!’ she cried.

  ‘I intended to. She may be my sister but she betrayed me in the worst way possible. Stop your snivelling, Annie, or I will hit you again.’

  In one swift movement he rose to his feet and grabbed Rebecca’s arm, pulling her away from the sobbing woman-child.

  Roger Knott stood up and took a step towards him. ‘Let her go!’

  Ambrose ignored him. He took Rebecca’s chin in his fingers and forced her face upwards.

  ‘How old are you, child?’

  ‘Fourteen … ’ Rebecca’s voice faltered.

  Thamsine’s blood ran cold. She recognised the hooded, wolfish look in Morton’s eyes. She had seen it before. Roger gave a strangled cry and took a step towards Ambrose, but without even looking at him, Ambrose picked up one of the pistols and put it to Rachel’s head. ‘Sit down, Knott,’ he snarled.

  ‘Let her go, Ambrose.’ Lucy sounded bored. ‘She’s far too young.’

  ‘I like them young,’ Ambrose said, but he released the frightened girl, who ran to her father, burying her head in his jacket.

  Roger put a protective arm around both his girls, drawing them close.

  ‘What have you done with the servants?’ Thamsine asked.

  ‘I’ve locked them up.’

  Ambrose toyed with the pistol he held with one hand, while with the other he produced two keys. He placed them on the table beside the other pistol and looked at his mistress. Lucy struggled to her feet.

  ‘Thamsine, go with Lucy and fetch the contents of your strongbox.’

  Thamsine stood her ground. ‘I’ll not leave this room until I have your word that you will not harm anyone in it.’

  Ambrose waved the pistol and gave her a pained look. ‘I told you, I’ve no intention of harming anyone. I just want your money.’

  He handed Lucy the second pistol. ‘Here, dearest take this.’

  ‘Do you even know how to use it?’ Thamsine asked as Lucy stood aside to let her out of the room.

  The pistol looked ridiculously large in Lucy’s hands, and it took her both hands to hold it steady. The muzzle wavered and Thamsine considered herself at far more risk of an accidental discharge then a deliberate act.

  ‘The coin,’ Lucy said.

  Thamsine led her into the study and lifted the strongbox out from its hiding place beneath the bricks of the fireplace, opening it with the key she carried at her waist. The month’s rent money and the money from the harvest, maybe eighty pounds in all, were worth the price of her freedom. Lucy took the bags and weighed them in her hand.

  ‘Is this all?’ Her eyes glittered greedily.

  ‘Yes, that’s everything.’

  ‘What about jewellery, silver?’

  ‘There’s no silver. It all went to the King’s cause, as did the jewellery,’ Thamsine said. ‘I am not as rich as Ambrose supposes.’

  Lucy regarded her with cold, narrowed eyes. ‘Why do you suppose Kit Lovell married you? Don’t delude yourself it was for love. He sought wealth.’

  Thamsine smiled. ‘The reasons Kit married me are long and complicated, Lucy, and I have no intention of sharing them with you.’

  Lucy’s lower lip trembled. ‘You know he would have been a Viscount. I would have had his title.’

  ‘Instead you have ended up penniless and pregnant and beholden to a man who I know is a rapist and worse. There is a just God after all.’

  The pistol shook. ‘You don’t understand, Thamsine. Ambrose and I … ’

  ‘ … are birds of a feather, Lucy. Kit would never have married you and you know it.’

  Tears welled in Lucy’s eyes and she took one hand off the pistol to dash them away. It occurred to Thamsine in that moment that Lucy may actually have loved Kit, but she could find no pity in her heart for this woman who had betrayed her to Ambrose and stood by while Ambrose had beaten and crippled Kit. No, Lucy had got the reward she so richly deserved.

  ‘Just take the coin and go,’ Thamsine said. ‘I want you both gone from my house.’

  Lucy yawned. ‘I’m tired, Thamsine. Pregnancy does that, but then I suppose you wouldn’t know.’

  The smugness in her tone and the way her hand rested on the swell of her stomach made Thamsine turn away. The thought of this woman giving birth to Kit’s child sickened her.

  Lucy jerked the heavy pistol. ‘Pick up the coin.’

  Thamsine complied and they returned to the parlour. No one appeared to have moved. Roger sat with his arms around his two terrified children. Annie huddled at his feet, her thin arms wrapped around her knees, rocking herself and mumbling. Ambrose sprawled in his chair, the pistol in his hand.

  Thamsine set the money bags down beside him. ‘That’s all I have. Take it and get out.’

  Ambrose glanced at the windows, where a heavy squall lashed against the glass.

  ‘You seem anxious to be rid of us, Thamsine. As it is, you may have noticed the weather outside is vile. I have no intention of going anywhere tonight. The coach horses will take us no further and you are forgetting your skills as a hostess. I want food. Lucy?’

  Ambrose tossed Lucy one of the keys. ‘Go and find the cook and get him to make some food.’

  Lucy glanced at a chair. ‘Ambrose, I’m exhausted. I want to rest … ’

  ‘You’ll get rest, I promise,’ he said. ‘Food first.’

  With the sigh of a pregnant woman, Lucy lifted up the heavy pistol again and left the room. Ambrose turned the pistol he held on Thamsine.

  ‘Play for me, Thamsine, like you used to.’

  ‘I hardly think … ’ Thamsine began, but saw his fingers tighten on the pistol. ‘Very well. Anything in particular?’

  ‘Something cheerful, I think,’ he replied. ‘And you … ’ The pistol turned on Rebecca. ‘ … you can dance for me.’

  ‘No.’ Roger’s arm tightened on his daughter.

  ‘I don’t know how to dance.’ Rebecca said in a small voice.

  ‘Oh yes, of course. Puritans. Annie will show you, won’t you, Annie?’

  Annie looked up, hope shining in her eyes. ‘’Brose?’

  ‘Dance for me, Annie. You remember how you used to dance?’

  She nodded and stood up, straightening her skirts. Thamsine began to play a little country jig and Annie responded, moving in her own unintelligible way to the music.

  ‘Dance with your friend, Annie.’ Ambrose indicated Rebecca and Annie took the girl’s hands, leading her in a hopping dance that took them around the room.

  Ambrose laughed. It sounded almost an avuncular, jovial laugh, as if he genuinely enjoyed watching his sister.

  The dancing continued until Lucy, labouring under a tray loaded with dishes, entered through the door. She set the tray down on the table and placed a bowl of soup and a plate of cold mutton before Ambrose.

  ‘Annie, sit down there, where I can see you.’ Ambrose gestured with his hand.

  Annie obeyed and Rebecca returned to her father’s side. Thamsine stopped playing.

  ‘Oh, you can keep playing, Thamsine. Something sad and wistful, I think. Let us remember poor Lovell, dancing at the end of a rope.’ He laughed and picked up the soup bowl.

  Ambrose ate as Thamsine played. Lucy picked at the food. From over the virginals Thamsine watched Lucy. The woman seemed so far removed from the bright creature who had captivated Kit. She wondered if she had come willingly with Ambrose, or had circumstance forced her hand?

  Ambrose pushed the dishes to one s
ide and belched. ‘Come, Lucy, eat up.’

  ‘I’m not hungry, Ambrose,’ she said. ‘I just want to rest.’

  ‘Well, don’t let me stop you,’ he said. ‘There are ample beds upstairs, or you can lay on that settle.’ He indicated a large oak settle that stood against wall. Lucy pushed aside her chair, gathered some cushions, and lay down on the settle.

  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 up the jug that Lucy had brought with the tray of food 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.

  Thamsine stopped playing and tried to give the girl an encouraging smile. ‘Do what he says, Annie.’

  Annie’s mouth twisted in a trusting smile. ‘Ale,’ she said. ‘I’ll get ale.’ Repeating the word to herself, she left the room.

  ‘Keep playing,’ Ambrose ordered.

  Thamsine looked up at him. ‘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.

  ‘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.

  ‘Now the pins.’

  With shaking hands, Rebecca loosed her hair, letting it fall in a shining wave nearly to her waist.

  ‘That’s better,’ Ambrose said. ‘Now the collar.’

  ‘Father … ’ Rebecca turned to her father.

  ‘Morton. That’s enough. Let her go.’ Roger had risen to his feet, his face ashen.

  Morton laughed and raised the pistol to point at Rebecca’s head. His meaning was clear; if Roger moved, Rebecca died. Roger stared at his daughter with large, stricken eyes.

  ‘Father?’ Rebecca’s voice trembled and her eyes filled with tears.

  ‘You unspeakable animal,’ Thamsine said. ‘Let her go, she’s only a child.’

  Morton glanced at Thamsine. ‘Jealous, my dear? Don’t worry, your turn will come later. We have all night–now, if either of you lift a finger, the girl 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!’

  The jug of ale Annie had carried from the kitchen crashed to the floor in the doorway. 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 sickbed 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 had no confidence in his ability to survive another encounter with Ambrose Morton.

  Kit’s soldier’s instincts prickled as the house came into view. Through the rain the fine Elizabethan house seemed quiet. He crossed the front of the house, seeking out the stables where he could leave his horse. He found them with no difficulty and his heart skipped a beat at the sight of the rain-soaked, mud-spattered carriage that stood in the stable yard, no horses in the traces.

  He led his horse across to the dark 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.

  Kit filled a bucket it with oats and another with water for his horse and the two coach horses. The horses’ ears twitched and their heads turned at the sound of a muffled noise emanating from behind a door at the end of the stables.

  Kit crept down the length of the stables and leaned against the door.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he called.

  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 rubdown, while he considered his next move. Morton and Lucy were in the house, and he had no doubt Thamsine and her family were in the gravest peril. 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.

  Gathering his courage, he left the stables and slipped around the house in the direction of the kitchens. A light shone from a window and 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. He saw 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. 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 passed through a gate in the wall, onto a well-groomed bowling green. The contrast with the ravaged gardens of his own home jarred. 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 the rain muffled his footsteps. 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 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 the child shook.

  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 parlour 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, his face ashen. With surprising gentleness he turned her over, resting her head in his lap.

  ‘Annie, oh God, Annie! I didn’t mean … ’ His voice broke and he looked up at Thamsine who stood behind him. ‘She’s still alive. Help her!’

  Kit swallowed as he recognised the name. The woman Morton 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.