The King's Man

by Alison Stuart

  She lightly kissed the broken fingers, studying his face, noting the grey shadows under his eyes, the lines of strain at the corner of his mouth, the red flecks that stained the whites of his eyes.

  ‘Oh, Kit. What did they do to you? Your eyes!’

  He pulled a face. ‘I’m sorry. I know I’m not a pretty sight.’

  She put her hands on either side of his face, drinking in the love in his eyes like a shipwrecked sailor who has found land.

  ‘The last six months have been hard,’ she said. ‘But you’re alive. That is all that matters.’

  She let her hands drop.

  ‘So, Kit. What do we do now?’ she asked. ‘If Kit Lovell is dead, who are you?’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I suppose I need to find a new name and try to untangle this knot that is my life.’ Kit sighed and drew her towards him. ‘When I was in the Tower, I dreamed of a peaceful life together, Thamsine.’

  ‘There is plenty of time for a peaceful life, Kit,’ Thamsine said. ‘I don’t think you and I would settle well to such a life. Not yet awhile.’

  He tilted her face upwards and smiled at her.

  ‘Ah, Mistress Granville. There’s a spirit in you that I loved from the first moment I saw you. You will have my undivided attention soon, I promise.’

  She smiled at him and laid her hands on either side of his face. ‘Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Kit Lovell.’

  Chapter 25

  In the warmth of an autumn sun, Kit lay with his head in Thamsine’s lap in the shade of one of the oaks in the park. She ran her fingers through the thick dark hair, now liberally peppered with grey that had not been there three months previously.

  It had taken time for the physical evidence of Kit’s brush with death to fade, but the dreadful invalid’s pallor had gone, his eyes had returned to their normal colour, and only the faintest shadow of bruising circled his neck. This he hid beneath a high neck cloth. The only physical legacy of the gallows seemed to be a change to the timbre in his voice. It now held a slight crackling edge to it. While the physical wounds had healed, she doubted anything could heal the terrible nightmares that caused him to wake screaming in the night.

  In the days following the final encounter with Ambrose Morton, they had seen that Ambrose and his sister were laid to rest with their mother in the graveyard at Beverstock. Roger Knott had returned to London, leaving his daughters at Hartley, and something approaching a semblance of family life had settled over the house. In moments like this it seemed almost possible to forget the dark days of their previous existence.

  They had talked about what they should do, how they could exist in an England that no longer wanted them. The decision, when it came to be made, had seemed so simple. After a lifetime of adventuring, Kit no longer felt the lure of France or the Colonies. The lovely Elizabethan house, tucked away in the peaceful Hampshire countryside, offered them both the solace and healing they needed, so they had decided they would stay where they were, sufficiently distant from London to cause Thurloe no heartache.

  Thamsine’s nieces had settled into life with their unusual aunt and uncle, and Thamsine had engaged a proper tutor for them. When he thought she wasn’t watching, Kit delighted in teaching them card games and tricks. Thamsine had asked Kit about his family in Cheshire but he refused to discuss them, saying he was not ready to face his stepmother, not yet, not until he had news of Daniel.

  Thamsine bent over and kissed Kit’s forehead. His eyes flickered open and he pulled her lips down to meet his.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ he murmured.

  ‘I was thinking that this is how it should always be,’ she said, and straightened at the sound of raised voices coming from the direction of the house. ‘I think we are about to be disturbed.’

  ‘Come back, sir!’

  At the sound of Stebbings’ voice, Kit stretched and sat up.

  Stebbings, who never hurried about anything, hastened across the lawn towards him in pursuit of a large, burly figure; a familiar figure with an ill-tied scarf over his right eye.

  ‘Master Lovell, I’m sorry. I couldn’t stop him!’ Stebbings panted to a halt behind Jem Marsh.

  ‘Jem!’ Kit jumped to his feet to face his old friend, seizing him by the hand.

  Jem looked him up and down and nodded. ‘Country life seems to suit you.’

  Thamsine rose to her feet, shaking out her skirts. ‘It is good to see you, Jem. How are the girls?’

  ‘May’s gone and married that carter,’ Jem said. ‘We miss her in the taproom.’

  ‘I must send her a gift,’ Thamsine said. ‘And Nan?’

  For answer, Jem rolled his eyes.

  ‘What brings you here?’ Kit asked.

  ‘I’ve a letter for ye.’ Jem fished in his jacket, produced a crumpled paper and handed it to Kit.

  Kit turned the paper over and his lips tightened.

  ‘Thurloe,’ he said in a low voice.

  A premonition of dread ran down Thamsine’s spine. Thurloe would not write unless he had very good reason.

  ‘You must be tired after your journey, Jem. Stebbings, make sure Master Marsh has some food and drink and is shown to the guest bedchamber. We will come up to the house shortly.’

  Jem nodded, his eyes resting on Kit’s bent head.

  ‘A strong ale won’t go astray,’ Jem said and set off back towards the house with Stebbings panting after him.

  Kit handed Thamsine the letter. ‘I can’t open it,’ he said.

  She took the letter and broke the seal. Another packet fell out onto the ground. Thamsine retrieved it and turned the paper she held in her hand over. Thurloe himself had written nothing, so whatever news he wished to convey would be contained in the enclosure.

  She took a deep breath and unfolded the missive, scanning the unfamiliar handwriting. A cry escaped her lips and she looked up at her husband, unable to contain the tears that started in her eyes.

  ‘Daniel?’ he asked through tight lips.

  She nodded and handed him the paper.

  He read the short missive aloud.

  My Lord Thurloe,

  Further to your enquiry regarding the prisoner Daniel Lovell, sent here as a traitor to the Commonwealth of England, I am reliably informed that he was indentured to one Jeremiah Pritchard of King’s County. It is my sad duty to advise that the said prisoner died of the fever common to these parts in February of this year of our Lord. If I can be of any further service,

  Yr obedient servant Willoughby

  He took a step back, doubling up as if someone had hit him in the stomach, all the colour draining from his face.

  ‘Kit … ’ Thamsine took a step towards him but he shook his head, sinking down on his haunches with his back to the tree. The paper fell unregarded to the ground.

  ‘No! I don’t believe it,’ he said. ‘No, no, no … it can’t be true.’

  Thamsine picked up the fallen paper.

  ‘Kit, the Governor of Barbados himself says he is dead. He could just as easily have died of a fever safe in his own bed in England.’

  ‘No!’ Kit muffled the animal howl of pain in his hands. ‘He can’t be dead. It can’t all have been for nothing.’ He looked up at her. ‘Every despicable act of betrayal I justified to myself with the thought it brought an innocent boy closer to his freedom. Now, all those deaths, those ghosts … they haunt me, Tham. They will haunt me until the day I die and now, Daniel … ’ His face crumpled in despair. ‘God help me, I should have died on that scaffold.’

  Thamsine dropped to the ground in front of him and clasped his hands between hers.

  ‘I would be dead if it were not for you, Kit Lovell. You saved my life. Don’t ever forget that. Your life was spared for a reason, and you have the rest of your time on this Earth to make amends for the events of the past years, but for now, you have to let yourself grieve for Daniel. He chose to take up a sword and he was not a boy. He made the decision as an adult. He was not your responsibility. Y
ou didn’t fail him on that day or any of the days that followed.’

  Kit shook off her hands and rose to his feet. He paced the ground beneath the tree, his face working with a thousand conflicting emotions as he ran his fingers again and again through his hair.

  ‘No,’ he said stopping his frantic pacing. ‘No. I won’t believe it.’ He glanced down at Thamsine. ‘Not until I stand by his grave.’

  Thamsine rose to her feet.

  ‘You are not suggesting that you go to Barbados?’

  ‘Thamsine, I have to satisfy myself, know how he passed these last years. You have to let me go.’

  She took a step towards him, grasping his shirt by the laces. She shook her head. ‘I am not letting you walk away from me again.’

  ‘Thamsine, please.’

  ‘If you go, I go too.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘I will not let you go alone. Kit, I have lost you once. Don’t make me lose you again.’

  She glared at him and he returned her angry stare with a slow inclination of his head. ‘Very well. We will go together, but first there is something else I have to do.’

  ‘What is that?’

  Kit’s lips tightened. ‘I have to face his mother.’

  Chapter 26

  Nothing remained of Eveleigh Priory but the east wing. Nature had reclaimed the blackened ruins of the once-great house, built in the later years of Great Henry’s reign on the ruins of one of his ransacked monasteries. Ivy trailed through the empty window recesses like worms through the eyes of a skull, and the dried early autumnal leaves rustled together in eddies and gathered at his horse’s hooves.

  Riding pillion behind him, Thamsine’s fingers tightened in Kit’s belt and he turned to look at her.

  ‘I warned you,’ he said.

  ‘I’d not imagined that it would be quite so bad,’ she replied.

  Kit put his heels to the horse, urging it forward. An old woman paused in sweeping the front steps leading up to the door. Her eyes widened as she recognised him. Before he could greet Old Alice, she dropped the broom and ran inside.

  ‘M’lady, m’lady!’ Kit heard her voice echoing through the house. ‘He’s back! Back from the grave.’

  As Kit dismounted, a woman in a rusty black dress appeared at the door, wiping her hands on an apron. She pushed back a tendril of greying hair that strayed from beneath her cap and squinted short-sightedly at the visitors.

  Kit lifted Thamsine down from the pillion saddle and turned to face his stepmother. He swept his hat from his head and gave her a low bow.

  ‘Madam,’ he said.

  Disappointment flooded her face.

  ‘You! I thought … ’ she began.

  He knew what she had thought. She had been expecting Daniel. He walked towards her and stood at the bottom of the steps looking up at her.

  ‘Margaret … ’ he started to say, but got no further.

  She picked up the abandoned broom and began to hit him. Kit put up his hands to protect his head from the frenzied blows Margaret Lovell rained down on him.

  ‘I told you never to darken my doorstep again!’

  She pursued him down the stairs and forced him back against the wall of the house.

  ‘Margaret, please … let me explain.’

  One of the blows hit the fingers of his right hand, jangling the nerves of the barely healed fingers. Kit swore volubly and slid down the wall, pressing his hand to his chest while trying to shield himself with his left hand.

  ‘Mother!’

  A young woman had appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Mother, stop! It’s Kit.’

  ‘I know who it is,’ Margaret said but she ceased her attack, throwing the broom down on the steps.

  Frances Lovell cast her mother a warning glance and ran down the steps. She knelt down beside her brother.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Fine,’ muttered Kit through tight lips.

  Frances took his hand and gasped.

  ‘Kit! Your hand, what happened?’

  ‘Another time,’ Kit said, pulling his hand back.

  With what dignity he could muster, he rose to his feet, retrieved his hat from the mud, took a steadying breath and turned to face his sister and stepmother. Frances took a step towards him, a broad smile on her face.

  ‘I can’t believe it’s you!’ she said. ‘We thought you were dead. It was in the broadsheets … ’

  He smiled at her. ‘It’s a very long story, Fran.’

  Kit looked up at his stepmother, who had retreated to the top of the stairs, her arms crossed, glaring down at him. Margaret Lovell had only been seventeen, a pretty, vivacious girl with an abundance of brown curls, when she had married Kit’s father. The eight-year-old Kit, newly brought back from France and thrust into a house of strangers speaking a strange language, had worshipped her.

  Now, the years of war and the loss of her own son had dealt ill with her. What he could see of her hair seemed to be almost entirely grey, her face thin and lined. Looking at her, the weight of responsibility for her troubles settled back on his shoulders where they rightly belonged.

  ‘Margaret, I don’t know where to begin,’ he said.

  ‘I want my son back,’ she responded, but all the anger had gone from her voice.

  ‘Oh, Mother,’ Frances sounded impatient, ‘I’m so tired of this. You cannot hold Kit responsible forever.’

  ‘I can and I do.’

  ‘Well, I’m tired of blaming Kit for this family’s ills!’ Frances continued. ‘He’s my brother as much as Daniel, and I, for one, am glad to see him.’ She fell into his arms. ‘I truly am glad to see you, Kit.’

  He held her close, marvelling at how the enchanting child could have grown into such a sensible young woman. A discreet cough reminded him that Thamsine stood watching this touching family reunion. He turned to her, noting the gleam of amusement in her eye. He held out his hand and she took it.

  ‘My wife, Thamsine,’ he said. ‘Thamsine, my stepmother, Margaret Lovell, and my sister, Frances.’

  Both women stared at Thamsine and then back at Kit.

  ‘You’re married?’ Frances exclaimed.

  ‘Yes,’ Kit said slowly. ‘I did say she was my wife.’

  Margaret sniffed and looked Thamsine up and down, taking in the elegant green gown and curling chestnut locks.

  ‘I suppose you know that my stepson is a disgrace to this family,’ she said.

  Thamsine smiled. ‘I know all there is to know of your stepson, Mistress Lovell. Between us, I suspect he only married me for my money.’

  She winked at her husband, who responded with a grin. Margaret stood to one side of the doorway and gestured for them to enter.

  ‘Seeing as you’re here, you may as well come in.’

  Frances tucked her arm into Kit’s.

  ‘Take no notice of her, Kit! I, for one, am happy to see you.’

  ‘How’s Grandfather?’ he asked.

  She stopped and looked up at him.

  ‘You don’t know?’

  A chill of premonition settled on Kit’s shoulders. ‘Know what?’

  ‘He’s dead. You’re Lord Midhurst now.’

  Kit took a deep, steadying breath.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Last winter,’ she said. ‘Lung fever.’

  The old man was dead? So he had been Lord Midhurst for months and he’d never known. He wondered what Lucy would have thought if she’d known he was already a Viscount. An empty title if ever there was one. How could another dead man inherit a title?

  In the old room that served as a parlour, Margaret turned to face him.

  ‘I am sorry about Grandfather,’ Kit said. ‘And more sorry that I did not know. How have you managed all these months by yourselves?’

  Margaret drew herself up. ‘We’ve managed because we’ve had to. Frances and I have been abandoned. First they send Daniel to some Godforsaken corner of the world and then your grandfather … and then the news
you were dead.’ She drew her daughter to her side. ‘We knew nobody would be coming to our aid.’

  Kit laid his hat down on the table. ‘I’m sorry, Margaret.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Margaret glared at him. ‘Don’t think we weren’t grateful for the money you sent, but we needed you, Kit.’

  Her words lashed him and he flinched at the pain that they caused. He had deluded himself into believing that the few coins he sent were enough. But there was nothing he could have done, even if he had known of their situation.

  ‘So why are you here now?’ Margaret’s steely gaze moved from Kit to Thamsine.

  ‘First and foremost, to make my peace with you.’

  Margaret gave a hollow laugh. ‘You’re a little late for that, Kit Lovell.’

  Frances broke away from her mother’s side and went to stand beside Kit, clutching his arm. ‘No, he’s not! Mother, I don’t blame Kit for what happened to Daniel. Daniel went of his own free will and nothing you could have said or done would have stopped him. The good Lord knows how much I miss Daniel but,’ she glanced up at her brother, ‘I have missed Kit too.’

  Margaret shot her daughter a quelling glance and looked back at Kit. ‘And?’

  ‘And?’ Kit looked at Thamsine and she nodded. ‘Thamsine and I have come to offer you a home.’

  Margaret straightened, her chin coming up in a familiar gesture of defiance. ‘This is my home.’

  Kit ran a hand through his hair. Margaret had always been a stubborn, infuriating woman, but he loved her as much as he had his own mother.

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘You can stay here, Margaret, living in four rooms in a broken ruin, if that’s you want. Frances?’

  Frances looked up at him.

  ‘You have a home? Where?’

  ‘In Hampshire,’ Thamsine said. ‘There’s only Kit and myself and my two nieces. There is a comfortable dower house and ample room.’

  ‘You really did marry her for her money.’ Frances shot a mischievous glance at her brother.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Kit agreed.