Page 6 of The King’s Man (Guardians of the Crown #2)

‘Quite true,’ Dutton said. ‘I was there. Saw it myself. Hurled a brickbat at him during the parade. Only missed him by a few inches.’

‘Women never could throw,’ Cotes put in with a snort. ‘Did they catch her?’

‘Vanished,’ Dutton said. ‘Disappeared like smoke. Some say it was witchcraft.’

‘They’d say that about anybody. Fact is they were too incompetent to catch her,’ Whitely said. ‘Well good luck to her, wherever she is. Pity is, she missed.’

‘Cromwell conducts himself more and more as if he were King, not the usurping yeoman that he is,’ Gerard spat.

Kit laughed. ‘My young friend, like it or not, he is our head of state. I for one would not have the task!’

‘Pssh!’ Whitely snorted. ‘Gone soft in gaol, Lovell.’

Kit sighed. ‘Getting old, Whitely. So what brings this sorry band together?’

The men looked at each other.

Gerard leaned across the table to address Whitely. ‘Is he to be trusted?’

Whitely gave the young man a hard look. ‘Of course, he’s to be trusted. Lovell’s a King’s man to the bone. He stood behind the King’s colours at Edgehill and Worcester.’

Fitzjames placed a hand on Kit’s shoulder. ‘He’s one of us, Gerard.’

The others nodded in agreement.

‘So, Dutton,’ Fitz said. ‘What’s the news?’

The gaze of every man in the room turned to Richard Dutton. The man raised his wineglass, took a quaff, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and set the glass down with a dramatic flourish.

‘There is a plan,’ he announced.

Kit’s heart sank. There was always a plan, and if Dutton had anything to do with it, it was unlikely to be a very good plan.

Dutton leaned forward, his voice lowered. ‘As we discussed in Lovell’s absence, it’s early days yet but steps have advanced.’

‘And?’ Whitely tapped his foot with obvious impatience.

Dutton shook his head. ‘I am loath to say much more for the present. However, if we meet back here in a week, I will then have something to report.’

Hiding his frustration with a shrug, Kit produced a battered pack of cards. ‘Well, until next week, then. In the meantime, I for one would welcome a diversion, not to mention a small boost to the purse. Anyone willing to take me on?’

After several rounds of cards, Dutton rose unsteadily to his feet.

‘Go to go,’ he slurred. ‘Busy day tomorrow.’

Kit shot to his feet. ‘I’ll see you to your lodgings,’ he said.

The two men lurched into the cold street. Snowflakes fell on their hats and shoulders but melted before reaching the slushy filth of the ground.

‘Your damned luck hasn’t changed,’ Dutton remarked, swaying to one side of the road.

Kit took his arm and propelled him back in a straight line.

Dutton was a heavyset man some years older than he was.

As with the rest of the company at The Ship Inn, the recent conflicts had dealt ill with him.

He had lost his home and family, and the war had left him embittered and penniless, with a fondness for wine that loosened his tongue and made him dangerous.

‘Plenty of time in the Clink to hone my skills. You should try it sometime,’ Kit said.

‘I did.’ Dutton spat into the gutter. ‘Remember those stinking cells after Worcester?’

Kit suppressed a shudder. There were some memories he preferred not to recall. ‘Tomorrow night, Dutton? You and me, a couple of comely wenches … ?’

Dutton stopped in the middle of the street, swaying slightly. ‘Tomorrow … No, tomorrow I must go away.’

Kit caught the man as he staggered forward. ‘So where are you off to, Dutton?’

Dutton tapped the side of his nose and gave Kit a heavy, conspiratorial wink. ‘Secret.’

‘Good God man, we don’t have secrets from each other. Look at all we’ve been through. Remember Naseby? You saved my life that day.’

This was so far from the truth as to be almost the opposite, but Dutton’s wine-soaked mind would remember what he wanted.

‘Oh yes, my friend, I remember Naseby and Worcester. Can’t forget Worcester.’

‘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.

His unfortunate sojourn in the Clink meant he had some catching up to do and he worked quickly and methodically.

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, they made a poor fist of using code. The meaning was plain to even the most untrained observer. The word ‘uncle’ was a thinly veiled reference to the King, although Kit doubted Charles knew anything about this latest scheme.

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.

Pausing only to cast poor, stupid Dutton a regretful glance, he slipped from the room.