Page 61 of The King’s Man (Guardians of the Crown #2)

B eyond a darkness so profound that it had a force of its own, a distant light seemed to grow stronger and brighter.

Kit took a step towards it, wanting to reach it with a desperate longing.

He reached out his hand and took another step, but long fingers held him tight, dragging him back into the darkness.

He tried to cry out but could not make a sound.

The light faded and a red-and-black mist of pain enveloped him.

Distantly, he became aware of voices, and of searing pain as his lungs struggled to regain air and his head pounded. He had never experienced a headache like this before. It felt as if his temples would burst; his throat hurt unbearably and every breath seared in his lungs.

Heaven or hell? Surely hell. Heaven brought peace, not this torment of pain and bright colours that flashed before his eyes.

‘Praise the Lord, he’s coming around,’ a man said. ‘It seems he’ll live. Another couple of seconds and you would have been too late.’

Live?

‘Can you see?’

He forced his eyes open and a bright light waved in front of his face. He put up a hand to shield his eyes from its intensity and closed his eyes again.

Kit tried to speak, but nothing came out but a strangled croak. He put a hand to his throat and swallowed with difficulty, arching his back against the pain of the effort.

A hand rested on his chest. ‘Lie quiet. There will be pain. That’s to be expected. And don’t try to talk. It will be some time before you’ll talk again. There’s a great deal of bruising.’

How had he not died? The memory of the rope closing on his throat came back with cruel, stark clarity. He tried to swallow again but even that simple movement made him cough.

Kit ran his hands up his face and across his eyes, seeking the assurance he was still flesh and bone.

Kit threw off the hand that held him down and tried to sit up but the effort was too much.

He subsided, coughing. His back arched in the agony that the effort cost him and his limbs shook uncontrollably.

Someone held a cup to his lips and he gagged as a sweet liquid dribbled down his tortured throat.

Gradually the pain faded and he drifted into a place of nightmares.

When he opened his eyes again, the light in the room seemed to have changed.

He blinked, trying very hard to focus as he looked around the small room, but everything remained blurred.

Pinpricks of light indicated the location of a brace of candles.

A shadow moved into his line of sight. He squinted and could make out the outline of a man wearing the robes and tight-fitting cap of a physician.

The man leaned over him, scanning his face. He nodded and straightened

‘He’s awake,’ the physician said, and Kit recognised him as being the man with the soothing, authoritative voice who had brought him back from the dead.

Another shadow moved across his field of vision. A man in dark clothes stood back a little way, his arms crossed, one hand raised with his finger against his lips. Kit recognised the gesture, even if the face remained blurred.

‘Thurloe!’

Nothing but a croak emanated from Kit’s throat. The effort caused a wracking coughing fit that made him contract in pain.

‘Welcome back, Captain Lovell. You had me worried. I thought for a moment I was too late,’ Thurloe said.

‘Why?’ This time something that vaguely resembled a word forced its way out of Kit’s lips.

‘It was the only way, Lovell,’ Thurloe replied. ‘We cut you down before any serious damage could be done. Although, as the physician said, probably just in time. You will hurt for a while but Dr Munn here assures me that you should make a full recovery.’

Kit narrowed his eyes and stared at Thurloe, wishing his face would come into focus so he could look into his eyes and try to understand how this man could let him go to the gallows, just to snatch him back from the jaws of death.

‘I couldn’t save you from the gallows without it appearing suspicious.’ Thurloe read his mind again. ‘A last-minute reprieve was not possible without awkward questions. This way, Christopher Lovell is dead. You are free to start a new life. All debts repaid.’

Kit shook his head. A mistake; the world roared in his ears and he pressed his hands to his head to try and ease the pain.

The doctor raised his head and held a cup to his lips. Kit drank gratefully, the cool, unidentifiable liquid soothing the pain of his tortured throat.

‘Get him up,’ Thurloe said. ‘My coach is waiting.’

‘He needs rest,’ the doctor protested.

‘He can have plenty of rest, but I want him out of here. I want him off my hands.’

Kit groaned as the doctor hauled him upright. It took both the doctor and Thurloe’s bulky coachman, who had to be summoned to assist, to half-carry, half-drag him downstairs and out through a sally port to where a coach stood waiting in the shadows.

Kit subsided against the expensive leather seats and closed his eyes. Thurloe gave a sharp order and the coach moved off. He did not speak until it stopped again.

‘Ah, we’re here. Back to the warm and welcoming arms of your friends. All shuttered up, I see. There must have been a death in the family. Well, this is it, Lovell. This is farewell.’

Thurloe’s voice came from the pale, disembodied circle of his face.

He continued, ‘You will come to thank me, Lovell. You have your life and a chance to start again. However, I think it prudent you avoid your previous haunts for some time. Your Lazarine resurrection from the dead may excite comment among your former comrades. In a few years, maybe they will have forgotten about you.’

The door of the coach opened.

‘Goodbye, Lovell,’ Thurloe said as his coachman hauled Kit bodily out of the coach and deposited him on the doorstep of The Ship Inn.

The coachman banged on the door and left Kit slumped against the doorjamb. By the time Kit heard footsteps on the flags of the taproom, Thurloe’s coach had gone.

‘We’re closed.’ Jem’s voice boomed gruffly from behind the door.

Kit rested his face against the door and raised his hand to the wood, his feeble efforts making no more impression than the scratching of a mouse. He heard the bolt being drawn back and the door flung open. Kit got a brief impression of Jem’s surprised face before falling forward into his arms.

There were voices in the dark, this time familiar voices.

Nan Marsh’s said, ‘What sort of ’orrible joke is this?’

‘’Tis no joke,’ her brother replied. ‘’Tis Kit Lovell all right, and I can tell you this, girls, he ain’t dead. Fetch me some of the brandy.’

Slowly, Kit opened his eyes and coughed. He heard a squeak of alarm and turned his throbbing head to find himself looking into the anxious face of May Marsh.

She touched his face. Just the gentlest touch, but every nerve in his body cried out in pain.

‘You’re really alive! I can’t believe it.’

Her face looked red and blotchy from crying. He reached out a hand to touch her face and she grasped his fingers, pressing his hand to her wet cheek.

‘Don’t cry, May,’ he said, or at least he thought the words came out, but she didn’t seem to hear.

Jem Marsh’s less appealing visage hove into view.

‘Don’t even try and talk, Lovell. I’ve seen this afore and it will be a while until you’ve a voice of your own.

’ Jem’s arm slipped beneath his head and a cup of brandy was put to his lips.

Kit let a little of the burning liquid slide down his throat.

He gagged and coughed but life began to creep back into his fingers and toes.

May gave a choking sob and tightened her grip on his fingers. ‘They told us you was dead and buried. They even brought a letter for Mistress Thamsine … ’

A strangled groan emanated from Kit’s throat. He had written her a letter. Thamsine would think he was dead.

He propped himself up on an elbow and scanned the faces in the room: Jem, May and Nan. No Thamsine.

‘She’s not here. She’s with her sister at Turnham Green.’ Jem answered the question in Kit’s eyes. ‘I’ll send May’s Tom in the morning to fetch her.’

‘Proper cut up she was when I told her … ’ Nan put in.

Thamsine wasn’t here. She thought he was dead. Kit fell back and closed his eyes against this new pain. He wanted to hold her, to reassure himself that he had survived and they could be together.

Jem brought the candle lower and turned Kit’s head, inspecting his neck.

‘Another minute on the gallows and you’d’ve been done for,’ he said.

Kit managed a nod of affirmation. Had this been the only way Thurloe could find to save his life or another of his cruel tricks?

The memory of what he had thought to be his last moments on Earth forced their way into his aching mind with absolute clarity and he put a shaking hand to his eyes. Thurloe’s legacy would be a nightmare that would probably haunt him for the rest of his days.

Jem put an arm around his shoulders and raised him to his feet.

‘Come on, lad. Let’s get you into a bed. We’ll hear the story when you’re able to tell it.’

***