Page 7 of The King’s Man (Guardians of the Crown #2)
E very time the door to the taproom opened, Thamsine looked around. It had been a week since she had last seen Kit Lovell, and as the other men slipped into the private parlour, she knew tonight he would come. Her heart skipped a beat with the anticipation of being in his company again.
Nan passed her carrying two full jacks of ale.
‘You’re like a she-cat on heat,’ she remarked. ‘He’ll be here soon enough. In the meantime, go and make yourself useful. There’s tables to be wiped and those ’prentices over yon could do with some female company.’
Thamsine cast a glance at the table of rowdy ’prentices and shuddered. If they required female company, they could look elsewhere. Instead, she tightened her apron strings, pulled the grimy rag from the pocket and began the task of wiping down the nearest long oak table.
‘Well, well, I hardly recognised you.’
At the sound of Kit’s voice, she looked up, unable to stop the smile that crept to her lips.
He stood back and examined her with a critical eye. ‘The black eye is now a fetching shade of yellow. As for the clothes, the bodice is perhaps a little immodest and the petticoats a little short, but you pass.’
Thamsine looked down at the clean, serviceable, but faded cloth of the petticoats and tugged at the gaping bodice.
‘The twins found them for me. The previous owner was a little shorter and rather fuller of figure,’ she said.
Jem Marsh sauntered over and placed a hand on Thamsine’s shoulder. ‘Quite a little find you dropped on my doorstep, Lovell. Broken just about every dish in my kitchen and dropped more jacks of ale than I can count, but she has one redeeming feature.’
Kit raised an eyebrow. ‘And that is?’
‘Voice of an angel.’ Jem waved a hand around the crowded taproom. ‘See this crowd? All thanks to her.’
Thamsine felt the heat rise to her cheeks. ‘All those years of music lessons have finally been put to good use,’ she said, ‘although I am not sure that Signor Capelli had tavern songs in mind when he was teaching me.’
‘You’re taking a risk, Jem. Public performances of song are frowned upon, you know.’ Kit raised a quizzical eyebrow at his friend.
Jem made a contemptuous gesture with his hand.
‘Let ’em try and close me down. As long as your girl here fills my taproom, I’m willing to take the risk.
’ He thrust a jack of ale at Thamsine. ‘Here, I don’t pay you to stand around gossiping with the customers, go and give this to Abel and tell ’im to get his fiddle out. ’
Thamsine took the ale and turned without looking, colliding with a man who had just entered. Ale slopped from the pot over his jacket.
‘You stupid girl,’ the man roared.
‘Why doncha watch where ye’re going?’ Thamsine snapped back, employing her best cockney accent.
‘Now then, Dutton, it was an accident,’ Kit said as Thamsine set the jack down and grabbed the cloth from the table where she had left it and began dabbing ineffectually at the man’s damp coat.
‘Don’t I know you?’ Dutton demanded, peering at Thamsine’s face.
Thamsine straightened and looked him in the face. The man, middle-aged with fair, greying hair and a moustache and beard of a style fashionable ten years previously, was a stranger to her.
‘I don’t think so, sir,’ she said.
‘Damn it, I never forget a face,’ Dutton persisted.
‘Too many taverns, Dutton,’ Kit said. He clapped a hand on the man’s shoulder and turned him toward the private parlour. ‘Forget about this wench. The others are waiting.’
Dutton cast Thamsine one long, last furious look as Kit propelled him away from her.
Jem clapped a hand on Thamsine’s shoulder. ‘Don’t take Cap’n Dutton to heart, lass. He’s a sad excuse for a man. Reckon he’s already had a skinful tonight.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the fireplace. ‘Go on, give us a song. Abel’s waiting.’
In the corner by the fireplace, an elderly man had produced a fiddle and struck up a tune. Thamsine set the remains of the jack of ale down beside him and climbed up onto an empty stool.
‘Come cease your songs of cuckold’s row,
For now ’tis something stale,
And let us sing of beggars now,
For that’s in general,
In city and in country,
Men from high to low,
In each degree of quality,
Are beggars all a row.’
The taproom fell silent, the audience listening in rapt attention and occasionally adding an intercession in agreement with the sentiments of the words.
At the door to the private parlour, Kit Lovell leaned against the doorframe, a jack of ale in his hand, to listen. Even with the light behind him and his face in the darkness, she felt his eyes on her face and she felt as if she sang just for him.
‘I saw a handsome proper youth,
And he was wondrous fine,
But when I understood the truth,
His case was worse than mine,
On wine and drabs, he did all spend,
Which wrought his overthrow,
So fortune plac’d him in the end,
With beggars all a row.’
Kit’s shoulders shook with laughter and he raised his jack to her. A taller, fair-haired man appeared behind Kit and whispered something in his ear. Kit nodded and the door closed behind them.
***
‘Who’s the singer?’ Fitzjames asked.
Kit shook his head. ‘Some new girl of Marsh’s.’
‘She’s got a good voice,’ Fitz commented. ‘Good to hear music again.’
‘Little bitch is a better singer than she is a skivvy. Spilt half a jack of ale over me,’ Dutton growled. ‘Sure I’ve seen her before somewhere. Damn me if I can think where.’
Kit viewed the drunken sot with distaste. Dutton’s face was flushed with drink, dark circles under his eyes. ‘Forget her, Dutton. Are you going to tell us your plan?’
Dutton unrolled a map on the table. The men leaned over it, their faces taut with expectation.
‘I believe that we can raise six hundred men,’ Dutton said. ‘With six hundred men we can seize Whitehall, St. James’, the Tower and the Guards.’ His stubby finger stabbed at the map.
Kit choked on his ale. ‘We can do what?’ he spluttered.
Six faces turned to look at him. ‘Lovell, you have something to say?’ Colonel Whitely asked, a cold edge to his voice.
Kit stared at them. ‘You make that sound so simple! Just walk in and seize Whitehall? And what happens when we have accomplished this amazing act of daring?’
‘The King will be waiting in a ship offshore. We send a signal to the ship and he lands in triumph,’ Dutton concluded.
‘And we are certain of the support of six hundred men?’ Kit failed to hide the incredulity in his voice.
‘I have promises of that many.’ Dutton’s tone was a little less sure, but he hid his uncertainty with bluster.
‘And the King knows of this?’ Kit said.
‘Not at the moment. That is our next task. We must send someone to meet with the King and advise him of our plan.’ Dutton looked around the circle of faces. ‘Whitely, I for one think that you should go.’
‘Of course, I would be honoured, Dutton, but there is the small matter of financing my trip to Paris. I haven’t two farthings to rub together, let alone a boat fare to France, hire of horses, accommodation … ’
Dutton started to roll up the map. ‘Well I’ve no money,’ he said. ‘Cotes? Willys? Fitzjames?’
He was met with downcast eyes and a concerted shaking of heads. ‘Lovell?’
Kit raised his hands. ‘Don’t look to me, Dutton, I’m only just out of debtors’ prison.’
Dutton sank onto a chair, his face heavy with gloom. ‘We can’t act without the King’s connivance. The money must be raised for Whitley’s passage. Gentlemen, I suggest we adjourn and meet back here the day after tomorrow. In the meantime, see what can be done about raising funds.’
Kit shook his head. ‘Dutton, if we’ve not the funds to send Whitely to France, how do you plan to finance six hundred men? What happened to the loyal subjects you visited over the last week?’
Dutton’s mouth took on a stubborn cast that Kit recognised all too well. His requests had, no doubt, met with the refusal they deserved.
‘Once we have seized Whitehall and the Tower we will have access to as much money as we like.’ Dutton’s eyes narrowed. ‘I sense doubt, Lovell. Those not with us … ’
Kit held up his hands. ‘I know, Dutton. Of course, I’m with you.’
He held his tongue and surveyed his companions. What a miserable band of conspirators we are , he thought. Let them dream . It was not his task to play Devil’s advocate.
The party dispersed, leaving Kit alone in the parlour with Fitzjames and Willys. Fitzjames lit a pipe and propped his feet on an abandoned stool and watched the smoke curl up into the beams of the parlour.
Richard Willys toyed with his empty pot before slamming it on the table. ‘This is a bad business, Lovell.’
‘What is?’
‘This mad plot of Dutton’s. It’ll ruin everything.’ Willys’ fingers drummed on the rim of his empty pot.
Kit raised an eyebrow. ‘What will it ruin?’
Willys looked around the parlour. ‘It has no chance of success. You both know that. I saw it in your faces.’
‘I agree, but I do not see that it can be prevented,’ Fitz said, removing the pipe from his mouth.
Willys looked away. ‘No. It has gone too far already.’
‘What other plans is it going to ruin?’ Kit asked again.
Willys gave him a considered glance. ‘You’re a good man, Lovell. I’ve no reason to doubt your loyalty to the King.’ He lowered his voice. ‘There’s a committee with the King’s Commission set up to organise an insurrection.’
Kit set his tankard down and leaned forward. ‘ With the King’s Commission?’
Willys nodded.
‘Who’s on it?’
‘That doesn’t matter. What matters is that part of the commission is to prevent such madness as this.’
Kit sat back and shook his head. ‘Willys, you, they, whoever this committee is, can’t stop it. While the King sits in France and Cromwell in Whitehall there are always going to be hotheads like Dutton who will be plotting in their cups.’
Willys stroked his moustache. ‘I know. All I can do is suggest that you disassociate yourself from this plan and try and persuade as many of your comrades as you can. Maybe it will die its natural death.’