Page 9 of The King’s Man (Guardians of the Crown #2)

K it returned to The Ship Inn the following night with a heavy heart. It had snowed earlier in the day but the snow had already turned to slush in the mire, soiling Kit’s boots and the gloomy weather reflected his mood.

The inn spilled warm, golden light and drunken ’prentices into the cold London street.

He pulled his cloak around him and looked on with distaste as one of the ’prentices vomited loudly and messily against the wall of the inn.

His fellows gathered him up and they pushed past Kit, singing discordantly.

Kit opened the door and caught Jem’s eye.

‘Busy tonight,’ he commented.

‘Aye. It’s that lass of yours, Thamsine. Word’s got out, quite an attraction she is.’ Jem looked pleased.

The fiddler struck up a tune and Thamsine was hoisted onto a table. Kit smiled. In her tattered gown with her hand on her hip, any semblance between the gentlewoman and this taproom songstress had long since dissipated.

Of all the brave birds that ever I see,

The owl is the fairest in her degree.

For all day long she sits in a tree,

And when the night comes away flies she.

This song is well sung, I make you a vow,

And he is a knave that drinketh now …

Kit winked at Thamsine who smiled in return as he joined in the rousing chorus of the familiar soldier’s drinking song.

… Nose, nose, nose, nose,

And who gave thee that jolly red nose?

Cinnamon and ginger, nutmeg and cloves,

That’s what gave me this jolly red nose.

When the song was done, Thamsine shoved a man whose hand strayed to her backside. He fell back among his companions, laughing as Thamsine jumped off the table and pushed her way through the crowd towards Kit.

He inclined his head. ‘Mistress Granville. You have a fine repertoire of songs guaranteed to make your late father turn in his grave.’

She smiled. He liked the way her smile lit up her face.

‘My poor father. If he could only see me now. He loved madrigals and sad ballads. My brother and I would sing to entertain his friends. Now … ’ She waved a hand at the crowded taproom.

‘I sing bawdy songs in a tavern and consider myself fortunate.’ The smile fell away and she looked into his face, earnestly seeking his eyes.

‘I do consider myself fortunate, Captain Lovell. If I haven’t thanked you properly … ’

An unfamiliar heat rose to Kit’s face and he waved a deprecating hand. ‘I am glad it has worked out for you,’ he said. ‘Now if you would excuse me, my friends are awaiting me.’

Thamsine nodded. ‘They’re in the parlour.’

May tugged at Thamsine’s arm. ‘Thamsine, another song … ’

***

With the opening stanza of a ballad of love lost filling the taproom behind him, Kit knocked on the door to the private parlour. Cotes let him in and he looked around the crowded, smoke-filled room.

It seemed an unusually good turnout. Despite the absence of Willys, Fitzjames and young Gerard, Dutton had assembled eleven in all, mostly familiar faces. Spirits seemed high.

Men without hope suddenly had a cause they could turn to.

Kit bent over the map of London unfurled on the table, feigning an enthusiasm he did not feel. Even with the six hundred mythical men, the task seemed hopeless. Seize Whitehall? Kidnap Cromwell? Take the Tower for God’s sake! Oh well, let them dream. Dreams hurt no one, he thought

‘I’ve come up with a few pounds,’ Dutton said. ‘Enough for the fare.’ He pushed the purse across to Whitely.

Whitely gathered the purse, weighing it in his hand. ‘What did you sell?’

‘My pistols,’ Dutton replied, with a downcast mouth.

‘You don’t think you might have needed those?’ Kit asked, the sarcasm heavy in his voice.

‘Lovell, if you have no wish to be a part of this, then go now,’ Whitely said.

Kit pulled out his purse. ‘Apologies. There is my contribution.’

Others added coins to the pile and Whitely nodded. ‘Good, that should be enough.’

Cotes opened the door to a gentle knock. Thamsine stood there with two jugs of ale.

‘Come in, lass,’ Cotes said. ‘We’ve thirsty work ahead of us.’

‘You’ve a good voice,’ Whitely said. ‘Should be on the stage.’

‘Thank ’ee, sir,’ Thamsine said. ‘But there’s no theatres and nowhere else for the likes of I.’

Kit hid a smile in his tankard. She did a good cockney accent. He would have sworn she’d been born and brought up within the sound of Bow Bells.

‘Perhaps you can give us a song – ’ one of the others began, only to stop abruptly at the sound of a crash and loud raised voices from the taproom. ‘What was that?’

Cotes opened the door to the parlour a crack. He turned back to face the room, the colour draining from his face. ‘Soldiers. Dutton, you fool, get that map onto the fire.’

Even as Dutton hurled the paper onto the flames, the door crashed open and an officer stepped into the room, to be met with the hiss and rattle of swords being eased from scabbards.

The man put his hands on his hips and surveyed the pathetic band of conspirators.

The officer smiled. ‘Gentlemen, good evening. What do we have here? A pretty bunch of conspirators, so I hear tell. Put those weapons down. I have men in the taproom and behind that window.’

Whitely stood up. ‘I must protest. We are old comrades doing no more than enjoying a quiet ale and a pipe.’

The officer strolled over to the fireplace and retrieved the singed map.

He blew out the glowing embers, scrutinised the remains of the parchment, and then looked around at the faces in the room.

‘You can tell that to the Council of State. In the meantime, the Lieutenant of the Tower has some pleasant accommodation planned for you.’

He looked around the room and his gaze looked on Thamsine. A slow smile spread across his face.

‘Well, well, ’tis my lucky night,’ he said.

His hand closed over Thamsine’s arm and he drew her towards him. He took her chin in his fingers and turned her head to the light.

‘A red-headed woman with a black eye,’ he said. ‘I hear tell you tried to kill our Lord Protector.’

‘Tweren’t me, sir,’ Thamsine said. ‘I must be getting back to my work.’

The man pulled her closer.

‘What’s your name, girl?’

Thamsine said nothing. Her eyes, in her thin face, had become huge with fear. Kit’s fingers clenched and unclenched in impotent fury.

‘I asked your name.’ The officer’s voice had become low and menacing.

‘Thamsine Granville,’ she stuttered.

‘There must be some mistake,’ Kit said.

‘Oh, there’s no mistake. Seen here and identified, she was.’

‘I knew I’d seen her before!’ Dutton almost screamed. ‘I can confirm, Captain, that this is indeed the woman that threw the rock at the Lord Protector’s coach. Saw her with my own eyes.’

The officer turned to look at Dutton.

‘Are you sure?’

‘I never forget a face. Now, Captain, I have confirmed you have a dangerous assassin in your custody. Perhaps you will let me go.’

The officer laughed. ‘I think not. You’ve enough troubles of your own without minding others.

It’s not up to me to say if she did or she didn’t do what was alleged.

She can come with us.’ He released Thamsine with such force she staggered and would have fallen if Kit hadn’t caught her. ‘Now let’s get this lot out of here.’

He gave a nod and two of his soldiers grabbed Thamsine’s arms. Thamsine cast Kit a brief, despairing look as the manacles were fastened around her slender wrists.

As the captives were pushed into the taproom, a murmur of outrage began to grow.

‘What you got our girl for? You leave her be, yer girt thug!’ One of the customers rose to his feet to be joined by the others. The level of anger rose, and chunks of bread and pint pots began to fly at the heads of the soldiers.

The soldiers ducked. Shielding Thamsine with their bulk, they dragged her out onto the street and flung her against the tray of one of two carts that stood waiting.

‘Kit!’

Kit heard her despairing cry and shook off his captor’s hand. ‘Let me go with her.’

‘Friend of yours, is she?’ The officer pushed Kit towards her. ‘Well, you both keep bad company.’

Kit fell against Thamsine and they lost their footing on the icy mire, falling to their knees in the filthy street.

‘Get up.’ A muddy boot swung in Thamsine’s direction. Kit flung out his arm, catching the full brunt of the boot on his elbow. He subsided, cursing in French. A soldier seized Thamsine’s arm and hauled her roughly to her feet.

Kit managed to pick himself up, shaking his arm and flexing his numbed fingers. They were both thrown bodily onto the back of the second cart. The first cart, bearing Dutton and the other conspirators, already lurched down the street ahead of them.

Thamsine began to shiver. She lacked a cloak and the night air was perishing. Kit moved closer to her, his fingers closing over her icy hand.

‘I’m sorry, Thamsine.’ He spoke in French.

‘It wasn’t your doing,’ she replied in the same language. ‘That awful man Dutton. He’s signed my death warrant, hasn’t he?’ She leaned her head against his arm. ‘What will they do to me?’ Her voice quavered.

He shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’ He gripped her hand. ‘Thamsine, whatever happens, remember who you are. Don’t be bullied or intimidated.’

‘I wasn’t trying to kill him. I wasn’t.’ She choked back a sob. ‘What about you? Why were you arrested? What were you doing in the parlour?’

He gave a hollow laugh. ‘Conspiring to overthrow Cromwell.’

‘Were you? I thought you just played cards.’

Kit lowered his voice. ‘Every drunken Royalist conspires to overthrow Cromwell.’

Silent tears ran unchecked down her face. Kit stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. He bent his head, so it rested on hers. Her hair smelt of rosemary and chamomile.

‘Thamsine,’ he whispered, ‘I wish I could say it will all be right.’

‘I’m so scared,’ was her small, tight reply.

‘Take heart. You have great strength. I think you will find the courage to get through the next few weeks,’ he said.

She leaned her head against his shoulder. ‘You make that sound so easy!’ she said in English.