Page 107 of The King's Man
Jem scrabbled at the front door as Morton, diving over Mag, fired his pistol. Kit, poised at the top of the stairs, felt the pistol ball whistle past his ear, slamming into the wall behind him. He turned to face Morton, who came at him with his sword drawn.
Kit fired his pistol and heard Morton grunt as the pistol ball found its mark somewhere on his body, but the impetus of Morton’s charge carried him forward. He fell on Kit, the weight causing him to lose his balance. Locked together, they tumbled down the steep stairs.
For a moment neither man moved as they caught their breath. Kit lay face down on the dusty floor of the old shop with Morton’s weight on top of him. Just a few inches beyond his outstretched right hand, Morton’s sword glinted in the faint light cast by the candle on the stairwell. Kit inched his fingers towards it.
A hand grasped his wrist, pinning it to the floor. Suddenly Morton was off him, and with a bellow of fury the man brought the heel of his boot down on Kit’s hand. Before Kit had even registered what had been done, Morton repeated the act, grinding his heel into the bones. He followed this up with a boot to Kit’s ribs.
With a howl of pain, Kit doubled up, clutching his hand to his chest as Morton, panting heavily, his face a mask of blood from his broken nose and his left hand dripping blood, most likely from Kit’s pistol shot, retrieved his sword and stood over him.
With his right hand, he hauled Kit upright and flung him against the wall, pinning him by the throat.
‘You don’t want me dead,’ Kit said, holding the man’s crazed eyes with his own. Morton stood half a head taller than Kit, with a longer reach and a greater body weight.
‘No, you’re right, I don’t want you dead. I want you to tell me where Thamsine Granville is,’ Morton snarled, tightening his grip on Kit’s throat.
For a moment Kit weighed the possible consequences of telling Morton that Thamsine had married him, but decided that if Morton knew the truth, then he would certainly be a dead man. Alive, he was of considerably more use both to Morton and to Thamsine.
Ambrose Morton’s hand crashed against his face. Kit’s head snapped back against the wall and a panoply of bright lights and stars flashed before his eyes.
Morton hauled Kit’s head up by the hair. ‘Now, are you going to tell me where she is?’
Kit spat blood from a cut lip into Morton’s face. ‘Safe from you.’
‘I want my wife.’
‘She’s not your wife! She never will be.’ He jerked his head towards the stairs where Lucy stood watching them. ‘Marry this little bitch. She’ll serve you just as well.’
Another backhander across the face knocked the remaining breath from his body. Morton let him go, and clutching his hand to his chest Kit sank to the floor. Morton pressed the point of his sword to Kit’s throat. Kit felt the prick of the metal and the warmth of blood trickling down his neck. One wrong move and he was a dead man
‘Marry this strumpet?’ Morton said, panting heavily as he looked up at Lucy, ‘Why would I do that? For her money? Well, my dear Lovell, she doesn’t have any. What fortune her husband has left her is quite gone, isn’t it, my dear? An expensive taste inclothes and a gambling habit. A little too fond of backgammon is our Mistress Talbot. Come here, my dear.’
Lucy complied, standing beside Morton as he stroked the fair curls with his good hand.
‘It seems you didn’t know her quite as well as you thought you did,’ he said.
Kit raised his eyes to look Lucy in the face.
‘I didn’t know her at all,’ he gasped and turned back to look up at Morton. ‘So, are you going to kill me?’
‘Eventually, when you’ve told me what I need to know. Where is she?’
‘Go to hell,’ Kit spat.
Morton sighed heavily. ‘I see I need to cause you more pain before you see sense.’
He lowered the sword and leaned over Kit. Placing one boot on his chest to hold him in place, he wrenched Kit’s injured hand away from his body. With an almost studied care, he bent the broken fingers backward. Kit arched back against the wall in agony, his feet scrabbling for purchase against the dusty floor as a scream tore from his throat.
‘Ambrose, please.’ Lucy’s voice sounded strained.
‘You enjoy this,’ Kit panted.
‘Yes, I do,’ Ambrose snarled. ‘Now, where is she?’
He bent the fingers again, and through the pain, Kit prayed for the blessed release of unconsciousness.
‘Go on, kill me!’ he said between gritted teeth. ‘It will serve you naught. Thamsine is free of you.’
‘What do you mean?’ Morton’s boot in his chest pressed harder.
