Page 18 of The King's Man
‘What sort of man?’ Fitz asked, puffing to keep pace with his friend.
Kit slowed his pace to allow Fitz a chance to catch up. ‘You know the type, Fitz. Cold and vicious bastards.’
‘Well, you’re probably right.’ Fitz clapped an arm around Kit’s shoulder and they wove an unsteady path towards Holborn. ‘He ran with Goring’s crew during the war. You’ll have heard the stories … ’
George, Lord Goring, had command of the King’s Army in the west, and the actions of his unruly rabble had done more to damage the King’s cause than the whole of the New Model Army.
‘There was a particularly nasty rumour,’ Fitz began, then waved a hand. ‘Doesn’t matter … I don’t like to spread gossip.’
‘What?’ Kit persisted.
Fitz sighed. ‘There was a murder. A woman and her daughter. Nasty thing – rape, mutilation. Renegades were blamed, but odd thing was that Morton and his men were the only troops in the area.’
Kit shrugged. ‘Proves nothing. Just because he was in the area, doesn’t implicate him.’
‘No, no, you’re quite right,’ Fitz slurred drunkenly.
Kit shivered. As he had looked into Morton’s cold eyes, he could well imagine the man capable of such an atrocity.
‘Where are you going now?’ he changed the subject. ‘Your lodgings are not in this direction.’
Fitz smiled. ‘A beautiful nymph awaits me … ’
‘I hope she gives you a discount for persistence,’ Kit said with a laugh.
‘Not that sort of nymph!’ Fitz protested. ‘You don’t think me sufficiently desperate that I must pay for my pleasure!’
‘Not at all,’ Kit smiled.
‘Well, this is me. See that light in the window? My darling awaits. Good night to you, Lovell.’
Kit watched Fitz weave across to the door and open it. He smiled and shook his head before turning his heels towards Lucy, waiting for him on Holborn Hill.
Chapter 5
Kit 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 …
