Page 11 of The King's Man
May sat down on the stool vacated by Kit and picked up the knife he had been using. ‘Charm the birds out of the trees, he can, but cross him and he’ll show no quarter.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Jem was his sergeant in the war. Said the men would have followed him into the depths of Hell if he’d just say the word.’
Thamsine glanced at the door through which Kit had left. She could well imagine he would have been an inspiring but ruthless leader.
***
As Kit opened the door to the private parlour, the thick fug of tobacco mingled with smoke from the fire made his eyes begin to water and he coughed. The half-dozen men taking their ease around the table looked up.
‘Lovell! As I live and breathe!’ Dutton jumped to his feet, slapping Kit on the shoulder with such force that Kit had to take a step to steady himself. ‘I’d not expected to see you again so soon!’
‘Thank you for your warm welcome.’ Kit bowed to the assembly. ‘You would think I had been gone years instead of a mere two months.’
‘More to the point, how in God’s name did you get out this time? The amount you owed, I thought you would never seethe light of day! I told you that horse was a bad buy,’ Colonel Whitely, a hard-bitten veteran with a cynical sense of humour, remarked, tapping out his pipe on his boot heel.
‘Lovell has acquired a most valuable asset.’ Fitzjames moved into the circle. ‘A wealthy mistress.’
‘Lucky dog!’ Dutton said.
Kit smiled. ‘Indeed, my dearest Lucy could not bear to be without me. Her bed grew uncommon cold in the winter air.’
As the paths of Lucy and these men were never likely to cross, the lie came easily.
Dutton scoffed. ‘God rot you, Lovell. Why can’t I find some pretty little widow to keep me?’
‘One look at your face in the mirror should give you the answer to that question,’ Kit rejoined.
‘You know everyone here?’ Dutton ran an expansive hand around the circle.
Kit recognised the faces of his old companions in arms: his friend Fitzjames, Colonel Whitely, Roger Cotes, Richard Willys and a couple of other familiar faces. The last man was a stranger.
Whitely pulled the young man forward. ‘Jack Gerard, meet our friend and fellow sufferer, Captain Christopher Lovell. Jack is the nephew of Lord Gerard, who is with the King in Paris,’ Whitely said.
‘Welcome to this den of lost causes, Master Gerard,’ Kit said.
Gerard smiled. ‘No cause is a lost cause, Captain Lovell. Not while we still have breath in our bodies and a King denied his rightful throne.’
Kit regarded the youngster. Jack Gerard was younger than the others, too young to have fought in the wars, Kit observed cynically. That made him a young, dangerous idealist.
‘Those indeed are sentiments we all hold dear to our hearts,’ Kit said before his hesitation could be mistaken for something else. ‘Come, gentlemen, a toast to our King.’
Wine sloshed into the glasses and the brimming cups were held aloft.
‘To the King.’
But the words were said in an undertone so as not to carry to the taproom beyond.
Kit set his glass down and settled himself in a chair beside the fire. ‘So, what is the news about London? One hears nothing behind the solid walls of the Clink except what your purse can tell you, and mine was sadly empty.’
‘I heard that some woman took a pot-shot at the Lord Protector the other day,’ Fitzjames said.
‘Quite true,’ Dutton said. ‘I was there. Saw it myself. Hurled a brickbat at him during the parade. Only missed him by a few inches.’
‘Women never could throw,’ Cotes put in with a snort. ‘Did they catch her?’
‘Vanished,’ Dutton said. ‘Disappeared like smoke. Some say it was witchcraft.’
