Page 13 of The King's Man
‘Good God man, we don’t have secrets from each other. Look at all we’ve been through. Remember Naseby? You saved my life that day.’
This was so far from the truth as to be almost the opposite, but Dutton’s wine-soaked mind would remember what he wanted.
‘Oh yes, my friend, I remember Naseby and Worcester. Can’t forget Worcester.’
‘That’s right. God’s death, Dutton, we’ve been through a lot together.’
They had reached the man’s squalid lodgings. Kit helped him up the stairs and set him down on the bed, pulling off the scuffed and shabby boots. The stench of Dutton’s feet made his lip curl.
‘So where did you say you were going tomorrow?’ he asked.
Dutton lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. He patted his jacket. ‘All over. Letters to deliver. Tell you next meeting.’
‘Let’s get that jacket off you, then.’
Kit hauled Dutton’s bulk up and undid the jacket. Dutton let himself be ministered to and when Kit had pulled his arms from the jacket he fell back on his bed, snoring stentoriously.
Kit jerked the covers over the man and pulled the letters from the jacket. Dutton was known to be a fool, and only other fools would entrust him with such a mission.
His unfortunate sojourn in the Clink meant he had some catching up to do and he worked quickly and methodically. There were twelve letters sealed with a plain seal and addressed to well-known royalists in the neighbouring counties. Kit looked at the names and shook his head in disbelief. If these men had any sense they would give Dutton short shrift.
He heated his knife over the candle and slid it under the seal of one of the letters. The signature was that of a Robert West. Not a name known to Kit but he doubted it was real. The message read simply that their uncle was anxious for news, and hoped that the recipient would be able to join him soon as the time was almost upon them.
Really, Kit thought, they made a poor fist of using code. The meaning was plain to even the most untrained observer. The word ‘uncle’ was a thinly veiled reference to the King, although Kit doubted Charles knew anything about this latest scheme.
He scoured Dutton’s room and found a pen and some paper and carefully copied the message and the names of the recipients. When he was done, he resealed and replaced the letter with its companions and blew out the candle. Pausing only to cast poor, stupid Dutton a regretful glance, he slipped from the room.
Chapter 4
Every 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.’
