Page 19 of The King's Man
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?’
