Page 26 of The King's Man
‘What about Willys?’ Smith said. ‘It’s my betting that this is the work of the Sealed Knot. They want us out of the way.’
There was silence.
‘What did you say?’ Whitely said at last.
‘’Tis well known in Paris that there is a committee holding the King’s Commission with orders to undermine any other plans. They call themselves the Sealed Knot. My bet is that this is their work,’ Smith said.
‘What committee? Who’s on it?’ Dutton asked. From his face, it was evident that the existence of the Sealed Knot was news to him.
Smith shrugged. ‘No one knows, but there is word that Willys is one of them.’
‘They hold the King’s Commission you say?’ Dutton was incredulous. ‘If Willys is one of them, then why not confide in us? Together we could have raised an army.’
‘An army? For Christ’s sake Dutton, we couldn’t organise a small riot!’ Kit said. ‘You didn’t really believe we could muster six hundred men?’
‘With the King’s Commission, we could have done.’
‘Enough!’ Whitely rose to his feet. ‘In case you gentlemen haven’t noticed, we are in the Tower of London and these walls have ears. Not another word.’
‘What about the girl?’ Smith broke the ensuing silence. ‘Is it true she threw a brickbat at Cromwell a week or so back?’
‘I saw her!’ Dutton looked up. ‘Dammit, I knew her face was familiar. A bit thinner and a bit grubbier but it was her right enough. I saw her throw the brickbat. Only missed by a couple of inches.’
‘Well, you can just keep quiet about it,’ Kit said sharply. ‘No point sending the girl to the gallows for nearly succeeding at something we have come nowhere close to doing!’
‘You’re quick to defend her,’ Dutton sneered. ‘Got a hand under her skirts, have you?’
Kit cast Dutton a filthy look that was lost in the dark. He slid down the wall and sat with his hands hanging loosely over his knees. He closed his eyes and wondered how Thamsine fared, locked within these same forsaken walls.
***
A fitful ray of sunlight struggled through the foetid London air, penetrating the warm, panelled room and briefly illuminating the large, oaken table behind which John Thurloe, Secretary to the Council of State, sat waiting for his visitor. As Kit strolled into the room, Thurloe looked up from perusing the scattered papers before him. He set down his pen and, leaning his elbows on the table, placed the tips of his fingers together and said in a low, purring voice, ‘Captain Lovell. I trust you are well?’
Kit gave the Secretary of State the benefit of a flourishing bow, which lost something when executed wearing manacles.Without waiting for an invitation, he seated himself in one of the solid oak chairs facing the table.
‘Tolerably well, Master Thurloe. The hostelry is overrun with bed bugs and lice, the rats are a truly incredible size and the food is execrable, but my day is much improved for seeing you of course.’
Thurloe sighed. ‘Spare me the charm, Lovell. You know it’s wasted on me.’
Kit casually flicked at a piece of imaginary lint on his sleeve, causing the chains on his wrists to rattle. The gesture was purely an affectation. The sleeve of his jacket, like the rest of his attire and indeed himself, after a week’s incarceration, was very much the worse for wear. Unshaven, soiled, stained and carrying the unmistakable stench of prison, Kit was far from his sartorial best. Thurloe’s long nose wrinkled in distaste.
Kit caught the gesture. ‘I pray your pardon for my appearance, Thurloe, but as you are well aware the accommodation has afforded me few luxuries.’
‘Indeed, but then it was not intended to,’ agreed Thurloe.
Kit raised a hand to a livid bruise on his right cheekbone. ‘Was this strictly necessary?’
Thurloe shrugged. ‘Adds a degree of authenticity. I trust Sergeant Harris was not too rough on you?’
Kit glared at the Secretary of State. ‘I am lucky he did not break a bone.’
‘How are your fellow captives?’
Kit shrugged. ‘Surprised that their idiotic plan was discovered.’
‘And who do they suspect of betraying them?’
Kit shook his head. ‘The suspects abound. Roger Cotes now seems to be the principal object of their blame. Never one to be trusted was Roger. Shifty eyes.’
