The King's Man (31 page)

May smiled. “That's right. Helps make things seem more normal."

The door opened and Nan stepped in, shaking the water from her cloak.

"Pelting down it is,” she said. “Here, what you doing out of bed?” She set a basket down on the table. “Never mind. There's bin no sign of that devil Morton. Jem has a boy watching the house ... says he's laid up good and proper."

"If he feels anything like me, he'll be keeping his head down for a few weeks yet,” Kit said with what Thamsine detected as a gleam of satisfaction in his eye.

"Wiv any luck you killed him,” May responded.

Kit shook his head. “I don't think so."

"More's the pity,” Nan responded. “I've a message for you.” She handed over a grubby, slightly damp piece of paper.

Kit took it and gave it to Thamsine. “You read it. I recognize the seal and I don't want to know what's in it."

Thamsine broke the seal and read the few scrawled lines. She swore in an unladylike fashion. Thurloe required Lovell attend him immediately. She handed it to him and watched his face, but it remained expressionless.

"He calls, I must go,” he said with weary resignation.

"And how do you plan to get to Whitehall?” Thamsine asked.

Kit managed a watery smile. “Very slowly."

"I'm coming too,” Thamsine declared flatly. “Whatever Thurloe has to say he can say to both of us."

Thurloe looked up and regarded Kit and Thamsine for a few moments as he stroked the feather of his pen.

"Well, well, the Lovells. What a fine pair you make."

"Excuse me, Thurloe. I am no mood for your jesting.” Kit lowered himself painfully on to a chair and rubbed his right knee.

"You do look the worse for wear, I will admit,” Thurloe remarked. “Footpads, your wife tells me?"

"That's right,” Kit said innocently. “Ten of them."

Thurloe raised an eyebrow.

"Why do you want to see me?"

"We've got everyone.” Thurloe's lips twisted in a smile. “Except Henshaw and you of course. Happily for you Henshaw managed to get away in circumstances that might suggest to the casual observer that he could have been the agent."

"Is he one of yours?” Kit enquired.

Thurloe shrugged enigmatically. “I don't care about Henshaw. However, I do care that we haven't found the Frenchman."

"De Baas?” Kit asked.

Thurloe's lip curled. “That popinjay is already on his way back to France with a flea in his ear. No, the other Frenchman."

"Debigné? He was not with De Baas?"

"No,” Thurloe replied sourly. “And De Baas swears he has no idea where he is. Says Debigné operates alone. Is there any chance you know where he could be?"

Kit shook his head. “No. I told you before, I couldn't find him and I doubt even Henshaw or Gerard knew where he is."

Thurloe pressed his fingertips together.

"Do you think he'll he carry out the plan even though the plot is discovered?"

Kit considered for a moment. “He's a professional, Thurloe. He has been well paid to do a job. Yes, I think he would."

"So when will he strike?"

"What day is it?"

"Saturday."

"Tomorrow then, as Cromwell leaves Chapel. He'll be there,” Kit said with certainty

Thurloe was silent. “You're the only one who knows what he looks like."

Kit raised his head. “Thurloe, look at me! I am in no condition to stop a determined old woman, let alone an assassin."

"I just need you to identify him, that's all."

"Just stop Cromwell going to chapel tomorrow,” Thamsine put in.

Thurloe looked at her. “If this man is a professional, do you think changing the Lord Protector's routine will make a difference? None of us will be able to sleep at night until Debigné is caught."

Kit looked at his master. “Are you scared, Thurloe?"

Thurloe returned the look. “I'm not a soldier, Lovell, and I've no wish to spend my life looking over my shoulder on the off chance a murderous French assassin may be on the lookout for me."

Kit ran his good hand over his eyes.

"I don't have a choice do I, Thurloe?"

"Lovell, you have my word that this will be the very last time I call on you."

Kit looked up at Thamsine. “Did you hear that, Thamsine? I have the Secretary's word that this is the last time."

Thamsine took Kit's hand and looked at Thurloe. “Then we are free?"

Thurloe nodded. He looked at Kit. “When Debigné is caught, we will settle our final account, Lovell."

A small crowd had gathered outside the little chapel in the Palace of Whitehall, pushing against the barriers for a view of the Lord Protector, who would be leaving the building within the next few minutes.

Kit scanned the faces.

"Will he be in the crowd?” Thamsine whispered

"That will depend on the accuracy of his weapon,” Kit murmured.

Jostled by the crowd, Kit winced as a large man brushed his hand.

"Are you all right?” Thamsine slid her arm around his waist as he caught his breath.

"Fine. I'm just fine!” He hissed, “Stop fussing, Tham!"

"Well?” A quiet voice behind them made them both turn. Thurloe, soberly dressed in black with a hat pulled down well over his brow, surveyed the crowd with nervous eyes. “Can you see him?"

"No,” Kit shook his head.

"He must be here somewhere.” Thurloe's lips tightened.

"And what do we do if I see him?” Kit said. “Yell? Because I am damned if I can do anything else."

Thurloe looked at him. “I don't care what you do. I've men scattered through the crowd so you're not alone.” He hunched his shoulders. “His Highness will be leaving presently."

"It might help if you told us what he looks like?” Thamsine asked, the impossibility of the task weighing on her.

Kit shook his head. “Nondescript. Slight, dark hair, clean shaven."

There were plenty of faces in the crowd that fitted that description but none registered as familiar. A sudden restiveness indicated that the service had ended. Cromwell would be leaving any moment.

Thamsine tensed in desperation. The crowd was not so large that Debigné could remain hidden much longer. Out of the corner of the eye she saw a woman carrying a wrapped bundle detach herself from the crowd, taking up a position in the shadows.

"Kit.” She touched his arm. “We've been looking for a man,” she said. “Could that be he? There in that doorway, dressed as a woman."

She saw Kit's eyes widen.

"You're right.” He looked around. “Where's Thurloe?"

"Too late, the chapel doors are opening."

Debigné had picked his spot well. He had a clear view of the doors of the Chapel but he was at least fifty yards away from Kit and Thamsine with a crowd between them. As they watched, the assassin raised the cloth-covered weapon. For a moment they stood frozen to the spot.

"It's a crossbow,” Kit hissed.

Thamsine followed his gaze. A number of the archaic weapons hung on the walls of Hartley Court but she had never seen one used before. As Debigné raised it to his shoulder she could see how much more effective it could be in this type of assassination. Silent and deadly, the bolt would find its mark and before anyone could react the assassin would have moved on.

Thamsine gathered up her skirts and pushed through the crowd with Kit limping in her wake. He caught her and grabbed her elbow.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"I'm going to stop him."

"You'll get yourself killed!” Kit hissed.

He thrust her behind him and, moving with surprising rapidity for his injuries, pushed through the crowd towards Debigné.

"To me!” he yelled.

For a split second no one moved, then half a dozen men broke away from the crowd and crashed after Kit.

Cromwell stood for a moment, framed in the chapel door. Debigné raised the crossbow to his shoulder and fired. Someone pulled Cromwell back inside the chapel and the bolt missed its mark, crashing harmlessly into the chapel door as it slammed shut.

Debigné, cornered, scrabbled for a second bolt. In the time he took to reload, Kit had reached him. Debigné raised the butt of the crossbow and swung it at Kit. Kit ducked but his bad leg betrayed him and the butt crashed into his injured hand. With a sharp cry he went down on his knees, his hand pressed to his chest. Debigné raised the weapon again but by this time Thurloe's men had him.

In the chaotic moments that followed, Debigné was led away and the excited crowd buzzed and murmured. Thamsine knelt down beside Kit and laid her arm across his back. He raised a sweat-streaked face to her and she shook her head in despair. His hand, his poor hand. Before he could speak, a shadow fell across them.

"Good work,” Thurloe said. “I won't forget it. My coach is waiting. It will take you wherever you have to go."

Kit raised his head and looked up his tormentor.

"Is that it, Thurloe?"

Thurloe nodded. “That's it, Lovell. Lay low, recover your strength and we will talk soon."

"It's no good,” Nan pronounced. “You should never have gone gallivanting around London in your condition. You've done yourself no good at all and your hand,” she shook her head, “those fingers'll not mend straight now."

Thamsine swallowed and forced herself to look down at the swollen, mangled mess that had been Kit's sword hand. Debigné had hit it hard and what little the bonesetter had done last time, had been completely undone.

"You heard the bonesetter,” Nan continued. “There's nought he can do. Would be best if it came off afore it turns bad and kills you."

"You're talking about my hand!” Kit said, his tone a mixture of anger and despair.

"There's one person who might be able to help,” Thamsine said. “My sister."

Kit gave a snort of laughter. “I don't think so, Tham. What can she do that the bonesetter can't?"

"I know no one with her skill,” Thamsine said.

"We'll send Jem to her,” Nan said, turning to her brother who lounged in the door of the bedchamber.

"I don't know if this is a good idea,” Jem said slowly.

"Neither do I,” Kit agreed. He shivered, hunched his shoulders and closed his eyes.

"I'm not going to stand by and watch you die!” Thamsine said.

"I'm not dying, Thamsine!” Kit protested irritably. “I've a few broken bones, that's all."

"You'll die if that hand is not treated properly! Jane can help. She can be trusted,"

Kit grimaced and waved his good hand. “Go, Jem. We'll have no peace until she's had her way."

Thamsine met her sister in the kitchen of the inn.

"I must have your word, Jane. Please don't tell Roger where I am."

Jane put her hand on her sister's cheek. “You have my word,” she said. “Now where is the patient?"

"Upstairs. I'll show you."

Kit sat at the table, a jug of wine to one side and a book laid out before him.

He looked up as the women entered and closed the book. Jane set her basket down and picked up the book.

"An interesting choice of reading, Captain Lovell,” she said.

Kit retrieved his battered and much worn copy of Francis Bacon's
Essays
, and set it back on the table, his fingers tracing the worn leather spine.

"Old Bacon here has been a long companion of mine. I would hate to lose him,” he said.

"Which is your favorite essay?” Jane asked.

"'Of Nature and Men',” Kit replied. “You read Bacon?"

Jane smiled. “I have done. Now I had a message you were dying,” she said.

"I'm bruised and battered but not quite at death's door,” Kit replied.

Jane placed a hand on Kit's forehead. “No, I don't think you're dying.” she said with a smile.

"You're so much better at this than your sister. Did you know she faints at the sight of blood?” Kit commented.

Jane looked at her sister. “Do you?"

Thamsine hunched her shoulders. “I'm not a nurse."

"So this is Morton's work?” Jane gently raised the bandaged hand. “What did he do?"

"He trod on my fingers,” Kit said.

"It all took a further battering the day before yesterday,” Thamsine put in. “The bonesetter says his hand should be amputated but I thought maybe you...” She trailed off as Jane cast her a grave look.

"Thamsine, I'm a housewife. What do you think I can do that a bonesetter cannot?"

Thamsine felt her small hope beginning to fade.

Jane sighed. “Well I suppose I can at least see what harm has been done. Now,” she said, addressing Kit, “I am going to look at your hand. This will hurt."

She began to unwind the bandages, stopping when Kit tensed to let him catch his breath.

"If it's any small consolation, I hear Ambrose Morton is no better,” Jane said as she worked.

"Where is he?” Thamsine asked.

"With that doxy, Lucy Talbot.” Jane's lips tightened. “A pistol ball in the shoulder and a broken ankle I believe."

"What about your husband?” Kit asked in a tight voice.

"Roger has gone to Kent on business. I don't expect him back for a couple of days, which is why I was able to come to you.” Jane drew a quick breath. “Oh dear, this is not good!” Jane shook her head.

Thamsine flinched as the bandages came away to reveal the blackened, swollen, mangled mess.

Jane looked up at her. “What have you done for him?"

Thamsine outlined the rudimentary treatment suggested by Nan and the bonesetter.

Jane gently felt the broken bones. “You're no fool, Captain Lovell, I am sure you can see for yourself that the bonesetter is right. If this is left, it will fester and you must know what that will mean."

Kit closed his eyes and nodded.

"There must be something you can do?” Thamsine tried to hide the anxiety in her voice.

"I will do what I can to reset the broken bones. It will hurt. Thamsine, I need..."

Thamsine stared at her sister with large, dark eyes.

"Thamsine, are you going to faint?” Jane looked up at her sister's pale face. “Then go and fetch that big man who brought me here and stay out of the way."

An hour later, Thamsine crept back into the room.

"Mercifully, he fainted,” Jane said, indicating the unconscious body on the bed. “God willing he will sleep now and that is probably the best cure."