The King's Man (15 page)

He broke into stride beside her. “Thamsine, I'm not good at apologies..."

She turned on him, her eyes blazing.

"You betrayed me, Kit Lovell. Not only did you betray me to the authorities, you betrayed my trust in you. Now I am tied to you by a bargain made with the devil. I hate it and I despise you!"

He took her gloved hand in his. “Thamsine, I am sorry but I can't afford to have regrets, not in this business. At least you're under no illusions about me now. Please, let us call it a truce."

She withdrew her hand from his and without a word walked away from him.

A servant admitted Thamsine to the well-lit parlor of the Baron's apartment. An abundance of red and gold painted furniture and drapery, a stark contrast to the dark English oak she was accustomed to, struck Thamsine as she entered. She set her music portfolio down beside the elaborately painted virginals, which stood open on a small table, letting her fingers trail over the notes. The sweet tone tempted her to sit and play, but conscious of the real reason for her presence, she looked around the room.

She had never seen a room so stuffed with furniture—chairs and tables of all descriptions and in the corner a small writing desk covered in papers. An ornately carved table was set for two.

She crossed to the window where the heavy red velvet curtains remained open and looked down into the quiet street below. A light fog played around the lanterns hung by the front door, giving the streetscape a disarmingly sinister appearance. She shivered and turned quickly as the door opened with a quiet click.

Baron De Baas, casually dressed in a long gown over breeches and unlaced shirt, stood in the doorway.

"My dear Mademoiselle Granville,” he said while advancing on her, “you look charming this evening."

Thamsine had gone to little trouble with her appearance so the blatant exaggeration struck her as amusing.

"Baron.” She extricated her fingers as they were pressed against his lips. “It is very kind of you to invite me. Do you wish to practice your music first?"

"
Non.
I think we should eat and then practice. What is it your William Shakespeare says, ‘If music be the food of love ... ‘?"

De Baas rang a bell and the manservant appeared. Without bidding he filled two glasses of wine, presenting them to Thamsine and De Baas on a silver tray. Thamsine took a careful sip. Tempting though it was to steel her resolve with wine, it would not help her wits to become the slightest bit inebriated.

"This is a lovely piece,” she said, sitting herself at the virginals.

De Baas stood behind her. “I had it brought from France. I cannot abide the solid, boring, English furniture."

She looked up at him. “There seems little about England you like."

He shuddered and threw his hands in the air. “Where do I begin? The food, the wine, the weather, and,
mon dieu
, the so-called English court!"

"What of it?"

"Where is the grandeur, where is the formality? A farmer who calls himself King?” The Baron's lip curled in a sneer. “I would not lower myself to remove my hat in his presence."

Thamsine bit her lip to stop herself smiling. Farmer or not, Cromwell was the head of state, and by refusing to remove his hat in his presence the Baron had probably committed a grave breach of protocol.

She began to play. De Baas stood over her, so close she could feel his breath on the back of her neck. She shrugged her shoulders and he withdrew slightly.

"You play well, mademoiselle,” he purred in her ear.

"Thank you, Baron,” she said and began another piece of music, anything to distract herself from the finger that was tracing the line of her spine from her collar to the hairline. The unwelcome touch made her feel physically nauseous. She stood abruptly.

"Did you say we were to eat?” she demanded.

The Baron looked surprised. “Of course.” He clapped his hands and the manservant appeared at the door. “Joachim, food..."

"Sir, there are two men outside who wish to speak with you.” The servant spoke in French.

De Baas waved a hand. “Not now."

"Sir, they are most insistent."

"Who are they?"

"Messieurs Gerard and Fitzjames."

At the names De Baas went silent. “Very well, show them in.” He turned to Thamsine and addressed her in English. “My dear, I have some tedious business to discuss. Perhaps you would be so good as to wait next door?” He indicated the door through which he had entered. “I shall not be long."

The room beyond the door proved to be De Baas’ bedchamber. Thamsine shuddered. The light of a dozen candles filled the chamber and the massive bed had been turned down, no doubt in expectation of her acquiescence towards a night between the fine linen sheets. If those were his intentions, he would be sorely disappointed.

She had left the door open a barest crack and she knelt on the floor to see who entered. Her eyes widened as she recognized both men from the Ship Inn: the tall, fair-haired man, Kit Lovell's friend, Fitzjames; the younger one must be Gerard.

Kit's friend? She tightened her jaw. Kit did not have friends. Did Fitzjames know his friend was a turncoat, hanging on his every word, ready to betray him when the time was right?

The men spoke in low voices that made it hard to understand what was being said until they suddenly switched to French, at the behest of De Baas who evidently deemed it more secure to speak in French than in English.

Fitzjames gestured at the table. “We have interrupted you, Baron."

De Baas waved a hand. “I just request that you are brief."

"It is on the matter of the Lord Protector..."

"Your Lord Protector...” De Baas wrinkled his nose as if he had detected a bad smell. “...is an incompetent nobody. A farmer, playing at being statesman. He knows nothing of international diplomacy."

"What about Bordeaux?” Gerard asked.

De Baas dismissed the French ambassador with a wave of his hand. “Bordeaux is also incompetent. My God, he has even taken an Englishwoman as a mistress.” De Baas leaned closer to Fitzjames. “Your Cromwell is playing a dangerous game. He can lie down with the bear or the wolf but not with both."

"What do you mean?” Gerard asked.

"Spain or France, the choice is simple.” De Baas illustrated his point by turning first his left hand palm up and then the right. “This regime of Cromwell's is ready to be overthrown. I have seen the soldiers. They are feeble and dissipated."

"What makes you say that?” Fitz asked.

De Baas sat bolt upright and threw his hands in the air. “
Mon dieu
, they wear nightcaps under their hats!"

"Pardon?” Gerard asked.

"I have seen them in Whitehall standing sentinel with these absurd nightcaps under their hats. No real soldier would condescend to wear such foolish clothing."

The two Englishmen stared at him. “It probably keeps their heads warm,” Fitz commented, his brow creased in perplexity.

"So what do you propose you can do for us, De Baas?” Gerard changed the subject.

"I can assist with the overthrow of this Lord Protector."

"How?"

"You need a skilled assassin to kill Cromwell. I know of just such a man."

Thamsine felt her skin crawl.

"What makes you think we are not capable of doing the job?” Fitzjames asked, his tone defensive.

De Baas scoffed, dabbing the corners of his mouth with his kerchief. “Cromwell is guarded well. He knows he is not immortal. You may have been fine soldiers, my friends, but this is a task for a specialist."

"And what is the price of this specialist service?"

De Baas shrugged. “Call it mutual benefit. You will get your King back and France will be free of interference from England. That is the offer, my friends."

"And Cardinal Mazarin, does he know of this proposal?"

De Baas sniffed, holding the lace edged kerchief to his nose. “He may or then again, he may not."

"Baron De Baas. You must understand that this is not a matter we can make a decision on now. It has to be discussed with and approved by the King before we can act,” Fitzjames said.

De Baas spread his hands. “Of course I understand. There is no hurry. I suggest you speak with your superiors in Paris, convince your King of this matter and we can talk again in a few weeks. Now gentlemen, if you will excuse me...” he looked towards the bedroom door but by the time he reached it, Thamsine had gone, slipping through the servant's door and down the back stairs into the cold night air.

"Well?"

Thamsine flushed at Kit's peremptory greeting. She set her hat and cloak down on the empty stool and sat down at the table. The taproom of The Ship was quiet.

"The man is insufferable,” she said. “His bedchamber resembled a brothel."

"And how would you know what a brothel looked like?” Kit raised an eyebrow. “Did he...!"

"No,” Thamsine snapped. “It was fortunate for me that our little tryst was interrupted by two of your friends."

"My friends?"

Thamsine nodded. “I've seen them here. The tall, fair-haired man and the young man."

"Fitz and Gerard,” Kit said more to himself. “What did you discover?"

Thamsine related the gist of the conversation. Kit's eyes gleamed in the gloom of The Ship's taproom.

He tapped his fingers on the side of his mug. “So they are set on this course. Fools if they think the King will ever agree to assassination..."

Thamsine rose to her feet. “If that is all, Captain Lovell. It has been a long day and I have an appointment with your mistress tomorrow."

A muscle twitched in Kit's cheek. “Sit down!"

She lowered herself back on to the seat.

He closed his eyes. “Sorry, Thamsine. I didn't mean that to sound like an order. I meant only to thank you for your work tonight."

"I do what I'm required to do."

"No, tonight you were prepared to go a little further and for that I thank you.” He ran a hand across his eyes. “I am tired and short of temper. I didn't mean to snap at you."

She shrugged. “You're playing a dangerous game, Captain Lovell. I hope the stakes are worth it."

"I play for a life, Thamsine. The stakes cannot be raised any higher."

"Whose life? Yours?"

He shook his head. “My life doesn't matter."

She watched him in silence. He looked tired. The shadows around his eyes seemed to have sunk deeper and the lilt of laughter had gone from his mouth.

"Lucy will be waiting for you,” she said, her tone softening.

"Lucy can wait. I am not her lap dog to come and go at her bidding. The fact I lodge with her is one of convenience,” he snapped.

Thamsine shrugged. “You could find lodging elsewhere."

"You're right, I could, but Lucy is an escape from this mess...” He ran his hand through his hair, a gesture she'd noticed before when he felt under any pressure. “Do you still hate me, Thamsine?"

She shook her head. “No, but I won't forget what you did to me."

"If I had let the soldiers take you on that day, what do you think would have happened to you?"

"Newgate or the the Fleet, the gallows even?"

"You wouldn't have stood a chance."

"You didn't have to turn me in."

"And if I hadn't, would you be sitting there in a new gown, considering retiring to a comfortable bed upstairs? We're all governed by fate, Thamsine."

"Do you believe we have no say in how our life goes, Kit? Is our life pre-ordained by God?"

"God and I have not been on speaking terms for some years now, Thamsine, so don't talk to me of God."

"What did God do to you?"

"Wasn't there when I needed him...” He looked up at her and smiled. “Go to your bed, Thamsine. You look tired."

She rose to her feet. “Good night, Kit."

He looked up at her. “Good night, Thamsine."

As he turned to go, he said, “Thamsine?"

She turned back towards him. He frowned and his lips parted as if he intended to ask her a difficult question. Then he shook his head. “Nothing."

On Friday, promptly at two in the afternoon, Thamsine presented herself at the door to Lucy Talbot's home in High Holborn.

A large woman with a sour expression on her face showed Thamsine to a bright, airy parlor on the first floor of the prosperous house in High Holborn. If the late Martin Talbot had shown any interest in the interior decoration of his house, it was not in evidence. A woman's hand had decorated this room. The walls were hung with brightly painted hangings depicting a biblical scene and the solid oak furnishings were alleviated with colored cushions and carpets from the East.

A lute sat on the well-polished table. Thamsine picked it up, allowing herself the luxury of playing a favorite air for the pure pleasure of it. She closed her eyes and let the music fill her soul.

When she opened her eyes again, she saw Kit lounging in the doorway. He had the look of someone who had just risen, his hair tousled and his chin unshaven. He leaned one arm against the doorframe, and his shirt fell away from his left shoulder, revealing a puckered and fading scar.

Thamsine felt something tighten inside her. He had fought for the King and he had been hurt. Not once, but several times it would seem. No one could doubt his loyalty. Whatever had driven him to Thurloe's service must have been compelling.

"You play well,” he said.

"It has been well tuned,” she commented. “I thought Mistress Talbot didn't play?"

He shrugged his shirt back into place and walked into the room. “I had it out the other night."

"Well then, you have a good ear."

"Just don't ask me to sing,” he said, taking the lute from her, testing the notes. “Thurloe is pleased with your work,” he said in a lowered voice.

"Pleased enough to let me go?” she ventured.

Kit shook his head. “No. He'll keep his promise and release you when he is ready, not before. While he thinks you can still be of use he'll hold the reins in tight."

She heard the bitterness in his voice. “Is that how he controls you?” she demanded.

"Yes,” he answered, abruptly thrusting the lute back at her. “You should probably know. I am leaving London tonight."