Page 54 of King's Man

Talmach might think so. Nate did not.

Perhaps, had he never known Sam, he might have thought differently. But hedidknow Sam, and that raised a question: what the hell did he do with the damned letters?

Simply destroying them wasn’t an option. Because it was equally possible that some of the people nameddidshare the aims of Farris and MacLeod and intended to act on their beliefs. By hiding that information from Talmach, he risked real danger to their fragile new government. But who was he to be the judge of a man’s intentions?

He sighed, glanced across the yard, and found Sam gesturing towards the carriage. They were ready to leave. Quickly, Nate slid the letters back into his haversack. But he kept the one containing Sam’s name separate, folding it up and tucking it between the pages of his book. That one, hewoulddestroy and to hell with the consequences. The others…? Well, perhaps, if he studied them more closely, he’d find a way to determine who posed a genuine threat to America and who did not. Meanwhile, he would keep them all safe.

Deep in such thoughts, he made his way back to the chaise for another long day on the road.

It proceeded very much like the day before. But by midday they’d lost the sun behind a bank of heavy cloud rolling in from the west, and a misting rain floated in the air, spitting at them from time-to-time. They retreated to the comfort of the coach.

Once inside, Sam took Nate’s hand, threaded their fingers together and gave a thin smile when Nate glanced over at him in surprise. Sam looked weary. Nate probably did too; neither had slept much in the coach. They traveled like that for some time, their intimacy hidden, and Nate wished the sway of the carriage didn’t make it impossible for him to read. He’d have liked to read to Sam. Better still would be reading to him on the sunny banks of the Pawtuxet, with Sam’s head in his lap, but for now that remained a distant dream.

And that truth ached worse than Nate’s arm.

The hours rattled by and they still saw no sign of pursuit. As far as Nate could tell, nobody was asking questions at the posting inns where they changed horses either. Not that they ever stopped for long. But Nate made a point of asking on his way back from the jakes and was met with blank looks and shakes of the head each time.

Perversely, he grew increasingly concerned by the lack of pursuit. MacLeod wouldn’t let an insult go unpunished and their invasion of his home was an insult indeed. If he hadn’t sent men after them, what was he doing? Nate brooded on several bleak alternatives as they traveled and tried not to see omens in the darkening summer skies.

On the fourth day they reached St. Albans, rattling over cobbles past a huge old church. Nate wondered at it as they passed. Twin spires soared up beyond the pointed roof, three massive arched doors turned blank faces to the world, and above them rose an enormous stained-glass window. It was everything Marlborough Castle wanted and failed to be: magnificent, imposing, and ancient. He wondered who’d built it, and why a building so splendid would have been raised up here, in such a small town.

He was still studying the church when he realized the post-boy was slowing the chaise to a walk and turning in to the yard of an inn called the White Hart. Nate breathed a sigh of relief, glad of the break. Not that it would be long because Sam wanted to reach London tonight.

Nate stretched his back as the chaise stopped, rolled his shoulders, and winced at the throb in his arm. Next to him, Sam paused in his climb down from the coach. “Are you alright?” he said. “Your arm —”

“It’s not bad.”

“You look tired.”

He laughed. “Iamtired. We both are. And I’d kill for a good night’s sleep, in an actual bed.”

“Well, we should be in London by —”

“Or,” Nate interrupted, struck by a sudden idea, “we could get ourselves a good dinner and stay here. There’s been no sign of” — a glance at the post-boy unhitching the horses — “our ‘friend’ and there’s no harm in spending one more night on the road, is there?”

One last night, he might as well have said.

Sam held his gaze for much too long, a stormy look in his gray-sky eyes. Eventually, he said, “I suppose there isn’t,” and jumped down from the chaise.

It was as good as a promise and Nate’s spirits leaped in response.

The White Hart was an old inn. Not as old as the church, but full of exposed beams and little leaded windows in the Elizabethan style. Some effort had been made to modernize it by plastering the front of the building, but Nate could feel the centuries resting on his shoulders as soon as he stepped inside. Strange, these bygone places, other men’s lives sunk into their bones. He’d seen nothing like it at home; there everything was new and looking to the future. Here, places had deep roots.

He waited while Sam spoke to the landlord at some length. Red-faced and jovial, the man had a deal to say, but he made Sam smile and Nate didn’t mind watching that. Sam didn’t smile much these days, not like he used to. But eventually he escaped and came back with the key for a room — one room for him and Nate — and nobody thought anything of it. Why should they? Nate did, though. Despite his throbbing arm and bone-tired exhaustion, his stomach fluttered in anticipation of the long night ahead. Anticipation and melancholy because this night was their last. When they reached London, everything would end.

As they’d done every evening since leaving Liverpool, they ate in a private dining parlor. No need to risk curious eyes taking note, even if they were only twenty miles from London. The dinner was good, roasted beef and potatoes, and they ate in silence, both lost in thought. Of the evening ahead, perhaps. Or what would come after.

It wasn’t even seven o’clock when they’d finished eating, broad daylight still, but Nate was frustrated to find himself yawning.

“Maybe you should sleep,” Sam said, studying the table instead of meeting Nate’s eye. “You really do look tired.”

“Not that tired.”

Sam gave a faint smile. But he looked uneasy, his gaze slipping away to stare out through the inn’s leaded windows, little black bars crisscrossing the ancient glass. “I’m going to stretch my legs,” he said abruptly, pushing to his feet. “Been cramped up in that damn coach for too long.”

It was a rejection and it stung. Oh, it was gentle enough, but Nate didn’t understand; this was their last chance, their last night. He leaned over the table. “Sam —”

“You see that church? The landlord told me it used to be an abbey. They built it eight hundred years ago, he said, and there’s a Saint buried underneath.”

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