Page 71 of King's Man

He thought of it now, but for once the terror and shame of that night didn’t return. No tar stench filled his nose, no flickering reminder of flames danced before his eyes. For a moment he was surprised, but then he realized that something had changed; he’d forgiven Nate his silence that night. More than that, he understood that sometimes the best a man could do for the one he loved was simply to bear witness to their suffering and not flinch away.

As Nate had done in court today.

They made slow progress along Bow Street, the lumbering wagon trundling past the entrance to the court just as a familiar figure emerged through its doors. Nate. Sam’s heart flew. It felt like a reprieve, a last chance to drink his fill. Nate came to stand with MacLeod and Farris, who turned to speak with him, but Nate was watching the wagon instead — watching Sam. Although still pallid, he looked nervy, bouncing on his toes. Even from yards away, Sam could see his nervous energy. Nate looked as though he were about to start a fight, and Sam’s pulse quickened in response. Shifting a step or two in the cage, he tried to keep Nate in sight as the wagon rolled on, cursing when a woman’s feathered hat blocked his view. He coveted every moment he could see Nate and —

“Whoa!” The driver yelled and the wagon lumbered to a halt. Sam didn’t look around to see what was happening, just counted his blessings and kept his eyes on Nate. He was walking away from Farris now, shoving his hand aside when Farris tried to stop him. Sam stared, unsure what he was seeing, his heart racing ahead of him in hope he barely allowed himself to feel.

From ahead came the sound of arguing and a man’s raised voice. American. Moses? Startled, Sam glanced over his shoulder. Through the bars of the cage he saw a costermonger’s handcart overturned in front of the wagon, fruit and vegetables spilling across the street, and Moses yelling and fussing and making no effective effort to clear the way.

Sam’s pulse started galloping in earnest. What the devil? He looked back to Nate and found him cutting through the crowd at a fast but steady walk, focused entirely on the wagon. Sam maneuvered his way as casually as possible to the locked door of the cage.

“Here, Groves, got a minute for a word while you ain’t going nowhere?” To Sam’s astonishment, Cole swung himself up onto the front of the wagon, effectively blocking Groves’ view of what was happening behind him. “Reckon I’ve got a lead on Wessex. Heard he’s started doing business with Dick Radcliffe. You know him? Fence up at the Red Lion…”

Sam turned back to Nate. He was running now and launched himself up onto the back of the wagon, jamming a heavy iron key into the lock.

“Oi, watch out!” yelled a voice from the crowd.

Through the bars, Nate’s urgent gaze met Sam’s. “Run,” he said as he yanked the door open and half-jumped, half-fell back onto the street. Sam threw himself out after him, stumbling to his knees thanks to his bound wrists. Nate grabbed his arm, hauled him up, and then they were pelting down the street. The rest of the prisoners spilled out after them, adding to the confusion, while the crowd looked on in delight, hoots of laughter and shouts of encouragement chasing after them.

“Tanner!” MacLeod loomed out of the crowd, swinging his walking cane like a weapon. Its silver knob flashed in the sunlight, a hair’s breadth from Nate’s face. He ducked, stumbled in the muddy street and went down in the dirt. MacLeod lifted the cane for another blow.

“No!” Sam barreled into him with a savage cry and MacLeod staggered, lost his footing, and fell hard. Breath exploded from his lungs, his cane skidding away. Sam snatched it up with both his bound hands. Raising it, he took aim.

A firm grip on his wrist stopped him. “Don’t.” Nate, wild and frightened, glanced past Sam. “Christ, just run.”

Sam hesitated, stared down at MacLeod’s wheezing hate-filled face, and dropped the cane. Nate was right. He was no murderer, and he wouldn’t let MacLeod make him one.

Lighter on his feet than Sam, Nate pulled ahead. But he didn’t know London like Sam did. “Nate, this way!” Sam darted right, along the alley leading to the Theatre Royal. The theatre was quiet at this time of morning, not even the whores were open for business, and Sam staggered to a stop halfway along the alley to catch his breath. Two nights in jail, with little food and no sleep, had taken its toll.

“Keep moving.” Nate put his hand on Sam’s shoulder and pushed him on. Together, they made their way around the back of the theatre and from there toward the noise and bustle of Covent Garden.

Neither spoke. With so much to say, Sam didn’t know where to begin and he imagined Nate felt the same. But as they got closer to the open expanse of the market, Sam glanced over his shoulder. Seeing no sign of pursuit, he drew Nate to a halt and glanced down at his bound wrists. “Do you have a knife?”

Wordlessly, Nate reached into his boot. Sam held out his arms and Nate sliced the rope, letting it drop to the ground at their feet. He rubbed at his wrists, aware of Nate standing close, aware of the last angry words that had passed between them. Aware he was unshaven, and prison soiled. “I, uh, thank you. For saving me…”

Nate kept watching the marketplace, which hummed with life under the hazy morning sun. “Contrary to expectations, I know.”

“Nate —”

“We should go. Come on. I said we’d meet the others at the Bowl.”

“The St. Giles Bowl?” Sam gave a soft laugh. “We’ll make an outlaw of you yet.” Nate didn’t answer, but Sam caught the hint of a smile curling his mouth and his spirits lifted.

Covent Garden, with its covered stalls, hawkers, acrobats, peddlers, and footpads was as good a place as any to get lost. Sam wove a meandering path around the crowded edges of the market where the stalls were packed together in the shadows of the great buildings behind them, the light muted by grubby canvas awnings. Carefully avoiding the open expanse at the center where livestock grazed on hay bales, Sam ducked out along James Street and from there led Nate through all the dark alleys and yards up to Seven Dials. Hal Foxe’s protection didn’t extend so far south, but nevertheless Sam relaxed — the squalid streets of Seven Dials were hardly friendly territory for Bow Street, either. After another half hour walking in silence, they crossed Broad Street and reached St. Giles proper.

Something of a hero’s welcome awaited them at the Bowl. Cole, smiling, pulled Sam into an embrace, while others slapped his back and Moses yanked shut the door, barred it, and sent a couple of boys out to watch for tappers. There were back ways out of the Bowl that meant everyone would be lost in St. Giles’ warren of alleyways long before Bow Street got through the door.

Sam let out a breath — he was safe.

And it was only then, as the threat finally lifted, that the true horror descended: the scaffold, the noose, and the terror of the great unknown beyond. He’d seen men die at Simsbury, legs kicking and face purpling, tongue lolling. And that might have been him. It would have been him…

“Oh God.”

Panic ambushed him. Everything he hadn’t felt in the jail overwhelmed him in a great wave. Struggling to catch his breath, he reached blindly for a table as the world went gray around the edges, his knees buckling.

“A chair!” Cole barked, catching him. “You there, move back. A chair — Thank you, Tanner.”

Sam sat, head down and eyes screwed shut as he struggled to master his spiraling fear and force air into his cramping lungs. Someone gripped his shoulder, steadying him, and slowly, slowly his breathing became easier and the panic receded. He was safe. Nate had saved him.

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