The King's Spy (Thomas Hill Trilogy 1)

by Swanston, Andrew

  About the Book

  Summer, 1643

  England is at war with itself. King Charles I has fled London, his negotiations with Parliament in tatters. The country is consumed by bloodshed.

  For Thomas Hill, a quiet man running a bookshop in the rural town of Romsey, knowledge of the war is limited to the rumours that reach the local inn.

  When a stranger knocks on his door informing him that the king’s cryptographer has died, everything changes. Aware of Thomas’s expertise in codes and ciphers, the king has summoned him to Oxford.

  On arrival, Thomas soon discovers that nothing at court is straightforward. There is evidence of a traitor in their midst. Brutal murder follows brutal murder. When a vital message is intercepted, encrypted with a notoriously unbreakable cipher, more lives are in danger.

  But will Thomas decipher it in time to reveal the king’s betrayer and prevent another violent death?

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Maps

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Author’s Note

  References

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  For Susan

  ‘The finest souls are those that have the most variety and suppleness.’

  Michel de Montaigne

  CHAPTER 1

  August 1643

  THOMAS HILL WAS not much of a drinking man – half a bottle of claret or a couple of pots of ale might last him an hour or more – but two or three times a week he would close his bookshop and stroll down to the Romsey Arms. The inn was only two hundred and ten paces from the shop and, if there was news of the war, that was where he would hear it. He knew it was two hundred and ten paces because he had counted them. It was the mathematician’s curse – forever counting things.

  The war. The wretched war. Bloody and brutal, and seemingly pointless. As far as Thomas could tell from the newsbooks that found their way to Romsey, neither side had yet shown evidence of real determination to win a decisive military victory, or even of a coherent strategy. While talks dragged on between the king and Parliament, the Parliamentarian William Waller and the Royalist Ralph Hopton, best of friends before the war, danced minuets around each other in the West Country, the Earl of Essex had settled comfortably into Windsor, and John Pym, reportedly dying from a cancer in his stomach, was busy building defences around London. Prince Rupert was thundering about the country at the head of his cavalry, attacking Lichfield, Brentford and anywhere else that took his fancy, and now there were rumours that his brother Maurice had joined him for an attack on Bristol. Thomas knew better than to believe all the reports, and in any case they were often contradictory. Sir Jacob Astley had been reported killed at Gloucester two days before arriving in excellent health at Oxford. And there were strange stories of ghostly battles at Edgehill, and witchcraft in East Anglia. In time of war, rational men very easily became irrational.

  One thing, however, was clear. The talking had achieved nothing and there would be more bloodshed before England knew peace again. With King Charles gathering support in Oxford, and London in the hands of Parliament, something violent and bloody was inevitable, and probably soon. Either the king would advance on London, or Essex and Fairfax would try to surround Oxford. More bodies disembowelled by the sword and the pike, more eyes sliced from their sockets, more limbs left for the crows, more widows and orphans left destitute. Even in this little town, there were ten women widowed by the war, including his sister Margaret, and twice that number of fatherless children, his nieces among them. There was a one-legged tailor, a blind innkeeper and a farmer with half a face. The other half had been removed by a man with an axe. The farmer had lived but when he returned, his wife had taken one look at him and fled. The wags in the town said that even the man’s sheep looked away when they saw him. Yet Romsey itself had seen no fighting – nothing like Stratton or Hopton Heath, where there had been battles. Was there an able-bodied man left standing there? God forbid that the war should really come to Romsey.

  It was August and the evening was warm, so Thomas wore no coat, just his white ruffled shirt with a high collar, white cotton hose, and a clean pair of linen breeches tied at the knee, a few shillings in one pocket. He seldom wore a hat, despite his lack of hair. Hats were hot and bothersome.

  He reckoned he could tell how busy the Romsey Arms was by the time he reached the baker’s shop on the junction of Love Lane and Market Street. If he could hear voices, it was busy; if he could see drinkers overflowing outside the inn, it was very busy; but if he could see or hear nothing, he might have only himself for company. That would be disappointing. He much preferred gossip and banter, and he liked being the source of news. An educated man, a writer and bookseller, he was expected to know everything before anyone else.

  As he approached the bakery, he knew it would be gossip and banter. And on turning into Market Place, he guessed it might be rather more. At least a dozen men outside the inn had, by the sound of them, been there quite some time. Their coats were a hotchpotch of colours, but they all wore broad-brimmed, feathered hats and tall riding boots. Each man had a bandolier over one shoulder, a sword at his waist and a wooden tankard in his hand. A stack of short-barrelled calivers leaned against the inn wall. They were Royalist dragoons. Boisterous, celebrating dragoons. Thomas quickened his pace. This would be news. Terms for peace agreed perhaps, and an end to the war at last. He all but ran the last few yards.

  ‘Well now, gentlemen,’ called out a tall blue-coated dragoon when he saw Thomas, ‘who have we here?’

  Thomas had noted the black and white feathers and red band round the man’s hat, and had immediately marked him as their leader.

  ‘Doesn’t look like the enemy, more’s the pity. Not much taller than my wife, a bit on the skinny side and short of hair. Clean-shaven, clean shirt, clean boots. But you can never tell. Be on your guard, men. Who are you, sir, and have you the money to quench our thirst? If not, be on your way. We’re hot and dry.’

  He might have spoken in jest, or he might not. Thomas decided to risk it. ‘My name is Thomas Hill, sir. I have a bookshop in this town. Alas, I don’t have enough in my pocket to buy ale for all of you, unless you will settle for but a sip each. Perhaps if you pool your resources, however, you might have enough to buy me a glass of claret. The landlord here keeps a good cellar and I have persuaded him to sell his claret by the glass.’

  The tall dragoon stared hard at Thomas, then laughed loudly. ‘Good man, Master Hill. A glass of claret it shall be. A bookshop, eh? And what improving work would you recommend for a humble soldier of the king?’

  ‘A difficult question, sir, as I know nothing of your tastes, and I would not want to cause offence,’ replied Thomas, taking the measure of his man. ‘I read that in London all manner of books are joining the king’s Book of Sports on the fire, and it’s much the same in Oxford. So nothing religious or political. Let me think. Not classical, I fancy, or poetic. Henry the Fifth, perhaps, or Julius Caesar – warriors both. Or philosophy. Or something more practical – a worthy volume on horsemanship or husbandry?’ He paused, as if in thought. ‘No. Philosoph
y it is. De Montaigne, my favourite philosopher of all.’

  ‘Who? Doesn’t sound English.’

  ‘He was French, sir. Just as this claret is,’ said Thomas, taking a glass from an outstretched hand, and raising it to the dragoon. ‘Your excellent health.’

  ‘And yours, Master Hill. We’ll talk of philosophers later. Let me first introduce myself. I am Robert Brooke, captain of this troop of drunks, whom I’m instructed to take to join Lord Goring. It seems his lordship is in need of our assistance, though by all accounts he needs little assistance in the matter of refreshment.’

  George Goring had changed his allegiance from Parliament to the Crown the previous year, and Thomas knew of his reputation as a drunkard. He offered a small bow. ‘Captain Brooke. An honour. And what news do you bring? An end to the war, or is that too much to hope for?’

  ‘Indeed it is. There can be no peace while Fairfax and Essex are at large, or any of their henchmen, and that’s an end to it.’

  ‘Alas,’ replied Thomas, ‘it seems so, though I wish it could be done without bloodshed. We hear there’s been fighting in the north and the west. Adwalton Moor and Landsdowne, was it not?’

  ‘It was. And splendid victories both. At Adwalton, the Earl of Newcastle sent Fairfax and his son running like hounds on the scent, and at Landsdowne our Cornish pikemen gave Waller’s rabble bloody noses. The war goes well.’

  ‘Happily, we have seen little of it in Romsey, though we thirst for news.’

  ‘Then I shall have the honour of giving you some.’

  ‘And what news is that, captain?’

  ‘We come from Bristol, which, praise God, is now in Royalist hands. Three days ago the Princes Rupert and Maurice took the city. It was a glorious triumph, and I’m proud to say that my men and I were part of it.’

  ‘Bristol. Noted for its ale, I believe. You didn’t go thirsty then?’

  Brooke let out a raucous bellow. ‘We certainly did not, my friend. Nor hungry once we’d cleared the shitten scum out of their shops and houses and filled our stores with meat and bread.’

  So much for an end to the war. Thomas said nothing. He could guess what was coming. Plunder, destruction, rape, murder. The usual litany of crime dressed up as a gallant victory. Another dragoon piped up. This one was short, with a face ravaged by drink, a big belly and the voice of a fishwife. ‘Those traitorous, whoreson bastards got what they deserved. When Prince Rupert asked them politely to open the gates, they refused, the donkey-headed dung eaters. We had to breach the walls and storm the city. Good men died.’

  ‘So they did,’ agreed Brooke. ‘We had to make an example of the place. They should have opened the gates. It was a bloody business getting in. Women and children were killed. I hate the sound of screaming women, it puts my teeth on edge. But it was their own fault. Later we hanged a few of the scroyles for good measure.’ Thomas tried not to show his horror.

  ‘They’ll open the gates to the king next time,’ said a dragoon, raising his tankard. ‘The city’s ours now, and everything in it.’

  Thomas had heard enough. Another city destroyed, men hanged, women raped and murdered, children butchered. And these so-called soldiers boasting about it.

  ‘Well, bookseller,’ went on the fat dragoon, ‘and what have you to say to that? A great victory, eh?’

  Thomas did not want to say anything. He put down his glass. Before he could turn to go, however, he found himself flat on his back in the dust, struggling to breathe. The fat dragoon had punched him hard on his breastbone, knocking him backwards, and was now astride him, his backside planted on Thomas’s chest. Thomas was quick on his feet and much stronger than he looked, but it had all been so fast that he barely knew what had happened. He gasped for air and opened his eyes. A bulbous nose, two watery eyes and a black-toothed mouth were inches from his face. He shut his eyes again and held his breath. The stench of the man was revolting, never mind his weight on Thomas’s stomach. And he could feel something sharp pricking the skin under his left ear. The dragoon had pulled a knife from his belt. Blood trickled down Thomas’s neck. The man hissed at him. ‘So, Hill. You choose to ignore my question. Perhaps you didn’t want to hear about our great victory. Perhaps you’re a piss-licking Roundhead after all. Is that it? A piss-licking Roundhead is it, Hill?’

  Thomas felt the point of the knife digging into his neck. Bile rose to his throat from the weight of the man, and he turned his head to the other side and vomited. It ran down his chin into the dust. He retched and coughed, his eyes clamped shut. Then, suddenly, the weight on his chest was lifted and he was being helped to his feet. He heard the voice of the captain.

  ‘God’s wounds, man, we’re soldiers of the king, not highwaymen. You’ve had too much ale again. Master Hill meant no offence, and even if he did there’s no reason to kill him. Go and find a bucket of water and stick your ugly head in it until you’re sober. Or as sober as you ever are.’

  The fat dragoon, stunned by a heavy blow to his head with the hilt of the captain’s sword, struggled unsteadily to his feet and, cheered on by his colleagues, stumbled off in the direction of the duck pond.

  The captain turned back to Thomas. ‘My apologies, Master Hill. The man’s a drunken oaf. Are you recovered?’

  From the winding, Thomas was recovered. From the shock, he was not. ‘Thank you, yes, captain,’ he replied quietly, wiping away the blood and vomit with a white handkerchief. ‘I meant no offence, but I don’t care for violence of any sort.’

  ‘A soldier must do his duty and obey orders. War is violent.’

  ‘Then let us pray that this war ends soon. Enough English blood has been spilled on the land.’

  ‘I too pray that it ends soon, and with victory for our king. Now, will you take another glass of claret with me while that fat fool has his head in a bucket?’

  ‘Thank you, captain, but I shall be on my way.’

  ‘But what about your French philosopher? Mountain, was it? You were going to share his wisdom with me.’

  ‘Montaigne, captain, Michel de Montaigne. He lived in the last century and said many wise things. Here’s one with which to bid you farewell: To learn that we have said or done a foolish thing is nothing; we must learn a more ample and important lesson: that we are all blockheads. God be with you, captain.’ Thomas bowed, and set off back up Market Street towards Love Lane.

  Watching him go, the captain took off his hat and scratched his head. ‘If any of you understood that, be sure to enlighten me. Now go and see if that gorbellied idiot is alive. We must be on our way.’

  Still a little dazed, Thomas walked slowly. When he reached the bakery on the corner, he stopped to breathe in the aroma of tomorrow’s loaves. His sensitive nose twitched in pleasure. The dragoon had smelt like a midden. It was a blessed relief to get the stench out of his nostrils. He breathed deeply and looked around.

  From this point in the village, he had a good view of the countryside. To the west, he could see the great oaks of the New Forest, and to the south, fields of wheat and barley yellowing in the summer sun, copses of oak and elm, and the Test winding down towards Southampton. Every time he stood here, he offered a silent thank you to the Benedictine nuns who had chosen this lovely place for their abbey more than seven hundred years earlier. It was an abbess who had been granted a charter to hold fairs and markets, from which the town had grown and prospered. The nuns might have left, but the good people of Romsey had managed to save the abbey from destruction by buying it from the king for a hundred pounds, and now it was their parish church. Even with the country at war, Romsey was a thriving market town of over a thousand souls and a centre for the trading of wool and leather, with busy watermills all around. Now it stood precariously between the Royalists in Winchester and the Parliamentarians in Southampton, and at the risk of being ravaged as so much of England had been ravaged.

  Margaret was sitting outside the shop on her wicker chair, reading a book and enjoying the last of the evening sunshine. When she saw Thoma
s coming up the street, she put down her book and watched him. ‘There you are, brother,’ she greeted him, ‘and walking steadily, I’m pleased to see.’ She had never seen him less than sober, but teasing ran in the family.

  ‘Certainly, my dear, though I was sorely tempted. A troop of dragoons on their way through were washing the dust out of their throats. I’m surprised you didn’t hear them from here.’

  ‘Royalists, Thomas?’

  ‘Yes, Royalists. I’ll tell you their news later. Are the girls in bed?’

  ‘I’ve just put them down. They’ll be asleep.’

  Pity, thought Thomas. He liked telling them a story before they fell asleep. It was usually something from the Bible or the classics. Hercules was popular, so was David, though Polly was already expressing doubts about a giant as big as Goliath being felled by a little pebble. ‘There’s chicken from yesterday, if you’re hungry,’ said Margaret, ‘and plenty of cheese.’ So far, the privations suffered by so many towns and villages had not come to Romsey, and no one was starving. ‘You can tell me what the dragoons had to say while you’re eating.’

  In between mouthfuls, Thomas told her the news of Bristol. He left out the worst bits, and Margaret knew that he had. She had heard it all before, and she too was sickened by it. ‘God forbid that Polly and Lucy should grow up in such a country. They’ve lost their father and, if it goes on much longer, they’ll lose their childhood. Polly asked me today what happened to the farmer’s face. We saw him in the market. What am I to tell her? That he tripped over a plough, or that it was hacked off by a man with an axe? One’s a lie, the other would give her nightmares. She’s only five, for the love of God.’

  Thomas sighed. ‘I have no answers, my dear. A war that was supposed to be about the principles of government is nothing of the kind. Men change sides as it suits them, and mercenaries fight for whoever offers them most. It’s a war driven by fear. Fear of a king with a Catholic queen, fear of Puritanism, fear of the Irish, fear of losing. Perhaps all wars are the same. We all fear something.’