The King's Spy (Thomas Hill Trilogy 1)

by Swanston, Andrew

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Thomas, ‘there is something blinkered about the military mind. It seems able to ignore almost anything other than itself.’

  Rush laughed. ‘Nicely put, Master Hill. Let us pray that this war is soon over, so that the university can resume its former life.’ They left the college and turned north up St Aldate’s. ‘And how does your work progress?’

  ‘It has not been arduous. So far, Abraham has given me quite simple tasks, although I expect them to get harder.’

  ‘Good. On Master Fletcher’s advice, the king has put his absolute trust in you. If we can anticipate the enemy’s movements while leaving him ignorant of ours, we shall gain a great advantage. You have a vital duty to perform.’

  Thomas hesitated. ‘Erasmus Pole was an able man. Has the king not enjoyed such an advantage since the war began?’

  Rush stopped and looked hard at Thomas. ‘We were never sure about Pole. There were incidents. His loyalty to the king was beginning to be questioned. The affair at Alton was an odd thing – most suspicious. No sooner had we received word that Lord Digby was planning to attack the town than the enemy reinforced its defences. Most suspicious. And the judgement of an elderly man who walked down that foul lane at night must also be questioned.’

  ‘Do you think he was killed there?’

  ‘That’s where he was found.’ Rush’s eyes narrowed. ‘Or do you suggest that he was murdered elsewhere and his body taken there?’

  ‘No, sir, I know only that I have walked down that lane in daylight and shall not do so again, never mind at night.’

  ‘Very wise of you. It’s a noisome place.’

  ‘Noisome and evil.’

  ‘Indeed. Master Hill, if I may proffer some advice, take great care to whom you speak in Oxford. The town is full of men who are not what they seem.’

  ‘Abraham Fletcher said much the same thing.’

  ‘I daresay he did. And, Master Hill, you will report anything at all suspicious to me, won’t you?’

  ‘I shall.’ Approaching Queen Street, Thomas changed the subject. ‘Master Rush, you kindly asked if there is anything you can do for me. I do have one favour to ask.’

  ‘Of course. What is the favour?’

  ‘I should like to let my sister know that I have arrived in Oxford safely, and am quite well. Would you be able to have a letter delivered for me?’

  ‘That will present no difficulty. Messengers are in and out of the town every day. I will find one heading for Winchester or Salisbury and have him deliver the letter. Romsey, is it not?’

  ‘It is. My thanks, Master Rush. I am in your debt.’

  ‘Say no more about it. Let me have the letter, and I shall deal with the matter at once. Now, allow me to propose a happy diversion from your labours. The queen is presenting a masque in honour of the king on Wednesday next. She is fond of masques. Her court, and much of the king’s, will be there. You are invited to attend.’

  Thomas hesitated. A masque was not his idea of a happy diversion. It would be formal, lavish and extravagant. He had no suitable clothes, and little to say to members of either court. He tried to think of an excuse. Then he remembered the lovely Jane Romilly, lady-in-waiting to the queen. An acquaintance he would much like to renew. ‘Thank you, Master Rush. I should be delighted.’

  ‘Excellent. Two o’clock in the afternoon on Wednesday, at Merton. The masque will be followed by a reception. I will arrange for a suit of clothes to be sent round to you. Their majesties are most particular as to dress. I shall look forward to seeing you there. Now I shall leave you and return to Christ Church. Good day, Master Hill.’

  ‘Good day, Master Rush.’ Alone, Thomas turned into Broad Street, intending to follow Catte Street to the High Street, and thence to St Aldate’s and Pembroke. It did not take him long to change his mind. Broad Street was more Bedlam than street. Realizing that he would have to run a gauntlet of beggars, whores and pickpockets, he turned back towards Cornmarket. He was not quite quick enough. He smelt the woman before he saw her. Out of a dark doorway she came, another stinking, poxed, toothless crone, this one with a humped back. She grabbed his shirt, and pressed herself against him. ‘Good evening, sir. You’re a fine gentleman and no mistake. For a sovereign, I’ll make you a happy one.’ Bile rising in his throat, Thomas wrenched his shirt free and ran. He kept running almost as far as Pembroke. Outside the gates, he stopped, took deep breaths until he was calm, and walked slowly into the college.

  ‘Good evening, sir. You look a trifle flushed. Are you well?’ Silas, keeping watch from his room, had seen him come in. Silas missed nothing. Thomas’s face was red and his shirt askew.

  ‘Quite well, thank you, Silas. I should be grateful for a bottle of hock and some dinner. Would you have them sent over?’

  Silas looked him up and down. ‘As you wish, sir. Nothing the matter, I hope.’

  ‘Nothing, Silas, thank you. The evening is warm. Walking too fast, I daresay.’

  Silas looked doubtful. ‘Indeed, sir. I’ll have the bottle and a plate sent over directly.’

  In his room, Thomas took off his shirt and breeches and lay on his bed. They would have to be washed. Waiting for his dinner, he wondered what he had agreed to. Queen Henrietta Maria was known to be fond of masques, and even sometimes appeared in them herself. It was said that in London the most extravagant of her entertainments had cost over twenty thousand guineas. Twenty thousand guineas. Enough to build two hundred cottages or a hundred schools, feed an entire town for a year, provide for every beggar and orphan …

  Before he could add to the list, his dinner arrived, brought by one of Silas’s boys. Intending to give the boy a few pence, Thomas reached for his purse on the table. Then he remembered that it was in his pocket. He picked up the discarded breeches and felt for the purse. The pockets were empty. He looked around the room in case he had been mistaken. No purse. Then he realized. The hump-backed hag must have picked his pocket. Silas’s boy was not going to get a whole sovereign from the bag hidden under the bed, so he would have to go unrewarded. ‘Thank you, young fellow,’ said Thomas graciously, ‘you shall have a shilling next time.’ Unsure whether to be pleased or not, the boy departed.

  Thomas’s last waking thought that evening was whether there was anyone in Oxford who was what he seemed. Abraham, of course, and Silas. But what about Simon? What about Rush? What about Fayne? He acted like an arrogant oaf, but could he be a traitor? Or even a mild-mannered scholar in disguise?

  For two more days, Thomas saw little of the sun. He was determined to decrypt every one of the documents perfectly. When working, he found that he could blot out the clash and clamour outside. Only when he left his room for trips to the privy, to fetch water from the well or to find food did he have to face the awful squalor and destruction that had been brought on his old college.

  As he always had, Thomas found himself giving each encoder a personality. He could look at a sheet of paper covered in random letters, numbers and symbols, and, after identifying just a few letters, could often divine its soul. And, even before starting the decrypting process, he sometimes recognized the hand of the sender. By visualizing the man – fat, thin, tall, short – and his traits – tidy, careless, quick, slow – he could anticipate the methods he was likely to use. It was a marriage of science and art that Abraham used to call Hill’s magic.

  He expected to find the remaining documents encrypted much as those he had already decrypted, but it did not take him long to discover that Abraham was up to his tricks. The old fox had mixed up the documents to conceal their context and chronology. The tenth document surprised him with an unusually high proportion of the letters A and I, until he realized that it had been written in Latin. In the other documents, there were deliberate misspellings, and some parts of the texts – the most difficult to decrypt – were nomenclators – combinations of letters, symbols and numbers. The symbols and numbers were either homophonic substitutions for single words or meaningless nulls, sometimes both in the same
message. Much like the cipher Phelippes had decrypted, although simpler. Thomas started with the assumption that the most common letter combinations, such as THE, AND and TION, would appear most often, and proceeded from there. The approach was laborious but effective.

  By the evening of the third day, Thomas had a pile of twenty plain texts to match the twenty coded ones, and his skills had become as sharp as they had ever been. Although Abraham had said that their own codes were superior to those of the enemy, Thomas disagreed. He found little difference between them, and the messages were just as tedious. Demands for men and supplies, complaints about the lack of pay, boasts and excuses. The most interesting text turned out to be a description, written backwards, of Abraham’s favourite wines. How typical of his old friend to lighten the day with a joke.

  Thomas decided to wait until the morning to deliver the decrypted texts to Abraham. After a walk to the Cherwell and back, and an excellent plate of black pudding with capers and pickled cucumbers, he was undressing for bed when there was a knock on the door. He quickly pulled up his breeches. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s your favourite friar, Thomas. Simon de Pointz.’ Thomas opened the door. ‘And I come bearing gifts,’ said Simon, handing over the clothes he was carrying. ‘These are from Tobias Rush. I do hope they fit.’

  ‘Good evening, Simon. I had thought you might have called earlier, although I have been busy.’

  Simon looked at the pile of papers on the table. ‘So I see. Have your efforts met with success?’

  ‘Happily, yes. But it was only practice. The real tests will come later. Should I try these on?’ He held up the clothes.

  ‘I would recommend it. Queen Henrietta Maria can’t help but notice an ill-fitting shirt or coat. She has an eye for such matters.’

  Thomas took off his plain breeches again, and tried on the new ones. They were dark blue, loose-fitting, tied at the knee with yellow ribbons, and with bows and rosettes attached to the sides. A pair of white silk stockings were embroidered in blue and red. Over a fine lace shirt, he donned a short pale-blue coat with a red lining and red ribbons on the sleeves, then, finally, pulled on a pair of soft leather boots with silver buckles. Simon, who had watched the process intently, was delighted. ‘Master Hill, who would have thought a Romsey bachelor could be turned into such an elegant and courtly gentleman? Their majesties will share my admiration. And it all fits perfectly. How clever of Master Rush.’

  Thomas was doubtful. ‘Are you sure, Simon? I feel like a popinjay.’

  ‘Nonsense. You look splendid. Now take them off and put them away somewhere safe. It would be a pity to spill your soup on such finery.’

  As Thomas was undressing, he asked Simon if he knew Lady Romilly. ‘Of course I do,’ replied the priest. ‘She is a lady-in-waiting to the queen. A lovely lady, sadly widowed. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I chanced to meet her in the town. Will she be at the masque?’

  Simon raised an eyebrow. ‘I imagine so. The queen is seldom seen in public without her ladies.’ He paused. ‘Now I must be away. Wednesday, at two in the afternoon. I shall not be present, as Franciscans and masques do not go well together, but I hope you enjoy the spectacle. The queen is much looking forward to it.’

  Soon after Simon had left, Thomas fell asleep wondering whether or not he too was looking forward to it.

  Before visiting Abraham the next morning, Thomas wrote his letter to Margaret. He told her that, except for the shaggy inkcaps for dinner, their journey had been uneventful, that he was well and comfortable, and that he had met the king. He said nothing about squalor and poverty, nor about the masque, of which he knew his sister would disapprove. He enquired after her health and that of the girls, expressed the fond wish that he would see them all again soon, and entreated her to write back. Lacking a seal, he tied the rolled letter with a red ribbon stolen from his new outfit. He would give it to Tobias Rush at the masque.

  The courtyard, to Thomas’s relief, was deserted when he crossed it, and Abraham was sitting in his chair by the window when he entered. ‘I thought you would come this morning, Thomas,’ he said. ‘Three days for twenty simple documents seemed about right. Or have any of them defeated you?’

  ‘Happily not, although homophonic substitutions and nomenclators do take time. Here they are.’ He put the twenty plain texts on the old man’s table.

  ‘I’ll have to take your word for it. Did you learn anything from them?’

  ‘Three things. The science of cryptography has progressed very little in the last ten years, military despatches are invariably as dull as a Scottish sermon, and your choice of the Portuguese wine was surprising. Isn’t it a little too sweet?’

  Abraham beamed. ‘A little sweet, perhaps. Well done, Thomas. Whatever tiny doubts I had have been banished. You would have been a match for the great Phelippes himself. In fact, if the Queen of Scots had had the benefit of your services, she might have kept her head. Now we can put you to proper work. Take the papers on the table for encoding, please. The first half of this month’s keyword is ROSE. The other halves are on this list, with the owner’s name and codeword. Please memorize them.’ He reached into a pocket, extracted a small sheet of paper and held it out to Thomas. ‘Next week you’ll need to send out your new keyword, and remind them to send theirs. All despatches will go through me. There’s no reason for any of our people to know who you are. It’s safer that way.’

  ‘Are there any intercepted messages?’ Encrypting was easy work; decrypting was what Thomas had regained his taste for.

  ‘No. But be assured that you will see the next one as soon as it arrives. It’ll come to me. I’ll send word. Now you’d better get back to work.’

  ‘Before I do, Abraham, Tobias Rush has invited me to attend the queen’s masque on Wednesday. He’s even provided a new suit of clothes.’

  Abraham groaned. ‘I don’t envy you. The last one I attended went on for two hours, and was quite unintelligible. Something to do with Venus and Neptune. And Cupid, I think. It was hard to know. And the extravagance is unspeakable. Thousands of guineas. No wonder her majesty is less than popular in the country. However, Thomas, remember what I said. Tobias Rush is a powerful man, with the ear of the king. You had better go.’

  Thomas set off for Merton half an hour before the masque was due to start. With some difficulty, he had put on his fine new shirt, breeches, stockings and coat, tied ribbons around his knees, set Abraham’s hat on his head, wiped the silver buckles on his boots with a cloth and made his way through the courtyard to the college entrance. Silas, as always, was at his post. ‘Master Hill. I hardly knew you. The queen’s masque, would it be?’

  ‘It would, Silas. How do I look?’

  ‘Magnificent, sir. Almost like royalty. Enjoy the masque.’

  ‘Thank you, Silas. I’ll try.’

  The quickest route to Merton took Thomas up St Aldate’s, along Blue Boar Street and into Merton Street. They were as busy as ever. Remembering the humpbacked hag, he carried no money. He walked slowly, taking care not to be jostled, and picking his way around the heaps of butchers’ offal and human excrement that blocked sewers and overflowed into the streets. The soft boots did not help. They were a little too big, and flopped about his ankles. Despite concentrating on not tripping over something revolting, he could not help noticing the sullen stares that followed his progress. Blue Boar Street was the beggars’ favourite. Limbless, sightless, diseased men and women lined both sides of it, those with arms holding out their hands and pleading for a farthing or a penny, those without standing guard over tin plates on the ground. A tradesman casually dropped a penny on to a plate in front of a blind man. The blind man heard the coin on the plate, bent to pick it up, and immediately let out a stream of blasphemous curses. The coin had gone in seconds – taken by the one-armed man beside him.

  Halfway down the street, the abuse started. ‘Bit too tall for a queen’s dwarf.’

  ‘Must be one of the king’s bed boys.’

 
; ‘Have a care, sir. Be a shame to spoil those pretty rags.’

  Thomas affected not to hear, and managed not to quicken his pace. It was broad daylight, there were people about and, for all they knew, he might be armed. He should be safe.

  At Merton, he was met by a college servant bedecked in powdered wig in the French style, cream stockings, wide crimson breeches and an embroidered coat. The man wore a pearl and ruby brooch. Two lines of guards armed with muskets and swords stood on either side of the gatehouse. Thomas gave his name, and was shown to a seat at the far side of the courtyard. It was bigger than the Pembroke courtyard, but much smaller than Christ Church’s. The queen must have wanted the king to be untroubled by the preparations for the performance. Thomas nodded politely to the two portly gentlemen on either side of him, noting that, compared to theirs, his outfit was only just up to standard. The masque was not due to start for another ten minutes, but almost all the seats were already occupied. No one wanted to risk the embarrassment of arriving after their majesties. Thomas looked around, hoping to see Jane Romilly. She was not there. Perhaps she was taking part in the masque.

  At exactly two o’clock, the king and queen entered the courtyard from the royal apartments. The audience rose and applauded loudly as the royal couple walked slowly to their seats on a raised dais to Thomas’s right. The seats were covered in gold cloth, with gold cushions and gold footrests. The king, limping slightly, walked with a stick. The queen, resplendent in satins and pearls, auburn hair curling around her neck, smiled and waved to the crowd. At her heels were four fat spaniels and a dwarf. Thomas guessed he was Jeffrey Hudson, known to be her favourite.