The King's Spy (Thomas Hill Trilogy 1)

by Swanston, Andrew

  ‘God bless you, gentlemen,’ replied Simon, as he tried to walk past.

  A large Lifeguard blocked their path. ‘He might, monk,’ he said, a hint of menace in his voice, ‘but we’d like you to. And your friend.’ He looked at Thomas, who was trying not to show his face. ‘A good friend, is he? We all know about monks and their unholy ways.’

  ‘We are Franciscan friars on the queen’s business,’ said Simon sternly, ‘and cannot be delayed further. Kindly let us pass.’ The large Lifeguard did not move.

  ‘What business might that be, I wonder?’ asked the first one. ‘Praying or poking? The queen has lots of pretty ladies to tempt you.’

  ‘That is a vile accusation, and I can see it comes from a vile man. We are men of God. Stand aside and let us be about our business,’ snapped Thomas.

  ‘And why would we do that, monk?’ asked the large one. ‘I don’t care for men in skirts who keep out of trouble and leave us to do all the fighting. They might as well be women.’

  ‘And we know what women are for, eh?’ A third Lifeguard, emboldened by his colleagues, entered the fray. ‘What’s under those skirts of yours? I wonder. Perhaps we should take a look.’ He reached out and lifted the hem of Thomas’s habit. Thomas grabbed his forearm and wrist with both hands, straightened the arm, pushed hard, and watched the soldier fall backwards and land on his backside in the dirt.

  ‘No match for a monk, eh, Step?’ The large Lifeguard bellowed with laughter. ‘Let me show you how it’s done.’

  ‘I don’t advise it,’ said Simon calmly. ‘Just because we’re men of God does not mean that we cannot defend ourselves. Furthermore, the queen awaits us. If we’re late, she will soon know why.’

  Unimpressed, the Lifeguard took a wild swing at his head. Simon moved deftly to one side, avoided the blow and hit the Lifeguard with a short, sharp punch in the throat. With a strangled gurgle of pain, the man collapsed in a heap. Neither of the still-upright soldiers made any effort to help him. Simon and Thomas turned and retraced their steps to the gate. Before the soldiers could stop them, they were through it and into Merton. Simon locked the gate and put a hand on Thomas’s shoulder.

  ‘What a war. Even the king’s men resent the faith of his queen. What do they think they’re fighting for?’

  ‘Themselves, Simon,’ replied Thomas, ‘themselves.’

  Jane had been taken to her rooms near the Warden’s lodgings, where the queen had set up her household. When Thomas and Simon entered, they found her on a large bed, cushions under her head, and covered by an embroidered blanket. An elderly lady sat by the bed, a pile of linen cloths beside her. She rose when they entered. ‘Has there been any change?’ asked Simon.

  ‘None,’ replied the lady. ‘She’s still losing blood, and has not yet spoken.’ Thomas noticed a second pile of cloths on the floor, these ones stained with blood. He went to the bed and took Jane’s hand in his. She did not stir.

  ‘She’s very pale. Can the bleeding not be stopped?’

  ‘I am trying, father, but the wounds are deep.’

  ‘I am not a friar, madam,’ Thomas said gently, ‘though it’s better you don’t know my name.’

  ‘He is a friend,’ Simon reassured her. ‘Do not be concerned.’ The lady nodded, but said nothing. ‘Would you leave us with Lady Romilly, please? We will call if she wakes.’ With a glance at Jane, she quietly left the room.

  Thomas sat on the bed, still holding Jane’s hand. Simon stood at the end of the bed and said a prayer. When he had finished, Thomas spoke quietly. ‘Abraham, now Jane. I wish to God that Abraham had never mentioned me to the king, or that we’d turned you away when you arrived at our door, Simon. Murder, torture, rape. All in the name of a stupid, vicious war.’ Before Simon could respond, Jane opened her eyes, saw Thomas and smiled weakly. Thomas put his finger on her lips. ‘Don’t try to talk. You’ve lost a lot of blood, but you’re safe now.’ Another tiny smile, and her eyes closed again.

  To Thomas, it seemed like hours before Jane stirred again. He sat silently, holding her hand and willing her to survive. He knew now that she had told him everything. Without warning, her eyes opened, he felt the slightest squeeze of his hand, and she whispered something. Unable to make it out, Thomas leaned forward until his cheek was touching hers. He could just hear the words. ‘Rush sent them.’

  ‘Sent who, Jane?’

  Her answer was even quieter. ‘One was Francis.’

  ‘The others?’ But Jane could not reply. Thomas lifted his head and nodded. Rush and Fayne. He should have guessed. ‘They’ll hang for it. Now rest.’ The effort had been too much. Jane’s back arched, and she moaned in pain. Simon went to the door and summoned the nurse, who bustled in and lifted the blanket. Jane’s legs and stomach were covered in blood. Between her legs, the linen cloths were sodden. When the nurse removed them, blood gushed on to the bed. Her eyes had closed and there was no sign of her breathing. Simon bent to put his hand to her neck, and his ear to her mouth. When he rose, he shook his head and made the sign of the cross. Jane was dead.

  While Simon prayed for her, Thomas sat motionless, her hand still in his. Then, suddenly, without word or warning, he placed her hand on her breast, got up from the bed and left. While Simon prayed, he ran down the staircase, across the Merton courtyard and through the gate. In Merton Street, he slowed to a fast walk. He passed soldiers, beggars, whores, merchants and scholars, and saw none of them. He trod in mud and excrement, and was cursed when he collided with a fruit-seller, knocking the man’s box of apples to the ground. He walked up Magpie Lane and Catte Street, along Broad Street and towards the castle. He saw none of the staring faces, and heard none of the shouted insults. For an hour, and then another hour, he walked the streets, cursing Rush the murderer, cursing the king for his summons, cursing Simon for fetching him, even cursing Abraham. And, above all, cursing himself. For coming to Oxford, for Jane’s death, for leaving Margaret and the girls, for his stupidity. By the time Thomas found himself back at Christ Church, his fury had been replaced by cold, hard determination. He strode through the college gates, and past two guards watching everyone leaving the college but showing no interest in anyone arriving. He made his way around the cattle pen to his rooms. He met no challenge. If he had, he would have ignored it. Jane Romilly, whom he had dared to love, was dead. If he was to prove that Rush and Fayne had killed her, he had work to do. He would grieve for her when that work was done.

  CHAPTER 14

  XZFMGMAYTDSXPMFMMVNLAJCLAWIMELABTHXFLRY HXWIDQJQJTDDMERTGCKETPMKEGXIEDUJIECTKOYOJ DLNEPLBYEBHBKOTPMTIJLMGLPFQEBYJQJTDDQRWPC

  QKICKBIURLTZOCK

  ONE HUNDRED AND thirty-six letters, which could well prove Rush responsible for the murder of Abraham and the rape of Jane. Not to mention a traitor and a torturer. Thomas was sure they had not been encrypted by simple substitution, or by a Caesar shift. That left Monsieur Vigenère, whom he had already defeated once. But this time the message was short, there was only one repetition of more than two letters, his analysis of letter frequencies had yielded nothing, and the keyword was neither PARIS, nor LONDON, nor ROME.

  Now what? Try every country and every city he could think of? Try random words that came to mind? Or think of something else, some new way of attacking Vigenère? For a long time, Thomas sat and stared at the text, occasionally scribbling words on a sheet of paper. Spain, England, France, Italy, Abraham, Jane. ONE EYE IS BROWN YET THE OTHER IS BLUE. Jane Romilly. Rush, Fayne, Parliament, Pym, Traitor. Romsey, Thomas Hill, Jane. He had no more than twelve hours to decrypt this message, and he had no idea what to do other than try possible keywords. Hardly scientific, or even artistic. Where was Hill’s magic when it was needed?

  He wrote out a new square, and started with cities – MADRID, LISBON, ATHENS, VIENNA; then countries – SPAIN, AUSTRIA, ITALY, GREECE. Nothing. He tried a random assortment of words and names – FAIRFAX, MILTON, OXFORD, HONOUR, TRUTH, PIETY, PRAYER. Again, nothing. His head ached.

  All through the night, Thomas fo
ught off sleep and kept working on the message. It was futile. By dawn, he was beyond sleep and had nothing left to give. He had failed. The message’s secrets, whatever they were, remained secrets. Rush would escape, and his own fate was in the hands of the king. Best to face it with as much courage and dignity as he could manage. He washed, shaved, put on a clean shirt and waited to be summoned. He heard the guards tramping up the staircase, and rose to open the door. There were two of them, both ill-tempered, both complaining loudly. ‘Backwards and forwards across the yard and up some damned staircase. That’s all we do. We’re soldiers, not servants,’ grumbled one.

  ‘I’d rather be killing Roundheads,’ said the other.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ said Thomas, as they reached the top of the staircase. ‘Is the king ready to see me?’

  ‘He is, sir,’ replied one, ‘and his majesty is in no mood to wait.’ With a final look around the room, and armed with the message and his copy of the square, Thomas followed the soldiers back down the staircase. They marched around the cattle pen in the middle of the quadrangle, and towards the Deanery. They were still complaining. ‘Up and down, backwards and forwards, forwards and backwards. It’s not proper work for the king’s guards.’

  ‘It is not. We might as well be messenger boys.’

  Backwards and forwards, forwards and backwards. Why had he not thought of that? ‘You silly shit,’ said Montaigne. Before he could give the idea more thought, he was ushered into the receiving room, where the king sat, tapping his stick on the stone floor. Guards were stationed around the room, members of his household behind him. This time there was no sign of Rush. ‘Master Hill. My temper is short. The queen must leave Oxford, and I am tired of hearing that this message has not been decrypted. I trust you bring us better news.’

  ‘Your majesty, my efforts have failed. I have not been able to decrypt the message.’

  The king’s face darkened. ‘In that case, I cannot see that we have any further use for your services, Master Hill. You will be taken to the castle and held there until I have decided what shall be done with you.’

  ‘Your majesty, although I have not yet broken the cipher, there is one idea that I have not yet had the chance to try. May I have your consent to make one final attempt?’

  ‘Surely, Master Hill,’ replied the king in a voice that was scarcely more than a whisper, ‘you have had sufficient time by now. We have waited patiently for you to bring us the contents of this message, and we have been disappointed. The queen should already have left Oxford. What grounds are there now for believing that you will break the cipher?’

  ‘I may not, your majesty. I may fail again. But is it not worth allowing a few minutes more – ten at the most – just in case I am right?’

  ‘Tell me, pray, how this new idea has suddenly come into your head at the very last minute? Is that not a little strange?’

  ‘It is, your majesty. I cannot account for it, except that providence can play unexpected games.’

  The king hesitated, then beckoned to one of his servants. ‘Fetch paper and ink. We will watch Master Hill at his final attempt.’ The servant scurried off, and soon returned with quills, paper and a pot of ink. Thomas took the message and his square from under his shirt and sat at a small table in the corner. But for the scratching of his quill, the room was silent. Even the king had stopped tapping his stick on the floor. Thomas closed his mind to his audience, and concentrated on the message. Above the first ten letters of the text – XZFMGMAYTD – he wrote out PARIS backwards, twice. Then he referred to the square, and wrote a third line of letters above that. Within a few minutes, he had FROMRUSHTO. From Rush to. Surely this was it. The keyword PARIS one way, and SIRAP the other. Simple and clever. Very nearly too clever for Thomas Hill. Resisting the urge to shout Eureka and claim victory, he continued on across the first line. The stick started tapping again. Thomas tried to ignore it.

  The eleventh letter of the text was decrypted as A. The recipient’s name must begin with A. But the next three letters were PYM. A Pym? Why not John Pym or J Pym, or just Pym? Thomas knew the answer as soon as he decrypted the twenty-second letter. It was B. As he had suspected, there were nulls in this message, and it looked as though they occurred at every eleventh letter. That would be quite enough to eliminate any repetitions, and to render frequency analysis useless.

  ‘I believe we have waited long enough,’ said the king. There was a ripple of assent from the audience.

  ‘Your majesty,’ replied Thomas, standing up and bowing low, ‘I can inform you with confidence that my idea was correct. I have decrypted enough of the message to be sure that I have the keyword. It will take me ten more minutes to complete the decryption.’

  The king stared at him. ‘You are fortunate that I am a patient man, Master Hill. In the full knowledge of the consequences of failure, you may proceed.’

  Thomas worked as fast as he dared. Mistakes in decryption, especially using the square, were all too easy. After eight minutes he had:

  FROMRUSHTOAPYMQUEENWIBLLLEAVEWITCHINDAYSFORDBRIS TOLENREOUTEEXETERFANDFRANCESGHOULDWEATTHEMPT TOEXECIUTEPLANINBJRISTOLIAWAKITINSTRUCTLIONS

  And after nine:

  FROM RUSH TO PYM. QUEEN WILL LEAVE WITHIN DAYS FOR BRISTOL EN ROUTE EXETER AND FRANCE. SHOULD WE ATTEMPT TO EXECUTE PLAN IN BRISTOL? I AWAIT INSTRUCTIONS.

  That was it. Proof. Rush the traitor, Rush the murderer. ‘Your majesty,’ said Thomas, ‘I ask that you and I are left alone. The contents of this message are so grave that no one but you should know them.’

  Another ripple from the courtiers, this time of dissent. The king waved it aside. ‘The guards alone will stay.’ The courtiers trooped out, and the king looked expectantly at Thomas. ‘Well, Master Hill, and what is so grave that I alone should hear it?’

  ‘This message reveals that the queen will travel to Bristol and Exeter, and then to France.’

  The king was on his feet. ‘That cannot be. The queen’s route has been kept a close secret. Almost no one knows it.’

  ‘I fear, sir, that the sender of this message knows it.’

  The king held out his hand for the text. He read it twice, and sat down. ‘I cannot accept this without further evidence. Tobias Rush is a loyal and trusted servant. To be told now that he is a traitor is beyond comprehension. And you, Master Hill, after your theatrical display, what am I to make of you?’

  ‘I can understand your majesty’s dilemma. I wish that the keyword had occurred to me before. That it came to mind only on my way here this morning is indeed strange. I blame myself for not thinking of it sooner.’

  ‘And what is this keyword which eluded you for so long, Master Hill?’

  ‘Your majesty will recall that the keyword to the first inter cepted message was PARIS. This one turned out to be the same letters, but backwards. SIRAP. Messages go back and forth. So did the keywords.’

  ‘Could you be mistaken as to the sender’s name?’

  ‘No, sir. The sender’s name is Rush.’

  The king closed his eyes. ‘It is beyond belief.’

  ‘If I may, your majesty,’ went on Thomas, ‘there are other things of which you should be aware. I am quite sure that Erasmus Pole was not murdered in Brasenose Lane, but his body dumped there after he had been killed somewhere else. Why would the murderer do that other than to conceal his motive? The murderer of Abraham Fletcher was looking for something, and tortured him when he could not find it. He could not find it because I had it. It was the first message. My room was also searched but, fortunately, the message was not found. Master Rush arranged for me to be imprisoned in an effort to get rid of me, and to retrieve the message. Again, we were fortunate. It was hidden, and, in your absence, the queen graciously commanded my release. Without her intervention, I would certainly be dead. Your majesty will also have heard that Lady Romilly, lady-in-waiting to the queen, was cruelly raped and murdered. However, she lived long enough to reveal the identity of the man behind this bestial crime. It was Tobias Rush.’
There was little point in mentioning Fayne. He would be no more than a name to the king, and Thomas had no proof of his association with Rush or his conduct at Newbury. There was more to be done before Francis Fayne faced justice.

  ‘Merciful God. Tobias Rush, to whom I have entrusted many secrets, and whom I trusted with the queen’s life. Is there more?’ asked the king.

  ‘Rush knew how I had decrypted the first message. He’s a clever man. He used the Vigenère square again, but in a very short message with no repetitions or numbers, and with nulls – that is, extra letters inserted in the text to confuse a decrypter. Without the keyword, the message was impregnable. It was only by chance that I guessed it.’

  ‘Master Rush is one of the very few who knew of our plan for the queen to travel to Exeter from Bristol. He is away now making arrangements.’