The King's Spy (Thomas Hill Trilogy 1)

by Swanston, Andrew

  ‘Have you been there, Silas?’ asked Simon.

  ‘No, sir, but I have heard it’s frequented by well-to-do gentlemen who like to play for high stakes. No weapons are allowed in the house.’

  ‘Sounds perfect.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Thomas. ‘We have the bait and we have a place to set our trap. Now how do we persuade Fayne to take the bait?’

  This time it was Tomkins’s turn. ‘Word of new players gets around like the pox. If Father de Pointz goes there this evening dressed as a travelling merchant, and is seen to lose plenty of money, I’ll wager Fayne will soon hear about it. If he’s in the county, that is.’

  ‘If he’s not, we’re wasting our time. But we won’t know unless we try. So, Simon will lose heavily at this house tonight, let it be known that he is in Oxford for a day or two and will be playing there again tomorrow evening. Have you got plenty of money to lose, Simon?’

  ‘The money will not present a problem. Losing it will be more difficult.’

  ‘Well, make sure you do. A winning merchant is not what we need.’

  ‘And you, what will you be doing, Thomas?’

  ‘I shall be nearby.’

  ‘And us?’ asked Smithson. ‘What would you have us do?’

  ‘You won’t be needed tonight. Tomorrow you’d best not show your faces. Hide somewhere outside, somewhere you can watch the door. If he arrives, guard the door. If he tries to run, stop him.’

  ‘Why don’t we shoot him?’

  ‘Fayne may be a traitor and a coward, he may be a rapist, but he must face the king’s justice, not ours. We’ll take him alive if we can. Six o’clock tomorrow evening, gentlemen. Silas will show you where. Let’s hope the bait smells tasty enough to bring the creature out of his lair.’

  A little before seven that evening, Silas led Thomas and Simon to the house. As he had said, it was close to the west gate – close enough for a man who did not want to be seen in the town to slip in and out safely. It was two storeys high, with leaded windows and a tiled roof. A substantial house, brick-built in the Dutch style, restrained in design and displaying no sign of what went on inside. Thomas guessed that it belonged to a town official or a lawyer. It was not extravagant enough for a merchant.

  From somewhere, Simon had acquired a long black coat edged in fur, a plain white shirt and black woollen breeches. His sandals had been replaced by soft leather boots. As they approached the house, he jangled the coins in his pocket. ‘I hope you’re as rich as you sound, Simon,’ said Thomas, ‘and penniless when you leave.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I shall lose everything but my faith, and the clothes I stand up in,’ replied Simon in a strange voice.

  ‘Why are you speaking like that?’ asked Thomas.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten my acting skills. This is my merchant’s voice.’

  ‘Of course it is. Foolish of me. In you go, merchant, and lose convincingly. Remember you’re our bait and we need Fayne.’

  Simon knocked boldly on the door and was admitted at once. When he did not immediately reappear, they assumed that he had been accepted as a genuine gambler looking for an evening’s entertainment.

  ‘You go back to the college, Silas,’ said Thomas. ‘I shall stay here and keep an eye on things.’

  ‘As you wish, sir, but take care.’

  ‘Thank you, Silas. I will.’

  When Silas had gone, Thomas walked around the house. The windows were small and there was no door at the back. Visitors could come and go only through the door at the front. He peered through a window, but the glass was too thick to see through. The walls must have been thick, too; he could hear nothing from inside. A very private house indeed.

  It was no more than fifty paces to the west gate, and in the fading evening light Thomas could just make out the guards stationed there. He thought he could see six of them. How secure really is Oxford? he wondered. A few more Newburys and it would be very weakly defended, and vulnerable to attack. He hated to think what Parliamentary artillery might do to the town. Christ Church in ruins, Pembroke a heap of rubble? God forbid. Then what would the king do? Sue for peace or take his court somewhere else? No doubt the former was too much to hope for. His majesty was not going to back down now. The plot to take prisoner the queen and her unborn child showed that Pym and his colleagues would negotiate a peace, but only on terms that the king would not accept. Stalemate.

  He was jolted from his thoughts by the crack of nailed boots on the cobbles. The guard was about to be changed. The ancient gates were guarded even though the town had long ago spread outside them. It wouldn’t do to be seen loitering in this quiet part of the town, so he strode purposefully towards the arriving troop. When he had passed them, he turned and repeated the exercise with the troop that was being replaced, ending up back where he started. What in the name of the king and all his men do you think you’re doing, he thought, walking backwards and forwards along this dark street like a thief in the night? If Margaret could see you now, she would think your brain was addled. And perhaps it is. Being arrested for behaving suspiciously is more likely than catching Fayne. With Simon inside the house, how ever, it was too late to change his mind. Simon might need help, and Thomas dare not desert his post until he came out. He would just have to suffer silently.

  Two silent hours later, Thomas was cold and bored. Wishing he had thought to wear a thicker coat, he wrapped his arms around himself and jumped up and down in a futile attempt to keep warm. He had watched as gamblers had come and gone – not one of them remotely mistakable for Francis Fayne – some alone and miserable, others laughing and boasting about their skill with the dice or the cards. Thomas, hidden in the shadows, heard everything and smiled. Gamblers were the same wherever you went. When they won it was skill, when they lost, ill luck. Still there was no sign of Simon. Either he was enjoying himself so much that he was in no hurry to go home, or he was having trouble losing his money. Thomas was just beginning to wonder if he could stand waiting there any longer, when the street began to fill with women. They came in ones and twos and took up positions near the house. When one of them saw him, she pointed at him. ‘Look at that, girls,’ she squawked, ‘we got competition tonight. Must be some funny ones playing. What’s your name, dear? Got a friend in there, ’ave you?’ Thomas, not knowing whether to answer or not, pretended not to hear. ‘Lost your tongue, ’ave you? Shame, you might need it later.’ The women in the street cackled. Thomas turned his head away and willed Simon to appear.

  At ten o’clock, the door opened and the remaining gamblers emerged into the night. Ten o’clock, early though it was, was evidently when the house closed for the day. Perhaps the owner liked to get rid of his visitors before he retired. They were immediately surrounded by women loudly describing their charms, promising excellent service, and not being easily put off. Some followed a chosen target down the street, others hung on to an arm or a waist until they were accepted or thrown off.

  Simon was one of the last to emerge. He called a cheerful good night to his new friends, fended off a persistent woman who clearly knew money when she saw it, and strode away towards Christ Church. Thomas ran to catch up with him. When Simon heard him coming, he turned and waited. ‘Ah, Thomas, there you are. I do hope the waiting wasn’t too tedious.’

  ‘It was. How did the evening go?’

  ‘It wasn’t an easy part to play, but I believe I carried it off rather well.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I had to be at my best to lose to those clods. Or do I mean worst?’

  After three cold, solitary hours, Thomas’s temper was short. ‘For God’s sake, Simon, I know you have a high opinion of your theatrical talent, but this is not a play. Abraham and Jane are dead, Rush is still at large, and we are trying to find Fayne. Did you lose your money?’

  ‘Of course. My apologies. I must have been carried away by the moment. Eventually, I did. And I made it obvious that there is plenty more where that came from and that I would be back tomorrow
. I even asked if there were any young men in town who might like to play for higher stakes.’

  ‘And are there?’

  ‘It seems that there might be. Word of a visiting merchant with deep pockets and a knack of laying foolish wagers will be passed on. There’s a decent chance Fayne will hear of it and come tomorrow.’

  ‘Was there any mention of Fayne?’

  ‘No. Nor of Francis. Christian names are preferred.’

  ‘A pity. I had hoped he would be known there. Anything else?’

  ‘Only that they are expecting me tomorrow evening at seven.’ They had reached Merton, where Simon bade Thomas good night and went to change his clothes before evening prayers with the queen.

  Back at Christ Church, Thomas wondered again what foolishness he had embarked upon. A devout Franciscan acting the part of a gambling merchant, and a homesick bookseller lurking in the street for three hours – all in the vain hope of luring their prey into a trap. And planning to do it all over again tomorrow. What would Montaigne have said?

  After an interminably long and wearisome day, Simon the merchant and Thomas the watcher set off again the following evening for the house by the west gate. They found Tomkins and Smithson already there and anxious for news. At least this time Thomas would have company. When Simon had left them to be about his business, he told them what he knew. ‘We must hope that Fayne does not owe money here,’ he said.

  ‘It’s unlikely because it’s the rougher places he prefers, where he can drown his disappointments and take his revenge on helpless women,’ replied Tomkins.

  ‘Helpless women’ immediately brought to Thomas’s mind a hideous picture of Jane lying on a bed bleeding to death. Had other women suffered as she had? If so, all the more reason to find Fayne. One eye is brown yet the other is blue. The eyes that had shown him the way to break the cipher. Beautiful eyes, a beautiful lady. Rush might have escaped, but if there was a grain of justice in the world Fayne would show his face tonight.

  The three men stood together in the shadow of a broken wall almost opposite the house, very near to where Thomas had kept his vigil the previous evening. Thomas Hill, Hugh Tomkins and Philip Smithson – each of them for their own reasons determined to find Francis Fayne. Looking at the others, Thomas could see precious little difference between them. Both were medium height, about Thomas’s age, dressed in black coats, hats, breeches and boots, and armed with swords and knives. They looked exactly what they were – officers of his majesty’s army. Simon, Silas and he had agreed that the two men were genuine in their loathing of Fayne, and desperate to bring him to justice.

  To pass the time, Thomas asked, ‘Are you gentlemen in the same regiment as Fayne?’

  ‘No, sir,’ replied Tomkins. ‘Fayne was in Colonel Pinchbeck’s Regiment, now joined with Sir Henry Bard’s. We are with Colonel Bagot.’

  Thomas knew of the regiment. ‘Ah, yes. Richard Bagot – one of the first regiments formed to fight for the king. Were you at Newbury?’

  ‘We were, sir, and by God’s will, lived to tell of it. Many friends died there.’

  ‘And you’re sure Fayne avoided the battle by subterfuge?’

  ‘Quite sure, sir,’ replied Smithson. ‘He claimed to have been in a skirmish, but he was lying. One of his men admitted as much.’

  ‘Yet you play dice with him.’

  ‘We did. Not any longer. You saw yourself what the man’s like. An evil temper and quick with his fists. When we heard about Newbury, we had no more to do with him.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll come tonight?’

  ‘Who knows, sir? We can only wait and pray.’

  ‘Indeed. Although I’ll leave the praying to you. I’ve never been much of a hand at it.’

  ‘Not a church-goer, sir?’

  ‘Family occasions only. Now, if Fayne arrives, we’d better have a plan.’

  ‘What do you suggest, sir?’ asked Tomkins.

  ‘Well, I have inspected the house. There are no other doors, or windows wide enough for a man to squeeze through. It would be a mistake to charge in after him. Others might take his part. We could find ourselves trapped and outnumbered. We’ll wait until he comes out. Simon will be behind him, and we will be in front. He won’t escape.’

  Smithson and Tomkins exchanged a look. ‘That sounds sensible, sir,’ said Smithson. ‘We’ll wait on your order to take him.’

  ‘Good. Now I shall wait here. You two go to either end of the street. Between us, we’ll see him if he comes.’

  With three pairs of eyes watching, they would surely not miss Fayne if he came. The question was – would he come?

  For an hour and then another, they saw the comings and goings of visitors to the gambling house, the guards changing and a woman noisily vomiting against the wall. They heard dogs barking, cats wailing, and a man and his wife arguing angrily in a nearby cottage. They did not see or hear Fayne. Each man kept steadfastly to his appointed position, not wanting to be the first to weaken. As the evening grew colder, a man peering out from the house opposite would have seen three men, apparently unconnected, stamping their feet and blowing on their hands, and wondered why they did not go and find fires to sit in front of. Thomas was very close to giving up and leaving Simon to lose his money alone, when all three of them saw a solitary figure enter the street from the direction of the gate and walk towards the house. Each of them shrank back into the shadows and watched.

  Although the man walked with shoulders hunched and head down, they could tell that he was tall. As he approached the house, he turned and looked furtively around, as if afraid of being seen. His face was in shadow and his head covered by a broad black hat. He reached the door of the house and knocked. The door was quickly opened, and the man took off his hat before entering. Even in the dark, his long fair hair was clearly visible. It was Fayne.

  The moment he entered the house, Smithson from one end of the street and Tomkins from the other ran towards Thomas in the middle. No more than a pace or two from him, both turned sharply towards the house. Smithson knocked, the door was opened and they disappeared inside. Thomas, too astonished to react, stood and stared blankly at the closed door. As his wits returned, the realiz ation dawned that he had misjudged them: they had planned to ignore Thomas’s instructions to take Fayne alive. Simon might be in danger. He too ran to the door and knocked loudly.

  As always, the door was opened at once. Instead of being ushered in, however, Thomas was knocked to the ground by a figure hurtling out. From inside came confused shouts of alarm and instruction, followed by Tomkins and Smithson, swords drawn, pursuing the fleeing figure. Thomas struggled to his feet and gave chase. As a student, he had been a noted runner, seldom defeated over any distance less than a mile, and often the toast of those wise enough to put their money on him. A little out of practice but unencumbered by a sword, he quickly closed on the two men, and overtook them just as they reached the end of the street. For some reason, the fleeing Fayne had run off in the direction of the town, not the gate, from which he might have been able to make his escape. Thomas raced past Tomkins and Smithson, just in time to see Fayne disappearing round a corner. He paused to throw off his heavy coat, then he was off again and picking up speed. As long as he kept Fayne in view, the bigger, heavier man would not throw him off.

  It did not take long. Within a minute, Thomas had caught Fayne. He launched himself at the man’s back, bringing him down with a crack of bone. Fayne was on his face, screaming. Thomas, up on his feet again and puffing from the race, saw that the man’s leg was twisted at an awkward angle. Fayne rolled over, held his knee, saw Thomas and cursed. He had come unarmed. If he had carried either sword or pistol, he would not have been admitted to the gambling house. And with a broken leg, he would not be running anywhere. Thomas stood over him and wondered what he was going to do when the other two reached them.

  By the time they came clattering up, Thomas had recovered his breath and was standing in front of Fayne.

  ‘What the devil ar
e you two up to?’ he shouted. ‘We agreed not to act until he came out.’

  They were both puffing and blowing. Tomkins recovered first. ‘We want justice, sir. He’s a coward and a traitor, and he should die.’

  ‘And so he will. We agreed. But on the end of a rope, not at our hands. Why did you do it?’

  This time, Smithson answered. ‘Master Hill, you are a brave man and a good one, but you are not a soldier. To a soldier, cowardice is worse than murder, and should be punished by instant death. We feared that you would be less certain in your opinion.’

  Thomas’s voice was icy. ‘Captain, this man also raped and murdered an innocent lady, who was my dear friend. He will hang for it. Your stupidity could have exploded like an over-primed cannon and blown up in our faces.’

  There was a croak from behind Thomas. ‘I did not rape her.’

  Thomas turned to face Fayne. ‘That we shall ascertain.’ Then he spoke to Tomkins. ‘Go and find Father de Pointz. Smithson will stay with me while I ask this man a few questions.’

  When Tomkins had gone, he spoke to Smithson again. ‘When I have finished, you will take him to your colonel. You will not dispense your own justice. Is that clear? Listen carefully and remember what he says.’ Smithson, though unaccustomed to being given orders by a bookseller, nevertheless nodded dumbly, and stood beside Thomas in front of a groaning Fayne. If his face was anything to go by, the man was in a great deal of pain. Thomas would have to be quick or Fayne might pass out.

  ‘Now, Fayne, you will answer my questions. If you do not, or if I think you are lying, Smithson will kick your knee. Hard. Do you understand?’ Fayne managed a weak nod. ‘Good. Did you take money from Tobias Rush?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To walk by the river with Jane.’

  ‘Did you rape her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Kick him, Smithson.’ Smithson kicked the knee and Fayne screamed. ‘I will ask again. Did you rape her?’