Andrew Swanston - The King's Exile

‘What’s that?’

‘A message has been intercepted. The messenger came ashore alone; he was seen by sentries and shot. He died before he could be questioned.’

‘What did the message say?’

‘We don’t know. It’s a cipher. Willoughby’s man hasn’t been able to break it.’

‘What sort of cipher is it?’ asked Thomas.

‘God knows. It looked like nonsense to me.’

‘Would Lord Willoughby like me to take a look at it, do you think?’

‘You, Thomas?’ Adam threw up his hands. ‘My God, of course. I’d quite forgotten. You broke the cipher at Oxford. You must indeed look at it. We’ll return to Bridgetown tomorrow.’

Lord Willoughby of Parham prided himself on never being less than immaculately attired, even in the heat of Barbados. His custom was to take breakfast before performing his ablutions and dressing meticulously. If the Assembly were sitting or if he had other official business, he would invariably select a satin jacket over a white ruffled shirt, silk breeches — blue or burgundy — and white silk stockings. He disliked long boots, preferring one of the dozen pairs of black leather shoes with silver or gold buckles made for him by the village cobbler in Parham. His lordship did not care to be rushed when preparing himself for the day ahead and was seldom ready before ten o’clock.

Since the blockading fleet had arrived, he had dressed formally every day. It was a point of principle. When his elderly secretary bustled in with the news that Adam Lyte had returned and was asking to see him, he was still casting a critical eye over himself in a long mirror. ‘Well,’ he said, carefully adjusting his cuffs, ‘it must be something urgent to bring Adam back so soon. Ask him to come straight in.’

When the secretary returned with Adam, Willoughby was quite composed and ready to greet him. ‘Adam, good morning. To what do I owe the pleasure at this time of the day?’

‘Your lordship, I have with me Thomas Hill who is presently a guest at our estate,’ replied Adam breathlessly. ‘He’s a cryptographer who was at Oxford with the king. He broke an enemy cipher which revealed a plot to capture the queen.’

‘Did he now? And how does he come to be your guest?’

‘Better I let him tell you that himself, your lordship. May I ask him to come in?’

‘Please do. I shall be pleased to meet such a clever man. Show him to the library.’

Scrubbed up and finely turned out, Thomas was waiting nervously in an antechamber. A man who has met a king should not be nervous of a mere lord, he thought. As usual, he turned for support to Montaigne. ‘ Au plus eslevé throne du monde, si ne sommes assis que sus nostre cul ’ — ‘Upon the highest throne in the world, we are seated, still, upon our arse.’ He would try to keep it in mind if his lordship summoned him. And when Adam, beaming broadly, came striding out of his lordship’s room, he knew that he had done so.

They were shown by the secretary into the library. There Lord Willoughby was seated on his cul in a big library chair, a decanter of claret and three glasses on a small table beside him. He did not rise, but smiled amiably and invited them to sit. The secretary poured the wine and left.

‘Now, Master Hill,’ began Willoughby, ‘Adam tells me that you are something of a cryptographer, that you are his guest and that you served our late king at Oxford. What else is there that I should know about you?’

Twenty minutes later, Lord Willoughby knew a great deal about Thomas Hill. He knew that he had studied mathematics and philosophy at Oxford, that he owned a bookshop in Romsey, that the king had summoned him to Oxford and that he had broken the Vigenère cipher. He knew about Tobias Rush and about Margaret and her daughters. To his astonishment, he also knew about Thomas’s arrest and indenture to the Gibbes brothers. He listened to the story without interrupting and when Thomas finished, his only comment was that Barbados was certainly a better place for being rid of such men as the Gibbes.

‘Very well, Master Hill,’ said Willoughby, ‘let us see what you can do. This message has defeated my advisers and may defeat you. But you shall try. Is there anything I can tell you that might help?’

‘Context is always helpful, my lord. And possible names, although military messages seldom carry names, as you will know. Could you tell me what the message might be about? That would help.’

‘The names Modyford or Hawley might appear. It might contain dates and place names. There again, it might not. Is there anything you will need to help you?’

‘Just paper, quills and ink, my lord. Plenty of them, if you please.’

Willoughby summoned the secretary and told him to provide Master Hill with a quiet room in which to work, all the materials he needed, whatever refreshments he requested and the intercepted message. ‘Have you any idea how long this will take?’ he asked Thomas.

‘None, your lordship. It will depend upon the nature of the cipher. I may not be able to decipher it at all. I will be able to say more when I have seen it.’

‘In that case, kindly report to me this evening on your progress or immediately if the cipher begins to reveal itself. This could be a matter of the greatest importance.’

Alone in his room, Thomas studied the message.

So, 172 letters in four lines, with neither breaks nor numbers. He began as he always had, by trying to envisage the sender of the message. What kind of man was he? Was he fat or thin, short or tall? How old was he? Where might he have learned the science of encryption?

Nothing much came to mind, probably because the message was short and there was nothing distinctive about the hand. He wondered if it contained misspellings or nulls. Probably not, due to the length. He studied it again, trying to work out a way into the cipher. He noted the two double F’s and three instances of JP, but little else. Time to count letters. He wrote out a chart and began.

When he had finished, he had:

Sixteen of S, thirteen of B, eleven of F and ten each of G and W made them good choices for E, A and T. As there were double FF’s, in a simple substitution cipher F could not be A, so it should be E or T. N, with no appearances, would be Z or X. He would work from there.

By that evening, his head ached, he had cramp in his right hand from holding the quill and, having eaten nothing since breakfast, he was starving. He knew very little more about the message than he had eight hours earlier, except that it had not been encrypted with a simple cipher. None of the standard techniques had worked, but before trying a new approach he needed to rest.

First, though, his lordship expected a report. Again the secretary showed him into the library. ‘Ah, Master Hill,’ said Willoughby, ‘what do you have to tell me?’

‘Other than that I have eliminated the most obvious cipher systems, very little, I fear, my lord. It is more complicated than I had expected. I suspect a double or triple substitution cipher. I will break it but it will take more time.’

‘Only to be expected, I suppose. Ayscue’s no fool. He won’t know about you but he’ll assume we have some expertise in these matters.’

‘Quite so, my lord. I shall resume first thing tomorrow.’

‘Good. This could be vital, Master Hill. It might just tip the scales sufficiently for Ayscue to go home. We must read the message. I depend upon you.’