Andrew Swanston - The King's Spy

‘His eyes, Silas?’

‘Yes, sir. Didn’t you know? Master Fletcher sees very little now.’

‘I didn’t know. Thank you for telling me.’

When Silas had gone, Thomas got out of his habit, washed his face and hands, trimmed his new beard with the razor, and put on a clean shirt and breeches. He would call on Abraham immediately.

Abraham’s rooms were directly across the courtyard. Thomas climbed a narrow spiral staircase, knocked on the door, and entered at the familiar sound of his old friend’s voice. God’s wounds, he thought, I could be sixteen again. Abraham was sitting by the window in a high-backed oak chair. In profile against the light, he looked just as he had a dozen years ago. Hair swept back from a high forehead, Roman nose, back straight. But when he turned his face to the room, Thomas could see that his old friend had aged. His hair and beard were white, and he wore a shawl over his coat. His blue eyes were watery, his skin pale, and two deep lines ran from nose to mouth. The remains of a meal were on a table beside him. ‘Is that you, Thomas?’ Abraham asked, when he heard his visitor come in. His voice, too, had aged. The muscular baritone had lost much of its power.

‘It is, Abraham,’ he replied, taking the outstretched hand in both of his. ‘Do I find you well?’

‘Quite well, thank you, except for these.’ Abraham pointed to his eyes. ‘They see only shadows and shapes these days.’

‘I’m truly sorry to hear it. Can you read?’

‘Alas, no. It’s a curse. How are your sister and nieces? I was sad to hear of Andrew’s death.’

‘They thrive, thank you. The girls are as bright as buttons. Polly will make someone a very demanding wife one day.’

‘Ha. And your writing? Still persevering, I trust.’

‘Still persevering. And still reading Montaigne.’

‘That old cynic. I don’t know what you see in him.’ He paused. ‘Thomas, my eyes are one reason why you’re here.’

‘But not the only reason, I gather.’

When Abraham laughed, his eyes still sparkled. ‘What has that priest been telling you? He never could keep his holy mouth shut.’

‘Very little, in truth. I hope you will tell me rather more.’ Thomas looked around the room. It was little changed since he had last seen it. Simple wooden furniture, oak panelling, a door leading to a small bedchamber, and books. Piles of books on the table and on bookshelves. A scholar’s room. A scholar who could no longer read. It was a cruel thing.

‘Come and sit near me, so I can see your shape against the light. There’s wine in the corner if you’re thirsty. At least Silas has managed to keep some of our cellar intact. Brasenose and New are reduced to ale and sack. Their lodgers have had every bottle of wine, along with every piece of plate.’

Thomas found a dusty bottle of claret, poured them both a glass and sat by the window. ‘How’s that, Abraham? Can you see me here?’

‘Well enough. Now, as time is our enemy, I shall tell you what I can. My old friend Erasmus Pole, with whom I shared lodgings fifty years ago, was the king’s chief cryptographer. His position was known to very few. He dealt with all the messages and reports coming in and out of Oxford, and decrypted the intercepted ones. They never amounted to much, but they did keep us informed about our enemy’s ciphers — inferior to our own, I’m pleased to say. Until my eyes betrayed me, I helped him whenever he asked me to. It wasn’t often. Erasmus was a fine scholar.’ Abraham paused for a sip of wine. ‘He was also a creature of habit. On Wednesday evenings, he always dined at Exeter. Exeter serve venison on Wednesdays. Alas, Erasmus’s taste for it may have been his undoing. It was a Thursday morning when his body was found in Brasenose Lane on the south side of the college. His throat had been cut, and he’d been robbed.’ Abraham took another sip from his glass.

‘Such deaths are not uncommon, Abraham,’ remarked Thomas quietly, thinking again that this was not the Oxford he remembered, or should have returned to. His place was with his family, not here among murderers.

‘Indeed they’re not, especially now. I daresay he’d enjoyed the hospitality of the evening, but Erasmus was a cautious man. He would not have walked in the dark down that foul lane. And remember that Erasmus was the king’s cryptographer. He had access to almost every order and report to and from the king’s commanders. He knew a great deal.’

‘As do you, my friend. Yet, happily, I find you alive and well.’

‘Happily, you do. But there’s another thing. I knew Erasmus as well as any man. In the weeks before his death, something was troubling him. He didn’t speak of it and I didn’t ask, yet I’m sure of it. I wish I had asked. Erasmus might be with us now. As my sight has deteriorated, so my hearing has become more acute. Interesting how the body works, don’t you think? I could hear fear in his voice. Fear, and something else. I think it was guilt.’

‘Guilt? But why?’

‘I believe his role was discovered by an enemy, and he was being threatened. There are many spies in the town. One of them may have got to him, and frightened him into betraying secrets.’

‘And killed him when he refused?’

‘It’s more likely he was killed because the enemy thought he was about to be exposed as a traitor to the king. If so, he would have suffered greatly, and would eventually have revealed the identity of the spy.’

‘Had they grounds for thinking that he was under suspicion?’

‘Possibly. When a message arrived from Lord Digby informing the king that he planned to attack Alton, the town garrison was immediately strengthened. The attack never took place. It looked suspicious.’

‘If you’re right, there is a vicious traitor in the town.’

‘And not just one, Thomas. Oxford seethes with unrest and deception. There are two worlds here now — one you can see going about its daily business, and another which lurks in the shadows and listens at keyholes. I doubt we shall ever know who killed Erasmus.’

‘Already you make me wish I had stayed at home, Abraham.’

‘But you are here now.’ Abraham’s voice was suddenly brusque. ‘Thomas, the king, with reason, trusts almost no one. I’ve persuaded him that you’re the best cryptographer in the land, and that I would gladly put my life in your hands. We need you. We want you to take Erasmus’s place.’

‘Abraham, you know my views on this war,’ replied Thomas evenly, ‘and on any war. On the journey here, I asked myself again and again why I was coming to take part in something I am so opposed to. And, when I saw what has become of the city, I very nearly turned round and went straight back to Romsey. Beggars, soldiers, whores, poverty, destruction, filth. Barely a scholar to be seen.’

‘So why did you come?’

‘I’m still not sure. The pleasure of seeing you, of course. The vain hope that I might hasten the end of the war. Perhaps even loyalty to the king. He is the king, after all, for all his faults. I would not have done the same if the summons had been from Pym.’

‘Of that I am sure, Thomas. But will you do as I ask?’

Thomas took a deep breath and spoke slowly. ‘For your sake, my old friend, I will. I would not see you embarrassed before the king, and, in any case, I have no wish to climb straight back on a horse for four days. But it’s some time since I worked on ciphers. I shall need help.’

Abraham found Thomas’s arm, and laid his hand upon it. ‘And you shall have it. Tomorrow morning I’ll take you to meet the king, or rather you’ll take me as I shall need your arm for guidance, and then we’ll talk. It’ll be just like it used to be.’