Andrew Swanston - The King's Spy

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.