Andrew Swanston - The King's Spy

‘Be sure to let me know if they do. The king has impressed upon me my duty to assist you in any way that I can. I would not wish either of us to disappoint him. Now, I shall bid you good day.’ And he was gone.

Odd how he’s here one minute and gone the next, thought Thomas, and how he changes the course of a discussion. A hard book to read and a hard bird to cage.

Work on the numbers began before dawn. If this was a Vigenère square, the king’s enemies would assume that its secrets were safe and would see no need to change their plans. The square itself had remained unbroken for over seventy years. Using the strip of wood as a guide, Thomas began by writing out the square.

If the message had been encrypted using the square, each letter would have twenty-six possible encryptions. The letters in the top row represented the letters used in the message, and the letters of the keyword were contained in the first column. So if the keyword began with the letter T, the letter O would have been encrypted as H.

Then he wrote out the forty-five digits at the top of the message. For some time, he sat and stared at them. Apart from the dupli cations, he saw no patterns. If the numbers were indicating the rows of the square to be used for decrypting, any number above twenty-six must be either a null or have some other function. Proceeding on this basis, he divided the digits into arbitrary one- and two-digit numbers and tried decrypting the first line according to the rows indicated by his selection. When the word DOG appeared, he thought he was on to something. But when the following words turned out as KTLO, BQICMS and XPD, he knew that the dog’s appearance was no more than chance.

All morning Thomas sat at his table, the encrypted page, sharpened quills, inkpot and a pile of blank papers before him. The pile diminished as the floor became covered in used and discarded ones. Just as well Abraham had laid his hands on a good supply. By the time his stomach started complaining, how ever, he had achieved very little. Nothing, in fact, except the growing certainty that these numbers did not hold the key to the rows. He had tried adding and subtracting, transposing the digits of the higher numbers, multiplying and dividing — all to no effect. Apart from dog, not a single plain word had appeared from the text. It was a bad start. He did not need the unwelcome compli cation of codewords, tricks or traps. What he did need was a clue to guide him to the keyword. And he needed fresh air.

Emerging into the daylight, Thomas was greeted by a beautiful late-summer day — dry and windless. The Pembroke courtyard was still a military dump, young officers and their women still lounged about doing very little, and the stench of human waste was still sickening, but the sky was cloudless and the sun warm. Thank God one was permanent and the other, God willing, merely temporary. Perhaps very temporary if he could break the encryption.

Thinking that he had been so preoccupied with the message that he had again lost touch with what was happening beyond his room, he wandered down to the meadow. As always, it was a mass of soldiers and their weaponry, and, unless he was mistaken, there was even more hustle and bustle than before. No one made any objection as he walked among the lines of artillery pieces and the knots of men gathered around them, for the first time paying the armoury more than passing attention. He stopped to examine a huge cannon loaded on to a long flat cart with wheels of different sizes. Two shafts protruded from the back, into which a horse would be harnessed. Wondering how far a ball would travel when fired from such a monster, he stooped to peer down the barrel. There was a tap on his shoulder and he turned to see a grinning artilleryman. In a thick shirt, leather trousers to the knee, woollen stockings and wooden clogs, the poor man must have been slowly cooking.

‘Take care, sir,’ he said cheerfully. ‘If you fall in, I’ll have to fire you out.’ He spoke with a strong accent — German perhaps, or Dutch.

Thomas returned the smile. ‘I fancy that would damage me more than the enemy.’ To make conversation, he asked, ‘How many horses does it take to pull this?’

‘One in the shafts, sir, and six pairs in the traces,’ adding helpfully, ‘It can fire a two-pound ball as far as a mile.’

And knock over a line of men like so many skittles, thought Thomas. Lifeless skittles if they’re hit by a ball from this beast. ‘There’s much going on today. Do you know what’s happening?’

The man laughed. ‘God bless you sir, I’m just a poor soldier from Amsterdam. No one tells me anything.’

‘Nothing at all?’

‘Not much anyway. We’ve been told to make ready to march. Where to and for what, we’ll find out when we get there.’

‘No rumours at all?’

‘Gloucester’s most people’s choice as Prince Rupert is still laying siege to the town, but I’ve had a wager on Reading. They say the Earl of Essex is heading that way. If he is, we’ll be sent to stop him reaching London, and I’ll be five guineas richer.’

‘I hope you are, and that you’re able to collect it.’

‘If I’m not, sir, it’ll go to my wife. I mean widow. That’s the agreement.’

Thomas nodded. ‘Good luck then.’ A Dutch mercenary, fighting for a living. Hardly a matter of principle for him. Not all the cannon were as enormous as his. As he walked down the line, Thomas counted four other types, right down to a little fellow with its own wheels. He stepped around heaps of rope, piles of cannonballs of different sizes, blankets, sacking and barrels of powder. What an immense undertaking war was. Immense and costly — and not only in money. How many men would die when these merciless destroyers started dealing out death? A thousand? Five thousand? Ten thousand?

At the end of the line, he came to the river and looked across. In the fields on the far bank, infantry were gathering. Among their tents he could see pikemen in their helmets and breastplates practising their drills, and musketeers with their long-barrelled matchlocks, ammunition, cleaning prickers, gun rests and swords. The word ‘apostle’ came to him — it was what the small flasks of powder on their bandoliers were called. An odd choice of word. The wise musketeer measured out each charge very carefully before going into battle. Too little and his musket would not fire, too much and he might go up in flames. Who would be a soldier? Having to carry pounds of equipment all over the countryside, sleeping in the open or, at best, in a leaky tent, surviving on scraps, and if the enemy do not kill you, you’ll probably kill yourself. Infantry drilling, artillery making ready — there was something afoot, to be sure.

From the meadow Thomas made his way to the Crown. He was in need of refreshment before going back into battle with that wretched message. As before, the inn was busy — soldiers enjoying a final drink or two before marching off to war, perhaps. Thomas had to shoulder his way in and shout to be heard over the hubbub. Having ordered a bottle of claret and a rabbit pie, he looked about for somewhere to sit. Seeing no spare chairs, he made his way towards the back of the inn, hoping to find one there. Right at the back, at the same table as when he had first seen the man, was Fayne, unmistakable in a short crimson coat and tight crimson breeches. There were three others with him, and a game of hazard was in progress. Despite himself, Thomas moved quietly up behind Fayne, the better to observe the game. As a student, he had prided himself on being rather good at it, and had paid for many a meal out of his winnings. It was a game of chance, but a mathematician’s knowledge of the odds and a quick way with numbers were a decided advantage. It would be interesting to see how well these soldiers played.