Andrew Swanston - The King's Spy

They set off again at dawn and covered the eighteen miles to Newbury in a little over three hours. Outside the town they en countered a troop of dragoons who had been sent to meet them. From the dragoons’ captain, they learned that Prince Rupert and his cavalry had arrived from Gloucester two days earlier to find the town already occupied by Essex’s quartermasters, busy arranging provisions for the Parliamentary army. The prince had wasted no time in taking them prisoner, and had assumed control of the town. The bulk of Essex’s army was still twenty miles from the town, having been overtaken by the prince’s cavalry.

Their carriage passed through the cavalry’s encampments, proceeded into the town, which, like Oxford, was heaving with soldiers and their equipment, and was led to a large house by the market square. There the carriage stopped and they were shown inside by the captain. ‘This house has been requisitioned for you, Master Rush. Sir Henry was happy to oblige.’

Rush looked around. ‘It will do well enough, captain. Master Hill and I will base ourselves here. Have the men bring in my chest and Master Hill’s bag.’

It will do well enough to be sure, thought Thomas, admiring the high ceiling and tall windows. The walls of the entrance hall were decorated with tapestries and paintings, including a sumptuous Rubens nude and two portraits by Van Dyck, which he took to be of the owner of the house and his wife. An enormous red and gold Persian carpet covered the floor. This Sir Henry was a man of wealth, a man who would have much to lose in the event of a Parliamentary victory in this war. No wonder he had been ready to offer his house to the king.

Having taken his bag from the coachman, Thomas climbed a magnificent curving staircase, more family portraits covering the stair wall, and found a bedroom with an elegant window looking out over the square. He threw his bag on the four-poster bed and deposited himself into a large padded library chair. As he admired the room, also adorned with tapestries and paintings, the thought occurred that even war might have its good side. It was nothing short of luxurious. Velvet curtains, an embroidered silk cover on the bed, a collection of miniatures, a handsome fireplace, the padded chair and a fine rosewood writing table. Then he caught himself. It was a disgraceful notion. Nothing could excuse war and there was nothing good about it. And he had work to do.

He laid the intercepted message out on a writing table and concentrated on it once more. To Thomas, it had become the ‘Vigenère message’.

URF UBD HE XQB TF KGA OEMD RRFUO TLC WMG LRB WHT R XHGORKZ IO KPW769 WA MQFV BVMF HPL ZFTD RVV57 4SEWMFREJ VGL SVKMGE 852 GTSC WZTD QE TIJG IVL GJT RA KDOE IK EOJAAQLV GGJR MQU IOIGSI GRQF HBFZG JGY ALG EE OLWEEA GJR YIFS1 82AEL2 64SGE SC AAD ZVY JP KP WXR JB JTN XBZ77 5XNW WJBS LA LWAK371 EAIH TPA AD RVV BAP TWPVV AGDN WWJ URR VUT IW EW HTI QCT WY QDT37 1IE852 769UMHT RKC CONT WSGV WMG IEN DJEE KWIHV ZW PNU EAIH371 ZV GJR YIFSS NQ DA BV NGGCVL LD SVMC IRLKW DN KMJ BS WINDU IITAE KW42177 5OX LCIVK IJM LXMV IFS PCI UT FFZ SEPI MZTNJQGCOW3 71E ZDWZTD QE SZGJ GYB LD 574SKIFS RVIV N GFL OX LC QFV WV AZPLCJJX NX IF TNU BG IHZA OP RJWGC

Twenty-six possible encryptions for each of the four hundred and fifty-six letters, plus forty-five numbers and one hundred and thirty-eight spaces. A cipher that had never been broken. Where to begin? He made another effort to envisage its encrypter, this time with more success. He saw a small man, precise in dress and manner, a pair of spectacles perched on his sharp nose and a cap on his head. He sat in a dark room, working by the light of a single candle. This man would work carefully and make no mistakes. He might well use the square, he might use codes, but he would not use nulls or misspellings, which would offend his sense of order. What sort of keyword would he use? Nothing random, nothing too complex. A Latin word perhaps, or a religious one, or something historical. Or a million other things. Use your head, Thomas. There’s no future in playing guessing games. Concentrate on the cipher. There must be a way.

He gazed idly out of the window at the toings and froings in the square below. It was a square full of noise and bustle, and the hubbub of a town preparing to defend itself. Officers about their duties, soldiers about theirs, tradesmen about their businesses, fascinated children standing in huddles around the square, noise and movement and excitement. The king and his army were coming to Newbury, and there was to be a great battle. A great battle in which Thomas would have a part to play. That reminded him that he needed a keyword. Not too long for the sake of speed, not too short for the sake of security. Five or six letters, with no repeats. It came to him. MASQUE. Perfect. He would tell Rush the keyword for all incoming and outgoing despatches would be MASQUE.

He decided that nothing of the cipher would reveal itself for the moment and ventured back downstairs, intending to take a stroll around the town. He was met by Rush hurrying in through the door, cane in hand. ‘Master Hill, there you are. I have word that the king will arrive this evening, and the bulk of the infantry tonight. We believe that Essex’s vanguard will not arrive until tomorrow, so we shall have the advantage of him. Kindly remain here until I give you further instructions.’

‘I was about to take a walk around the town.’

‘That will not be possible. You are safer here, and you might at any time be needed. Is your room comfortable?’

‘Very comfortable, thank you.’

‘Is there anything you need?’

‘Some ink, if you please. Nothing more.’

‘It will be arranged. Have you decided upon a cipher?’

‘I have. A simple alphabetical shift, using the keyword MASQUE.’

Rush’s smile was as humourless as ever. ‘Very appropriate. I will inform the king and our commanders.’ And with that, he was off. Here one minute, gone the next, thought Thomas again. A busy bird, with a nest to build and food to gather. An odd man, but I’d rather be with him than against him.

Unfortunately, Sir Henry, for all his interest in art, was not a literary man, and there was not a book to be found in the house. Thomas had little to do but make himself comfortable and await events. Having been admirably fed and watered by Sir Henry’s cook, he sat by the window in his bedroom, staring at the encrypted text and thinking about Jane Romilly. Those eyes had looked straight through him. Would they always?

News of the king’s arrival came from Tobias Rush that evening. ‘His majesty is housed safely in the town, and the army, as expected, will be in position by tomorrow morning. There is every chance that Essex will also arrive during the night, and, if so, the king intends to join battle tomorrow.’

‘Have I any instructions?’

‘Remain here for now. I will escort you to your station in the morning. You and I will be with the king and his personal guard at the rear of the lines. From there, you will deal with all despatches, taking instructions only from the king or from me.’

‘Very well, Master Rush. I shall be ready.’

Thomas slept badly, tossing about on the fourposter bed until dawn. On the eve of battle, he was nervous. He could only guess at what it would be like actually to witness a battle, but he knew he would see blood and carnage, and a good deal of it. He wondered how he would react, and how his brain would work in the heat of the moment. Would he have much to do? Would he make mistakes? If he did, would they matter? Would they win? If they did not, what would happen? A hasty escape, capture, death? He thought of Hannibal, who was reputed to be able to go without food and sleep for as long as was necessary, and of King Henry, moving freely, according to Shakespeare, among his soldiers’ camp fires on the eve of Agincourt. If all soldiers lay awake on the night before a battle, there would be two very tired armies facing each other in the morning. The Earl of Essex and Prince Rupert had both marched from Gloucester, and the king from Oxford. Every man on both sides must already be weary and footsore, not to mention cold and wet. A sleepless night, and they would scarcely have the energy to draw their swords or lift their muskets. Although that might not be such a bad thing. Everyone too exhausted to fight and anxious to get home as soon as they could. Take up your weapons, men, and follow me to London, or back to Oxford. Wives, sweethearts, warm beds and strong ale await us. Could it happen?