Andrew Swanston - The King's Spy

They made good time to the hamlet of Chilton, rattling along even over the roughest stretches of road. At Chilton they stopped at a coaching inn to give the horses a rest and to refresh themselves. Thomas had made not a jot of progress on the cipher but he had been reasonably comfortable, Rush’s cushions having absorbed the worst of the bumps and lurches. In a wooded area two miles beyond Chilton, however, just as Thomas was becoming drowsy, there were two loud cracks, and the carriage shot forward so violently that he was thrown from his seat. Unsure what had happened and unable to get to his feet to look out of the window, Thomas lay on the floor, rolling from side to side with the swaying of the carriage. If the noise had frightened the horses, the coachmen should have reined them in. A carriage pulled by four bolting horses would not stay upright on a road such as this for very long. He offered a silent prayer to the God he chose to believe in on such occasions, and hung on to a seat as best he could.

It seemed that his prayer had been answered. The horses slowed and the carriage soon came to rest. He got shakily to his feet, stumbled out and went to speak to the coachmen. At once it was clear why they had not reined the horses in. Both were sprawled across their seat, one on top of the other, blood pouring from their heads. He did not need to look more closely to know that they were dead. And the two men who had shot them were holding the leading horses’ bridles. They must have galloped after the carriage and caught it. Each man was hooded and masked, and had a pistol in his belt and another in his hand, pointing at a spot between Thomas’s eyes. Thomas stood motionless and stared at them.

‘Lie down with your face to the ground,’ ordered one of them. Thomas obeyed. ‘Keep the pistol on him, and I’ll search inside.’

He heard the man dismount and climb into the carriage, thinking that a couple of murderous highwaymen would not be best pleased to find nothing but his bag containing paper, quills and a few clothes, and a handful of coins in his pocket. He heard the seats being ripped up, and his bag being emptied on the ground.

‘Nothing,’ said the leader. ‘Just paper and rags. Empty your pockets, little man.’ Thomas sat up, fished out three shillings and threw them on the ground. ‘Is that all? Three shillings from a man in a carriage like this? There must be more.’ He walked towards Thomas, his pistol held unwaveringly in front of him.

‘There’s no more,’ said Thomas. ‘The carriage is borrowed from Tobias Rush, adviser to his majesty the king. I advise you to do it no more damage and to be off while you can. Master Rush is not far behind, and he is not a man who will take kindly to his coachmen being murdered and his carriage destroyed.’

The man laughed. ‘That’s a risk we’ll have to take. Stand up and take off your shirt, boots and breeches and roll down your stockings.’

When Thomas stood in just his drawers and rolled-down stockings, the highwayman walked around him, patted his backside and groin to make sure nothing was hidden there, and then swore loudly. ‘The devil’s balls. You really are a pauper, aren’t you? I haven’t even the heart to shoot you.’ He walked to his horse and took from a leather bag hanging from the saddle a short-handled axe, with which he split the spokes of one wheel. While he did so, his companion kept his pistol aimed at Thomas. ‘You’re a lucky man, my friend,’ said the man with the axe, ‘and you can tell your Master Rush so from us.’ And with that, they wheeled their horses and galloped off towards Chilton, leaving Thomas staring after them. They had not even taken the three shillings.

This was not the time to wonder why he was still alive. He must get away from there at once, and back to Oxford. He pulled up his stockings, thanking providence that he had changed the hiding place of the message, and put his shirt and breeches back on. The carriage was unusable, the horses unsaddled and possibly unused to being ridden. Still, he was a good rider and there was nothing else for it. Not even stopping to heave the dead men off the carriage, he unhitched the leading horses, holding grimly on to one of them by the long reins. Before the horse could bolt, he grabbed it by the mane and sprang on to its back. It was a trick he had used to impress young ladies — an advantage of being light and agile. He pulled hard on the bit to gauge the horse’s reaction, and was relieved when it stood still. This one had certainly been ridden before.

Thomas started at a trot and went to a canter as soon as he felt the horse was used to him. Without a saddle, a canter was smoother and easier for a rider than a trot. He did not care to risk a full gallop, so a canter home it would have to be. And, in any case, with only three shillings to his name, he would not be able to buy another horse if this one became lame or exhausted. Horse and rider would pace themselves over the distance.

North of Abingdon, the road ran over a narrow stream, where they stopped to drink. Until then, Thomas had concentrated entirely on not falling off. Now, sitting on a grassy bank, the horse tethered to a tree and quietly nibbling grass, he thought about the incident. Both coachmen shot dead by men who knew how to use pistols, the carriage searched, his three shillings ignored and his life spared. Damned odd. More to the point, what would Tobias Rush make of it all? He had not been joking when he said that Rush would not take kindly to the deaths of his men and the damage to his carriage, and he might very well want to know why Thomas had allowed it to happen, and how he had escaped being shot. All manner of reasons might occur to Rush’s suspicious mind, and he did not look forward to making his report.

The image from the night before of the troop of infantry led by the fair-haired captain also came back to him. It was Fayne, no doubt about it, and looking for all the world as if he had spent a peaceful day fishing. No signs of blood or battle on him or his men, despite their regiment having reportedly been in the thick of the fighting. Thomas stored the unspoken thought away. One day it might be needed.

Now, he had to reach the safety of Oxford. After a short break he remounted, and, still at a canter, made steady progress along the road, trying to ignore the stares of the few travellers he passed, and untroubled by the lack of a saddle or the state of the road. In an odd way, he found himself rather enjoying it. When his father was alive, they had often ridden together over the downs and through the woods, sometimes bareback, and the old sense of elation came creeping back. It was certainly less grim than his last journey to Oxford in that flea-ridden habit. He grinned at the memory.

When the late-September light began to fade, however, he was still six or seven miles from the town, and the Oxfordshire countryside was no place to be after dark. Deserters from both sides, none too particular about whom they robbed and killed, and bands of clubmen, armed with axes, scythes, cudgels and whatever else they could find, were known to hide out in the woods all over the county. The clubmen were becoming a serious problem for both sides, ferociously attacking anyone who strayed into their locality and might be a threat to their villages and families. And there were highwaymen, of whom Thomas had had quite enough that day. A solitary rider would make an easy target for any of them, especially one going at no more than a canter.

As it grew dark, Thomas found himself looking nervously over his shoulder and peering into the shadows at the side of the road. He started when a dog barked, then laughed at himself in embarrassment. God’s wounds, Thomas, he thought, you are a feeble creature. There are only a few miles to go, so make haste and stop being spineless.