Andrew Swanston - The King's Spy

‘And what did Master Rush have to say about that?’

‘At first, I don’t think he believed me. Then he seemed convinced and was quite solicitous.’

‘Did they take nothing at all?’

‘Nothing. Nor, thank the Lord, did they find Monsieur Vigenère, who was hiding in my stocking.’

‘Do you think they were looking for him?’

‘I did wonder, but how could anyone have known I was in that carriage, or that I even have the message?’

‘You haven’t told anyone, have you, Thomas?’

‘On my life, Abraham, I have not. Not a soul.’

‘Good. Then Rush is probably right. Just two robbers who went home disappointed. Although why they did not shoot you, too, or take the horses, is a mystery.’

‘It is. I can only suppose they took pity on a poor fellow with but a few coins and a small bag of clothes to his name.’

Abraham closed his eyes. ‘Have you made any progress with the message?’

‘I fear not. The square has been unbroken for over seventy years and it may well stay that way for another seventy. I have come up with nothing.’

‘Then back to work with you, Thomas. The more I’ve thought about it, the more I’m sure this is something of grave importance. Vigenère, numerical codes, hidden in a hat on the London to Cambridge road. It all points the same way.’

‘Any advice, Abraham?’

‘Encouragement rather than advice. You were a brilliant scholar, you have a rare talent for cryptography, and if anyone can break the code you can. Assume it can be broken. There’s a key there somewhere and you will find it.’

‘I wish I shared your confidence, but thank you for yours. If I fail, it will not be for want of trying.’

‘Off you go then, and leave an old man to his rest.’

Back at his table, Thomas took his copy of the square out. It was time for a fresh start. Taking a new quill and a clean sheet of paper, he wrote out the square again.

Twenty-six possible encryptions for each letter. Using Abraham’s straight edge to guide his eye, Thomas imagined the keyword to be LOVE, and the encrypted word to be JANE. Using the letters in the square where each letter of JANE met its counterpart in LOVE, the encryption would be UOII. Proof against any known method of analysing the frequency with which each letter appeared in a text. And proof, so far, against the attentions of Thomas Hill. For an hour Thomas sat and stared at the square, hoping for inspir ation. None came. Then he retrieved the message itself from under the floorboard and stared at that. Still nothing. Not a glimmer.

By that evening, after another day of boiling frustration, Thomas had given up hope. He was not going to be the man who broke the Vigenère square. Whatever this message contained would remain a secret until too late and there was nothing he could do about it. He had failed. He put it back under the floorboard, poured himself a glass of Silas’s claret and tried to think about something else. Anything but the infernal square.

It took most of the bottle to do it, but eventually his brain surrendered.

As soon as he had breakfasted the next morning, he washed, shaved, dressed carefully and set off for Merton. He was resolved. Monsieur Vigenère might have defeated him, but Jane Romilly would not.

At Merton he was escorted to the Warden’s lodgings by a member of the queen’s guard, and asked to wait while the guard informed Lady Romilly of his arrival. Nearby he could see the tennis court, where he had learned the game and become proficient enough to defeat all but the best of his fellow scholars. He wondered how he would fare now, ten years on. He was fit enough, and strong, but would some of his old speed have deserted him? Idly, he practised a few strokes, imagining the corners into which he was aiming to hit the ball. It would be good to try his hand again.

The guard returned, shaking his head. ‘Lady Romilly is not present, sir. Another of the queen’s ladies suggests you return tomorrow.’

Thomas did not believe the man. All the queen’s ladies would be present at that time of the morning to ensure that her majesty was suitably attired for the day and wanted for nothing. ‘Kindly try again,’ he said, ‘and if, by some chance, Lady Romilly has un expectedly returned, tell her that I am here on a matter of great importance and will wait until she consents to see me.’ With a shrug, the guard did as he was asked. He was back within a minute.

‘It seems that Lady Romilly does not wish to see you, sir. I am to escort you to the gate.’

Damn the woman. Stubborn and obstinate. Now there was nothing for it but to swallow his disappointment and find something else with which to occupy himself. A game of tennis, perhaps. The accursed message could stay under the pisspot.

He wandered disconsolately back to Pembroke, where he found the courtyard filled again with soldiers and their ladies. He stood quietly in a corner and listened to the men exchanging stories of Newbury. What he heard reflected well upon each storyteller, but made no mention of the horrors of the day. He heard of fearless advances, enemies slain and ground captured, but of dead and screaming men, horses crippled and dying, smoke, gunpowder and, above all, the futility of it, he heard nothing. Wondering if he had been at a different battle altogether, he carried on towards his room. He had taken no more than a few steps when a loud voice, loud enough to be heard by every man and woman there, came from the far corner of the yard.

‘Well I’m damned, if it isn’t the lucky little bookseller. Back from the bookshop, are we?’ Thomas had not noticed Francis Fayne in the crowd. Fayne, however, had noticed Thomas. He turned and glared at the man, then continued on his way. ‘Nothing to say, bookseller? Nothing to report while we’ve been fighting for the king at Newbury?’ It was too much.

‘I too was at Newbury,’ he said quietly. ‘And where were you?’

‘Is that so?’ laughed Fayne, ignoring the question and looking around for support. The men near him also laughed and one or two of the ladies put their hands to their mouths. ‘I didn’t see a bookshop at the battle.’

‘I was with the king all day.’

‘Were you now? Advising his majesty on his reading or skulking behind the lines? And what about the mare with the eyes? Was she with you or did you leave her here? Don’t tell me you left her here, bookseller. She must have had to take her pleasures with ancient scholars and pimply stable boys. I doubt they were up to the task.’

It had happened only once before. In this very courtyard twelve years earlier, when a loud-mouthed braggart had taunted Thomas to breaking point and lived to regret it. Afterwards, Thomas had called it the ‘Ice’ — the absolute calm that had come over him that day. Unshakeable calm, and icy clarity of purpose. He had been aware of nothing — neither sound nor sight — other than his cold anger and the man on whom it was focused.

Now it happened again.

He strode up to Fayne and shot a fist into his face. Blood ran from Fayne’s nose and he staggered backwards in astonishment. Thomas stood quite still and waited for the attack to come. He knew how to cope with an opponent taller and stronger than himself, and felt not a twinge of fear. Every ounce of him was concentrated on the task.

Fayne wiped away the blood with the back of his sleeve, snarled and, arms outstretched, launched himself at Thomas. ‘I’ll break your scrawny neck, you shitten little worm.’ He spat out the words like poison. Thomas danced to one side, stuck out a leg and helped Fayne on his way with a shove in the back. He stood over Fayne, who was sprawled face down on the ground, and allowed him to haul himself to his feet. By this time, the courtyard was silent. Every voice was hushed and every eye watching.