Andrew Swanston - The King's Spy

‘I fear so.’ A sword was unsheathed and pointed at his throat.

‘No hiding places, bookseller? You look prosperous enough.’

‘No. All my money is in the books. Or it was.’

‘And whose are the women’s clothes? Women’s and children’s.’

‘My sister and her daughters are away in Winchester.’

‘A pity. Though if she looks like you, we’d have to put a sack over her, eh Jethro?’ Luckily she doesn’t, thought Thomas, but said nothing. ‘Come on, we’ve wasted enough time in this shithole.’

Thomas got up and, from the door, watched them swagger back down the lane. They had taken a little money, some plates and a silver cup. They had wrecked his bookshop and destroyed many of his books. They had smashed furniture. But they had not harmed Margaret or the girls. When he was sure it was safe to do so, Thomas went back into the shop and through the narrow door at the back. He stopped at the bottom of the staircase, knocked three times on the first stair and said ‘Montaigne’ loudly. Then he stood back as the first three stairs detached themselves, and put out a hand to help Polly and Lucy crawl out from the tiny space behind. Terrified, they had both wet themselves and were sobbing miserably. Thomas hugged them. ‘All’s well now. The soldiers have gone. We’re quite safe.’ Margaret emerged behind them, stretching her back and legs. Her face was ashen.

‘Did they hit you, Thomas?’ she asked, peering at him. ‘Your face is bruised.’

Thomas put his hand to his cheek. ‘It wasn’t much. The books suffered more.’

In the shop, they stared aghast at the devastation. Polly held on to her mother and Lucy started wailing. Margaret picked up some pages from a small volume from which the cover had been ripped. ‘I fear that the Prince of Denmark has suffered somewhat,’ she observed, looking at a page and picking up another. ‘And so has Romeo. How wanton and stupid and cruel. What did they think they would gain by this?’

‘God alone knows. I told them I had no money except for the purse, and they took your silver cup.’

‘And broke the door and the window, I see.’ Margaret stood with hands on hips. ‘Well, Thomas, we must mend both at once and start to clear up this mess. Go upstairs, girls, please, change your dresses, and do what you can to sort out our clothes. I’ll be up soon.’ The girls, drying their eyes, did as they were told. ‘They’re shocked, Thomas, as well they might be. Polly asked if they were the men who killed her father.’

‘What did you tell her?’

‘I said they weren’t. She might have screamed otherwise.’

‘Thank God they stayed quiet while those animals were here.’

‘Thank God, indeed. Royalist drunkards one day, Parliamentary thieves another. What next, do you think? A Spanish Armada?’

Thomas laughed. Humour in times of trouble. Montaigne would surely have approved. ‘Probably. Now we’d better set to. I’ll mend the door and board up the window. You salvage what ever books you can. I may be able to put some together again as long as they’re complete.’

It took all afternoon to clear up the shop and the bedrooms. Ruined books went on the kitchen fire with the desk and chair, and Thomas had a pile to rebind. Upstairs, the beds were righted and clothes sorted out. The door and window were secured. By evening, they were exhausted. Margaret put the girls to bed and sat with Thomas in the kitchen. In his hand he clutched a copy of Montaigne’s Essais . Miraculously, it had escaped unharmed. He opened a bottle of his very best hock.

‘Just the time for it,’ said Margaret, taking a sip. They sat quietly and shared the wine.

Thomas had just lit a beeswax candle when they heard a knock on the door. Margaret started. ‘Please God, not again. I couldn’t bear it,’ she whispered.

‘Hush now, Margaret, it was a gentle knock. Probably just a neighbour. I’ll go and see who it is.’ More nervous than he pretended, Thomas went cautiously to the door. ‘Who is it?’ he called.

‘A friend. I seek Master Thomas Hill.’

‘I am Thomas Hill.’

‘Kindly open the door, sir, and you will see that I mean you no harm.’

‘My home and shop were destroyed this very day by soldiers of Parliament. How do I know I can trust you?’

‘Abraham Fletcher.’

Thomas wondered if he had heard correctly. Abraham Fletcher? His old tutor at Oxford? Surely not. ‘What of Abraham Fletcher?’

‘He sends greetings.’

Thomas hesitated, saw the kindly face of his old friend in his mind’s eye and made a decision. He unbolted the patched-up door and opened it. Outside stood a man in the grey, hooded habit of a Franciscan friar. Thomas jumped back in astonishment, thinking this must be some sort of trick. Catholic priests did not come calling unbidden, even at night. The friar, grinning hugely, stepped past him into the shop. When he pushed back his hood, Thomas saw a bald head and cheerful blue-eyed face with a long nose and a strong jaw. It was not a face he knew. ‘Thomas Hill?’ enquired the friar. Thomas nodded. ‘I am Simon de Pointz. I carry a message from the king.’

The friar dropped his bag on the kitchen floor, and stood with his back to the stone oven. Thomas and Margaret waited for him to speak. Even with a slight stoop to his shoulders, he was a head taller than either of them. Entwining his fingers, he stretched his arms and sighed with relief. ‘God knows but that bag was heavy. It’s far enough from Oxford without having to carry a load.’ Neither Thomas nor Margaret spoke. A priest in their kitchen was, to say the least, extraordinary. ‘Well,’ he went on, ‘I must give you an explanation. May I sit?’ Without waiting for an answer, he hoisted his habit above his ankles and pulled up a chair. ‘First of all, Abraham Fletcher is well, and hopes you are the same.’

‘Thank you,’ replied Thomas stiffly, ‘and what does Abraham have to do with your being here?’

‘It was Abraham who suggested you to the king.’

‘And why would he do that?’

‘That is a question which I can answer only in part.’

Thomas spoke sharply. ‘In that case, Father de Pointz, I may be able only to listen in part.’

The friar laughed. ‘Abraham said you might be difficult. I’ll explain as best I can. The king, as you doubtless know, is in Oxford. Queen Henrietta Maria joined his majesty there a month ago. Her majesty recommended me to carry this message.’

‘Why you?’

‘The queen is a devout lady. I’ve been with her for three years, and travelled with her from Holland.’ He grinned broadly, showing two rows of unusually large white teeth. Devotion must be good for the teeth as well as the soul, thought Thomas. ‘Now that was a voyage. Nine days at sea, the weather so bad that the ladies had to be strapped to their beds. Eventually we turned around and went back. We waited ten more days before trying again. By the grace of God it was calmer the second time. We stayed a while in York, before meeting the king at Edgehill and travelling with him to Oxford. I am a devoted servant of her majesty and, happily, she trusts me. I carry a letter written and sealed by her.’

‘And what is the message you carry?’

‘The king is aware that at Oxford you distinguished yourself as a mathematician, and became an expert in the matter of ciphers.’ Thomas nodded. It was true that he had won prizes for mathematics, and had much enjoyed studying the science of codes and ciphers. So much so that he and Abraham had amused themselves by sending each other coded and encrypted messages — scurrilous poems, invitations to dinner, barbed criticisms of colleagues — and challenging the other to decipher them. As a new code or cipher had to be devised for each message, they had both become adept at inventing and breaking all manner of alphabetic ciphers, and numeric and homophonic codes. ‘For reasons that I cannot disclose,’ continued de Pointz, ‘his majesty has need of your skills, and has instructed me to escort you to Oxford.’