Andrew Swanston: The King's Spy

The looks that Thomas and Margaret exchanged were part astonishment, part alarm. Margaret recovered first. ‘Reasons that you cannot disclose? My brother abhors violence, as do I. Why should he leave his sister and nieces unprotected to help prosecute a war which should never have started, and in which innocent women and children are dying every day? This is not a war against a cruel invader. It’s a war between Englishmen on English soil. How can it possibly be condoned?’

‘Are there not important principles at stake?’

‘What principles can justify innocent blood being spilled?’

‘Principles of justice and liberty?’

‘You speak as if such principles were espoused by one side alone. They are not. The king would rule without reference to his subjects, Parliament would restrict our civil and religious freedoms,’ replied Margaret with unaccustomed force.

‘And what principle are the king’s mercenaries fighting for? The right to kill for money, I suppose?’ demanded Thomas. ‘And what of the turncoats? A sudden epiphany? I doubt it. This war, like all wars, is about fear and self-interest. Claims of justice and liberty are no more than fancy covers on a miserable book.’

The friar held up his hands. ‘Master Hill, I cannot persuade you against your will.’ He smiled. ‘Nor can I take you to Oxford by force. I can tell you that Erasmus Pole, the king’s cryptographer, has died, and that Abraham Fletcher has particularly recom mended you to replace him. That is all I can tell you. The king has sent for you, and you must decide whether to obey his summons. If I return without you, he will be disappointed, but I don’t think he will send Prince Rupert with a troop of cavalry to do what I had failed to do. Either way, I must leave tomorrow. Not even time to visit your lovely abbey.’

‘So, Father de Pointz, you arrive unannounced at our door, you claim to bring a summons from the king for my brother to join him in Oxford, and you expect him to make a decision immediately. Is that it?’

‘I fear, madam, that it is. Wholly unreasonable, quite in defensible, insupportable and unjust. That’s exactly how it is.’

Again Thomas and Margaret exchanged looks. This unusual friar had risked his life in travelling to Romsey and his frankness at least deserved the courtesy of a considered reply, thought Thomas. ‘Then so be it. You shall have your decision in the morning. Do not expect it to be the one you would like. I cannot say that you’re welcome, but you may sleep here.’

‘We’ll give you a blanket,’ said Margaret.

‘Thank you. Your floor will be much more comfortable than the places I’ve slept these past three days. I shared a barn in Newbury with a blind beggar, two sows and a family of rats as big as hounds.’

With the blanket, and his bag for a pillow, they left him to sleep on the kitchen floor and went upstairs. Margaret looked in on the girls, then came into Thomas’s room. They sat side by side on his bed. ‘Well, brother. Plundering soldiers, the queen’s priest, a royal summons. Surely this day can bring us nothing more.’

‘Other than a visit from Banquo’s ghost, I think we’re safe. But there’ll be no sleep, I fear, until we’ve come to a decision.’

‘The decision must be yours, Thomas.’

‘No, Margaret. It must be ours.’

An hour later, they had debated the conflict of loyalties to country and to family, the threat to the safety of Margaret and the girls, Thomas’s own safety on the journey, how Margaret would cope with the shop, what they had heard of Oxford now that the king had made it his capital, and their impressions of Simon de Pointz. Thomas had spoken of his friendship with Abraham Fletcher; Margaret had reminded him of his hatred of the war. They had wondered aloud whether Thomas’s skills would be used as a force for good or evil. And they had reached no conclusion. At last, quite exhausted, Margaret said, ‘Thomas, I have nothing left to say. You have my support whatever you decide, but, if you choose to go, please do so before the girls are awake. It will be bad enough for them without seeing you leave.’ With that, she returned to her room, lay down and immediately fell asleep.

Thomas, however, tossed and turned until dawn, when, while the house was still quiet, he went down to the kitchen to speak to the priest. De Pointz, too, was awake, and had stoked the oven fire to a good flame. He sat at the table with a cup of water. ‘Good morning, Master Hill. How did you sleep?’ He was horribly cheerful for such an hour.

‘Not at all, thank you, father. And you?’

‘The sleep of the just and pious. Have you come to a decision?’

‘We have. Although there are two things I hate about this war — the Parliamentarians and the Royalists — it may be that, by being of service to the king, I can contribute to its early end. Or, if not, at least to the saving of lives. And I trust Abraham Fletcher. He knows my views and would not ask me to come unless he thinks I can help. Be sure of one thing, however. I will never take up arms against Englishmen.’

‘That is understood. The king knows it.’

‘Good. Then, on that understanding, and for Abraham’s sake, I will accompany you to Oxford.’

The friar picked up his bag and emptied its contents on to the floor. ‘I am much relieved. To have carried these all the way here and then all the way back would have been most tiresome.’ On the floor lay a hooded habit with a black rope for a belt, the same as the friar himself was wearing, a heavy silver cross on a silver chain, a pair of sandals and two small bags. He passed the habit and the sandals to Thomas. ‘As a Franciscan, even in these perilous times, I choose to dress as St Francis did. I find the habit comfortable and convenient. For the journey, you’d best be a Franciscan too. Oddly enough, two friars might well be safer than one. The poorer we look the better, and Abraham said that you never cared to be told with whom you may or may not consort. God will forgive the deception. If asked, we are travelling to Worcester. Wear this cross, and these,’ he said, handing over the bags, ‘are for you and for your family while you are away. They travelled with us from France and gold is gold. Please take them.’

When Thomas opened the bags, he saw that they contained a number of gold sovereigns, certainly enough to keep Margaret and the girls fed and clothed for a year or more. He put one bag on the table and the other in his pocket. ‘Thank you. Although I hope I shall not be away for as long as this suggests.’

‘I pray not. When will you be ready to leave?’

‘We should be away before my nieces are awake. They would be upset to see me go, and that might weaken my resolve. We will breakfast and leave.’

Within the hour, they had left Romsey and were on the road to Andover. It had been a hot summer and the early-morning sun was already warm, the baked earth made for hard walking, and Thomas took frequent sips from a leather flask of water filled from the rain barrel behind the shop. The flask, his razor, a set of clean linen, a translation of Michel de Montaigne’s Essais and half the sovereigns were all he carried. The other half of the money he had left for Margaret. His habit itched like the devil. When he asked Simon where it had come from, the priest grinned. ‘The owner was a saintly man, if a little reluctant to wash. I did my best to clean his habit when we’d buried him.’

They walked steadily, between hedgerows adorned with wild flowers — candytuft and cranesbill, mallows and periwinkles — and the oaks and elms that grew so tall all over Hampshire. Although he knew the names of almost none of the local flora, it was a countryside that Thomas loved. At the hamlet of Timsbury, they picked up a horse Simon had left there, and a second for Thomas. Simon produced another bag of sovereigns from which to pay for them. Riding one behind the other, there was little opportunity to talk — a blessing for Thomas, who wanted to be left alone with his thoughts. He tried to rationalize his decision to leave Margaret and the girls unprotected, and to make a dangerous journey to carry out an unknown task for a king who limped and stammered, and who had led his country into a bloody civil war. Would he, he wondered, have done the same for John Pym and Parliament? No, he would not. Pym did not have an Abraham Fletcher at his disposal, and had not been born to the throne. Did that make Thomas a Royalist? Probably, although he would rather be neutral. Did he really hope to shorten the war? That would depend upon what he was asked to do. Codes and ciphers were commonly used in the diplomatic world as well as in the military, and there were others perfectly capable of devising and deciphering them, yet Abraham had recommended him. Why?