Andrew Swanston - The King's Spy

At Salisbury, they halted to rest the horses before continuing on towards Exeter. Thomas was expecting to leave the party there and make his own way to Romsey. As he was saddling a horse, however, Simon strode up, leading another. ‘Her majesty has consented to my escorting you home, Thomas. I advised her that it would be wise for me to do so.’

‘Wise, Simon? Wise for whom?’ replied Thomas, pretending not to be pleased. He had not been looking forward to finishing the journey alone.

‘For you and your family. When travelling unaccompanied, you have a habit of getting into difficulties. Her majesty wishes you to get home safely.’

‘Very well. No doubt Margaret will be delighted to see you again.’

‘Not, my friend, as delighted as she will be to see you. However, I will not be able to stay. As soon as I have safely delivered you, I must rejoin the queen.’

They covered the fifteen miles to Romsey in less than three hours, arriving in mid-afternoon. On the outskirts of the town, they dismounted and led their horses over the river, past neat rows of cottages and into Market Square. The town was quiet and none of the few people about took any notice of them. Outside the Romsey Arms there were no drinkers, although Thomas could hear voices inside. Looking around, he could see nothing much changed in the weeks he had been away. Romsey, it seemed, had so far avoided the fate of so many towns up and down England which had been devastated by the ravages of war. They walked up Love Lane, past the baker’s shop, to the bookshop.

Thomas knocked loudly on the door. It was a new door, made of very stout oak, with a formidable lock and fixed with three large iron hinges. It was not a door that a thieving soldier could easily kick in. The windows were also new, with thick shutters and sturdy frames. There was no answer. He knocked again, and shouted out. ‘Margaret, the owner of this bookshop is outside, and he would like to come in.’ There was no reply. He tried again. ‘Margaret, it’s Thomas. Open the door.’ Still no answer. He rattled the door handle and gave the door a push. It did not move. He tried the windows. Peering between the shutters, he could see that they were all barred. The bars, too, were new. Margaret really had taken precautions.

‘They’ve probably gone for a walk in the meadow,’ he said, more to reassure himself than anything else. ‘We often go there.’

Simon heard the concern in Thomas’s voice. ‘Or to visit a friend, or to church, or to buy bread. They could be anywhere, Thomas. There’s no cause for alarm. It’s not as if they knew we were coming.’

‘No, of course you’re right. It’s just that I’m so looking forward to seeing them.’

‘And you soon will. However, if I’m to rejoin the queen before nightfall, I must be on my way. I promised her that I would not dally.’

Thomas held out his hand. ‘Farewell then, Simon. Thank you for your company. Thank you also for getting me out of that hellhole of a gaol, and for preventing Tobias Rush from removing my eyes.’

Simon’s smile was sad. ‘I grieve that Abraham and Jane are dead, but you, thank God, are alive. You’re a clever man, Thomas Hill, and a brave one.’

‘I hardly think so.’ Thomas released Simon’s hand. ‘Now go, Father de Pointz. Go safely, and do not call upon me again. I wish to spend the rest of my days peacefully with my family.’

‘I pray that God and the war will permit you to do so. Farewell, Thomas. God bless you.’

Thomas watched Simon lead his horse back down Love Lane. Simon did not look back. What an extraordinary man, thought Thomas. Deep devotion and unshakable loyalty married to worldly knowledge and a shrewd mind. A man whose principles are very much his own. I wonder what life has in store for him.

And now what? It would not be easy to break into the shop with Margaret’s new defences in place and he had no idea where she and the girls might be. Deciding that there was no point in guessing, Thomas walked back to Market Square and into the Romsey Arms. There were a few drinkers there, most of whom he knew at least by sight. One of them saw him and held up a hand in greeting. ‘Good day, Thomas. We haven’t seen you for weeks. Have you been unwell or did you go and join the king’s army?’

‘Neither, thankfully. I’ve been visiting an old friend. The bookshop is locked up. Do you happen to know where Margaret is?’

The man shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not.’ He raised his voice so that everyone could hear. ‘Thomas Hill has lost his sister. Does anyone know where she is?’ There were a few ribald comments about her being carried off by lusty young men, but no one knew where she was. Neither she nor her daughters had been seen in the town for some days. Two years ago that might have been cause for alarm, but, in time of war, people came and went constantly.

‘Have we had any more military visitors?’ asked Thomas.

‘Not since those cavalrymen in August. It’s been quiet.’

That was something to be grateful for. But it was the letters that really worried Thomas. Could the girls have been abducted? That was well within Rush’s evil reach. Thomas would have agreed to almost anything if they had been in danger, and Rush had known it. What’s more, with Rush dead, his henchmen would now be waiting in vain for further orders. God alone knew what they might do when they tired of waiting or learned of his death.

Not wanting to be drawn into further discussion, Thomas left the inn and wandered slowly back up Love Lane. The shop was still locked up and deserted. He knocked on their neighbours’ doors. None of them knew where Margaret was, or when she had left. She had left no messages and no instructions. They knew only that Thomas had been away and were happy to see him returned safely.

By the time it was getting dark, Thomas had learned nothing. The only thing for it was to find somewhere to sleep, and to start again the next morning. It was early autumn and the nights were cold, too cold for a haystack, so back he went to Market Square. The door to the old abbey was unlocked, as it always was. Thomas let himself in, found a hymnbook, found a pew at the back, and lay down with the book as his pillow. It was neither comfortable nor warm, but it was dry. He closed his eyes, folded his hands across his chest and tried to empty his mind.

Four hours later, he gave up all thoughts of sleep and, pulling his coat around his shoulders, ventured out into the night. Better to pass the time wandering around the town than lying on a hard wooden pew. His back was already stiff. Four more hours and he might never have got up. He walked around the square, where even the Romsey Arms was quiet. Shutters were open, but no light shone through the windows. No voices disturbed the silence. It was an unfamiliar Romsey, a Romsey he barely knew. The town was asleep, even if Thomas Hill was not.

Thomas turned into Love Lane, and walked to the shop. He stood outside it, gazing, unseeing, at the new oak door. Polly, Lucy, Margaret — where were they? Had they come to harm? Abraham and Jane murdered, Oxford gaol, Rush, Fayne, surely not all just to find his family dead too. Yet that was the war — thousands of individual tragedies adding up to one collective disaster. More than six thousand individuals had died at Newbury alone. How many more Newburys would there be?

A black cat ran across the street and brushed against Thomas’s leg. He shuddered at its touch. If the war had affected the mind of a man as lacking in superstition as he, would the shadows and shapes of Oxford stay with him for ever? Unthinkingly, he made his way to the river, and strolled downstream until he came to the place from where he used to fish. There the bank was low, a line of willows growing along it, and the river running faster as it narrowed. It was his favourite spot for catching the fat brown trout that lurked under the overhang of the bank. Ripples on the water glinted in the darkness, and he could almost see the fish waiting to be caught. With his rod and line and a few flies, he would have had his breakfast in no time. A pair of juicy trout sizzling in the pan and eaten with slices of new bread and Margaret’s butter. A king’s breakfast.