Andrew Swanston - The King's Spy

August 1643

Thomas Hill was not much of a drinking man — half a bottle of claret or a couple of pots of ale might last him an hour or more — but two or three times a week he would close his bookshop and stroll down to the Romsey Arms. The inn was only two hundred and ten paces from the shop and, if there was news of the war, that was where he would hear it. He knew it was two hundred and ten paces because he had counted them. It was the mathematician’s curse — forever counting things.

The war. The wretched war. Bloody and brutal, and seemingly pointless. As far as Thomas could tell from the newsbooks that found their way to Romsey, neither side had yet shown evidence of real determination to win a decisive military victory, or even of a coherent strategy. While talks dragged on between the king and Parliament, the Parliamentarian William Waller and the Royalist Ralph Hopton, best of friends before the war, danced minuets around each other in the West Country, the Earl of Essex had settled comfortably into Windsor, and John Pym, reportedly dying from a cancer in his stomach, was busy building defences around London. Prince Rupert was thundering about the country at the head of his cavalry, attacking Lichfield, Brentford and anywhere else that took his fancy, and now there were rumours that his brother Maurice had joined him for an attack on Bristol. Thomas knew better than to believe all the reports, and in any case they were often contradictory. Sir Jacob Astley had been reported killed at Gloucester two days before arriving in excellent health at Oxford. And there were strange stories of ghostly battles at Edgehill, and witchcraft in East Anglia. In time of war, rational men very easily became irrational.

One thing, however, was clear. The talking had achieved nothing and there would be more bloodshed before England knew peace again. With King Charles gathering support in Oxford, and London in the hands of Parliament, something violent and bloody was inevitable, and probably soon. Either the king would advance on London, or Essex and Fairfax would try to surround Oxford. More bodies disembowelled by the sword and the pike, more eyes sliced from their sockets, more limbs left for the crows, more widows and orphans left destitute. Even in this little town, there were ten women widowed by the war, including his sister Margaret, and twice that number of fatherless children, his nieces among them. There was a one-legged tailor, a blind innkeeper and a farmer with half a face. The other half had been removed by a man with an axe. The farmer had lived but when he returned, his wife had taken one look at him and fled. The wags in the town said that even the man’s sheep looked away when they saw him. Yet Romsey itself had seen no fighting — nothing like Stratton or Hopton Heath, where there had been battles. Was there an able-bodied man left standing there? God forbid that the war should really come to Romsey.

It was August and the evening was warm, so Thomas wore no coat, just his white ruffled shirt with a high collar, white cotton hose, and a clean pair of linen breeches tied at the knee, a few shillings in one pocket. He seldom wore a hat, despite his lack of hair. Hats were hot and bothersome.

He reckoned he could tell how busy the Romsey Arms was by the time he reached the baker’s shop on the junction of Love Lane and Market Street. If he could hear voices, it was busy; if he could see drinkers overflowing outside the inn, it was very busy; but if he could see or hear nothing, he might have only himself for company. That would be disappointing. He much preferred gossip and banter, and he liked being the source of news. An educated man, a writer and bookseller, he was expected to know everything before anyone else.

As he approached the bakery, he knew it would be gossip and banter. And on turning into Market Place, he guessed it might be rather more. At least a dozen men outside the inn had, by the sound of them, been there quite some time. Their coats were a hotchpotch of colours, but they all wore broad-brimmed, feathered hats and tall riding boots. Each man had a bandolier over one shoulder, a sword at his waist and a wooden tankard in his hand. A stack of short-barrelled calivers leaned against the inn wall. They were Royalist dragoons. Boisterous, celebrating dragoons. Thomas quickened his pace. This would be news. Terms for peace agreed perhaps, and an end to the war at last. He all but ran the last few yards.

‘Well now, gentlemen,’ called out a tall blue-coated dragoon when he saw Thomas, ‘who have we here?’

Thomas had noted the black and white feathers and red band round the man’s hat, and had immediately marked him as their leader.

‘Doesn’t look like the enemy, more’s the pity. Not much taller than my wife, a bit on the skinny side and short of hair. Clean-shaven, clean shirt, clean boots. But you can never tell. Be on your guard, men. Who are you, sir, and have you the money to quench our thirst? If not, be on your way. We’re hot and dry.’

He might have spoken in jest, or he might not. Thomas decided to risk it. ‘My name is Thomas Hill, sir. I have a bookshop in this town. Alas, I don’t have enough in my pocket to buy ale for all of you, unless you will settle for but a sip each. Perhaps if you pool your resources, however, you might have enough to buy me a glass of claret. The landlord here keeps a good cellar and I have persuaded him to sell his claret by the glass.’

The tall dragoon stared hard at Thomas, then laughed loudly. ‘Good man, Master Hill. A glass of claret it shall be. A bookshop, eh? And what improving work would you recommend for a humble soldier of the king?’

‘A difficult question, sir, as I know nothing of your tastes, and I would not want to cause offence,’ replied Thomas, taking the measure of his man. ‘I read that in London all manner of books are joining the king’s Book of Sports on the fire, and it’s much the same in Oxford. So nothing religious or political. Let me think. Not classical, I fancy, or poetic. Henry the Fifth , perhaps, or Julius Caesar — warriors both. Or philosophy. Or something more practical — a worthy volume on horsemanship or husbandry?’ He paused, as if in thought. ‘No. Philosophy it is. De Montaigne, my favourite philosopher of all.’

‘Who? Doesn’t sound English.’

‘He was French, sir. Just as this claret is,’ said Thomas, taking a glass from an outstretched hand, and raising it to the dragoon. ‘Your excellent health.’

‘And yours, Master Hill. We’ll talk of philosophers later. Let me first introduce myself. I am Robert Brooke, captain of this troop of drunks, whom I’m instructed to take to join Lord Goring. It seems his lordship is in need of our assistance, though by all accounts he needs little assistance in the matter of refreshment.’

George Goring had changed his allegiance from Parliament to the Crown the previous year, and Thomas knew of his reputation as a drunkard. He offered a small bow. ‘Captain Brooke. An honour. And what news do you bring? An end to the war, or is that too much to hope for?’

‘Indeed it is. There can be no peace while Fairfax and Essex are at large, or any of their henchmen, and that’s an end to it.’

‘Alas,’ replied Thomas, ‘it seems so, though I wish it could be done without bloodshed. We hear there’s been fighting in the north and the west. Adwalton Moor and Landsdowne, was it not?’

‘It was. And splendid victories both. At Adwalton, the Earl of Newcastle sent Fairfax and his son running like hounds on the scent, and at Landsdowne our Cornish pikemen gave Waller’s rabble bloody noses. The war goes well.’