The King's Spy (Thomas Hill Trilogy 1) (15 page)

Emerging into the daylight, Thomas was greeted by a beautiful late-summer day – dry and windless. The Pembroke courtyard was still a military dump, young officers and their women still lounged about doing very little, and the stench of human waste was still sickening, but the sky was cloudless and the sun warm. Thank God one was permanent and the other, God willing, merely temporary. Perhaps very temporary if he could break the encryption.

Thinking that he had been so preoccupied with the message that he had again lost touch with what was happening beyond his room, he wandered down to the meadow. As always, it was a mass of soldiers and their weaponry, and, unless he was mistaken, there was even more hustle and bustle than before. No one made any objection as he walked among the lines of artillery pieces
and the knots of men gathered around them, for the first time paying the armoury more than passing attention. He stopped to examine a huge cannon loaded on to a long flat cart with wheels of different sizes. Two shafts protruded from the back, into which a horse would be harnessed. Wondering how far a ball would travel when fired from such a monster, he stooped to peer down the barrel. There was a tap on his shoulder and he turned to see a grinning artilleryman. In a thick shirt, leather trousers to the knee, woollen stockings and wooden clogs, the poor man must have been slowly cooking.

‘Take care, sir,’ he said cheerfully. ‘If you fall in, I’ll have to fire you out.’ He spoke with a strong accent – German perhaps, or Dutch.

Thomas returned the smile. ‘I fancy that would damage me more than the enemy.’ To make conversation, he asked, ‘How many horses does it take to pull this?’

‘One in the shafts, sir, and six pairs in the traces,’ adding helpfully, ‘It can fire a two-pound ball as far as a mile.’

And knock over a line of men like so many skittles, thought Thomas. Lifeless skittles if they’re hit by a ball from this beast. ‘There’s much going on today. Do you know what’s happening?’

The man laughed. ‘God bless you sir, I’m just a
poor soldier from Amsterdam. No one tells me anything.’

‘Nothing at all?’

‘Not much anyway. We’ve been told to make ready to march. Where to and for what, we’ll find out when we get there.’

‘No rumours at all?’

‘Gloucester’s most people’s choice as Prince Rupert is still laying siege to the town, but I’ve had a wager on Reading. They say the Earl of Essex is heading that way. If he is, we’ll be sent to stop him reaching London, and I’ll be five guineas richer.’

‘I hope you are, and that you’re able to collect it.’

‘If I’m not, sir, it’ll go to my wife. I mean widow. That’s the agreement.’

Thomas nodded. ‘Good luck then.’ A Dutch mercenary, fighting for a living. Hardly a matter of principle for him. Not all the cannon were as enormous as his. As he walked down the line, Thomas counted four other types, right down to a little fellow with its own wheels. He stepped around heaps of rope, piles of cannonballs of different sizes, blankets, sacking and barrels of powder. What an immense undertaking war was. Immense and costly – and not only in money. How many men would die when these merciless destroyers started dealing out death? A thousand? Five thousand? Ten thousand?

At the end of the line, he came to the river and looked across. In the fields on the far bank, infantry were gathering. Among their tents he could see pikemen in their helmets and breastplates practising their drills, and musketeers with their long-barrelled matchlocks, ammunition, cleaning prickers, gun rests and swords. The word ‘apostle’ came to him – it was what the small flasks of powder on their bandoliers were called. An odd choice of word. The wise musketeer measured out each charge very carefully before going into battle. Too little and his musket would not fire, too much and he might go up in flames. Who would be a soldier? Having to carry pounds of equipment all over the countryside, sleeping in the open or, at best, in a leaky tent, surviving on scraps, and if the enemy do not kill you, you’ll probably kill yourself. Infantry drilling, artillery making ready – there was something afoot, to be sure.

From the meadow Thomas made his way to the Crown. He was in need of refreshment before going back into battle with that wretched message. As before, the inn was busy – soldiers enjoying a final drink or two before marching off to war, perhaps. Thomas had to shoulder his way in and shout to be heard over the hubbub. Having ordered a bottle of claret and a rabbit pie, he looked about for somewhere to sit. Seeing no spare chairs, he made his way towards the back of the
inn, hoping to find one there. Right at the back, at the same table as when he had first seen the man, was Fayne, unmistakable in a short crimson coat and tight crimson breeches. There were three others with him, and a game of hazard was in progress. Despite himself, Thomas moved quietly up behind Fayne, the better to observe the game. As a student, he had prided himself on being rather good at it, and had paid for many a meal out of his winnings. It was a game of chance, but a mathematician’s knowledge of the odds and a quick way with numbers were a decided advantage. It would be interesting to see how well these soldiers played.

The man on Fayne’s right was the caster, the man opposite him the setter, who acted as banker for the three players opposed to the caster. As Thomas watched, he picked up the two dice, shook them in his hand and rolled them out. They showed a five and a six. The caster cheered and the setter pushed a pile of coins towards him. It was the setter’s job to make sure the right amounts were paid out on each hand. As different combinations of main and chance points were played at different odds, he had to have a quick head for figures. Sensible fellow, thought Thomas. He must have set a main point of seven, thus winning with a throw of eleven. Seven was very slightly the best number to set as a main in hazard, and the wise caster never chose
anything else. His opponents groaned and fished in their pockets for more coins. ‘The devil’s balls,’ cursed Fayne, ‘do you never choose anything but seven? Where’s your spirit, man?’

Undeterred, the man again set a main of seven, pushed a crown into the middle of the table and watched as each player did the same. There were no scholars’ pennies or farthings in this game. This time, however, both dice showed six, and the caster had to find two more crowns to cover his loss. Thinking his luck had changed, he chose nine as the main for the next round and tossed more crowns on the table when he threw eleven. Foolish fellow, thought Thomas, another main of seven and he would have won. The caster tried nine again, and this time threw four followed by nine. Unlucky, but it happened. Having lost three consecutive hands, the caster passed the dice to Fayne, the man on his left.

‘Now, gentlemen,’ barked Fayne, ‘time to make things more interesting. The main point will be five.’ He put down four crowns and waited to see who would wager against him. All three did. Fayne rattled the dice and threw them down. They showed a four and a one. With a roar of delight, he scooped up the coins and put them in his pocket. ‘There you are, that’s how a sporting man does it.’

One of the players stood up. ‘I’m finished,’ he
grumbled. ‘No luck today.’ And he sloped off towards the door.

‘No spirit, young William,’ sneered Fayne. ‘Still, perhaps there’s someone else who’ll join us, eh, gentlemen?’ He turned in his chair and looked around. He saw Thomas immediately. ‘Well, well, if it isn’t the little bookseller. Care for a hand of hazard, bookseller, or haven’t you the head for it?’

If you’re going to choose mains of five, thought Thomas, I have the head and the heart. ‘Captain Fayne, you look a most accomplished player. I am little more than a novice, and I could not play for crowns. A shilling or two would be my limit.’

Again Fayne sneered. ‘Hardly worth the effort, bookseller. What do you think, Philip?’

‘If this gentleman cares for a hand, I say we should oblige him,’ replied Philip, clearly seeing in Thomas the price of a good meal or two. ‘I am Philip Smithson.’

The third player, who offered his name as Hugh Tomkins, agreed.

‘Very well,’ said Fayne. ‘Take a seat, bookseller, and get out your shillings.’

Claret and pie forgotten, Thomas took the empty seat. In his pocket he had six shillings. If he lost those, that would be it.

Fayne, having won the previous hand, was still the
caster. He put a shilling on the table and announced that the main would be seven. Damn, thought Thomas, who was hoping he would stick with five. He put down his shilling and hoped for the best. Fayne shook the dice and rolled them out. Two fives. That set ten as the chance point. Now, if he threw ten before he threw seven, Fayne would win, and if he threw seven before he threw ten, he would lose – a reversal of the first throw in each hand, and a reversal of the odds. Thomas knew that it was the moment to lay a side wager and ordinarily, he would have. But he had only six shillings, so he kept the other five in his pocket.

Fayne threw again. This time, the dice showed six. He threw for a third time. A six and a four. He raked in the shillings. ‘Never mind, bookseller, you’ll do better on the next hand,’ he gloated. ‘The main will be seven again.’ Three shillings were wagered against him, and he threw the dice with a flourish. When they showed a four and a three, he had won again. Thomas was down to four shillings, and needed a change of luck.

Fayne had won six shillings in the last two hands, and could afford to raise the stakes. ‘Two shillings it is, gentlemen,’ he announced, putting the coins down, ‘and a main of eight.’ That’s better, thought Thomas. A man who thinks his luck is in, and is willing to lengthen the odds against himself in order to tempt the gamblers. He
took two of the remaining four shillings from his pocket and placed them on the table. The other two players did the same.

Fayne gave the dice an extra shake and rolled them out. Seven. A good number for the caster, and a bad one for his opponents. Fayne put another two shillings on the table, indicating that he was betting on throwing a seven before an eight. The odds favoured him. Thomas had no choice but to put down his last two shillings. With sixteen shillings on the table, Fayne picked up the dice and shook them. Thomas closed his eyes. It was not the money – he would survive the loss of six shillings – it was the thought of losing to Fayne. If he lost this hand, he would just have to put on his bravest face. There would be gloating and taunting and accusations of being feeble. It would not be pleasant.

When he heard Fayne curse, he opened his eyes. Two fours make eight, and Fayne had thrown two fours. Thomas had recovered his four shillings and was back in the game.

Fayne also lost the next two hands and passed the dice to Philip. Philip won a hand, then lost three in a row. Thomas took the dice. For five consecutive hands he chose a main of seven, winning each one. He had twenty-five shillings in his pocket. Fayne had gone very quiet and looked as if he might strike someone.

‘Damn your luck, bookseller,’ he muttered. ‘Put down a guinea, and we’ll see who’s the winner.’

It was strictly against the etiquette of the game for a player other than the caster to suggest a stake, but Fayne did not look in the mood for etiquette. A guinea. Much more than Thomas had ever played for, and if he lost he would be unable to pay all three opponents. That would be dangerous. He really should walk away.

‘As you wish, Captain Fayne. But on condition that the hand is played by the two of us only. I should be embarrassed to relieve you gentlemen of your guineas.’ He looked enquiringly at the other two.

‘I am content to watch,’ said Tomkins.

‘And I,’ agreed Smithson.

‘Very well, bookseller,’ hissed Fayne. ‘Just you and I.’

Two guineas went on the table and Thomas nominated seven as the main. He shook the dice and rolled them out. A one and a three. He would have to throw again, and now the odds were against him. If he threw a seven, Fayne would win. He picked up the dice and threw them down. Two fives. He must throw again, and still the odds favoured Fayne. He shook the dice hard and let them roll along the table. Both dice showed two. Fayne stood up and cursed.

‘Damn your eyes, you lucky little runt.’

For a moment Thomas thought Fayne was about to hit him. Then the captain turned on his heel and stormed out. Smithson and Tomkins shrugged apologetically and got up. Tomkins put a hand on Thomas’s shoulder and said quietly, ‘Well played, sir. Francis is an ill-mannered beggar when he loses. Take care, won’t you. He’s a vindictive beggar, too.’

Another man telling him to take care, and Thomas could well believe it about Fayne. For now, however, with forty-six shillings in his pocket, he could afford to order another rabbit pie and a bottle of the Crown’s best claret. An hour later, his stomach full, he walked back to Pembroke trying not to look smug. If only the message would be as obliging as the dice, all would be well.

THE MESSAGE, HOWEVER,
was thoroughly disobliging. For two more fruitless days Thomas wrestled with it, his frustration growing with the knowledge that the army would soon be on the move. If there was to be a battle, this message might have something to do with it. If he could only do his job, lives might yet be spared. Other than being sure that Monsieur Vigenère was behind the encryption, however, he had learned almost nothing about it. Sheets and sheets of paper, each one covered in combinations of numbers and letters making no sense whatever, littered the floor. He had got through gallons of ink and dozens of quills, and went to bed each night with a throbbing ache behind his eyes. Damnable Frenchman, damnable cipher. Damnable war, damnable Oxford. He longed to go home and forget
about all of them. But he could not. He might be hanged for his trouble, and so might Abraham.