The King's Spy (Thomas Hill Trilogy 1) (18 page)

For ten minutes or so, Thomas could do no more than sit, listen and wait. By that time, the sounds of battle were deafening. Cannon and muskets fired,
swords clashed, and men shouted and screamed. Deciding that not seeing was even worse than seeing, he stood up and went outside. Immediately, he regretted it. To his right, a cannon fired, and he saw three heads detached from three bodies by the shot. He turned away and vomited. More cannon fired, and more men fell, headless, armless, disembowelled. One file of infantrymen, struck by a cannon shot, fell like ninepins. Thomas wanted desperately to look away, but found that he could not.

He might have stood there until nightfall had Rush not appeared beside him and handed him a second order. It was for Sir John Byron on the right wing, and instructed him immediately to take Round Hill, which lay before him. Wondering how Sir John was going to manage this, given that his cavalry would have to find a way over a muddy mess of fields and ditches before they could even think of attacking the hill, Thomas returned to his table, encrypted the order and sent it off. Having seen the carnage already being wreaked on the cavalry by Essex’s men hidden among the trees and hedges below the hill, he thanked God that he was not with Sir John.

Thomas could not sit still. Again he left his post and went outside. The king sat unmoved on his grey stallion, his Lifeguards and entourage still surrounding him.
Thomas hoped they had more idea of what was happening than he did. As the air grew blacker with smoke and thicker with the smell of gunpowder, a curtain fell across the field. Muskets and cannon went on firing, soldiers went on bellowing and shrieking, and horses screamed, but only occasionally did the clash of swords and the thrust of pikes appear briefly through the smoke. It was ghostly and unreal. Yet these were real men, real weapons, real wounds, real deaths, real war. Noise, pain, fear, confusion.

From somewhere on the left, news arrived that Prince Rupert, in typical fashion, had charged the enemy, and might have broken through to attack from their rear. On the right, Sir John Byron’s cavalry was probably being destroyed as it struggled towards the hill. With the battlefield all but invisible, there was no way of telling how they were faring, or even if they were still alive. Thomas half expected a troop of Parliamentary infantry suddenly to emerge out of the smoke and shoot him. By this time, he could barely see the king.

Two messages from Sir John Byron arrived in quick succession. The first, speedily decrypted by Thomas, reported that, despite strong resistance, he had captured Round Hill, and the second, in clear text, that he had lost it again. Thomas was glad that he did not have to
decrypt the second one and hand it to the king himself. Rush could do that.

All morning, and for most of the afternoon, the fighting con tinued. The king was forced to deploy troops to plug a gap in the lines caused by a successful advance by Essex himself, Rupert led his cavalry in charge after murderous charge at the Parliamentary pikemen, Sir John Byron battled in vain to recapture Round Hill, and Thomas sat in his tent, decrypting incoming reports, encrypting outgoing orders, trying to assess the state of the battle by the reports and wondering if he would still be breathing that evening. There were no captured despatches to deal with, which was just as well as they would inevitably take longer. Rush came and went, saying little and asking nothing. He seemed quite unruffled. Thomas reckoned that if anyone knew the state of affairs, Rush did. He probably had his own army of messengers, galloping backwards and forwards with news. He was not a man to tolerate being in the dark; he would have to feel in control.

In mid-afternoon, a report came in that Colonel Thomas Pinchbeck’s Regiment had taken heavy losses, and the colonel had been killed. Thomas wondered fleetingly if a certain Captain Fayne had been among the casualties.

Then another report came from Sir John Byron. It
too was in clear text and respectfully begged to inform his majesty that his friend Lord Falkland had been killed. Falkland’s death would be a cruel blow to the king, who was known to be fond of him. A second despatch came from an aide of Prince Rupert, and was encrypted. The cavalry had at last broken through the enemy lines, and was engaged in attacking their infantry from the rear. They had been temporarily stalled, however, by renewed resistance on the part of the Parliamentary pikemen and musketeers.

Then the Earl of Carnarvon was reported killed, as was the Earl of Sunderland. Two more cruel blows. On it went all afternoon and into the evening. Thomas imagined cannonballs crashing into ranks of infantry, cavalry horses shying away from raised pikes, wheeling, trying again and shying again, and musketeers picking off targets from the safety of hedgerows and ditches. Through all of it, he carefully carried out his duties. In one hour several reports might arrive; in the next, none at all. As far as he could tell, by five o’clock neither side had achieved much, other than a severe reduction in their numbers.

As the autumn dusk fell, the cannon at last began to grow silent, and the air to clear. On the far left, Thomas could then see that Prince Rupert had failed to break through the enemy infantry from the rear, and had
withdrawn to his original position. Both infantry centres had done the same, and only the remains of Sir John Byron’s cavalry, now well short of Round Hill, were fighting in the fields below it. Everywhere, bodies and bits of bodies lay mangled on the field, spent muskets and broken swords among them. The walking wounded were being helped to safety by their colleagues, those without hope being left to die where they had fallen. Thomas, horrified, could only stand and stare, until Rush hurried up and handed him another order. Thomas forced himself to encrypt it and sent it off. He barely noticed that it instructed Sir John Byron to withdraw immediately and to return to the king’s headquarters.

Sporadic fighting went on even after darkness had fallen, but by about nine o’clock it was over. The king had departed the field, and Tobias Rush had accompanied him. Thomas watched bodies being stripped and carted away for burial, exhausted soldiers, their hands and faces blackened by powder, staggering off in search of water, and bewildered horses, many fearfully wounded, wandering forlornly among the dead. Some soldiers found a stream from which riderless horses were drinking, and, desperate for water, lay down on their bellies in it. In one day thousands had died, hundreds more would die, and many more had lost arms, legs and
eyes. After a day of hacking each other to pieces, would either side, he wondered, claim victory? Unable any longer to think clearly, he drifted off in the direction of the town.

By the time he reached the market square, lit up by a fire set in the middle to provide warmth and light, Thomas too was exhausted. He had wielded neither musket nor sword, he had suffered no wound, he had never been in real danger, and he had had enough water to drink. Yet his back and neck were knotted with tension, he was filthy, his head ached from the powder, he could barely speak and his hands were shaking. God alone knew what state the fighting men were in. Barely registering a troop of infantry led by a tall, fair-haired captain march into the square from the direction of Wash Common and towards an inn on the far side, he entered the house, clambered up the staircase, fell on to his bed and passed out.

When he awoke twelve hours later, his head still ached, his throat was still sore and he was still filthy. He held out his hands; they at least were steady. Rising with difficulty from the bed, he stripped off his clothes, retrieved the Vigenère message which fell from under his shirt on to the floor, and did his best to wash off the worst of the dirt and powder. In his bag he had
the change of clothes provided by Silas. He put them on. Then he went to see what news there was.

Downstairs, Tobias Rush was in the entrance hall, busily supervising the two coachmen who were carrying his chest outside. ‘Master Rush,’ said Thomas hoarsely, ‘what news is there?’

Rush looked up sharply. ‘Master Hill, good morning. The king leaves within the hour for Oxford, and I am to travel with him. You may have my coach. Prince Rupert will stay in Newbury until Essex leaves. If he marches towards London, the prince will pursue him. Our troops will follow us to Oxford.’ Rush’s voice seemed unaffected by the gunpowder.

‘What of the battle?’

‘There is little to report, other than heavy casualties on both sides.’

‘Can we claim victory?’

The thin smile. ‘Alas, no. Even I would be hard put to write an account of a victory, even Pyrrhic. If Essex does reach London, however, he might very well claim one.’

‘Master Rush, may I ask another question?’

‘You may, of course.’

‘How did we allow the enemy to occupy the high ground on both wings? Shouldn’t we have taken it before they arrived?’

For a moment, Rush was silent. ‘I too have pondered that. One does not care to comment on military matters, but one does wonder about some form of deception.’

‘What sort of deception?’

‘False intelligence, perhaps, or an intercepted message. Either might have led the prince to believe that we held the ridges, until it was too late to act.’

‘Surely that would be unlikely.’

‘Who knows? But enough, Master Hill. I must join the king. My carriage is at your disposal. We will expect you in Oxford within a day or two.’

Well, I suppose it’s possible the prince was misled, thought Thomas when Rush had gone, although drunk and incapable seemed more likely.

THOMAS INTENDED TO
cover the thirty-odd miles to Oxford in a single day. He did not care to stop overnight, and urged the coachmen to make all speed. After the horror of Newbury, he wanted solitude and he wanted to get back to work on the message. If he could break the cipher, he might shorten the war. A shorter war would mean fewer Newburys, fewer widows and orphans, fewer lives pointlessly wrecked. The battle had given him new purpose.

Having settled as best he could into the cushioned seats of Rush’s carriage, he shut his eyes and tried again to concentrate on the problem. Was there a way to break the Vigenère square? Twenty-six possible encryptions for each of twenty-six letters, and, in this message, numerical codes added for good measure. Instinctively,
his hand went to the paper hidden under his shirt, and a thought struck him. Was it safe there? What if the carriage broke a wheel and he was tossed out on to the road? Might a helping hand not happen upon it while he was unconscious, and, with the best intentions, remove it? Feeling only a little foolish, he took the paper out, rolled down his left stocking, carefully folded the paper up as tightly as he could, slipped it under his foot and adjusted the stocking. There. Surely even the most helpful hand would not want to examine his left foot.

They made good time to the hamlet of Chilton, rattling along even over the roughest stretches of road. At Chilton they stopped at a coaching inn to give the horses a rest and to refresh themselves. Thomas had made not a jot of progress on the cipher but he had been reasonably comfortable, Rush’s cushions having absorbed the worst of the bumps and lurches. In a wooded area two miles beyond Chilton, however, just as Thomas was becoming drowsy, there were two loud cracks, and the carriage shot forward so violently that he was thrown from his seat. Unsure what had happened and unable to get to his feet to look out of the window, Thomas lay on the floor, rolling from side to side with the swaying of the carriage. If the noise had frightened the horses, the coachmen should have reined them in. A carriage pulled by four bolting horses would
not stay upright on a road such as this for very long. He offered a silent prayer to the God he chose to believe in on such occasions, and hung on to a seat as best he could.

It seemed that his prayer had been answered. The horses slowed and the carriage soon came to rest. He got shakily to his feet, stumbled out and went to speak to the coachmen. At once it was clear why they had not reined the horses in. Both were sprawled across their seat, one on top of the other, blood pouring from their heads. He did not need to look more closely to know that they were dead. And the two men who had shot them were holding the leading horses’ bridles. They must have galloped after the carriage and caught it. Each man was hooded and masked, and had a pistol in his belt and another in his hand, pointing at a spot between Thomas’s eyes. Thomas stood motionless and stared at them.

‘Lie down with your face to the ground,’ ordered one of them. Thomas obeyed. ‘Keep the pistol on him, and I’ll search inside.’

He heard the man dismount and climb into the carriage, thinking that a couple of murderous highwaymen would not be best pleased to find nothing but his bag containing paper, quills and a few clothes, and a handful of coins in his pocket. He heard the seats being ripped up, and his bag being emptied on the ground.

‘Nothing,’ said the leader. ‘Just paper and rags. Empty your pockets, little man.’ Thomas sat up, fished out three shillings and threw them on the ground. ‘Is that all? Three shillings from a man in a carriage like this? There must be more.’ He walked towards Thomas, his pistol held unwaveringly in front of him.