The King's Spy (Thomas Hill Trilogy 1) (20 page)

‘Any advice, Abraham?’

‘Encouragement rather than advice. You were a brilliant scholar, you have a rare talent for cryptography, and if anyone can break the code you can. Assume it can be broken. There’s a key there somewhere and you will find it.’

‘I wish I shared your confidence, but thank you for yours. If I fail, it will not be for want of trying.’

‘Off you go then, and leave an old man to his rest.’

Back at his table, Thomas took his copy of the
square out. It was time for a fresh start. Taking a new quill and a clean sheet of paper, he wrote out the square again.

Twenty-six possible encryptions for each letter. Using Abraham’s straight edge to guide his eye, Thomas imagined the keyword to be LOVE, and the encrypted word to be JANE. Using the letters in the square where each letter of JANE met its counterpart in LOVE, the encryption would be UOII. Proof against any known method of analysing the frequency with which each letter appeared in a text. And proof, so far, against the attentions of Thomas Hill. For an hour Thomas sat and stared at the square, hoping for inspir ation. None came. Then he retrieved the message itself from under the floorboard and stared at that. Still nothing. Not a glimmer.

By that evening, after another day of boiling frustration, Thomas had given up hope. He was not going to be the man who broke the Vigenère square. Whatever this message contained would remain a secret until too late and there was nothing he could do about it. He had failed. He put it back under the floorboard, poured himself a glass of Silas’s claret and tried to think about something else. Anything but the infernal square.

It took most of the bottle to do it, but eventually his brain surrendered.

As soon as he had breakfasted the next morning, he washed, shaved, dressed carefully and set off for Merton. He was resolved. Monsieur Vigenère might have defeated him, but Jane Romilly would not.

At Merton he was escorted to the Warden’s lodgings by a member of the queen’s guard, and asked to wait while the guard informed Lady Romilly of his arrival. Nearby he could see the tennis court, where he had learned the game and become proficient enough to defeat all but the best of his fellow scholars. He wondered how he would fare now, ten years on. He was fit enough, and strong, but would some of his old speed have deserted him? Idly, he practised a few strokes, imagining the corners into which he was aiming to hit the ball. It would be good to try his hand again.

The guard returned, shaking his head. ‘Lady Romilly is not present, sir. Another of the queen’s ladies suggests you return tomorrow.’

Thomas did not believe the man. All the queen’s ladies would be present at that time of the morning to ensure that her majesty was suitably attired for the day and wanted for nothing. ‘Kindly try again,’ he said, ‘and if, by some chance, Lady Romilly has un expectedly returned, tell her that I am here on a matter of great importance and will wait until she consents to see me.’
With a shrug, the guard did as he was asked. He was back within a minute.

‘It seems that Lady Romilly does not wish to see you, sir. I am to escort you to the gate.’

Damn the woman. Stubborn and obstinate. Now there was nothing for it but to swallow his disappointment and find something else with which to occupy himself. A game of tennis, perhaps. The accursed message could stay under the pisspot.

He wandered disconsolately back to Pembroke, where he found the courtyard filled again with soldiers and their ladies. He stood quietly in a corner and listened to the men exchanging stories of Newbury. What he heard reflected well upon each storyteller, but made no mention of the horrors of the day. He heard of fearless advances, enemies slain and ground captured, but of dead and screaming men, horses crippled and dying, smoke, gunpowder and, above all, the futility of it, he heard nothing. Wondering if he had been at a different battle altogether, he carried on towards his room. He had taken no more than a few steps when a loud voice, loud enough to be heard by every man and woman there, came from the far corner of the yard.

‘Well I’m damned, if it isn’t the lucky little bookseller. Back from the bookshop, are we?’ Thomas had not noticed Francis Fayne in the crowd. Fayne,
however, had noticed Thomas. He turned and glared at the man, then continued on his way. ‘Nothing to say, bookseller? Nothing to report while we’ve been fighting for the king at Newbury?’ It was too much.

‘I too was at Newbury,’ he said quietly. ‘And where were you?’

‘Is that so?’ laughed Fayne, ignoring the question and looking around for support. The men near him also laughed and one or two of the ladies put their hands to their mouths. ‘I didn’t see a bookshop at the battle.’

‘I was with the king all day.’

‘Were you now? Advising his majesty on his reading or skulking behind the lines? And what about the mare with the eyes? Was she with you or did you leave her here? Don’t tell me you left her here, bookseller. She must have had to take her pleasures with ancient scholars and pimply stable boys. I doubt they were up to the task.’

It had happened only once before. In this very courtyard twelve years earlier, when a loud-mouthed braggart had taunted Thomas to breaking point and lived to regret it. Afterwards, Thomas had called it the ‘Ice’ – the absolute calm that had come over him that day. Unshakeable calm, and icy clarity of purpose. He had been aware of nothing – neither sound nor sight –
other than his cold anger and the man on whom it was focused.

Now it happened again.

He strode up to Fayne and shot a fist into his face. Blood ran from Fayne’s nose and he staggered backwards in astonishment. Thomas stood quite still and waited for the attack to come. He knew how to cope with an opponent taller and stronger than himself, and felt not a twinge of fear. Every ounce of him was concentrated on the task.

Fayne wiped away the blood with the back of his sleeve, snarled and, arms outstretched, launched himself at Thomas. ‘I’ll break your scrawny neck, you shitten little worm.’ He spat out the words like poison. Thomas danced to one side, stuck out a leg and helped Fayne on his way with a shove in the back. He stood over Fayne, who was sprawled face down on the ground, and allowed him to haul himself to his feet. By this time, the courtyard was silent. Every voice was hushed and every eye watching.

Before Fayne knew it, Thomas had landed two more punches, and stepped nimbly out of his reach. The first blackened an eye, the second split a lip. The handsome face was twisted and bloody. Fayne, though, was strong. He shook off the blows and swung a fist at Thomas. It was slow and cumbersome, but brushed
Thomas’s shoulder, knocking him slightly off balance. Fayne saw his chance and grabbed Thomas’s throat. Thomas found himself pushed back against the wall, struggling to take a breath. Fayne hissed at him through the blood, ‘Now, bookseller, now I’ll break your neck.’

Thomas knew he had to move fast. He grabbed Fayne’s hair with his left hand and got his right hand under Fayne’s nose. He pulled the hair backwards and pushed as hard as he could with the ball of his thumb. No attacker’s nose could resist that, and Fayne’s head was forced back and away until he had to release his grip on Thomas’s throat. The moment he did so, Thomas kicked him hard on the knee and landed two more blows to his nose, drawing more blood. Fayne subsided to the ground with a grunt of pain, his hands covering his face. It was over. Thomas could see no point in waiting for the mewling oaf to recover, and, with a bow to the ladies, adjusted his dress and left them to offer their friend whatever assistance they could.

Just as it had the first time, the icy calm departed as quickly as it had come. And when it did, it left a void. Thomas was drained of strength and emotion. He lay on his bed and closed his eyes. He had always regarded violence as a form of weakness, and he knew he had been weak. He should have ignored Fayne. He should not have allowed himself to be provoked. Perhaps it had
been Jane’s refusal to see him, perhaps a reaction to the battle and his journey from Newbury, perhaps neither. ‘You are a feeble fellow, Thomas Hill,’ he said to himself, ‘and I trust you will not allow such a thing to happen again.’

ABRAHAM WAS BLUNT
to the point of rudeness. ‘You will not give up, Thomas, until I say you can. And I am unlikely ever to do so. I have told the king that you are the most accomplished cryptographer in England, and you are not to embarrass me by quitting.’

‘Abraham, I’ve tried everything. The cipher is unbreakable. I cannot do it.’

‘You can, Thomas, and you will. There will be a way. Find it.’

Thomas sighed in resignation. ‘Oh very well, Abraham, for you I’ll keep trying. I wouldn’t do it for anyone else.’

‘Good. Go now and begin again. I wish to be informed the moment you have made progress.’

‘Rest assured that you will be the first to know if there is even a hint of it.’

For two days, he laboured on the message and his square, trying all manner of approaches – some logical, others absurd, all futile. None worked. On the third morning, he sat at his table and tried again.

Can there really be such a thing as an unbreakable cipher? he asked himself for the hundredth time. Monsieur Vigenère thought so, and so far he was right. Twenty-six possible substitutions for each letter, determined by an agreed keyword, from whose own letters the encryption row was taken. If the keyword were THOMAS, a single letter in the text might have been encrypted according to any of the rows starting with T, H, O, M, A or S. It would not respond to analysis of frequencies. Yet the more he thought about it, the more Thomas’s logical mind could not accept the concept of an unbreakable cipher. That the square had not yet been broken did not mean it never would be. Abraham was right. There would be a way.

Putting himself in the shoes of an encrypter, he wrote down five repetitions of his keyword THOMAS, and, underneath them, his ‘message’ in plain text.

T H OM A S T H O M A S T H O M A S T H OM A S T H OMA S

O N E E Y E I S B R O W N Y E T T H E O T H E R I S B L UE

Then, using the square he had already constructed, he en coded each letter of his message according to the letter above it, which indicated which row of the square to use. This gave him a third, enciphered line:

H U S Q Y W B Z P D O O G F S F T Z X V H T E J B Z P X UW

The recipient of this message would decrypt it by reversing the process, as long as he knew the keyword, or the sequence of rows to be used, which could, less securely, be communicated by numbers. But as the numbers had proved time-consuming and unhelpful, Thomas had decided that they were codes and that he would return to the letters. Two things stuck out from his encryption. Double letters were coincidental, and would be no help in decryption, and any letter encrypted according to the letter A would appear as itself. Without his knowing if there were any As in the keyword, this too was unhelpful. He also noticed, however, that the sequence of letters BZP appeared twice, because they happened to coincide twice with the plain text letters ISB. A thought struck him. He knew why BZP appeared twice because he knew what the keyword was. In a Vigenère square, single-letter repetitions were meaningless, but repetitions of sequences might not be.

For an hour he pondered the question. The answer did not leap at him as it did to Archimedes in his bath, it crept up slowly. If he just knew the length of the keyword it would be a start. Common letter sequences, such as THE, AND and TION, would have been repeated in the text, and would sometimes have coincided with repeats of the letters of the keyword, thus leading to repetitions in the en crypted text. If he measured the distances in letters between each repeated sequence, he should be able to calculate the length of the keyword. In his ‘message’ BZP were letters seven to nine, and twenty-five to twenty-seven. So the start of the second sequence fell eighteen letters after the start of the first. His keyword, THOMAS, had six letters. Eighteen was divisible by six. The letters of the keyword had been repeated exactly three times before meeting the same plain-text sequence of letters again. It was a matter of simple arithmetic. Then an awkward thought occurred. Eighteen was also divisible by one, two, three, nine and itself. Not so simple, after all. Time for another stroll. He locked his door and set off.

Outside Pembroke, Thomas turned left towards the ancient castle. Head down and lost in thought, he barely noticed the beggars and whores who infested this part of the town. Jumbles of letters and numbers tumbled about in his mind, as if trying to make some sort of sense
but never quite managing it. He walked round the castle and back towards St Ebbe’s. Could he find the length of the keyword from repeating sequences of letters, and, if so, how could he use it? He felt the vague stirring of an idea.

He did not see the boys until it was too late. Three of them came hurtling towards him, and, before he could move aside, knocked him off his feet into a drain. At least they had the grace to stop and help him up, dusting him down and enquiring if he was hurt. Although he knew that his shoulder was bruised, he assured them that he was only shaken, and advised them to take more care in future. They promised to do so and offered to help him home. Not wishing to be helped, he declined the offer and walked alone back to Pembroke, conscious that he looked and smelt exactly as if he had fallen into a drain.