The King's Spy (Thomas Hill Trilogy 1) (3 page)

While Margaret took the girls to buy flour and eggs, Thomas wandered through the market. Stopping briefly to talk with the Court Recorder and a town burgess, he made his way through the crowd to the inn, where six women were paid two shillings each to keep every mug topped up from the big jugs they carried in and out. Chosen by the innkeeper for their speed with the jug, the size of their bosom and their ability to keep his customers coming back for more, not one of the women would go home that evening without having made at least one visit to the little copse behind the inn. The innkeeper allowed them to keep whatever rewards they received for these absences, as long as they were no more than ten minutes each. He reckoned ten minutes was good for business.

‘Morning, Master ’ill. Pot of ale, or a little walk by
the river first?’ One of the girls had seen him coming. She was a large, blonde girl with a notable bosom, and she knew what his answer would be.

‘Neither, thank you, Sarah. Next time, perhaps. Have you heard any news today?’

‘Not much. Unless you count Rose. ’er belly’s full again, silly bitch.’ Unlike Sarah, Rose was small, dark and often pregnant.

‘Does she know whose it is?’

‘Ha. Course not.’

‘Ah well. Perhaps he’ll grow up to be a bishop.’

‘Bishop, my arse,’ roared Sarah, chest heaving and ale slopping out of her jug. ‘Thief more like, same as ’er eldest. ’anged he was, and only ten. Good riddance, I say.’

‘Let’s hope not. If there’s no other news, I must go and find the girls.’

Having filled one basket with eggs and another with a small sack of flour, Polly and Lucy were to be found with their mother admiring ribbons at a haberdasher’s stall.

‘Ribbons, ladies? I thought we needed eggs.’

‘We’ve bought the eggs, Uncle Thomas,’ said Polly sternly, ‘and the flour. And now we need ribbons. Pink ones.’

‘Good morning, Master Hill,’ said the haberdasher,
tipping his hat. ‘Pink certainly suits both the young ladies.’

‘Oh, very well. Pink ones it is. Shall I help you choose?’ But before Polly could decline her uncle’s offer, a thundering of hooves brought the market to an abrupt standstill. Twenty horsemen wearing the round helmets and leather jerkins of cavalry galloped into the square. Their mounts, teeth bared and flanks glistening, were reined sharply to a halt outside the Romsey Arms. Every head in the marketplace turned towards them, and every eye searched for a hint of menace in their demeanour. These were the first soldiers of Parliament the town had seen. Margaret instinctively gathered the girls to her, and Thomas put himself between them and the troopers.

All but one dismounted and faced the crowd, reins in one hand, the other on the hilts of their swords. The captain of the troop remained mounted. He addressed the crowd, his voice carrying easily around the square. ‘Hear this, people of Romsey. We are soldiers of Parliament, on our way to Southampton. We need food and drink, and our horses need rest. If you cooperate, there will be no trouble. This evening we shall depart. Until then, we will take our ease here.’

Thomas turned to Margaret and whispered, ‘Take the girls home. Keep an eye on the street. If you see
soldiers coming, hide in the usual place. Here’s the key. I’ll be back soon.’ Leading the girls by the hand, Margaret slipped unnoticed out of the square and up the street towards the bookshop. When they had left, Thomas sat on the abbey steps and waited. He did not trust soldiers. Having refreshed themselves in the Romsey Arms, they might well start foraging for food, and plundering whatever else caught their eye. That was what soldiers did.

He was right not to trust them. Before long, two troopers, each holding a bottle of claret by the neck, stumbled out of the inn. They were followed by two more, these two holding Sarah and Rose by the hair. The men were laughing and the women cursing. Rose struggled to free herself and yelled at the man holding her to leave her and her baby alone and go and stick his prick in a sheep. He slapped her hard, shook her like a rat, and told her he had humped prettier ewes than her. Sarah was trying to reach her man’s eyes with her fingers. ‘Put that scabby thing in me and you’ll never see it again,’ she screeched. So, thought Thomas, this is how God-fearing soldiers of Parliament behave with drink inside them. This was to be no shilling tumble by the river. Sarah and Rose, hard-bitten whores though they were, were frightened. Thomas looked around. The twenty or so townsfolk watching were unarmed and
unwilling to interfere. There was nothing he could do. He should go home.

Not all the troopers had gone into the inn. Some had taken the horses off to find stabling; others, the most avaricious, had set about hammering on doors and demanding to be let in, threatening to burn down any houses where they were not swiftly admitted. On Love Lane, Thomas could see a two-handled cart standing outside a large house owned by a wealthy wool merchant. Inside, he heard voices raised and a woman wailing. When he reached the cart, he saw that it was loaded with cloth, plate, bottles and an enormous pair of silver candlesticks. Two troopers came out of the house, carrying a heavy gilt mirror. They dropped the mirror clumsily into the cart, shattering its glass. One of them pointed at Thomas. ‘You there, who are you, and what are you looking at?’ It was a rough London voice, more at home in Spitalfields than Romsey.

‘My name is Hill. I’m looking at nothing and I’m going home.’

The trooper eyed him suspiciously. ‘And where is that?’

‘A little further up the lane.’

‘Well, Hill, you look a generous fellow. I think we’ll come with you,’ said the other one.

Thomas shrugged. ‘As you wish, but I’m only a
bookseller. You’ll find little of value, unless you’re fond of books.’

‘We’ll see about that, master bookseller. Lead on, and you may show us your wares.’

Thomas had no choice. Walking as slowly as he dared, he led the two men with the cart towards the bookshop. He could only hope that Margaret was watching out, as he had told her to. He spoke loudly. ‘It’s only a small shop. I have little money there.’ Perhaps Margaret would hear him in time to hide with the girls. From these two thieves she would certainly be in danger.

When they reached the shop, the door was locked. Thomas put his hand in his pocket for the key, and swore silently. He had given it to Margaret. Without a key, the soldiers would know that the door had been locked from the inside, and that there must be someone there. He almost panicked. ‘Fire and damnation. My key’s gone. It’s been stolen, or I dropped it in the market.’

‘No matter, bookseller. I have a key,’ replied Spitalfields, and with two hefty kicks he broke the lock. The door swung open. ‘There. Now let’s see what you have for us.’

As Thomas had warned them, in the shop he had little but books and pamphlets. The narrow door in the
rear wall was closed. Thank God, Margaret must have seen or heard them, and taken the girls to the hiding place. All was quiet. The troopers looked around. ‘Where’s your money, bookseller?’ demanded Spitalfields.

‘I have very little, as I told you.’ Thomas went to his writing table, took a small bag of coins from a drawer and tossed it to the trooper. The trooper opened the bag, looked inside and scoffed.

‘Is this all? I don’t believe you, you lying turd-sucker. Where’s the rest?’

‘That’s all there is.’ The trooper took two steps forward and aimed a blow at the side of Thomas’s head. Thomas ducked it, only to catch another one from the other side. He stumbled and fell.

‘Then we’ll look for ourselves, shit-eater.’ While Thomas sat on the floor, the two men attacked the shop. The drawers of the desk were pulled out and the contents – more paper, quills and ink – strewn about the shop, books were dragged off the shelves, and the front window smashed with a chair. Thomas said nothing. Wanton destruction he could cope with. God forbid there would be anything worse.

When the whole floor was covered with damaged books, paper and ink, and the desk and chair reduced to firewood, the two troopers stopped for breath. ‘So. No
money in here,’ said one, then pointed at the narrow door. ‘Where does that lead?’

‘To my rooms. A kitchen and bedrooms, nothing more.’

‘Come on, Jethro. We’ll take a look.’ The door was unlocked. They went through, and up the short staircase immediately behind it. Thomas sat on the floor and held his breath. If the girls were going to be found, it would be now. He listened as the men climbed the stairs and entered the bedrooms above, their boots clattering on the floorboards. He heard beds being tipped over and a mirror being smashed. He shut his eyes and waited.

Eventually, the men stomped back down the stairs and into the shop. They carried a few plates and a silver cup. ‘Is this all you’ve got, bookseller?’

‘I fear so.’ A sword was unsheathed and pointed at his throat.

‘No hiding places, bookseller? You look prosperous enough.’

‘No. All my money is in the books. Or it was.’

‘And whose are the women’s clothes? Women’s and children’s.’

‘My sister and her daughters are away in Winchester.’

‘A pity. Though if she looks like you, we’d have to put a sack over her, eh Jethro?’ Luckily she doesn’t,
thought Thomas, but said nothing. ‘Come on, we’ve wasted enough time in this shithole.’

Thomas got up and, from the door, watched them swagger back down the lane. They had taken a little money, some plates and a silver cup. They had wrecked his bookshop and destroyed many of his books. They had smashed furniture. But they had not harmed Margaret or the girls. When he was sure it was safe to do so, Thomas went back into the shop and through the narrow door at the back. He stopped at the bottom of the staircase, knocked three times on the first stair and said ‘Montaigne’ loudly. Then he stood back as the first three stairs detached themselves, and put out a hand to help Polly and Lucy crawl out from the tiny space behind. Terrified, they had both wet themselves and were sobbing miserably. Thomas hugged them. ‘All’s well now. The soldiers have gone. We’re quite safe.’ Margaret emerged behind them, stretching her back and legs. Her face was ashen.

‘Did they hit you, Thomas?’ she asked, peering at him. ‘Your face is bruised.’

Thomas put his hand to his cheek. ‘It wasn’t much. The books suffered more.’

In the shop, they stared aghast at the devastation. Polly held on to her mother and Lucy started wailing. Margaret picked up some pages from a small volume
from which the cover had been ripped. ‘I fear that the Prince of Denmark has suffered somewhat,’ she observed, looking at a page and picking up another. ‘And so has Romeo. How wanton and stupid and cruel. What did they think they would gain by this?’

‘God alone knows. I told them I had no money except for the purse, and they took your silver cup.’

‘And broke the door and the window, I see.’ Margaret stood with hands on hips. ‘Well, Thomas, we must mend both at once and start to clear up this mess. Go upstairs, girls, please, change your dresses, and do what you can to sort out our clothes. I’ll be up soon.’ The girls, drying their eyes, did as they were told. ‘They’re shocked, Thomas, as well they might be. Polly asked if they were the men who killed her father.’

‘What did you tell her?’

‘I said they weren’t. She might have screamed otherwise.’

‘Thank God they stayed quiet while those animals were here.’

‘Thank God, indeed. Royalist drunkards one day, Parliamentary thieves another. What next, do you think? A Spanish Armada?’

Thomas laughed. Humour in times of trouble. Montaigne would surely have approved. ‘Probably. Now we’d better set to. I’ll mend the door and board up
the window. You salvage what ever books you can. I may be able to put some together again as long as they’re complete.’

It took all afternoon to clear up the shop and the bedrooms. Ruined books went on the kitchen fire with the desk and chair, and Thomas had a pile to rebind. Upstairs, the beds were righted and clothes sorted out. The door and window were secured. By evening, they were exhausted. Margaret put the girls to bed and sat with Thomas in the kitchen. In his hand he clutched a copy of Montaigne’s
Essais
. Miraculously, it had escaped unharmed. He opened a bottle of his very best hock.

‘Just the time for it,’ said Margaret, taking a sip. They sat quietly and shared the wine.

Thomas had just lit a beeswax candle when they heard a knock on the door. Margaret started. ‘Please God, not again. I couldn’t bear it,’ she whispered.

‘Hush now, Margaret, it was a gentle knock. Probably just a neighbour. I’ll go and see who it is.’ More nervous than he pretended, Thomas went cautiously to the door. ‘Who is it?’ he called.

‘A friend. I seek Master Thomas Hill.’

‘I am Thomas Hill.’

‘Kindly open the door, sir, and you will see that I mean you no harm.’

‘My home and shop were destroyed this very day
by soldiers of Parliament. How do I know I can trust you?’

‘Abraham Fletcher.’

Thomas wondered if he had heard correctly. Abraham Fletcher? His old tutor at Oxford? Surely not. ‘What of Abraham Fletcher?’

‘He sends greetings.’

Thomas hesitated, saw the kindly face of his old friend in his mind’s eye and made a decision. He unbolted the patched-up door and opened it. Outside stood a man in the grey, hooded habit of a Franciscan friar. Thomas jumped back in astonishment, thinking this must be some sort of trick. Catholic priests did not come calling unbidden, even at night. The friar, grinning hugely, stepped past him into the shop. When he pushed back his hood, Thomas saw a bald head and cheerful blue-eyed face with a long nose and a strong jaw. It was not a face he knew. ‘Thomas Hill?’ enquired the friar. Thomas nodded. ‘I am Simon de Pointz. I carry a message from the king.’