The King's Spy (Thomas Hill Trilogy 1) (30 page)

It started badly. The first letter of a hypothetical four-letter keyword yielded four Is, four Ts and six voids, and the other three letters produced similar distributions. Quite useless. Five- and six-letter keywords were no better. Shapeless distributions, offering no clues as to where the most common and uncommon letters hid. After fifteen separate counts, Thomas started making mistakes. He had to rewrite the list of letters produced by the third letter of a seven-letter keyword, and miscounted twice.

Thomas was standing by the window deep in thought when Simon burst in carrying a sack. He was ashen. ‘Thomas, Jane has been attacked. She was found this morning in the river, unconscious and having lost much blood.’

‘Is she alive?’ Please God, he thought, let her be alive.

‘She is. Just.’

‘Who did this to her?’

‘We don’t know. She was found by a student walking beside the river. It must have been shortly after the attack or she’d have been dead. He dragged her out and carried her to Magdalen. An officer’s wife there recognized her and sent word to Merton. She’s there now.’

‘Who would do such a thing?’

Simon laid a hand on Thomas’s sleeve. ‘That, my friend, I cannot say. Thomas, there’s something else. I fear Jane was raped, and cruelly so.’

Thomas slumped on to the chair and closed his eyes. One eye is brown yet the other is blue. Present tense. Is, not was. The message would have to wait. ‘I must see her.’

‘Thomas, if you’re caught outside Christ Church, you’ll be hanged. And Rush will be watching for you.’

‘I must see her.’

Simon sighed. ‘I thought you’d say that.’ He tipped the contents of the sack on to the floor. ‘I’ve brought you a habit, and I have an idea. It’s dangerous, but I can think of nothing else. To try to leave by the main gate would be suicidal.’

While Thomas undressed and put on the habit, Simon explained his plan. ‘When the queen arrived in Oxford, the king had gates built into the east wall of Christ Church, the walls of Corpus Christi and the west wall of Merton. They enable him to visit the queen discreetly. They are guarded only when the king is with the queen, and, except when in use, the only keys are kept in the king’s and queen’s private apartments. I have borrowed the queen’s keys.’

‘Does the queen know?’

‘She does not. Nor, yet, does she know about Jane. I will tell her when the outcome is known.’

‘I’m ready. Let us try.’

‘Are you quite certain, Thomas? This is extremely dangerous for you and, probably, for me.’

‘I wish to see Jane.’

‘Very well. Wait by the window. I will go down first and signal to you when it’s safe to follow. We’ll walk together, as if in conversation. Don’t hurry, and keep your head down. If there’s anyone about, we’ll walk past the gate and go round again. I’ll lock it behind us, and we’ll walk around the back of Corpus Christi to the Merton gate.’

As soon as Simon had left, Thomas stood by the window, keeping himself from view. The encrypted message was inside his habit. He saw Simon walk towards the middle of the quadrangle, look up briefly, turn and walk on. He made no signal. There must have been someone there. Thomas kept watching until Simon reappeared from the direction of the Great Hall. This time, he stopped under the window and raised his hand. Within a minute, they were heading for the king’s gate.

The gate was really a door. Cut into the wall, it was tall and thick, with oak timbers and iron fixings. No intruder was going to force his way through such a door,
and, as Simon had predicted, it was unguarded. He produced a batch of heavy iron keys from under his habit and inserted one in the lock. It would not turn. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he tried another. This one turned smoothly and the door swung open. They were through it at once, and Simon immediately locked it from the other side. Seeing no one about, they made for the path along the south wall of Corpus Christi, and turned left towards the gate in the Merton wall. As they approached it Simon again produced the keys, intending to open the gate and enter the college as quickly as possible. Once inside Merton, they would be safer. He had the key in the lock and was about to turn it, when four soldiers in the red uniforms of the king’s Lifeguard of Foot appeared from the direction of Merton Street. Simon quickly removed the key from the lock, hid it under his habit, and walked briskly towards the soldiers. Thomas followed him. These Lifeguards had not spent their morning guarding the king’s life. They were loud and drunk. Seeing Thomas and Simon approaching, one of them said, ‘Well now, gentlemen, a pair of monks to keep us pure and holy. Just what we need. Good day, monks. What about a little prayer for our souls, or has the queen used them all up?’

‘God bless you, gentlemen,’ replied Simon, as he tried to walk past.

A large Lifeguard blocked their path. ‘He might, monk,’ he said, a hint of menace in his voice, ‘but we’d like you to. And your friend.’ He looked at Thomas, who was trying not to show his face. ‘A good friend, is he? We all know about monks and their unholy ways.’

‘We are Franciscan friars on the queen’s business,’ said Simon sternly, ‘and cannot be delayed further. Kindly let us pass.’ The large Lifeguard did not move.

‘What business might that be, I wonder?’ asked the first one. ‘Praying or poking? The queen has lots of pretty ladies to tempt you.’

‘That is a vile accusation, and I can see it comes from a vile man. We are men of God. Stand aside and let us be about our business,’ snapped Thomas.

‘And why would we do that, monk?’ asked the large one. ‘I don’t care for men in skirts who keep out of trouble and leave us to do all the fighting. They might as well be women.’

‘And we know what women are for, eh?’ A third Lifeguard, emboldened by his colleagues, entered the fray. ‘What’s under those skirts of yours? I wonder. Perhaps we should take a look.’ He reached out and lifted the hem of Thomas’s habit. Thomas grabbed his forearm and wrist with both hands, straightened the
arm, pushed hard, and watched the soldier fall backwards and land on his backside in the dirt.

‘No match for a monk, eh, Step?’ The large Lifeguard bellowed with laughter. ‘Let me show you how it’s done.’

‘I don’t advise it,’ said Simon calmly. ‘Just because we’re men of God does not mean that we cannot defend ourselves. Furthermore, the queen awaits us. If we’re late, she will soon know why.’

Unimpressed, the Lifeguard took a wild swing at his head. Simon moved deftly to one side, avoided the blow and hit the Lifeguard with a short, sharp punch in the throat. With a strangled gurgle of pain, the man collapsed in a heap. Neither of the still-upright soldiers made any effort to help him. Simon and Thomas turned and retraced their steps to the gate. Before the soldiers could stop them, they were through it and into Merton. Simon locked the gate and put a hand on Thomas’s shoulder.

‘What a war. Even the king’s men resent the faith of his queen. What do they think they’re fighting for?’

‘Themselves, Simon,’ replied Thomas, ‘themselves.’

Jane had been taken to her rooms near the Warden’s lodgings, where the queen had set up her household. When Thomas and Simon entered, they found her on a
large bed, cushions under her head, and covered by an embroidered blanket. An elderly lady sat by the bed, a pile of linen cloths beside her. She rose when they entered. ‘Has there been any change?’ asked Simon.

‘None,’ replied the lady. ‘She’s still losing blood, and has not yet spoken.’ Thomas noticed a second pile of cloths on the floor, these ones stained with blood. He went to the bed and took Jane’s hand in his. She did not stir.

‘She’s very pale. Can the bleeding not be stopped?’

‘I am trying, father, but the wounds are deep.’

‘I am not a friar, madam,’ Thomas said gently, ‘though it’s better you don’t know my name.’

‘He is a friend,’ Simon reassured her. ‘Do not be concerned.’ The lady nodded, but said nothing. ‘Would you leave us with Lady Romilly, please? We will call if she wakes.’ With a glance at Jane, she quietly left the room.

Thomas sat on the bed, still holding Jane’s hand. Simon stood at the end of the bed and said a prayer. When he had finished, Thomas spoke quietly. ‘Abraham, now Jane. I wish to God that Abraham had never mentioned me to the king, or that we’d turned you away when you arrived at our door, Simon. Murder, torture, rape. All in the name of a stupid, vicious war.’ Before Simon could respond, Jane opened her eyes, saw Thomas
and smiled weakly. Thomas put his finger on her lips. ‘Don’t try to talk. You’ve lost a lot of blood, but you’re safe now.’ Another tiny smile, and her eyes closed again.

To Thomas, it seemed like hours before Jane stirred again. He sat silently, holding her hand and willing her to survive. He knew now that she had told him everything. Without warning, her eyes opened, he felt the slightest squeeze of his hand, and she whispered something. Unable to make it out, Thomas leaned forward until his cheek was touching hers. He could just hear the words. ‘Rush sent them.’

‘Sent who, Jane?’

Her answer was even quieter. ‘One was Francis.’

‘The others?’ But Jane could not reply. Thomas lifted his head and nodded. Rush and Fayne. He should have guessed. ‘They’ll hang for it. Now rest.’ The effort had been too much. Jane’s back arched, and she moaned in pain. Simon went to the door and summoned the nurse, who bustled in and lifted the blanket. Jane’s legs and stomach were covered in blood. Between her legs, the linen cloths were sodden. When the nurse removed them, blood gushed on to the bed. Her eyes had closed and there was no sign of her breathing. Simon bent to put his hand to her neck, and his ear to her mouth. When he rose, he shook his head and made the sign of the cross. Jane was dead.

While Simon prayed for her, Thomas sat motionless, her hand still in his. Then, suddenly, without word or warning, he placed her hand on her breast, got up from the bed and left. While Simon prayed, he ran down the staircase, across the Merton courtyard and through the gate. In Merton Street, he slowed to a fast walk. He passed soldiers, beggars, whores, merchants and scholars, and saw none of them. He trod in mud and excrement, and was cursed when he collided with a fruit-seller, knocking the man’s box of apples to the ground. He walked up Magpie Lane and Catte Street, along Broad Street and towards the castle. He saw none of the staring faces, and heard none of the shouted insults. For an hour, and then another hour, he walked the streets, cursing Rush the murderer, cursing the king for his summons, cursing Simon for fetching him, even cursing Abraham. And, above all, cursing himself. For coming to Oxford, for Jane’s death, for leaving Margaret and the girls, for his stupidity. By the time Thomas found himself back at Christ Church, his fury had been replaced by cold, hard determination. He strode through the college gates, and past two guards watching everyone leaving the college but showing no interest in anyone arriving. He made his way around the cattle pen to his rooms. He met no challenge. If he had, he would
have ignored it. Jane Romilly, whom he had dared to love, was dead. If he was to prove that Rush and Fayne had killed her, he had work to do. He would grieve for her when that work was done.

XZFMGMAYTDSXPMFMMVNLAJCLAWIMELABTHXFLRY HXWIDQJQJTDDMERTGCKETPMKEGXIEDUJIECTKOYOJ DLNEPLBYEBHBKOTPMTIJLMGLPFQEBYJQJTDDQRWPC
QKICKBIURLTZOCK

ONE HUNDRED AND
thirty-six letters, which could well prove Rush responsible for the murder of Abraham and the rape of Jane. Not to mention a traitor and a torturer. Thomas was sure they had not been encrypted by simple substitution, or by a Caesar shift. That left Monsieur Vigenère, whom he had already defeated once. But this time the message was short, there was only one repetition of more than two letters, his analysis of letter frequencies had yielded nothing, and the keyword was neither PARIS, nor LONDON, nor ROME.

Now what? Try every country and every city he could think of? Try random words that came to mind? Or think of something else, some new way of attacking Vigenère? For a long time, Thomas sat and stared at the text, occasionally scribbling words on a sheet of paper. Spain, England, France, Italy, Abraham, Jane. ONE EYE IS BROWN YET THE OTHER IS BLUE. Jane Romilly. Rush, Fayne, Parliament, Pym, Traitor. Romsey, Thomas Hill, Jane. He had no more than twelve hours to decrypt this message, and he had no idea what to do other than try possible keywords. Hardly scientific, or even artistic. Where was Hill’s magic when it was needed?

He wrote out a new square, and started with cities – MADRID, LISBON, ATHENS, VIENNA; then countries – SPAIN, AUSTRIA, ITALY, GREECE. Nothing. He tried a random assortment of words and names – FAIRFAX, MILTON, OXFORD, HONOUR, TRUTH, PIETY, PRAYER. Again, nothing. His head ached.

All through the night, Thomas fought off sleep and kept working on the message. It was futile. By dawn, he was beyond sleep and had nothing left to give. He had failed. The message’s secrets, whatever they were, remained secrets. Rush would escape, and his own fate was in the hands of the king. Best to face it with as much
courage and dignity as he could manage. He washed, shaved, put on a clean shirt and waited to be summoned. He heard the guards tramping up the staircase, and rose to open the door. There were two of them, both ill-tempered, both complaining loudly. ‘Backwards and forwards across the yard and up some damned staircase. That’s all we do. We’re soldiers, not servants,’ grumbled one.