‘He was, and a clever and devious man. How he hid his treachery from me for so long, I do not know. He has done our cause much harm, and only time will tell if it can be repaired. Thank God he is dead and can do no more. Now, the queen and her party will be leaving Oxford immediately. As we learned nothing from Rush, her guard has been doubled. You will travel with them to Salisbury. From there, you must make your own way home.’
‘Thank you, your majesty.’
‘Good. Then it’s settled. Farewell, Master Hill. God be with you.’
CHAPTER 17
TO THOMAS’S RELIEF, the queen’s considerable party of carriages, courtiers, servants and guards arrived in Salisbury without mishap, two days later. They had met no Parliamentary cavalry, no clubmen or highwaymen, and no serious impediments to their progress. Riding in a carriage at the back of the procession, Thomas had not set eyes on the queen, never mind spoken to her. The Generalissima had kept to her own carriage at the front, flanked by her Lifeguards and a troop of Prince Rupert’s Bluecoats. As he was in the mood for neither polite conversation nor loyal deference, the arrangement had suited Thomas well enough.
At Salisbury, they halted to rest the horses before continuing on towards Exeter. Thomas was expecting to leave the party there and make his own way to Romsey. As he was saddling a horse, however, Simon strode up, leading another. ‘Her majesty has consented to my escorting you home, Thomas. I advised her that it would be wise for me to do so.’
‘Wise, Simon? Wise for whom?’ replied Thomas, pretending not to be pleased. He had not been looking forward to finishing the journey alone.
‘For you and your family. When travelling unaccompanied, you have a habit of getting into difficulties. Her majesty wishes you to get home safely.’
‘Very well. No doubt Margaret will be delighted to see you again.’
‘Not, my friend, as delighted as she will be to see you. However, I will not be able to stay. As soon as I have safely delivered you, I must rejoin the queen.’
They covered the fifteen miles to Romsey in less than three hours, arriving in mid-afternoon. On the outskirts of the town, they dismounted and led their horses over the river, past neat rows of cottages and into Market Square. The town was quiet and none of the few people about took any notice of them. Outside the Romsey Arms there were no drinkers, although Thomas could hear voices inside. Looking around, he could see nothing much changed in the weeks he had been away. Romsey, it seemed, had so far avoided the fate of so many towns up and down England which had been devastated by the ravages of war. They walked up Love Lane, past the baker’s shop, to the bookshop.
Thomas knocked loudly on the door. It was a new door, made of very stout oak, with a formidable lock and fixed with three large iron hinges. It was not a door that a thieving soldier could easily kick in. The windows were also new, with thick shutters and sturdy frames. There was no answer. He knocked again, and shouted out. ‘Margaret, the owner of this bookshop is outside, and he would like to come in.’ There was no reply. He tried again. ‘Margaret, it’s Thomas. Open the door.’ Still no answer. He rattled the door handle and gave the door a push. It did not move. He tried the windows. Peering between the shutters, he could see that they were all barred. The bars, too, were new. Margaret really had taken precautions.
‘They’ve probably gone for a walk in the meadow,’ he said, more to reassure himself than anything else. ‘We often go there.’
Simon heard the concern in Thomas’s voice. ‘Or to visit a friend, or to church, or to buy bread. They could be anywhere, Thomas. There’s no cause for alarm. It’s not as if they knew we were coming.’
‘No, of course you’re right. It’s just that I’m so looking forward to seeing them.’
‘And you soon will. However, if I’m to rejoin the queen before nightfall, I must be on my way. I promised her that I would not dally.’
Thomas held out his hand. ‘Farewell then, Simon. Thank you for your company. Thank you also for getting me out of that hellhole of a gaol, and for preventing Tobias Rush from removing my eyes.’
Simon’s smile was sad. ‘I grieve that Abraham and Jane are dead, but you, thank God, are alive. You’re a clever man, Thomas Hill, and a brave one.’
‘I hardly think so.’ Thomas released Simon’s hand. ‘Now go, Father de Pointz. Go safely, and do not call upon me again. I wish to spend the rest of my days peacefully with my family.’
‘I pray that God and the war will permit you to do so. Farewell, Thomas. God bless you.’
Thomas watched Simon lead his horse back down Love Lane. Simon did not look back. What an extraordinary man, thought Thomas. Deep devotion and unshakable loyalty married to worldly knowledge and a shrewd mind. A man whose principles are very much his own. I wonder what life has in store for him.
And now what? It would not be easy to break into the shop with Margaret’s new defences in place and he had no idea where she and the girls might be. Deciding that there was no point in guessing, Thomas walked back to Market Square and into the Romsey Arms. There were a few drinkers there, most of whom he knew at least by sight. One of them saw him and held up a hand in greeting. ‘Good day, Thomas. We haven’t seen you for weeks. Have you been unwell or did you go and join the king’s army?’
‘Neither, thankfully. I’ve been visiting an old friend. The bookshop is locked up. Do you happen to know where Margaret is?’
The man shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not.’ He raised his voice so that everyone could hear. ‘Thomas Hill has lost his sister. Does anyone know where she is?’ There were a few ribald comments about her being carried off by lusty young men, but no one knew where she was. Neither she nor her daughters had been seen in the town for some days. Two years ago that might have been cause for alarm, but, in time of war, people came and went constantly.
‘Have we had any more military visitors?’ asked Thomas.
‘Not since those cavalrymen in August. It’s been quiet.’
That was something to be grateful for. But it was the letters that really worried Thomas. Could the girls have been abducted? That was well within Rush’s evil reach. Thomas would have agreed to almost anything if they had been in danger, and Rush had known it. What’s more, with Rush dead, his henchmen would now be waiting in vain for further orders. God alone knew what they might do when they tired of waiting or learned of his death.
Not wanting to be drawn into further discussion, Thomas left the inn and wandered slowly back up Love Lane. The shop was still locked up and deserted. He knocked on their neighbours’ doors. None of them knew where Margaret was, or when she had left. She had left no messages and no instructions. They knew only that Thomas had been away and were happy to see him returned safely.
By the time it was getting dark, Thomas had learned nothing. The only thing for it was to find somewhere to sleep, and to start again the next morning. It was early autumn and the nights were cold, too cold for a haystack, so back he went to Market Square. The door to the old abbey was unlocked, as it always was. Thomas let himself in, found a hymnbook, found a pew at the back, and lay down with the book as his pillow. It was neither comfortable nor warm, but it was dry. He closed his eyes, folded his hands across his chest and tried to empty his mind.
Four hours later, he gave up all thoughts of sleep and, pulling his coat around his shoulders, ventured out into the night. Better to pass the time wandering around the town than lying on a hard wooden pew. His back was already stiff. Four more hours and he might never have got up. He walked around the square, where even the Romsey Arms was quiet. Shutters were open, but no light shone through the windows. No voices disturbed the silence. It was an unfamiliar Romsey, a Romsey he barely knew. The town was asleep, even if Thomas Hill was not.
Thomas turned into Love Lane, and walked to the shop. He stood outside it, gazing, unseeing, at the new oak door. Polly, Lucy, Margaret – where were they? Had they come to harm? Abraham and Jane murdered, Oxford gaol, Rush, Fayne, surely not all just to find his fami
ly dead too. Yet that was the war – thousands of individual tragedies adding up to one collective disaster. More than six thousand individuals had died at Newbury alone. How many more Newburys would there be?
A black cat ran across the street and brushed against Thomas’s leg. He shuddered at its touch. If the war had affected the mind of a man as lacking in superstition as he, would the shadows and shapes of Oxford stay with him for ever? Unthinkingly, he made his way to the river, and strolled downstream until he came to the place from where he used to fish. There the bank was low, a line of willows growing along it, and the river running faster as it narrowed. It was his favourite spot for catching the fat brown trout that lurked under the overhang of the bank. Ripples on the water glinted in the darkness, and he could almost see the fish waiting to be caught. With his rod and line and a few flies, he would have had his breakfast in no time. A pair of juicy trout sizzling in the pan and eaten with slices of new bread and Margaret’s butter. A king’s breakfast.
The first glimmerings of dawn were in the sky. Thomas retraced his steps to Love Lane. Still the bookshop was locked up. What else did he expect? The letters had frightened Margaret and she had taken the girls somewhere safer. If she had been in Romsey, someone would have known where. But where had she gone? Their friends were all Romsey people, and they had no family elsewhere. She would not have taken the children to an inn, and after their experience on the day Simon had arrived, she would not have taken them anywhere held by soldiers of Parliament.
Then it occurred to him. Andrew Taylor’s sister lived in Winchester. She and Margaret had kept in touch for a while after Andrew’s death. Winchester – Royalist-held, a decent road and no more than twelve miles away. There was every chance that she had gone to Winchester, and he had better get there as quickly as he could. In any event, it would be better than wandering around Romsey, unable to open his own door or sleep in his own bed. He should have thought of it yesterday.
Despite the hour, he woke the landlord of the Romsey Arms and persuaded him to arrange for a horse to be saddled and ready. The prospect of doing something positive lifted Thomas’s spirits, and he was soon on the road to Winchester. It was a cool, dry morning, and he would be there well before noon. He remembered Emily’s house in the middle of the town. It would be an excellent place for Margaret and the girls to stay – spacious and comfortable – and, if he was not mistaken, very near a fine inn. He would find them there, stay the night and return with them to Romsey the following day.
He was less than halfway to Winchester when the horse threw a shoe. Thomas dismounted at once, inspected the hoof, cursed his ill luck, took up the reins and led the horse on. They would have to walk to the next inn or farrier, which would probably be in the village of Hursley, three or four miles on. The road was too stony to take risks, so progress would be slow.
Slow it was, and Thomas became increasingly impatient. Any thought of arriving by midday was abandoned, and by the time they reached Hursley he was beginning to wonder if they would even make Winchester before dark.
A coach stood outside the Shepherd and Flock in Hursley. Had it been going to Winchester, it would have passed Thomas on the road. So unless he could persuade its passengers to turn round and go back where they had come from, it would be no use to him. He led the horse to the smithy behind the inn, asked for it to be reshod as quickly as possible and went in search of refreshment.
The coach party were sitting at a table in the inn – two men facing the door, and two ladies with their backs to it. The coachmen, both armed, sat at a separate table. ‘A tankard of ale, please,’ said Thomas to a man wiping down tables, ‘and some bread and cheese.’ From the corner of his eye, he saw the men in the coach party look up at the sound of his voice, and one of the ladies turn to inspect the new arrival. For a second or two, she stared at him, then rose suddenly from her seat and launched herself across the room. She threw her arms around his neck and held on as if her life depended upon it. Eventually he was able gently to ease her off. He put his hands on her shoulders and held her at arm’s length. Tears were pouring down her cheeks. He was weeping and laughing at the same time. ‘Good Lord, Margaret,’ he managed, ‘this is not quite where I had expected to find you.’ Unable to speak, Margaret nodded and smiled. ‘Where are you going?’
‘To Romsey,’ she whispered, wiping away a tear.
‘And where are the girls?’
‘At Emily’s house.’
‘I thought they might be. I was on my way there. Are they well?’
‘Quite well. And you, Thomas, are you well?’
‘Well enough, thank you. And relieved to be home. Or almost home.’
In reply, Margaret started sobbing again. ‘I’m sorry, Thomas,’ she said, ‘it’s just such a relief to see you.’ She studied him. ‘You look well. A little thinner, perhaps, and the beard will have to go, but otherwise well.’
Margaret’s travelling companions had been watching with interest, wondering if this could be a prodigal husband. ‘Does this mean you will be travelling on with us, madam,’ asked one of the men, ‘or returning to Winchester?’
‘My apologies,’ she replied. ‘This is my brother, Thomas Hill, whom I haven’t seen for some weeks.’ Thomas bowed politely. ‘Well, brother,’ she went on, ‘Winchester or Romsey? Which shall it be?’
After some discussion, it was agreed that Thomas would follow behind the coach to Romsey, and Margaret would set off again to Winchester the next day. That would give them the chance to talk before the girls demanded all Thomas’s attention, and enable Margaret to prepare them for their uncle’s return.
While his horse was being shod, Thomas sat beside Margaret and ate his bread and cheese. When she asked about the cuts on his neck and around his eye, he said merely that he would tell her everything later. She explained that they had been living with Emily for a month, and that she was making her second trip to ensure that the shop was secure and all was in order.
‘It’s certainly secure,’ he said. ‘Even the owner can’t get in.’
The bookshop was indeed in order. Thomas’s quills, ink and papers stood on his writing table, the shelves were tidy and the floor swept. Margaret told him to sit while she fetched something from her bedroom. She returned with a handful of letters. ‘There are six of them. The last one arrived two weeks ago. They were all pushed under the door at night, for me to find in the morning. Read them, please.’
It did not take Thomas long. They were short letters, and very much to the point, each one more threatening than the one before. Their message was the same. In time of war, a young widow and her daughters were not safe alone, and should take particular care. Who knew what awful things might otherwise happen to them? Who knew what vile ideas might enter the heads of drunken soldiers? The letters were all in the same hand, and unsigned. Thomas looked up. ‘Are these why you took the girls away?’
‘Yes. I thought they’d be safer.’
‘You were probably wise. However, I know why these letters were written, and I know who was behind them. The writer himself is actually of no account. It was the man who composed them who was dangerous.’
‘Was?’
‘Happily, yes.’ It took Thomas over an hour to relate the story. He told Margaret about Tobias Rush, and about Abraham’s death. He missed out the worst of the gaol, and left a certain amount unsaid about Jane Romilly. Otherwise, his account was full and accurate. ‘So,’ he ended, ‘there is nothing now to be frightened of. The girls can come home, and we can reopen the shop. Tobias Rush is dead. The king himself saw his body.’
The next morning, Margaret set off in the coach back to Winchester to collect the girls. After a busy time pottering about in the shop, Thomas wandered down to the Romsey Arms to see what news there was, and for a little refreshment. At the junction of Love Lane and Market Street, he stopped to admire the view. The autumn leaves were turning red and orange, the fields a deep green. He could hear voices coming from Market Square, and guessed that th
e inn was busy.
There were no drinkers outside, but inside it was noisy and crowded. A troop of the king’s dragoons, in their multicoloured coats and feathered hats, had arrived and were keeping the serving girls busy.
When she saw Thomas, Sarah shrieked a greeting. ‘Master ’ill, ’aven’t see you for ages. Where ’ave you been?’
‘Nowhere much, Sarah. How’s Rose?’
‘Much too big to work, silly cow. Baby’ll drop any day.’
‘You’re busy today.’
‘Soldiers on their way to Oxford. Same lot as was ’ere a few weeks ago.’
Thomas looked around. Sure enough, there was the fat dragoon who had sat on him, and there was Captain Brooke. He took his ale and found a seat in the corner, from where he could watch and listen. He was not in the mood for argument or banter. Or for being sat upon. He heard the dragoons recounting their experiences in Lord Goring’s army, which had consisted mostly of monumental bouts of drinking and whoring, his lordship setting an excellent example to his men in both pursuits, and he watched them spending a good many shillings on ale, shillings they had doubtless removed, without consent, from their owners. He was about to leave when the captain noticed him in the corner.
‘Well, well. If it isn’t our friend the bookseller. Hill, isn’t it? We met when we last visited Romsey.’
Thomas rose. ‘Thomas Hill, sir. Your memory does you credit. I gather you and your men have been serving with Lord Goring.’
‘That we have, the drunken old goat. Now we’re on our way to Oxford. The king has demanded reinforcements. Do you know Oxford?’
‘I was a student there many years ago. It’s a beautiful town.’
‘Then let’s hope we don’t have to defend it from rampaging Puritans. And what have you been doing since last we met, Master Hill?’
‘Oh, business as usual, captain.’
‘The quiet life, eh? I envy you. And what about that French fellow of yours? Mountain.’
The King's Spy (Thomas Hill Trilogy 1) Page 29