In the Warden’s receiving room, the queen was sitting on a crimson cushion set upon a large oak chair. Around her sat her spaniels and behind her stood two ladies-in-waiting. There was no sign of dwarves. Thomas bowed and stood before her. In a long gown of cream silk, her auburn hair teased into ringlets around her face, and wearing pearls in her ears and at her throat, she looked every inch the Queen of England. When she spoke, however, it was with a hint of a French accent, which he had not noticed at the masque. ‘Master Hill. A pleasure to meet you again. Lady Jane tells me you are interested in gardens.’ Thomas glanced at Jane and saw the twinkle. Wicked woman.
‘Indeed, your majesty. And I have found her to be an excellent tutor. On matters philosophical as well as botanical.’
The queen looked at Jane in surprise. ‘Really, Jane? I was not aware that you took an interest in such matters.’
‘Oh yes, your majesty,’ replied Jane with a grin at Thomas. ‘I am particularly fond of Michel de Montaigne. I find him a great support in life.’
‘How sensible of you to rely upon a Frenchman, my dear. We are a most practical race.’ The queen turned to Thomas. ‘And what do you do in Oxford, Master Hill, when you are not walking with Lady Jane?’
‘I am his majesty’s cryptographer. I deal with messages and despatches coming in and going out.’
‘Indeed. I recall his majesty mentioning the matter. Was it your predecessor who was found in an alleyway?’
‘I fear so, your majesty. Erasmus Pole.’
‘I trust such a fate will not befall you, Master Hill.’
‘As do I.’
‘Alas, there are many in Oxford who do not share my faith or understand the king’s resolve to carry out his duty. The king is a most honourable man and a courageous one. He would rather die than surrender his throne and his right to rule the country. On this, he will not compromise.’
‘I believe the country understands this, your majesty.’
‘Does it?’ The queen sat for a moment in silence; then a broad smile lit up her face. ‘I brought three thousand men to Oxford, you know. They called me the Generalissima for it. I rather like the name, don’t you?’
‘I am sure it is meant as a compliment.’
‘So am I. Do take care in Oxford, Master Hill, and take care of Jane Romilly. She is very dear to me. Now, I must be about my affairs. Good day, Master Hill.’
‘Good day, your majesty.’ Thomas bowed again, took two steps backwards, then turned and left, hoping this was roughly what he was supposed to do. Jane escorted him to the door. Outside, he said, ‘A little more warning next time, if you please, madam. Unlike you, I am unaccustomed to being in the royal presence.’
‘Your conduct did you credit, Thomas. What did you make of the Generalissima?’
‘I would not care to cross her. Formidable, I believe, is the word for her in both English and French.’
‘She has a kind heart. And she is quite devoted to the king, as he is to her.’
‘Is she always accompanied by waiting ladies and plump spaniels?’
‘Always.’ Jane reached up and lightly kissed Thomas’s cheek. ‘Au revoir, Thomas.’ And she was gone before Thomas thought to mention Rush.
At Pembroke, any hope of reaching his room unimpeded was swiftly dashed by the sight of Fayne lounging in the courtyard with what looked like a group of fawning admirers. He stood half a head taller than any of them and was evidently holding court. His voice carried easily around the yard, bouncing off the wall of the chapel at the northern end. ‘She’s a pretty wench, and most accommodating. Knows a trick or two, I can tell you. I find it’s the high-born ones who do. The tavern girls could learn a lot from them.’ Fayne looked up and saw Thomas. If his audience were hoping to hear more about the high-born lady, they were dis appointed. Fayne pushed past them and strode up to Thomas, blocking the route to his room. Unless Thomas’s nose betrayed him, the man had taken strong drink, and a good deal of it. He smelt like a brewery.
‘Well, well. The bookseller has returned to us. Just what we need in time of war, gentlemen, eh? A bookseller. Bound to strike fear into the hearts of the enemy. Perhaps we should have a regiment of them.’ Fayne and his companions laughed loudly.
For a moment, Thomas was tempted to land a punch on the grinning face. What he lacked in height, he more than made up for in speed and skill, and he knew he could put Fayne on his back without undue difficulty. That, of course, was what the vile creature wanted — a reason to have him thrown out of the college — and his companions would swear to a man that the blow was unprovoked. Thomas stepped aside and carried on towards his room, ignoring the vulgar jeers that followed him.
He locked the door behind him and poured himself a glass from the bottle of good claret Silas had thoughtfully provided. Then he sat down at the table to tackle the rest of the pile. After two dreary messages, however, his mind wandered. Not long ago, he was a respectable and unremarkable bookseller and writer of minor papers on mathematics and philosophy. Now he had conversed with the king and the queen, been abused by a drunken oaf of a soldier, seen for himself what war could do to a town as lovely as Oxford, met a beautiful lady with eyes of different colours, and been warned by almost everyone to beware of everyone else. Why in the name of God had he allowed himself to be caught up in this bloody war? Why had he not stayed in Romsey and taken care of Margaret and the girls? That was his proper place, not here among soldiers, beggars and spies. The harvest would be in, there would be the first touch of autumn in the air, and the stream would be alive with jumping trout. He loved early autumn in the countryside. In this benighted town there were no seasons, just noise, stench and death. With a sigh, he forced himself from his reverie and went back to work.
After three more days and nights, dozens of dreary reports and an almost total lack of contact with the world outside his room, Thomas could face no more. Despite his labours, the number of incoming reports had at least matched the number he had decrypted, and the pile on his table was no lower. After breakfast supplied by the kitchen, he locked his door, strode through the courtyard and left the college. It was time to pay a call he should already have paid.
The shop stood on the corner of Broad Street and Turl Street, not far from Balliol College. Braving the morning crowds in Market Street and the beggars and whores in Turl Street, he walked briskly to it. The outside was as he remembered it — a narrow two-storey building with glazed windows and timber framing, the upper storey jutting out over the street. It was typical of the buildings that had sprung up all over Oxford sixty or seventy years earlier, and had probably been built for a local merchant. Now it was home to John Porter’s bookshop.
Thomas pushed open the door and stepped inside. Despite the windows, it was dark enough for candles to have been lit and placed on a table in the middle of the room. There were bookshelves around the walls and two uncomfortable-looking chairs by the table. Unlike Thomas’s shop, however, there were few books. No untidy piles on the table or the floor and not very many on the shelves. As Thomas looked around, an old man came bustling in from a back room. He was exactly as Thomas remembered him and exactly as a bookseller should be. Unkempt, shabby, down-at-heel, for as long as Thomas had known him John Porter had put him in mind of Chaucer’s clerk in his Canterbury Tales — spectacles perched on the end of his nose, unruly white hair which might not have been trimmed for a year, and hands stained with dirt and ink.
‘Good morning, sir,’ he croaked at Thomas. ‘Everything you can see is for sale, and I will make you a good price. Are you in search of a particular book?’
Thomas stepped a little closer. ‘John, do you not recognize an old customer?’
The old man peered over his spectacles at Thomas, looked puzzled, and then smiled a toothless smile. ‘Good Lord, if it isn’t Thomas Hill. And what brings you to this benighted town at such a time?’