Fayne had won six shillings in the last two hands, and could afford to raise the stakes. ‘Two shillings it is, gentlemen,’ he announced, putting the coins down, ‘and a main of eight.’ That’s better, thought Thomas. A man who thinks his luck is in, and is willing to lengthen the odds against himself in order to tempt the gamblers. He took two of the remaining four shillings from his pocket and placed them on the table. The other two players did the same.
Fayne gave the dice an extra shake and rolled them out. Seven. A good number for the caster, and a bad one for his opponents. Fayne put another two shillings on the table, indicating that he was betting on throwing a seven before an eight. The odds favoured him. Thomas had no choice but to put down his last two shillings. With sixteen shillings on the table, Fayne picked up the dice and shook them. Thomas closed his eyes. It was not the money — he would survive the loss of six shillings — it was the thought of losing to Fayne. If he lost this hand, he would just have to put on his bravest face. There would be gloating and taunting and accusations of being feeble. It would not be pleasant.
When he heard Fayne curse, he opened his eyes. Two fours make eight, and Fayne had thrown two fours. Thomas had recovered his four shillings and was back in the game.
Fayne also lost the next two hands and passed the dice to Philip. Philip won a hand, then lost three in a row. Thomas took the dice. For five consecutive hands he chose a main of seven, winning each one. He had twenty-five shillings in his pocket. Fayne had gone very quiet and looked as if he might strike someone.
‘Damn your luck, bookseller,’ he muttered. ‘Put down a guinea, and we’ll see who’s the winner.’
It was strictly against the etiquette of the game for a player other than the caster to suggest a stake, but Fayne did not look in the mood for etiquette. A guinea. Much more than Thomas had ever played for, and if he lost he would be unable to pay all three opponents. That would be dangerous. He really should walk away.
‘As you wish, Captain Fayne. But on condition that the hand is played by the two of us only. I should be embarrassed to relieve you gentlemen of your guineas.’ He looked enquiringly at the other two.
‘I am content to watch,’ said Tomkins.
‘And I,’ agreed Smithson.
‘Very well, bookseller,’ hissed Fayne. ‘Just you and I.’
Two guineas went on the table and Thomas nominated seven as the main. He shook the dice and rolled them out. A one and a three. He would have to throw again, and now the odds were against him. If he threw a seven, Fayne would win. He picked up the dice and threw them down. Two fives. He must throw again, and still the odds favoured Fayne. He shook the dice hard and let them roll along the table. Both dice showed two. Fayne stood up and cursed.
‘Damn your eyes, you lucky little runt.’
For a moment Thomas thought Fayne was about to hit him. Then the captain turned on his heel and stormed out. Smithson and Tomkins shrugged apologetically and got up. Tomkins put a hand on Thomas’s shoulder and said quietly, ‘Well played, sir. Francis is an ill-mannered beggar when he loses. Take care, won’t you. He’s a vindictive beggar, too.’
Another man telling him to take care, and Thomas could well believe it about Fayne. For now, however, with forty-six shillings in his pocket, he could afford to order another rabbit pie and a bottle of the Crown’s best claret. An hour later, his stomach full, he walked back to Pembroke trying not to look smug. If only the message would be as obliging as the dice, all would be well.
CHAPTER 7
The message, however, was thoroughly disobliging. For two more fruitless days Thomas wrestled with it, his frustration growing with the knowledge that the army would soon be on the move. If there was to be a battle, this message might have something to do with it. If he could only do his job, lives might yet be spared. Other than being sure that Monsieur Vigenère was behind the encryption, however, he had learned almost nothing about it. Sheets and sheets of paper, each one covered in combinations of numbers and letters making no sense whatever, littered the floor. He had got through gallons of ink and dozens of quills, and went to bed each night with a throbbing ache behind his eyes. Damnable Frenchman, damnable cipher. Damnable war, damnable Oxford. He longed to go home and forget about all of them. But he could not. He might be hanged for his trouble, and so might Abraham.
On the third morning, he awoke thinking of Jane Romilly. While he had been engrossed in the cipher, she had barely entered his mind. Today, however, she was there. The beautiful lady-in-waiting with eyes of different colours, who had walked with him in the gardens, asked about his family and lied to him about Francis Fayne. And had stomped out of his room, leaving him speechless. What was he to make of her?
Before he could begin to make anything of her, there was a loud knock on the door. Thomas struggled out of bed and opened it. It was Tobias Rush, who this time did not bother with pleasantries. ‘Master Hill,’ he said, ‘kindly make ready to travel. The king has returned from Gloucester and wishes you to accompany him to Newbury, where he will join forces with Prince Rupert.’
Not Gloucester or Reading then. No five guineas for the Dutch artilleryman. ‘Is the king expecting to fight?’
‘It is likely. We have information that the Earl of Essex, with at least fourteen thousand men, is also marching there. Prince Rupert is racing there with his cavalry and we will march to join him. We must reach the town before Essex does, to prevent his returning to London with his army intact. You are to be responsible for the security of the king’s despatches.’
‘When do we leave?’
‘By noon. Three infantry regiments with artillery are assembling on Christ Church Meadow. Present yourself there within the hour. I shall be accompanying you to Newbury.’ And with that, Rush hurried off.
Newbury, which Simon and he had avoided on the way to Oxford. About halfway home. Strategically important, Thomas supposed, either for an attempt by Essex and Fairfax to take Oxford or for a Royalist attack on London. Otherwise, a modest town of no great merit or distinction, which he had visited several times to buy books. Fourteen thousand of the enemy against how many of us? he wondered. Would he be obliged to carry arms? God forbid that he might have to use them. Simon had said that the king knew he would never take up arms against Englishmen, but in the heat of battle would the king care? Would he care himself? A sword in the stomach for Thomas, or a musket ball in the eye of the other fellow? He might be about to find out.
It took Thomas very little time to be ready. He packed his few spare clothes, quills, his sharpening knife and papers into his bag, and hid the encrypted message under his shirt. It felt safer there. He did not want to leave it behind, and he might have time to study it some more. His box of quills he wrapped in a shirt for safety. When he arrived at the meadow, a light rain was falling and the ground was a muddy mass of soldiers, tradesmen, women, horses, wagons, supplies, ammunition, carts and cannon. The camp followers and baggage train had joined the fighting men. He could discern no semblance of military order, nor of anyone attempting to impose any, and he could make little out of the incessant clash and clamour of an army preparing to march. Soldiers stood in small groups, apparently waiting to be told what to do, and grooms tried in vain to keep their horses calm, while lines of townsmen and women, supervised by young officers, loaded every transport with as many crates and boxes as it would take. As long as they had insisted on payment in advance, the butchers and bakers of Oxford were in for another quick and substantial profit. Thomas stood under an elm on the north side of the meadow and watched.
By the time the king and his entourage arrived, some form of order had miraculously appeared, and his majesty, enthusiastically greeted by his guards, rode a grey stallion to the front of the lines. He wore a gleaming breastplate, carried a heavy cavalry sword, and acknowledged the loyal cheers with a regal wave of his gauntleted hand. On horseback, his lack of height was less obvious, and he looked cheerful and confident. The queen, also mounted, approached the king and bade him a fond, very public farewell. The Generalissima and her unborn child would not be marching to battle.