Before visiting Abraham the next morning, Thomas wrote his letter to Margaret. He told her that, except for the shaggy inkcaps for dinner, their journey had been uneventful, that he was well and comfortable, and that he had met the king. He said nothing about squalor and poverty, nor about the masque, of which he knew his sister would disapprove. He enquired after her health and that of the girls, expressed the fond wish that he would see them all again soon, and entreated her to write back. Lacking a seal, he tied the rolled letter with a red ribbon stolen from his new outfit. He would give it to Tobias Rush at the masque.
The courtyard, to Thomas’s relief, was deserted when he crossed it, and Abraham was sitting in his chair by the window when he entered. ‘I thought you would come this morning, Thomas,’ he said. ‘Three days for twenty simple documents seemed about right. Or have any of them defeated you?’
‘Happily not, although homophonic substitutions and nomenclators do take time. Here they are.’ He put the twenty plain texts on the old man’s table.
‘I’ll have to take your word for it. Did you learn anything from them?’
‘Three things. The science of cryptography has progressed very little in the last ten years, military despatches are invariably as dull as a Scottish sermon, and your choice of the Portuguese wine was surprising. Isn’t it a little too sweet?’
Abraham beamed. ‘A little sweet, perhaps. Well done, Thomas. Whatever tiny doubts I had have been banished. You would have been a match for the great Phelippes himself. In fact, if the Queen of Scots had had the benefit of your services, she might have kept her head. Now we can put you to proper work. Take the papers on the table for encoding, please. The first half of this month’s keyword is ROSE. The other halves are on this list, with the owner’s name and codeword. Please memorize them.’ He reached into a pocket, extracted a small sheet of paper and held it out to Thomas. ‘Next week you’ll need to send out your new keyword, and remind them to send theirs. All despatches will go through me. There’s no reason for any of our people to know who you are. It’s safer that way.’
‘Are there any intercepted messages?’ Encrypting was easy work; decrypting was what Thomas had regained his taste for.
‘No. But be assured that you will see the next one as soon as it arrives. It’ll come to me. I’ll send word. Now you’d better get back to work.’
‘Before I do, Abraham, Tobias Rush has invited me to attend the queen’s masque on Wednesday. He’s even provided a new suit of clothes.’
Abraham groaned. ‘I don’t envy you. The last one I attended went on for two hours, and was quite unintelligible. Something to do with Venus and Neptune. And Cupid, I think. It was hard to know. And the extravagance is unspeakable. Thousands of guineas. No wonder her majesty is less than popular in the country. However, Thomas, remember what I said. Tobias Rush is a powerful man, with the ear of the king. You had better go.’
Thomas set off for Merton half an hour before the masque was due to start. With some difficulty, he had put on his fine new shirt, breeches, stockings and coat, tied ribbons around his knees, set Abraham’s hat on his head, wiped the silver buckles on his boots with a cloth and made his way through the courtyard to the college entrance. Silas, as always, was at his post. ‘Master Hill. I hardly knew you. The queen’s masque, would it be?’
‘It would, Silas. How do I look?’
‘Magnificent, sir. Almost like royalty. Enjoy the masque.’
‘Thank you, Silas. I’ll try.’
The quickest route to Merton took Thomas up St Aldate’s, along Blue Boar Street and into Merton Street. They were as busy as ever. Remembering the humpbacked hag, he carried no money. He walked slowly, taking care not to be jostled, and picking his way around the heaps of butchers’ offal and human excrement that blocked sewers and overflowed into the streets. The soft boots did not help. They were a little too big, and flopped about his ankles. Despite concentrating on not tripping over something revolting, he could not help noticing the sullen stares that followed his progress. Blue Boar Street was the beggars’ favourite. Limbless, sightless, diseased men and women lined both sides of it, those with arms holding out their hands and pleading for a farthing or a penny, those without standing guard over tin plates on the ground. A tradesman casually dropped a penny on to a plate in front of a blind man. The blind man heard the coin on the plate, bent to pick it up, and immediately let out a stream of blasphemous curses. The coin had gone in seconds — taken by the one-armed man beside him.
Halfway down the street, the abuse started. ‘Bit too tall for a queen’s dwarf.’
‘Must be one of the king’s bed boys.’
‘Have a care, sir. Be a shame to spoil those pretty rags.’
Thomas affected not to hear, and managed not to quicken his pace. It was broad daylight, there were people about and, for all they knew, he might be armed. He should be safe.
At Merton, he was met by a college servant bedecked in powdered wig in the French style, cream stockings, wide crimson breeches and an embroidered coat. The man wore a pearl and ruby brooch. Two lines of guards armed with muskets and swords stood on either side of the gatehouse. Thomas gave his name, and was shown to a seat at the far side of the courtyard. It was bigger than the Pembroke courtyard, but much smaller than Christ Church’s. The queen must have wanted the king to be untroubled by the preparations for the performance. Thomas nodded politely to the two portly gentlemen on either side of him, noting that, compared to theirs, his outfit was only just up to standard. The masque was not due to start for another ten minutes, but almost all the seats were already occupied. No one wanted to risk the embarrassment of arriving after their majesties. Thomas looked around, hoping to see Jane Romilly. She was not there. Perhaps she was taking part in the masque.
At exactly two o’clock, the king and queen entered the courtyard from the royal apartments. The audience rose and applauded loudly as the royal couple walked slowly to their seats on a raised dais to Thomas’s right. The seats were covered in gold cloth, with gold cushions and gold footrests. The king, limping slightly, walked with a stick. The queen, resplendent in satins and pearls, auburn hair curling around her neck, smiled and waved to the crowd. At her heels were four fat spaniels and a dwarf. Thomas guessed he was Jeffrey Hudson, known to be her favourite.
When the king and queen were seated, a herald called the audience to attention with a blast on his horn, and announced that the masque they were about to see was The Triumph of Peace, written by James Shirley, and first performed for her majesty in London nine years earlier. With due regard to cost and the sacrifices of her loyal subjects, her gracious majesty had commanded that this production be made suitable to the present time and place. The entertainment would therefore be modest, and would last but an hour. At this there was more applause, although whether this was in appreciation of her majesty’s concern for her subjects or the reduced length of the performance, Thomas was uncertain. He took another look around the courtyard. Still no Jane. The masque began.
From the Fellows’ Quadrangle behind Thomas, a procession of courtiers entered through a high arch, to joyous acclaim. There were perhaps twenty of them — Thomas guessed at a fifth of the number employed in the London production — fantastically dressed and bejewelled in costumes of crimson, blue and gold. Having proceeded in stately fashion around the courtyard, they took up station near the gatehouse. These magnificent courtiers were followed by a coach transformed into a golden chariot, and drawn by four matched white stallions in gold and crimson cloths. The chariot carried two lutenists, and four singers dressed as celestial bodies. Thomas recognized the sun and the moon, but the other two defeated him. The celestial bodies sang a fulsome eulogy to the king and queen, as their chariot cautiously circled the narrow courtyard.