‘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 By the time Thomas found himself back at Christ Church, his fury had been replaced by cold, hard determination.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.
CHAPTER 14
XZFMGMAYTDSXPMFMMVNLAJCLAWIMELABTHXFLRY
HXWIDQJQJTDDMERTGCKETPMKEGXIEDUJIECTKOYOJ D
LNEPLBYEBHBKOTPMTIJLMGLPFQEBYJQJTDDQRWPC
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.
‘I’d rather be killing Roundheads,’ said the other.
‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ said Thomas, as they reached the top of the staircase. ‘Is the king ready to see me?’
‘He is, sir,’ replied one, ‘and his majesty is in no mood to wait.’ With a final look around the room, and armed with the message and his copy of the square, Thomas followed the soldiers back down the staircase. They marched around the cattle pen in the middle of the quadrangle, and towards the Deanery. They were still complaining. ‘Up and down, backwards and forwards, forwards and backwards. It’s not proper work for the king’s guards.’
‘It is not. We might as well be messenger boys.’
Backwards and forwards, forwards and backwards. Why had he not thought of that? ‘You silly shit,’ said Montaigne. Before he could give the idea more thought, he was ushered into the receiving room, where the king sat, tapping his stick on the stone floor. Guards were stationed around the room, members of his household behind him. This time there was no sign of Rush. ‘Master Hill. My temper is short. The queen must leave Oxford, and I am tired of hearing that this message has not been decrypted. I trust you bring us better news.’
‘Your majesty, my efforts have failed. I have not been able to decrypt the message.’
The king’s face darkened. ‘In that case, I cannot see that we have any further use for your services, Master Hill. You will be taken to the castle and held there until I have decided what shall be done with you.’
‘Your majesty, although I have not yet broken the cipher, there is one idea that I have not yet had the chance to try. May I have your consent to make one final attempt?’
‘Surely, Master Hill,’ replied the king in a voice that was scarcely more than a whisper, ‘you have had sufficient time by now. We have waited patiently for you to bring us the contents of this message, and we have been disappointed. The queen should already have left Oxford. What grounds are there now for believing that you will break the cipher?’
‘I may not, your majesty. I may fail again. But is it not worth allowing a few minutes more — ten at the most — just in case I am right?’
‘Tell me, pray, how this new idea has suddenly come into your head at the very last minute? Is that not a little strange?’
‘It is, your majesty. I cannot account for it, except that providence can play unexpected games.’
The king hesitated, then beckoned to one of his servants. ‘Fetch paper and ink. We will watch Master Hill at his final attempt.’ The servant scurried off, and soon returned with quills, paper and a pot of ink. Thomas took the message and his square from under his shirt and sat at a small table in the corner. But for the scratching of his quill, the room was silent. Even the king had stopped tapping his stick on the floor. Thomas closed his mind to his audience, and concentrated on the message. Above the first ten letters of the text — XZFMGMAYTD — he wrote out PARIS backwards, twice. Then he referred to the square, and wrote a third line of letters above that. Within a few minutes, he had FROMRUSHTO. From Rush to. Surely this was it. The keyword PARIS one way, and SIRAP the other. Simple and clever. Very nearly too clever for Thomas Hill. Resisting the urge to shout Eureka and claim victory, he continued on across the first line. The stick started tapping again. Thomas tried to ignore it.