Traitor's Field (65 page)

Lady Margaret Shay had walked out into a morning, and sat as was her habit on the seat overlooking the valley that had been her kingdom, with the beeches as dark winter sentinels either side of her, and had slept and never woken. In the heaving Scottish hall, surrounded by men confused and alarmed, the face of a lone old man whitened and perished.

Thurloe would, in the future, politely ascribe his revelation to an inspiration from God: a more proper authority to whom to give the credit, than an unhealthy interest in classical grammar and in long waving hair that seemed to burn in the sun.

A too-generous supper, and an unsettled night. A dream of Greek, of verbs in their tables, of poems on the page, verses in their lines; a dream of vegetable frames, or was it hedges, row after row, and a long dress and a rich cascade of hair flashing among them; but when to turn, which path to follow? How to mark the way through the maze? Theseus was given his clew, his thread, to guide him through the maze of the poem. And the poem could easily be recalled, because he could remember the layout on the page, recall the numbers indicating every tenth line of verse. Which path through the garden? The numbers mark the lines. The hedges, the lines of vegetables, fertile greens and flashes of colour; which path through the garden? Then glimpses of her again, or of some woman’s body, shocking naked flesh glowing at him from around corners in the hedges, some paths but not others: an ankle, a bare ankle outrageous and exciting among exposed nature, and nothing, and nothing, just the endless avenues of green, and the flash of a thigh, and nothing, and a breast, looming out at him with a promising smile and opening lips and Thurloe awoke in a tangle of sheets and foolishness.

He got up, and went and splashed water on his face. As he stood bent over the bowl, he began a faintly embarrassed attempt to explain away the dream. A mystery, an attempt to find a path, the promise of reward: his child’s games with
Mercurius Fidelis
, of course. Dull-headed, he began to rehearse the ideas of alternate letters, or words, tried to remember how many hedge paths there had been in the dream, caught himself trying to recapture the image of the breast. 

He’d tried all that. Every second letter. Every second word. All the variations.

Some paths, but not others. How to tell which path?

He’d found one edition of the news-sheet with a word concealed in the initial letters. He’d found at least one other that did not have any word so concealed. He lit a candle, sat in front of the pile of news-sheets again. That of October 26. 1648 had a word. September 28. did not. He smoothed out September 28. again, still creased after its near-destruction in the fire, and checked. Definitely no word. Some but not others.

He pulled out another
Mercurius
, from May 1649, took a breath, held it, and started down the page.

Y. E.

Ye? A flicker of possibility, but inconclusive. T. Yet? D. T.

A snarl pushed through his teeth and dwindled to a sigh.

He pulled out another, and stared into it, the fat clumsy letters blurring under him and then clarifying. July 1650. A distracting vision of Rachel Astbury’s naked thigh in his cloudy head. C. A. V. Not promising. Should be asleep. E. Cave? A word, but he couldn’t think of a context. ‘Cave’ the Latin word, perhaps. N. D.

Thurloe sat back, gazing blearily at the page and feeling raddled and stupid.

Complete the exercise, Master Thurloe.

He leaned forward. I. S. Is? But the precursor was meaningless. H. There was no—

Cavendish
.

A great thump in his chest, and cold blood flushing his head. There was no more, and he couldn’t see what it meant, but surely that was more than chance.

Another sheet, snatched up at random by fumbling fingers: March 1649.

T. H. E. The? Again the excitement. O. Theo? L. Doubt again. D. Theold.

The old?

C. A. U. S. E. L. I. V. E. S.

Thurloe sat back in his chair, chilled and gasping with the vulnerable secret. He thrilled to it, and then felt immediately alone and isolated, the sole possessor of the revelation in the vast night.

There was surely no possibility that this was chance. ‘Report’ on the news-sheet of October 26. might be a freakish coincidence. ‘The old cause lives’ – not long after the execution of the old King – inconceivable.

Some have messages, and some do not. But how were they distinguished?

Thurloe wrapped a cloak round himself and poured a mug of wine, and sat down at the desk again, and started into the pages.

I have looked at these for hours, and I have not seen it. But I am now certain that there is an ‘ it’.

Where is the error in your parsing, Master Thurloe?

The error.

He compared October 26. and providential September 28. again, and then others, some with messages and some without. Inside five minutes he had it. 

Before he slept again, Thurloe offered a prayer: of thanks; of faint shame; of a glimpsed hope.

As the seasons turned again, bringing tentative spring sunlight to alleys and angles of Edinburgh that had not felt it in six months, the latest Duke of Hamilton found himself back in Scotland to lead the royal interest.

William Hamilton, pug-faced and darkly steady, strode the streets and halls that his brother had commanded two years before. Around him clustered the same men, or the sons or brothers of the same men, respectful or awestruck or obsequious, who had followed the ducal coronet when his brother had worn it.

He knew the men around him, of course, the wary calculating Edinburgh politicians who’d spent the last ten years tacking back and forth between the Crown and the English Parliament, and the threadbare old-style grandees who’d been in exile on the Continent. The men who’d banished him from Court last autumn, and welcomed him now in the spring. He knew them personally, or knew the type, or knew the names: names who had always been part of the world of the Hamiltons – particular names with particular roles.

One name was missing, of course. The face of the Marquess of Montrose still hung over Edinburgh’s gate, more black and shrunken with another year; now the severed head on the tolbooth was like a devil’s fist, clenched at those who dared to usurp his dream of glory. Montrose’s limbs had been sent to the four corners of Scotland; his heart had been rescued from the grave by his family. Montrose’s son was still a boy: this year there was no Montrose at the table.

You’ll miss this battle, Jamie.

From the luxury of uninterruption that his status gave him, in the King’s absence seated alone at the head of the Council table, Hamilton watched the stares and glances bickering between the Scots and the English, the soldiers and the civilians, the Royalists and the religious.

And I don’t know which of us will feel the loss more.

The debate slunk on like a surly dog, occasionally snapping vicious. Should a new army be raised to fight for King Charles against the English? Who should command such an army? Should Royalists and their former sympathizers be allowed to participate in official debates in Scotland? Was Oliver Cromwell’s recent reported sickness the result of Scottish prayer or his own sin?

Hamilton’s slow eye kept straying back to one man, seated away from the table and against the wall, in a shadowed corner of the great stone chamber. A large, older man, dark and watchful. The man they had told him, back in the Netherlands, to look to and to listen to. The man called Shay.

The journey north was long, tedious and uncomfortable, a destructive combination of boredom, physical discomfort and the constant frustrations of dealing with local officials to get a change of horse or a bed. After a cosy winter, Thurloe was not looking forward to months of campaigning in Scotland – most of it no doubt in the rain – and he felt newly alienated from the strange world of soldiers.

Eventually he reached Glasgow – where it had indeed come on to drizzle – and growled his way through the necessary invocations to get a bed and a meal. The broth – whatever it was – and a fire restored him a little, and he reported to the commandery feeling readier if not enthusiastic.

General Lambert received him – cumbersome greetings – Cromwell still down with fever – polite enquiry about the journey. Then he began to search ponderously for a paper. He didn’t find it, and clearly hadn’t needed the prop anyway: ‘It’s the, er, it’s the march-about for you, Master Thurloe.’ Thurloe waited. ‘Master Oliver St John is sent on an embassy to. . . to the Netherlands, I think. He and General Cromwell have agreed that you will accompany him. Take a month or so, I think.’

All Thurloe could imagine was the grim idea of getting on a horse again. Gradually the positive aspects began to trickle in: a promising recognition of his ability; diplomatic work clearly more interesting – and frankly more civilized – than trudging around behind the army. Perhaps a chance to run an errand or two for Sir Theodore de Mayerne, and get a little credit there. ‘Any excitement here, General?’

Lambert shook his head. A fighting soldier, Thurloe knew, and he’d be hating the idleness and the administration and the extra work in Cromwell’s absence. ‘Not much. Do you know of Birkenhead? Sir John

Birkenhead?’

‘Noisy Royalist. Gets arrested occasionally.’

‘We’ve just arrested him again. Him and a few others. Seditious assembly. Why the Army gets stuck with these affairs I don’t know.’ A sympathetic tut from Thurloe. ‘Only real complaint they have is that he was carrying a Royalist news-sheet. The
Fidelis
.’ He leaned forward. ‘I’d love to stamp them all out, Thurloe, but is that realistic? Stamp them all out. But the Army can’t trouble every time someone reads one of these rags.’

‘Did he get the
Fidelis
at the meeting? Or was he taking it there?’

A frown across the thick flesh of Lambert’s forehead. ‘Taking it, I think.’

‘A courier?’

‘Doesn’t seem his style. Too grand, too high a profile for that.’

Thurloe nodded. ‘You have a copy? The news-sheet?’

Lambert pawed at the papers on the desk a moment, and then bawled for his Adjutant. The Adjutant hurried in and retrieved the paper.

Thurloe snatched at it. First the day, the date: and yes! The error was there. Then quickly through the initials: M.A.C.K.A.Y. – and after that nonsense.

A distinct name, certainly. But it had no meaning.

A memory:
Cavendish
. Another name in
Mercurius Fidelis
. July 1650, when the Royalist army was preparing to go onto the offensive. A message to Royalists – to all of them – or perhaps only some who would recognize a meaning. A local relevance? A reassurance? A warning?

Or a trigger?

Thurloe looked up at the two soldiers. ‘You’ll forgive a busybody civilian, I hope.’ Lambert looked wary. ‘But I think this might be rather more important. One for the Army to take seriously. I’d recommend a closer look at Birkenhead and his friends.’ He hesitated. ‘A more persuasive look.’