Traitor Angels (2 page)

Inwardly rolling my eyes, I listened to Mary chatter as we walked along the road. Fields feathered out on either side of us. Among the sheaves of wheat I glimpsed the white flashes of the farmers’ shirts as they moved among the rows of crops, which looked straggly and withered even to my citified eyes. Our steps kicked up clouds of dust. I coughed, trying to ignore the burning in my throat. This so-called Year of the Devil, 1666, was certainly living up to its name. So far we’d suffered through a virulent plague that had spread through London like wildfire, and a year-long drought, which had desiccated the countryside until the leaves and grass were as brittle as parchment.

“This dust is unbearable!” I sputtered.

Mary grabbed my arm. “Don’t complain!” She cast a nervous look at the sky, still flooded with pink and yellow at this early hour. “We don’t know what else could happen if . . .”

She let the words trail off, but she didn’t need to complete her thought. I understood. If we angered God, he might have another disaster in store for us: a new wave of the plague, perhaps, or repetitions of the comets that had blazed across the skies two years ago and frightened so many Londoners half out of their wits—for some believed that falling stars were evidence of God’s displeasure with us.

I shivered. “I won’t say anything else.”

As we neared the woods, I breathed in the rich, loamy scent of soil.

“I wonder if it’s possible to calculate the age of these trees,” I
said. “They must be very old to have grown so tall.”

Mary made an impatient sound in her throat. “What does that matter—there he is!” she interrupted herself, pinching her cheeks to force color into them. “How do I look? I ought to have changed clothes!”

“Why?” I asked, peering through the interlocking tree branches. Francis Sutton was striding across the field toward us, whistling a jaunty tune I didn’t recognize. Like most of the well-to-do gentlemen in Chalfont, he wore sober clothes of black wool. Despite myself, I had to admit he was handsome, with his fair hair and wide-set eyes. “Mary, all of our gowns are brown or green! Mr. Sutton is hardly likely to be more smitten with you if you wear one color instead of the other.”

“Hush. No! Laugh as though I’ve said something amusing.”

Dutifully, I burst into gales of laughter. Mary threw me an exasperated look. “Try not to sound as though you’ve lost your reason. Oh, he’s coming! Be quiet.”

“With pleasure,” I said, and subsided into silence.

Francis wove between the trees toward us. His teeth flashed white in a broad grin. “Miss Mary, what a lovely surprise. They say there are no rays more brilliant than the sun’s, but truly, your smile puts the sun to shame.”

Was he really so addle-brained that he believed such ridiculous compliments would capture a girl’s heart? I glanced at Mary, who had blushed to the roots of her hair and was giggling as Francis leaned over her proffered hand to kiss it. Hmm. Apparently these sorts of pretty words did work.

Francis straightened and nodded briskly in my direction. “Miss Elizabeth.” His tone was flat.

I jerked my head in the barest suggestion of a nod. “Mr. Sutton.”

He turned to Mary. “And what delightful set of circumstances has placed us in each other’s path on this fine morning?”

I tried to hold in my laugh, but this made the trapped air burn in my chest and set off a coughing fit. As I doubled over, wheezing, tears smarting in my eyes, I heard Mary saying, “You must excuse my sister. She’s . . . er . . . not accustomed to polite company.”

“So it would seem,” Francis murmured. “Speaking of company, that reminds me of interesting news I just heard in the village—your family should expect company of your own today.”

“What do you mean?” Mary asked. “We haven’t received word of any visitors.”

“Nevertheless, you have one. A man—he’s a foreigner, so I don’t presume to call him a gentleman—this man, as I say, arrived at the Rose Inn last night. He said he planned to rest so he could present himself favorably to your father when he calls upon him this morning.”

“What could a foreigner want with our father?” Mary asked. “He’s merely a poet.”

“He didn’t use to be,” Francis said gently, and heat rushed into my cheeks. He was right, of course. Once Father had been the most important political writer in the land. His revolutionary tracts had made him both reviled and adored throughout Europe. He believed that countries should be ruled by the people, not monarchs, and that religion had no place in government. Some seventeen years ago, after civil war had swept across our country and Mr. Oliver Cromwell had assembled a new government,
Father had been a logical choice for Latin secretary, the official in charge of diplomatic correspondence with other countries. After the government had crumbled, though, Father was branded a traitor to the nation. Only his frail health and the intervention of several of his friends kept his neck out of the hangman’s noose.

I looked at Francis. “Are you certain this foreigner came here to see our father?”

Francis nodded. “He said he wished to visit upon the man they call ‘the notorious John Milton.’”

I stiffened. “The notorious Milton” was the name by which my father was known throughout Europe to his political detractors, those who decried his ideals of revolution and parliamentary government.

So this foreigner was an enemy.

Mary’s eyes met mine. In the green-tinted shadows cast by the trees, I could see she had gone pale. “Elizabeth—” she started to say, but I was already moving. The trees whipped past, slender black lines that I had to weave around until I reached the fields. The rippling golden grasses slapped my skirts, and a few farmers turned to call a greeting to me as I rushed by them. I didn’t stop to answer.

By the time I reached the road, I was running.

THE ROSE INN WAS A RAMSHACKLE WOODEN
structure that stood in the middle of the village. From the front steps, I cast a wary glance over my shoulder. The dusty lane seemed deserted; the sprinkling of wooden houses were quiet, their shutters open in a futile attempt to catch a soothing breeze. No servants foraged in the gardens for salad greens; no children played jacks in the road. The villagers must still be breaking their fast before beginning their day’s work. Thank goodness we Miltons and Francis were early risers; there’d be fewer people to witness what I was about to do. I couldn’t have gone home to warn Father, of course—given his weak health, I wasn’t sure what this piece of news might do to him. No, dealing with the stranger would have to be up to me.

Taking a steadying breath, I pushed the door open and stepped inside. The dining room was empty, the scarred wooden tables
cleared from last night’s supper. Tobacco smoke still laced the air, pungent and sickly sweet. The candles in their wall brackets were unlit, leaving the weak beams of sunlight straggling through the windows as the sole source of illumination.

For a moment, I stood still. Once I confronted this foreigner, there could be no turning back. I would have gone to a man’s inn chamber, unchaperoned, and that alone was enough to blacken my reputation forever, if anyone learned of it. Through the walls, I heard men’s laughter. Old Tom, the proprietor, and his cook, no doubt, chuckling over a shared joke as they carried bottles of sack up from the cellar.

The sound pulled me back to myself. I had to get out of there before someone saw me. I crept up the winding stairs, wincing when they creaked. The men’s laughter seemed to reach up the steps after me. I quickened my pace until I was nearly running.

Along the second-floor corridor, the doors to each of the four rooms were closed. I pushed the nearest one open. The curtains hadn’t been drawn, and enough light flowed through the window for me to see the neatly made bed. No bags, no spare boots lying on the floor, no water gleaming in the basin on a side table. Nobody was staying in this room.

The next chamber was empty, too. Sunlight pushed through the closed curtains, leaving the room in half darkness. Someone had draped two brown leather bags across the foot of the bed, and a black velvet doublet, the cuffs trimmed in lace, lay on top of the wooden clothespress. My heart beat faster. This must be the foreigner’s room—I couldn’t imagine the Rose had any other guests; visitors rarely came to our small village, and those who
did tended to be fellow Puritans, who wouldn’t have dared to wear lace.

I slipped into the room, pulling the door closed behind me. Where could this foreigner be? I had to figure it out, and fast, before he had a chance to go to my family’s home and trouble Father. After all these years of political exile and creeping poverty, my father deserved to live out his final years in peace. And I’d be cursed before I let anyone bother him.

Maybe the foreigner’s possessions would give me a clue as to where he’d gone. I rifled through his bags. Inside the first one was a peculiar-looking cylinder. It was about a foot long, its worn leather surface stamped with a gold filigree design. One end was capped with a curved piece of thick glass. What sort of instrument was this? I’d never seen anything like it.

Sounds of footsteps wafted from the stairs—someone was coming.

I shoved the instrument into the bag, then spun around to survey the room, checking one final time to make certain everything was in place.

I ran my hands up my arms. Through the woolen fabric, I could feel the hard length of the knives I strapped to my forearms every morning, a practice my father had insisted on years ago, although he’d never told me the reason. Now I was glad for his caution. No matter how the foreigner reacted when he found me in his room, I’d be ready for him.

The footsteps stopped outside the chamber door.

I darted to the wall, to a spot where I’d be concealed once the door swung open. Better see if he was unarmed before I announced my presence.

My pulse thundered in my ears as I watched the doorknob turn. A shadowy figure entered the room, the door whispering shut behind him. He carried a candle, its flame licking gold fingers across his face. In the muted dimness, I caught the impression of a dark eye and the smooth curve of a cheek. I didn’t recognize him—it had to be the foreigner. He set the candle into a holder on the table beside the bed.

Then he straightened and stood with his back to me, his head cocked to the side, as if listening. He wore no hat. His hair fell to his shoulders; it was raven black and straight, too real looking to be anything but his own. Strange. I would expect any man wealthy enough to travel to another country would sport a shorn head covered with a wig of flowing curls, like a nobleman. Perhaps foreign fashions differed from ours. His midnight-blue doublet didn’t look foreign, though, merely rich, for it glittered with an intricately stitched pattern in silver and red threads. When he raised his hand to brush his hair out of his eyes, a gold band inlaid with a red stone on his index finger winked at me.

“I can hear you breathing,” he said.

He knew I was in here!

“You can help yourself to anything you like, of course,” he continued, keeping his back to me. He sounded pleasant, as if he were discussing nothing more troubling than our recent drought. “But I feel compelled to warn you that I’ll hunt you down and retrieve what belongs to me. It’s a matter of pride, you see. I don’t mind your robbing me when I can’t reach my sword”—he nodded at his bag, and I spied the tip of something silver gleaming from beneath it—“but I can’t permit you to hold on to my possessions.”

Either he was out of his wits to make such lighthearted comments when he believed he was being robbed—or he relished the prospect of tangling with a criminal.

“Why would I want to steal from you?” I asked quietly.

He heaved a sigh, as if he found all of this tiresome. “I may be unversed in English social customs, but surely I haven’t been such a boorish guest that the innkeeper sent an assassin to my room to dispatch me. Therefore, you must be a thief. Take what you please, but remember I’ll find you by nightfall.”

The man was brave, I had to concede that much. I wrapped my hand around my wrist, in case I needed to unbutton my cuff and pull my knife free.

“I’m not here to rob you,” I said.

He turned around. I started in surprise. He was younger than I had thought, perhaps seventeen or eighteen. His skin had been painted olive by a stronger sun than ours, and his brows were black slashes. His face was handsome enough, I supposed, and it was made up of strong angles and lines; there was no softness to him. He wore no powder on his cheeks; no cerise tinted his lips. Despite the finery of his clothes, this was no harmless fop.

My fingers tightened on my cuff. A twist of the fabric and the knife would be in my hand. “Why do you seek Mr. Milton?”

His expression remained impassive. “I’ve come here at his command.”

Impossible. These days, my father had no dealings with foreigners. I glared at the boy.

“You’re a liar.”

He rolled his eyes. “You’re a trusting sort of person, aren’t you.” Turning away from me, he busied himself at the clothespress, removing clothes and tossing them onto the bed.

With one smooth movement, I unbuttoned my cuff and slid my knife free from its bindings. Its wooden handle, reassuring and familiar, dug into my palm.

“No,” I said slowly. “I’m not a trusting sort of person.”

Something in my voice must have alerted him, for he swung around, his gaze falling to the blade in my grasp. His face tightened, but he didn’t say a word.

“My father has endured hell,” I said. “After the king was crowned, my father spent months in prison and was threatened with execution. He’s an old man of seven and fifty years, and he’s been stone-blind for the last fourteen of them. He has
nothing
left but his writing and his family. Whatever business you have with him, you’ll tell me first, because I won’t permit anyone to trouble him.”

He murmured something under his breath, then shook his head as if to clear it. “Your father . . . Then you must be Miss Elizabeth Milton.”

How had he guessed which of Father’s daughters I was? A chill skittered down my spine. I opened my mouth, to protest or confess I don’t know which, but the answer must have been etched on my face because the boy continued, looking deadly serious, “Your father sent my master a letter. Mr. Milton’s mixed up in a dangerous scheme, and he intends to drag both of us into it with him.”

I fought the urge to laugh. My father would never involve me in something that could harm me. “You sound as confused about the English tongue as you are about our social customs. It’s true my father once wrote revolutionary political tracts, but these days he focuses on classical poetry. He isn’t part of some sort of scheme.”

The boy glanced again at my knife. “Your father’s letter is in my pocket. May I retrieve it for you or will you slash me to ribbons first?”

Wonderful, I’d been saddled with a jester. Silently I hitched a shoulder in permission. He reached into his breeches pocket, and I stepped closer. His expression gentled as he looked at me. “I’m not reaching for a weapon. I’d never hurt a lady.”

A
lady
. This boy must have thought I was an idiot, if he believed I would swallow such ridiculous flattery.

He slipped a piece of paper from his pocket. “It’s in Italian. Shall I read it to you or do you want to take it to your father for translation?”

“
I
can read it.” I snatched the paper from him. By the glow of the candle, I was just able to make out the words.

The letter was dated 10 April 1666, some four months ago. The addressee was Signor Vincenzo Viviani of the Via Sant’Antonino in Florence. I recognized the careful handwriting as Deborah’s, but the missive must have come from Father, for none of my sisters knew Italian. Both Mary and Deborah had been trained to read aloud to our father in different languages by sounding out the words but without any understanding of them. Father must have spelled out every letter for Deborah to copy. The paper shook in my hands. He hadn’t trusted me enough to dictate the letter to me, although I spoke Italian fluently. For some reason, he had kept this correspondence a secret from me.

There
must
be a good explanation for Father’s actions. I knew it in my bones.

But my chest still felt tight as I began reading.

Most illustrious and excellent Signor Viviani—

The time has come at last to immortalize our portentous secret. Years ago, I toiled to hide our clues in such a way that they would not disappear as a result of the ravages of time but could remain concealed forever. As you know, we cannot destroy the object that has brought us so much despair and heartbreak, but also the everlasting joy that comes with intellectual exploration.

For reasons you know all too well, I believe that the world isn’t ready for the knowledge we would impart to it. Do not fear that our secret will slip into the hands of those who would destroy it—only learned men who are familiar with the intricacies of my life (and thus, who must be lovers of liberty, as we are, my dear Signor Viviani) will be capable of stringing together the clues.

To that end, I must ask that you send your young man to England posthaste. He and my daughter Elizabeth shall become guardians of our secret, as we always intended, and they must understand the grave task with which we entrust them before the Good Lord summons me from my earthly home.

I am your most humble and grateful servant,

John Milton

My head whipped up.
What?
Deborah must have been mistaken in her dictation . . . or perhaps my father was sliding into senility. Maybe the years of blindness and pounding headaches had finally eroded his grasp on his wits. My throat tightened.
Poor Father.
It was a wretched end for the man whom many had heralded as the greatest political writer of our age.

“Are you convinced?” the boy asked.

I started. I’d forgotten he was there. He was leaning against the wall, his posture relaxed, but the tightness around his eyes betrayed him. He was as anxious as I was.

“Yes, you’ve come at my father’s invitation.” The words felt sharp as knives as they traveled up my throat. Why hadn’t Father told me of this stranger’s impending arrival? And why had he summoned him in the first place? There was no “portentous secret,” and even if there was, my father wouldn’t have joined forces with an enemy to protect it.

Unless my father had been lying to me for months.