Traitor Angels (4 page)

SHOCK BLEACHED THE INSIDE OF MY MIND BONE
white. I stared at Francis, silently entreating him to repeat what he had said, as if hearing his announcement a second time would bring clarity.

The kitchen erupted in screams. Mary threw herself at Francis, shouting, “What’s happening? I don’t understand!” Deborah dropped the platter she’d been arranging. It shattered on the floor, flinging pottery shards and slices of beef everywhere. From her stool, Anne burst into tears. Luce stopped chopping vegetables, her knife raised in midstrike.

I stood stock-still. My thoughts were encased in ice, frozen on Francis’s earlier words. They didn’t make sense. The king’s men would hardly travel eight leagues from London merely to come to our cottage. Father no longer mattered to them; he was a grain of sand in a shoe, an irritant easily ignored. Unless the
king had finally changed his mind—

Something seemed to burst within the left side of my rib cage, and I let out a choked gasp. It must have happened at last—what we had feared and half expected for years. The king had decided to execute Father for his revolutionary past. There could be no other reason for his men to travel such a distance.

I ran to the back door. Nothing but banks of pennyroyal and chamomile, shriveling in the heat, and Francis’s horse, gleaming with sweat and nosing at the grass. If the king’s men were coming from Francis’s estate, they would ride east across the countryside. Anxiety coiled in my stomach. We probably had minutes at the most before the king’s men were upon us.

My sisters were still screaming, such a cacophony of sound I could scarcely think. “Be quiet, all of you!” I shouted.

At once the room froze into silence. Everyone stared at me—each face a mask of terror. I shook my head, trying to still the panicked thoughts rising in my mind like swarms of gnats.
Father will die. Father will die. Father will die
. How could I protect him? I had to do something.

In the sudden hush, I could hear Anne rasping for air. “Deborah, see to our sister,” I ordered. “I must get Father away from here at once.”

“I should return home.” Francis tried to disentangle himself from Mary, but she clung to him, sobbing.

“Unhand him, Mary!” I snapped. “He needs to get out of here before the king’s men arrive.”

Mary released Francis as though he had turned to flame. I clasped his hand. “Thank you. I can never repay the debt my family owes you.”

Without waiting for his response, I raced down the corridor toward the sitting rooms. In vain, I fumbled at my long sleeves, desperate to get at my knives, but the fabric fit too snugly. I tore at the shoulder laces until they broke. Then I yanked the sleeves from my arms, flinging them to the floor.

I barreled into my father’s sitting room. Father and Viviani sat at the writing table, their heads close together. Betty, who had been pouring drinks, set the pitcher down with a thump. She and Viviani stared at me, while my father craned his neck, seeking the source of the racket.

“Elizabeth, what’s the meaning of this interruption?” Betty demanded. Before I could respond, she turned to Viviani, saying, “I hope you’ll forgive my stepdaughter’s behavior. She isn’t accustomed to visitors—”

“The king’s men are on their way here,” I interrupted. Viviani glanced at the knives strapped with leather bindings to my arms, and he half rose, his hand drifting to his waist, where his sword hung. “Francis Sutton said they stopped at his home, seeking directions,” I added.

The color drained from my father’s face. “Did they say why they were coming?”

“No.” I dashed to the window. Beyond the glass, the fields looked ordinary: golden-toned sheaves of wheat, white flutters from the farmers’ shirts as they moved among them. No sign of the king’s men, but it couldn’t be long now. What should I do? With shaking hands, I drew the curtains closed, the rattling of the rings on the rods loud in the quiet room.

“Father, we must get you away from here.” I tugged on his hands, trying to get him to his feet. He staggered up, his hands
gripping mine for guidance.

“Elizabeth,” he said urgently, “you must promise to protect my poem. Keep it safe, or its secret will be lost forever—”

The distant thunder of horses’ hooves interrupted him. Viviani and I shared a grim look.

“Let me help,” he said. “I can carry your father to the woods.”

“No!” Father shouted. “My future is of little consequence. It’s the two of you who must survive at all costs. Signor Viviani, run to the woods and remain there until one of my daughters fetches you. Trust no one else.”

A muscle clenched in Viviani’s jaw. “I can’t leave you in danger—”

“Remain and you have assured yourself of a painful death and no means for me and your master to carry out our mission,” Father growled.
“Get out.”

Viviani sent me an agonized look. I nodded, sliding my knives from their straps and handing him one. “This will serve you better in the close quarters the woods afford,” I said. “But let’s pray you don’t need it. Make for the copse of elms we passed on our way here. As soon as I can, I’ll come to you.”

“I won’t leave a group of females and an elderly man alone,” he whispered to me. “I promised my master I would help—”

“We have to follow my father’s directions,” I interrupted.
“Please,”
I added when Viviani remained motionless.

The word had a galvanizing effect; Viviani’s head snapped up, his eyes focusing on mine. He nodded once, hard, then rushed from the room. I whirled on my father, who was already issuing more instructions.

“Betty, hide Signor Viviani’s belongings,” he was saying.
“The king’s men mustn’t suspect he’s been here. We’ll lie—all of us. We’ll say he may have stopped in the village, but he never came here. We haven’t seen him. Is that understood?” His expression was so fierce I didn’t dare argue. I murmured my assent.

As my stepmother hurried from the room, my sisters dashed in, pale faced and crying. The thud of horses’ hooves pounding on a dirt road was coming closer. From outside, a man shouted something unintelligible. We were almost out of time.

“Father, they can’t take you from us!” Deborah cried.

An emotion I couldn’t identify rippled across my father’s face; it might have been regret.

“I have been preparing for this day for several years,” he said. “There’s no shame in death, daughter, only shame in fearing God’s final judgment. I can meet mine with a clear conscience. Elizabeth, what are you wearing?” he asked abruptly.

I looked down at my clothes. “A brown dress, Father, but I don’t—”

“Then you can masquerade as a servant,” he interrupted. “A village girl, mind, not a member of our household. Such subterfuge might keep you safe. If we’re fortunate, they don’t know how many daughters I have.”

My mind barely grasped his words. Outside, several men shouted to one another, their words muffled by the walls separating us. I dashed to the window again and peered through the gap between the curtains.

In the front garden a dozen men were sliding off their horses. The men’s faces were flushed from exertion. None wore the soldiers’ redcoat uniform I had expected. Instead, the men were dressed in fine riding clothes: leather boots, doublets and
breeches in a dazzling array of colors—peach, pale blue, grass green. Each man carried a sword at his waist.

I saw at once how Francis had known they were king’s men: beneath their broad-brimmed hats they sported the shaven heads of noblemen, having foregone their usual wigs for the journey. Everyone knew the aristocrats were loyal to the king; these men were our enemies. As one, they crossed the yard, their strides quick with purpose.

“Merciful Lord,” I breathed. “They’re here.”

The wind kicked up, knocking one man’s hat away. As he walked closer, my heart surged into my throat. I knew this man’s long, slender face, even though it wasn’t framed by its usual wig of light brown curls. I had seen him often enough when he played ninepins in Hyde Park while my sisters and I huddled under the trees, watching the fine people all around us. Even if I hadn’t seen him occasionally during the past six years, though, I would have recognized him as the man who had ridden behind the king on his triumphant return to London—the man in beautiful garments of silver and lace who had blown me a kiss.

It was George Villiers, the second Duke of Buckingham, one of the best-known men in the country. And the dearest friend of the king.

I JUMPED AWAY FROM THE CURTAINS. “IT’S BUCK—”

The front door burst open. I sprang in front of my father, gripping his shoulder and trying to hold him in place. “Let me protect you,” I said. With my free hand, I clutched my knife. A single sickening slice and one of our enemies would be dead. But there would still be eleven remaining, and I couldn’t possibly fight them all. Dear God, what was going to happen to us?

Father pushed me away, his action startling me so much that the knife skittered out of my grasp. It hit the floor with a clang. I dropped to my hands and knees to retrieve it, but Father grunted, “Leave it. You can’t pretend to be a servant if you carry a knife and touch me with such familiarity.”

“I won’t masquerade as someone else!” I hissed. “I want to stay with you—”

“Do as I tell you!” he snapped.

I stared at him. His face had contorted into a scowl, transforming him from the gentle father I’d known. My mouth opened and closed, but I could think of nothing to say.

From the hallway came the ringing of boots on floorboards. Barely daring to breathe, I listened to the men draw closer. Another instant and they would be upon us.

I dove for the knife. My fingers were closing around the handle when Mary kicked it under the table. “Listen to Father,” she whispered. “And get rid of your armbands!”

With trembling hands, I unbuckled the leather straps. Footsteps tramped down the corridor, growing louder and louder. A low voice muttered something. I tossed the straps under the table.

The sitting room door was flung open with such force that it banged into the wall. Buckingham stood in the entryway. He was a handsome man of about five and thirty. In the curtained dimness, his shorn head shone white. Beneath the curve of his brows, his dark eyes darted around the room, then settled on my father.

“Mr. Milton,” he said in a crisp voice, “I have it on good authority that a Florentine was recently seen at your home in London, seeking your company. A foolish mistake. The king and I know you are in league with some Italians, and a few days ago I planted a spy among your neighbors.”

He half smiled when my father started.

“A grave mistake has been made,” Father said in a ragged voice. “I bear the king no ill will. I am only a simple poet.”

“A pretty hearth tale, Mr. Milton.” Buckingham prowled the room’s perimeter, studying the plain walls and the bookcase. “Four of you, search the house,” he ordered without turning around, continuing to stare at the bookshelves. Pursing his lips,
he reached for a volume and flipped through its pages. “Look for any sign of the Florentine’s presence.” He replaced the book and turned to gaze at my father. “The literary circles in London speak much of you, Mr. Milton,” he said. “There is talk that you’ve been working on a new poem for the last few years. I hope you’ve abandoned the political writings that convinced so many citizens to take the life of our beloved king’s father.”

Four men slipped out the door. Twining my hands together to disguise their trembling, I listened to their footsteps separate as some headed to the kitchen, others to the bedrooms at the opposite end of the house. I prayed Betty had been quick enough to conceal Viviani’s possessions—and that the men wouldn’t be able to find them.

“My new poem is an epic on classical themes,” Father said in a firm voice. “It can hold no interest for our king.” A surge of pride flooded my heart. This was the father I knew so well—the patriot who bowed to no one.

“
I
will determine what interests our king,” Buckingham barked. He snapped his fingers at the remaining men. “The poem’s probably in this room. Tear this place apart until you find it.”

I sagged with relief. We were saved. Buckingham would need to read only a few pages before he realized my father spoke truthfully. As long as Betty had hidden the evidence of Viviani’s arrival, the king’s men could have no reason to harass us further.

The men grabbed books off the shelves, thumbing through them before throwing them to the floor. I risked a look at my father, expecting to see a relaxed figure. Instead he sat hunched over, his hands knotting and unknotting in his lap. I remembered his
warning to me and Viviani a few minutes ago: the poem must be safe or the secret would be lost. What the devil had he meant?
Paradise Lost
was an ancient religious story; there was nothing revelatory in its lines. And yet I heard the breath hitching in Father’s chest.

Two men returned to the room, marching Betty between them. Her face had gone sheet white and she moved jerkily, tripping over the threshold.

“There’s no indication any visitor has been here, Your Grace,” the taller man said. “We found this woman in one of the bedchambers. She says she’s Mr. Milton’s wife.”

Buckingham’s eyebrows rose. “Good God, Mr. Milton, she looks young enough to be one of your daughters. What a rascal you are—I never would have dreamed it of you!”

“Your Grace,” one of the men said. He held up a sheaf of papers covered with my handwriting. “I have found it.”

The room seemed to hold its breath as Buckingham reached for the papers. A few minutes of reading and he would realize it was an innocent poem.

Without even looking at the manuscript, he flung it into the brazier of hot coals at Father’s feet. At once the papers began to smoke. A hole, rimmed with orange, appeared in the top sheet. Even as I watched, the hole spread and the papers curled up, crumbling to black ash.

“No!” I screamed, falling to my knees. I reached for the burning papers, the tips of my fingers brushing the edge of the brazier. White-hot pain lanced my finger pads and raced toward my shoulder. Arms wrapped around me and dragged me back.

“Foolish child,” a man grunted in my ear. “It’s only a poem.”

But it wasn’t; Father believed it was his masterpiece. Through
the sheen of my tears, my father wavered, like an image caught on the surface of a swiftly flowing river. He had dropped his head into his hands.

“My greatest work,” he said in a choked voice. “I can never hope to replace it.”

“Then I’ve accomplished my task.” Buckingham leaned over Father. The room was so quiet, I caught his whisper: “Do you know what your enemies say about you? That your blindness is a punishment from God for your past sins. Truly, sir, you have earned your life of miserable darkness.”

Father raised his chin in open defiance. Tears glimmered in his eyes, but didn’t fall. Behind him, my sisters held hands, weeping.

“To be blind is not to be miserable,” Father said slowly. “True misery is not to be able to bear blindness. My affliction is physical, and I’m certain I can meet my Lord with an unstained soul. Can Your Grace say the same?”

For a breathless instant, no one moved. Then Buckingham’s face twisted. “Take him away,” he growled at his men.

My heart squeezed. Where were they taking my father? What punishment did they have in store for him?

Nothing less than his death would satisfy the king. In the six years since he had returned to England, perhaps he had often thought of my father, and had been biding his time and waiting for the right moment to strike.

My father was going to die.

Unmoving, I watched as several men dragged him to his feet. I wanted to grab my knife and fling it at these men, but I shouldn’t disobey Father—should I? Or was this how I could best aid him—by doing nothing and remaining silent? All of my
body shook from the effort of staying still.

Betty plucked at Buckingham’s sleeve. “Your Grace, I beg of you,” she said, sinking into a deep curtsy when he turned to glare at her. “My husband’s a good, God-fearing man. If he has done wrong by writing this poem, then I promise he won’t write another. He’s an old man of frail health. Surely he can be allowed to live out his remaining days in peace at home?”

Buckingham bent down until his face was inches from my stepmother’s. “I’m most aggrieved to leave his wife and daughters without a man in the household to care for them.” His tone was surprisingly gentle. “Sadly, I have no choice. If Mr. Milton tells the king the secret of his poem, then no harm will come to him, you have my word.”

“How can you make such a promise?” The words burst from me before I could snatch them back. As Buckingham’s gaze settled on me, I shifted nervously but continued, needing to know for certain what fate awaited my father. “You plan to have him executed, Your Grace, don’t you?”

Buckingham looked startled, no doubt at having a “servant” speak so boldly to him. Then his expression hardened. “Oh, yes,” he said, his tone so calm that the hairs on the back of my neck rose. “If Mr. Milton refuses to cooperate, then he’ll swing from old Jack’s noose.”

My mouth went dry. I knew what Buckingham meant: on the next Hanging Day, Father would be crammed into a cart with the other condemned and rolled through the streets, to be strung up from the executioner’s tree on Tyburn Hill, where crowds would pay a shilling for the right to watch him die.

I had to clear my throat twice before I could speak. “When?”

“The next Hanging Day is September fourth,” Buckingham said quietly.

Today was the twenty-second of August. Unless my father cooperated, he’d be dead within a fortnight.

“Please,” I whispered. “Your Grace, spare him, I beg you.”

“Mr. Milton’s destiny is in his hands.” Buckingham tossed an amused look at my father. “The king tells me he cannot pardon a regicide, but he’s had enough of death. It’s his preference, Mr. Milton, that you share your poem’s secrets with him. What do you say?”

Father raised his head. The misty film covering his eyes looked thicker, obscuring the pale sheen of blue beneath. “No,” he growled.

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so quick to refuse the king’s generous offer.” Buckingham’s tone was as thin and hard as a blade. “The truth or your life: it’s an easy choice. Give yourself more time to reflect upon the matter. As for your family,” he went on, nodding at Betty and my sisters, “they will journey to London without delay. You’ll settle in your house on Artillery Walk,” he added to Betty, who nodded, her face slack with bewilderment.

“If your neighbors ask about your husband,” Buckingham continued, “you will explain that his poor health has necessitated his stay in St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. Do you promise to be faithful to this story?”

Questions swirled in my head as Betty murmured, “Yes, Your Grace.” Pink had stained her cheeks, and I understood why: only the destitute stayed in hospitals, while doctors attended to the rich in their homes. By ordering us to tell others that Father was a patient in St. Bartholomew’s, Buckingham shamed my family.

Social slights aside, though, nothing made sense. Why would
the king wish to conceal Father’s arrest? There was something I was missing.

Buckingham looked at Betty, who sank into a hasty curtsy. “Who are your servants? Are they local girls?”

“We have our cook-maid, Luce.” Betty’s hands gripped her skirts so tightly, her knuckles had turned white. “She came with us from London—”

“I’m a village girl, Your Grace,” I interrupted, recalling Father’s instructions. Betty sent me a sharp look, a silent warning that a “maid” like me wouldn’t dare cut short her mistress’s speech. My father stood with his head bowed, his hair falling forward to curtain his face. With his expression hidden, I couldn’t tell if he was pleased with me or if I had done wrong.

Buckingham circled me, the creak of the floorboards under his feet sounding as loud as the gunshots I had heard the townsmen fire when they were hunting birds—hard and final. I lowered my eyes. Beneath the writing table, my knife glinted in the shadows. Should I seize it and stab Buckingham?

“What a peculiar dress,” he said. “Is it your habit not to wear your sleeves, miss?”

“I—” Dear God, what to say? “I was getting dressed when Your Grace arrived.”

“I see. You aren’t very well behaved for a serving girl. Perhaps Mr. Milton permits your boldness because he likes”—his eyes slid over to where my stepmother stood—“young women.”

My face turned to flame. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”

“She has a saucy tongue,” my father said quickly, “but we excuse it because she has a clever hand with a needle. My three daughters have been teaching her better manners.”

Buckingham brought his face so close to mine I could smell the musk of his perfume. “You haven’t paid enough attention to those lessons, miss, but you’d best listen to mine if you want to remain free. Tell no one what happened at your master’s house today. My spies are everywhere, so don’t think I won’t find out if you’ve disobeyed me. Do you understand?”

My head jerked back and forth like that of a puppet on a string. He laughed, patting my cheek, then turned to his men and pointed at a few of them. “Mrs. Milton will direct you in packing up her household. The rest of you, with me.” He snapped his fingers, then strode from the room.

Six men surrounded my father, forming a colorful circle around him. In the spaces between their bodies, I could barely glimpse the plain black of Father’s clothes. His head was bowed. “Please,” he said in a timid voice I hadn’t heard before, “may I be permitted to say good-bye to my family?”

Tears burned my eyes as the men nodded and stepped back. My sisters and stepmother, murmuring and sobbing, crowded around Father. I stood to the side, irresolute. Everything within me longed to go to him, to feel his hands tracing my face one last time. But was it seemly for a “servant” to bid her master farewell? Indecision trapped me in place.

Betty and my sisters fell back. Father reached out his hand, waving it through the air as though seeking something. “And my serving girl,” he said. “I must say farewell to her.”

Somehow I pushed one foot forward, then another. I took Father’s hand and pressed it to my cheek, trapping my tears between the flesh of his palm and my face. He smiled slightly.

“You’ve been a loyal servant to me.” He leaned closer. I could
not breathe. This was the moment. He would tell me what I needed to do in order to save him, and I would move Heaven and Hell until I released him from whatever place they were taking him—

“
L’avezza giovinetta pastorella
,” he murmured.