Tears burned my eyes. It was a terrible choice, like Galileo’s had been. And then I thought of my father sitting in his chair by the window, smiling gently and turning in my direction when he heard my footsteps.
It wasn’t a choice at all.
Slowly I took the hand Antonio offered me. “Then we must smile in the aristocrat’s face and plot behind his back.”
“We should pretend to work alongside him for as long as possible.” Antonio’s expression was solemn. “As the king’s son, he can probably help us in all sorts of ways. And at some point . . .”
Our eyes met, saying what we could not bring ourselves to speak aloud. At some point we would trick Robert and bring my father’s secrets to the king.
“Let the game of deception begin,” I said grimly.
By the time we returned to the campsite, Robert had fallen asleep, no doubt exhausted by his injuries. I glanced at the bags on the ground next to our bedrolls. Antonio’s telescope was in one of them, and I might not have this chance again after we reached London.
“I love astronomy,” I said to Antonio, my tone stiff, daring him to laugh. “For as long as I can remember, I’ve yearned to unlock the secrets of the stars. If you’ll teach me everything you know about them, I’ll be grateful forever.”
He blinked in surprise, but he didn’t laugh or smile. He merely fetched his telescope from his bag and handed it to me. “It would be my honor.”
Was he teasing me? I sent him a searching look, but his face was calm, not twisted in mirth. He meant what he said. Something inside me softened, and I smiled at him as my fingers closed around the telescope, its worn brown leather covering still warm from his hands. Through its thick glass lenses, a string of stars looked like silver nails that had been hammered through the sky to keep it from collapsing onto the earth.
“It’s called the Milky Way,” Antonio said. “Before Signor Galilei studied it, people believed it was one mass, like a large mist. When he published Sidereus nuncius, he revealed how the Milky Way is actually made up of hundreds of stars invisible to the naked eye. It was an astounding discovery.”
“Could his work in astronomy have to do with the vial?” I asked. “After all, it was his theory on the motions of the planets that brought him to trial in Rome.”
“Maybe. But then your father would have buried calculations, drawings of the constellations, things of that sort—not a tube of liquid. Those Inquisitors,” he spat. “They hounded Signor Galilei because they couldn’t understand it’s possible to disprove the workings of the natural world as the Bible presents them and still hold God in your heart.”
I pulled back from the telescope to peer at Antonio. “Then Galileo wasn’t a heretic?”
“No. That’s what everyone thinks, but Signor Galilei loved his Christian faith, even though the Inquisitors took everything from him—his work, his reputation, even his freedom, because he had to spend the rest of his life under house arrest.”
I rolled the telescope between my palms, thinking. In 1633, Galileo had been sentenced by the Inquisitors. Five years later, my father visited him, and Galileo confided something to him. Shortly afterward, England descended into civil war and my father began hiding clues about Galileo’s secret. Did the links in this deadly chain stretch even further back than we had thought—perhaps all the way to the beginning of this century, when Galileo had undertaken the experiments that would eventually incur the Church’s wrath? Or was I merely seeing connections that weren’t truly there?
Antonio cut into my thoughts. “For Signor Galilei’s sake, I’ll always despise the machinery of religion.”
I nearly dropped the telescope. “You despise God?”
He let out a pent-up breath. “I hate when people twist religion to suit their own purposes or force others to believe what they do. I believe in the eternity of the soul and the beauty of Jesus’s teachings. But I won’t believe in the tyrannical Heaven that the Church wants us to worship. Why would God curse babies with ill health for their parents’ deeds? Or send a child to Hell if he dies before he’s baptized?”
I stared at him, unable to tear my gaze from his agonized expression. These were the same questions I had asked myself countless times because of my family. Why God had warped Anne’s legs and mangled her speech as punishment for our parents’ supposed sins. Why Father’s sight had faded to black as payment for his revolutionary ideas.
“Have I horrified you?” Antonio whispered.
I stepped closer to him so I could hear the gentle inhalation of his breath and see the silvery sheen of moonlight on his face. He didn’t smile, as I had half expected, but kept his eyes intent on mine.
“No,” I said. “I’ve struggled with the same ideas. Perhaps your master and Galileo were correct—the universe is a giant puzzle and the discoveries we make about its workings don’t need to erode our faith.” I hesitated. “Maybe God is the greatest natural philosopher of us all.”
At dawn’s first light we prepared to set out again. While I washed in the stream, Antonio told Robert we had come around to his way of thinking and had decided to assemble everything my father had concealed and to protect those things from the king. I didn’t even feel a guilty twinge when I returned to the campsite and Robert clasped my hand, thanking me for seeing the situation his way. Father’s life was worth endless lies.
It was the Lord’s Day, so by all rights we should have spent the day at services, but we couldn’t spare the time even to kneel at our campsite. There were only ten days left until the next Hanging Day. Ten days before my father died, unless I saved him.
Don’t think about it, I told myself fiercely. Thinking would bring pain and fear, and I could afford neither now.
We spoke little and stopped only for a hurried midday meal from the supplies we had packed. When night turned the sky black, we set up camp beneath a fringe of trees. Antonio tended the horses while I laid out our simple supper. By my calculations, we ought to arrive in London sometime tomorrow. I prayed we would be fast enough to get there before our assailants.
“Any idea who those men were who attacked us?” I asked Robert. “Did you recognize them from your father’s court?”
He was whittling a piece of wood, his knife flashing in his hands. “No. But it was too dark to see them clearly. I only hope, if they’re on their way to London, too, they’ve taken a different route. I suspect they must have, for I’ve seen no sign that anyone’s on our trail.” He hesitated. “I’ve been thinking about where we should stay when we reach London. I have my own lodgings at Whitehall—in a building separate from the palace, but it’s so close I fear my father and his men would be bound to notice if I had any unexpected guests.”
Lodge together in London? Clearly he’d believed Antonio’s assurances that we were now working in tandem to prevent the king from gaining possession of my father’s secrets. I shifted uncomfortably. If Antonio and I succeeded, my family and I would soon be living in a foreign land and he would be on his way home to Florence . . . and Robert would never forgive us for betraying him.
My face went hot. I glanced at Robert. He was sitting cross-legged on Antonio’s bedroll. His face was still bruised, but the swelling in his lips had gone down enough so he could speak without slurring his words like a drunkard. Despite our horses’ quick pace, he’d continued wearing his wig, keeping it clapped to his head by securing the ties of his hat tightly beneath his chin.
“I thought we would go directly to my family’s home.” Even to my ears, my voice sounded unnaturally high. “We need to retrieve what my father hid in the sand barrel.”
“Yes, of course, but afterward we might need a place to hide while we figure out how to help your father,” Robert said. “We should stay with my intended—she has a large estate and a mostly absent chaperone.”
“You’re engaged to be married?”
“Yes.” Robert forced a smile. “My betrothed is Lady Katherine Daly of Ireland. My father hopes to curry the favor of his Irish and Sco
ttish subjects by tying his sons to their countrywomen. I’m lucky, though,” he said hastily, “for Lady Katherine’s a beautiful maiden of sixteen. I easily could have been saddled with someone dull-witted and old. And she’s devoted to me—we can trust her discretion if we lodge with her.”
“Don’t you wish to marry for love?” The words tumbled out of my mouth before I could stop them. Odd’s fish, how could I have spoken so boldly? Without daring to look at Robert, I busied myself setting out the packets of bread and cheese.
“No,” Robert said quietly. “I haven’t let myself reflect upon such things. Even when we lived in poverty in exile, I knew my life was not my own, whether I had been born out of wedlock or not. I belong to England before I belong to anyone else, and I’ll do anything to help my country. Even if it means marrying a stranger or fighting my father.”
If only we could work on the same side. I had to let him know how much I admired him. Maybe someday the memory would make my deception taste less bitter in his mouth. Impulsively I grabbed his hand. “You must know I’d prefer a government ruled by the people, but . . . if I had to choose between you and your father as a ruler, I’d choose you.”
This time, his smile didn’t look forced.
After supper Antonio built a small fire for me to work by, and I continued copying out Paradise Lost. There must be additional clues concealed in the poem, the three of us had agreed while we ate. Unfortunately, I knew I would only be able to capture some of my father’s original words. At best, most of the verses would be paraphrases; at worst they’d be my own inventions.
Antonio and Robert paced nearby, talking in low voices. At last I stopped and read what I had written. I had reached the section in which Adam speaks with Raphael, an angel who is visiting Eden from Heaven. Satan is creeping through Eden like a low-hanging black mist, and the two humans are still safe—the temptation hasn’t yet occurred.
I skimmed the passage in which Adam asks Raphael about the workings of the universe:
When I behold this goodly Frame, this World
Of Heav’n and Earth consisting, and compute
Thir magnitudes, this Earth a spot, a graine
An Atom, with the Firmament compar’d
And all her numbered Starrs, that seem to rowle
Spaces incomprehensible . . .
In this section Adam sounded as though he was an astronomer. An odd image—I’d always pictured him as a farmer.
My hand hovered over the paper. Adam is an astronomer, I repeated, my heart thudding in my chest. He wishes to count the stars, to number the constellations turning in the heavens; he wants to understand the rules of our galaxy.
Slowly I raised my head to stare at the two boys walking beneath the trees, their outlines red from the firelight.
“I think I’ve found one of my father’s clues!” I called.
As one, they raced to me. “What is it?” Antonio asked.
“There is astronomy in my father’s poem,” I said, shoving the page at them to read. “In this passage, he portrays Adam as a budding natural philosopher.”
They scanned my scrawled lines. Then Antonio’s head snapped up.
“These are the sorts of questions I asked my master when I was a boy,” he said. “How could your father know I said such things?”
“I don’t know. I . . .” I flailed, searching for an answer. “Your master must have told him. Perhaps he and my father have written each other letters for years. How else would my father have known your master’s street address?” I asked as the image of my father’s letter to Signor Viviani appeared in my mind’s eye, the addressee’s name and street written in Deborah’s handwriting.
“Then if this character says your words,” Robert said, darting a look at Antonio, “maybe he’s meant to represent you.”
A tingle raced along my spine. Father did often weave real-life figures into his poetry. Hastily I flipped to a fresh sheet and scrawled: Adam. Antonio. Both began with the letter A. Both referred to young men—natural philosophers who study the stars and the makings of the world around them.
As though my fingers moved of their own volition, they tightened on the quill and wrote two more names: Eve. Elizabeth.
“My father made us into the characters!” I breathed. “The entire story—good and evil, different sides battling one another, two young people seeking something that will give them knowledge, like Adam and Eve and the apple and us and whatever it is that my father hid—it’s all a reflection of our quest!”
“By God, I think you must be right!” Robert edged closer to me, his eyes intent on the papers in my lap. “What about the other characters—could they be real people, too?”
I scribbled several angels’ names.
“It’s an alliterative scheme,” I said at once. “My father’s fond of such literary tricks. See—there’s Michael, an angel, and Milton. The archangel Gabriel and Galileo—he must appear twice, both as himself, ‘the Tuscan Artist,’ and disguised as an angel to show he’s doubly important to the story. There must be a third angel named for Signor Viviani—Uriel!” I concluded triumphantly. “The U and V letters are so similar, my father would have forced the pattern to fit. These three men represent God’s angels, who’ve fought Satan and his army in Heaven and are determined to keep God’s kingdom protected from evil.”
“Just as Mr. Milton, Signor Galilei, and my master wanted to keep Signor Galilei’s discovery secret but safe,” Antonio said. “They appointed themselves its guardians.”
“Then why,” Robert said urgently, “did that man who attacked Elizabeth refer to those three men as ‘traitor angels’? He made them sound wicked, as though they were on the side of Satan and his rebel army.”
“Sometimes evil depends on your perspective,” Antonio said. I knew by the pained expression on his face he must be thinking of his revered Galileo. “Our assailants probably think Mr. Milton, Signor Galilei, and my master are the wicked ones.”
“Evil is eternal and unchanging,” Robert disagreed. The boys started arguing as I skimmed through the stack of papers, trying to find more clues. Now I saw my father’s poem with new eyes. Eve, whom I had never paid much attention to, fairly leaped off the pages at me: beautiful and sweet, with blond hair curling down her back. She’s ruled by what Father refers to as “fancy,” but which I knew meant her imagination. Several lines caught my eye:
My Author and Disposer, Eve says to Adam, what thou bidst, / Unargu’d I Obey; so God ordains, / God is thy Law, thou mine: to know no more / Is womans happiest knowledge and her praise.
Something icy jabbed my heart. Father was saying Eve not only was inferior to Adam, but rejoiced in her lower status, believing it was the lot of females. I hadn’t misremembered those lines; when Father had originally dictated them to me, I’d found them so irritating they’d burrowed into my brain like burrs, difficult to shake loose.
Was this Eve who my father had wanted me to be? This golden-haired, empty-headed beauty? She was nothing like me. I must be missing something—a vital clue hidden somewhere in the story that would tell me why my father had chosen to portray me as a character wholly unlike myself. I flipped through the pages again, but I could find nothing. Well, I hadn’t copied out the poem’s final three books yet. There might be answers at the story’s end—
“We haven’t considered one question.” Robert’s voice interrupted my thoughts. His eyes were wide and frightened. “If many of the characters in Paradise Lost are meant to have counterparts in real life, then there’s one person whom we must identify as quickly as we can.”
My stomach dropped. I knew who he meant.
“Satan,” I whispered.
Antonio released a heavy breath. Wordlessly he began kicking dirt onto the fire, smothering the flames. I watched the burning twigs vanish beneath a layer of dark earth, and I couldn’t stop shivering, even though the night was warm.
Fifteen
ALL THE NEXT DAY WE RODE. AS WE CANTERED, WE took turns tossing out name
s to one another as possibilities for my father’s Satan. Buckingham? Impossible; his name was George Villiers. The king? The only s in his name came at the end of “Charles,” and it was apparent from my father’s literary scheme that he selected names that began with the relevant letter.
Frustrated, we raced across the parched fields. Whoever my father had selected as his version of the devil, it had to be someone powerful, and the aristocracy presented us with dozens of options. Robert called out suggestions until he suddenly drew hard on his reins. Antonio and I jerked our horses to a halt, then wheeled them around to look at Robert. He sat motionless, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths. When his eyes met mine, they looked dark.
“I know who it is,” he said hoarsely. “I don’t want to believe it but . . . it has to be my father.”
“We’ve already rejected him,” Antonio objected. “There’s no s in his name—”
“Yes,” Robert broke in desperately, “there is. My father belongs to the house of Stuart.”
A chill shivered along my spine. Of course. English monarchs had always been descended from particular lines—the Plantagenets, the Lancastrians, the Tudors, and now the Stuarts. In my mind, I ran through the catalog of my father’s literary version of Satan. An enormous creature. A leader. Charismatic, seemingly brave. Powerful. And so seductive that a reader doesn’t realize she has fallen alongside him until he tempts Eve and his true nature is revealed.
The king was also massive—six feet tall. So charming that he had romanced dozens of women and even persuaded his wife to permit his illegitimate babies to be brought up in the nursery at Whitehall. The man who held the most powerful position in the land.
It had to be. I almost let out a whoop of satisfaction; then I spied Robert’s agonized expression and the sound died in my throat. No one would want to believe his father was capable of being termed a devil—even if it was only a literary allusion.
I reached out to grab Robert’s bridle, my bare fingers brushing his gloved ones. “I’m sorry. This must be hard for you.”