“Help me!” He looked at me pleadingly. He took a step and the floor groaned under his weight. “Elizabeth! The floor’s collapsing!”
“Run to us! We can jump together!”
His eyes looked like enormous dark pools. He didn’t move. “I’m too heavy—the wood will break under me!”
I couldn’t just watch him die. I started to slide off the sill. Antonio jerked me back, close to him.
“Don’t!” he yelled in my ear.
“Help me!” Robert shouted again. Flames were shooting across the floor in a carpet of glowing red.
Robert’s face was a mask of terror. He raced toward us, a flickering figure of yellow behind the screen of smoke. He reached out his hand toward me. We were so close—our fingers almost brushed. “Please—” he started to say, but what he would have said next I would never know. With a horrible groaning of wood, the floor collapsed.
One instant Robert stood a few feet away from us; the next he was gone, with only the echo of his scream to tell us he had ever been there.
Thirty-Four
“ROBERT!” I SHOUTED.
The space where the floor had been was a black hole rimmed with red. Everything was gone—a couple of chairs, the desk where Robert had thought the map had been concealed, everything vanished. Smoke had begun filling the air, turning it gray and opaque.
“We can’t wait any longer!” Antonio yelled.
I nodded. Robert was gone. No one could survive such a fall, let alone a fall into an inferno. He was dead, and as my fingers tightened on the vial, I knew I wouldn’t bring him back.
“Now!” I shouted, and we leaped into the darkness.
We hit the water with a resounding splash. Immediately my body plunged into shocking coldness. I opened my eyes and saw I was cutting through the dark river water like a knife, plummeting toward the bottom. Antonio was gone; I couldn’t sense his grip on my wrist.
My arms flailed uselessly, churning the brackish water until all I saw beyond them were white bubbles and blackness. Air pressed against the spokes of my rib cage, pushing, pushing until I could bear it no longer and opened my mouth for a hopeless breath. Dank river water streamed down my throat. I started to choke, gasping.
An arm wrapped around my waist. Antonio. I recognized the white of his shirt, the black of his breeches, but I couldn’t see his face; my head was tucked into the hollow of his neck. Blindly I twined my arms around his chest, my hands meeting on his back and the vial gripped tightly in my right hand. Antonio kicked hard once, twice, and we glided up.
My head broke the surface. I sucked in a mouthful of hot, smoky air. It burned my throat as it went down. Overhead the sky was a flickering, faded red, obscured by a drifting screen of smoke. The surface of the water was flecked with orange and scarlet, the reflection of the flames. Charred timbers and burned furniture floated all around us, bobbing gently on the current.
Antonio treaded water next to me, keeping an arm braced under my armpits. The Thames had washed the soot from his face, leaving it pale gray. The cut on his cheek had stopped bleeding; it looked like a thin black line. He was breathing hard.
“Wrap your arms around my neck,” he panted. “I’ll swim us to safety.”
I clung to him as he kicked and paddled. With each stroke he took, the enormous underworkings of London Bridge drew nearer: stone pilings, vaulted archways, and, far to the left and the right, the massive circular shadows of the waterwheels. One of them had caught fire and come loose from its moorings; it drifted away on its side, a burning circle on the dark water.
We reached the stone pilings. There we huddled with a dozen others. Soon enough, watermen would rescue us, they told me and Antonio. We nodded dully. My soaked shift clung to my skin, and I shivered despite the smoky heat pressing in on us from all sides. From our vantage point under the bridge, we couldn’t see the city, but the illumination of the reflected flames had turned an enormous swath of the Thames red, showing us the far-reaching path the fire had already taken. Smoke curled and twisted across the water’s surface. The distant rumble of flames was so loud I had to place my lips on Antonio’s ear.
“You could have returned to Florence after I was imprisoned,” I said. “You could have left my father in Mr. Farriner’s house.” Emotion choked my voice, so the next words came out sounding half strangled. “But you stayed. You carried him.”
He looked at me, his eyes startled. “Of course. I never would have left him—”
“But you could have,” I interrupted. “You had the choice. You might have died for our sakes, Antonio.”
He rested his hand on my cheek. His fingers were cold and wet, but they warmed me all the same. “Elizabeth, don’t you know by now I would give up anything for you? Even my life.”
Tears gathered in my eyes. I turned, letting his hand fall from my face. I gazed across the ruby-spattered water to where the white dome of St. Paul’s gleamed in the reddish darkness, rising high above the city. Around us, the others muttered among themselves, some sighing, others sobbing.
“I shouldn’t have doubted you,” I said.
“How could you not?” he asked. “Robert was a skilled manipulator. It’s a miracle we even managed to become friends, with him as our constant companion.”
“Maybe there are miracles in this world.” I twisted from my crouched position on the stone piling so I could look Antonio in the face. He was watching me, his expression calm. “No matter what Galileo’s discovery truly means, I still believe in them. You’re the miracle of my life, Antonio.”
He grinned. “And you’re mine.” He leaned closer, his lips brushing mine. I could feel his touch in the base of my spine, as though every particle of my body was attuned to his mouth or his hands. This boy would be a challenge, I knew; there would be nothing easy or straightforward about our relationship.
Then again, we Miltons were accustomed to hardship. I wouldn’t wish for soft hands adorned with rings when I could have callused hands gripped around a telescope.
Antonio moved closer, bringing his lips to my ear. “I think we need to arrange an audience with the king. We can persuade him that the vial was lost in the fire. As long as he thinks it’s been destroyed, he might be willing to let your father remain free.”
I watched the smoke curling over the surface of the Thames, thinking. Father, free. He could walk the streets of his beloved London once more without fearing that the king’s men would drag him off to prison. He might even be able to have his work published again.
And Londoners—all of the Christian nations—could continue to believe in the miracle of Christ’s resurrection. Governments wouldn’t fall. There would be no revolution. No separation of church and state. Until the day when, maybe, the two might split apart.
For now, the world wasn’t ready.
I glanced at Antonio. “It will mean keeping Galileo’s discovery a secret.”
His jaw was clenched. “I know. His reputation will remain in tatters. But he is dead, and my allegiance will always be to the living.”
I shook my head. “You aren’t fooling me. I know you’re doing this for my sake, not my father’s.” I rested my forehead on his, feeling the warmth of his skin flow into mine. I could almost pretend our thoughts pushed through the layers of bone and muscle and blood separating us, and we could speak without saying a word. I love you, I thought. I love you, Antonio Galletti, the boy who exists beneath the fine clothes and elevated status, the vineyard worker’s son. And someday I will be brave enough to tell you.
Aloud, I said, “Thank you.”
He nodded. I doubted he could bring himself to speak. But I knew how much his decision cost him, and I would be grateful to him for the rest of my life.
And so we sat together on the pilings, Antonio and I, the vial cold in my grip, and watched the sky darken to bloodred as we waited for the boatmen to come.
The sun had become a gold coin in the sky glinting through the drifting layers of smoke by the time three watermen rowed
their wherries under the bridge to rescue us. We had agreed we had to go to Mr. Pepys first, to rescue him from the two of Robert’s friends who had escorted him from the Tower moat.
We found him in a garden behind the cluster of buildings where Royal Navy officers were housed near Tower Hill—burying, of all things, a giant wheel of Parmesan cheese, apparently to keep it safe from the encroaching fire. His assailants had argued over what to do with him and had slain each other in a fight. Once we had told him that the Duke of Lockton had set the fire and perished in the blaze, we begged him to take us to the king, and he agreed immediately.
Since we were half dressed, Mr. Pepys gave me his wife’s blue gown to wear and lent Antonio a black velvet doublet, which was so small that he looked as though he were a man trying to fit into a child’s clothes; but wearing them was preferable to calling upon the king in our undergarments.
We took a wherry to Whitehall. As the boat skimmed across the water, fire tore west along the northern bank, following us. For the first time in hours, I allowed myself to think of my family. They were out there somewhere, behind those walls of smoke and flame. I prayed with all of my strength they were safe and the fire hadn’t reached our neighborhood.
Slowly the fire’s roar receded. As we alighted on the palace boat-stairs, I looked at the thick plumes of smoke rising from the ruined city behind us. Then, my heart clutching in my chest, I followed Mr. Pepys and Antonio onto Whitehall’s grounds.
For a long time, we waited in the king’s closet in the chapel, while a group of courtiers bickered over whether or not the fire was dangerous enough to warrant disturbing the king. At last we were escorted up the Privy Stairs and through a long gallery whose walls were crowded with paintings and tapestries. Mr. Pepys explained that the king would receive us while lounging in bed, in the French fashion, and that the king, having spent so many of his formative years on the Continent, must be excused for his decidedly un-English manners.
We were brought through a seemingly endless series of chambers, ending at the Royal Bedchamber. I paused on the threshold. This moment might determine the course of the rest of my life. I couldn’t afford to make a mistake. Taking a deep breath, I strode into the room. Inside my bodice, the vial, cool and smooth, lay against my bare flesh.
The room was bursting with so many people I wondered the walls didn’t bow outward from the pressure: a group of nobles played cards at a table laden with goblets of wine and gold coins; a handful of men in much-mended clothes stood near the door, clutching vials of cloudy-looking liquid—peddlers of medicinal potions, I supposed, for the king’s interest in such matters was well known; and a brown-haired man of about thirty, attired in fine clothes, looked out a window, keeping himself aloof from the chamber’s other inhabitants. A box containing a recent litter of spaniel puppies sat on the floor. The king himself lay on an enormous bed with velvet hangings. He looked sleepy, and his long black wig sat slightly askew on his head.
“Ah, Mr. Pepys!” he exclaimed. “What can you be doing out so early on the Lord’s morning?”
Mr. Pepys bowed so low his nose nearly scraped the floor. Antonio and I hastily followed his example.
“I don’t come on pleasant business, Your Majesty,” Mr. Pepys said. “A dreadful fire is ravaging the city, and I”—he hesitated, his voice dipping—“I convey news of your son I don’t think you would wish anyone else to hear.”
The king sat bolt upright, the sheets puddling in his lap to reveal his plain white nightgown. He snapped his fingers. “Leave us,” he commanded to the room at large.
At once the nobles and potion makers shuffled out of the room, leaving only the man at the window and a second at the table remaining. The latter stood, his dark eyes sweeping over us, and I froze in midbow. It was the Duke of Buckingham.
He gazed at me, recognition dawning on his face. “The girl who played servant,” he muttered to himself.
The king leaned forward. “Mr. Pepys, what tidings do you have of my son?”
Mr. Pepys gestured at me and Antonio. “Your Majesty, I present to you Miss Elizabeth Milton and Mr. Antonio Viviani of Florence. They are far better suited to tell you the story than I am.”
The king’s eyes widened. “So this is the poet’s daughter and the Florentine mathematician? Very well, Miss Milton and Mr. Viviani—tell me about my son. The truth,” he added. “I will know if you’re foolish enough to lie to me.”
Haltingly we explained the horrific events of the last several hours, omitting the part about my hitting Robert and taking the vial from him. As far as the king would know, the vial had perished with his son.
After we had finished, silence descended on the room for a long moment. Then the king dropped his head into his hands. “Robert,” he moaned.
“You always spoiled the boy.” The man at the window turned. I recognized his long, lean face surrounded by waves of brown curls: it was the king’s younger brother and legal heir, James, the Duke of York. “I warned you no good would come of giving him a title and an endless stream of gifts without the anchor of responsibility and royal duty.” He crossed the room, stopping by the bed to place a hand on the king’s shoulder. “But you don’t deserve this pain, Charles.”
“He conspired against me.” The king’s voice trembled. “I wondered, of course I wondered, but I couldn’t bring myself to believe he would try to overthrow me and seize the crown for himself—and in such a horrific way.”
He lifted his head to reveal red-rimmed eyes. “How can I tell Lord Daly that his daughter died at my son’s hand?”
“You can’t,” Buckingham said at once. He sent me and Antonio a wary look. “The only people who know what happened in Mr. Farriner’s bakehouse are either dead or in this room. As a blind man, Mr. Milton can’t claim to have witnessed anything.”
The hairs on the back of my neck rose. Buckingham was right, since we hadn’t mentioned Thomasine. As far as they knew, Antonio and I alone were aware of who had plunged the sword into Lady Katherine’s stomach. Had our knowledge signed our death warrant?
“Your Majesty,” Antonio said, “the bakehouse was dark and there was much confusion when we found Mr. Milton.” He paused, his meaning clear. “It’s difficult to say precisely what happened in that room.”
Buckingham sent him a considering look. “I’m glad to see our foreign guest has a cool head on his shoulders.” He turned to the king. “The solution is simple: the Duke of Lockton, while out carousing with friends, caught sight of the fire spreading across the bridge. He went into one of the houses to warn the occupants, whereupon he was overcome by the flames.
“This is the story we must tell if we don’t want London to descend into anarchy. Think of it, Charles,” he urged when the king sat motionless, tears shining in his eyes. “If the populace knew your son was responsible for setting the blaze that has destroyed their homes, cost them the lives of their loved ones, there would be a mass riot. You will end either on the scaffold as your father did or exiled in Europe again. And I tremble for the future of our country—England isn’t strong enough to weather having another king deposed.”
“Yes,” the king said slowly. “If the truth is told, our country will come apart again, as it did in my father’s time.”
I took a steadying breath. This was my chance to bargain for Father’s life. I would never have another opportunity. “My father is scheduled for execution, Your Majesty. But we . . . we are prepared to keep our silence in return for his life.”
The king regarded me without expression. “I have no desire to find the cave and trumpet news of a discovery that could only plunge countless countries into mass riots. The vial has been destroyed in the fire; let that be the end of it.”
I swayed on my feet. This was it, the oath I had needed to hear. He was going to let Father live. “I will never speak of the vial again, Your Majesty,” I promised.
There was one thing that still needed to be said, though, the one thing that might make my father’s past sufferi
ngs bearable. Fear was a piece of broken glass in my throat, cutting every time I tried to speak, but I pushed the words out all the same.
“Your Majesty, my father’s poem was destroyed by the Duke of Buckingham. As the vial and the map are now gone, you can have no further objections to Paradise Lost—it has become simply a poem. I’m certain my father could dictate it to me again. If Your Majesty could . . . that is . . . if you could ensure it’s approved by the government censors so it can be published, my father . . .” I paused for a steadying breath as my voice wobbled out of control, “I think my father could be happy. He has had little joy in his life, Your Majesty.”
“My years of exile have taught me we must find joy whenever we can,” the king replied. “Paradise Lost will be published; you have my word.”
Tears spilled down my cheeks. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“And all else shall be forgotten,” the king ordered.
Antonio and I bowed our heads in submission. “The world isn’t ready for the truth, Your Majesty,” Antonio said quietly. “It may never be.”
“We are done.” The king clapped his hands. “Bucks, be so good as to fetch the nearest clerk. I need to issue orders about the best ways to contain the fire. Mr. Pepys, you’ll deliver my orders to the Lord Mayor. James,” he added, glancing at his brother, “we’ll take a barge so we can view the fire from the river.”
It was clear we had been dismissed. Mr. Pepys remained in the Royal Bedchamber for instructions as Antonio and I backed out of the room, careful to keep our fronts to the king. Once we had wended our way through the series of chambers to the gallery, we took to our heels, hurrying to the Privy Stairs that took us outside, where the air was slowly turning bitter with smoke. And yet, in a way, the air tasted like freedom, too.
Thirty-Five
WE WALKED TO MY FAMILY’S HOUSE IN EXHAUSTED silence. The fires hadn’t reached this far north yet, although I heard the distant rumble of flames. The house looked deserted, the steps empty, the shutters flung open wide without the usual accompaniment of chattering voices from inside. Perhaps my family was hiding out in Moorfields until the fires were extinguished.