Knives of worry stabbed my stomach. Both men gradually going blind, one eye at a time, ostracized, then imprisoned for their political or philosophical beliefs. They had lost their vision for different reasons: Father for reading so much by candlelight, Galileo for using his telescopes—
I gasped aloud. Galileo had used telescopes. And he had been living in Tuscany when my father met him. In some respects, he could be considered an “artist,” for he had used his creativity and imagination to attempt to solve the riddles of the skies.
In my mind, I saw lines from Father’s poem, the ones we had been working on during our last session together: Through Optic Glass the Tuscan Artist views / At Ev’ning from the top of Fesole . . .
Galileo was the Tuscan Artist! I knew my father too well to pretend Galileo’s inclusion in his masterpiece was a twist of chance or an homage to a natural philosopher he admired.
It was a clue.
“Elizabeth?” Antonio tapped my knee. “What’s wrong?”
I shook my head, as if to clear it. “My father turned Galileo into a character in Paradise Lost. He’s the only contemporary person in the entire poem. It’s a message, I’m sure of it!”
Antonio’s eyebrows rose. “What happens in Paradise Lost when Signor Galilei appears?”
“Galileo is mentioned just as Satan escapes from a lake of fire,” I said. “It’s the moment when evil frees itself from a prison and prepares to unleash itself onto the world. The timing can’t be a coincidence.”
“Perhaps Galileo accomplished something that, like Satan, could change Earth forever.”
Wordlessly, we stared at each other. How could we ever piece together all these separate pieces so they made one cohesive picture? And if Galileo had committed a momentous act years ago in his native Tuscany, then what bearing could that possibly have on the king now, decades later, in another part of the world? It made no sense.
“The answers must be waiting for us in Oxford,” I said urgently.
Without speaking again, we packed the remaining food and swung ourselves onto our horses. Antonio took off at once. I slouched low in my saddle and followed.
We pushed our horses to the limit. By the time the sun had reached its noonday zenith, all of us, humans and beasts alike, were hot and flushed. On the edge of a wooded thicket, we sat with our backs braced against the trees, eating a simple meal of bread and dried fruit. When we had finished, I excused myself. Upon returning to our temporary camp, I found Antonio had gone, presumably to complete the same errand, and I took advantage of the momentary break to lie on the ground. I closed my throbbing eyes.
Pine needles sighed under approaching feet. “I beg your pardon,” said a boy’s voice that was definitely not Antonio’s, “but have you seen a boy of about eighteen or nineteen, black-haired, who speaks with a foreign accent, and a girl of the same age, dressed in Puritan clothes? They should have passed this way recently.”
My insides hardened to ice. Someone was already after us. My eyes flew open and I found myself staring into a stranger’s face. His was so close to mine our noses nearly touched. He crouched next to my supine body, leaning over me. In the shadows cast by the trees, he was made up of white and dark: pale cheeks, the twin orbs of his eyes, a tumble of brown hair.
“No,” I said slowly. “I haven’t seen them.”
“A pity.” He said the words lightly, but I saw the way his mouth twisted: he was disappointed. “I would have paid you handsomely for any information you could have given me. Oh, well. Here’s a guinea for your trouble.”
He sat back on his haunches, digging through a small leather pouch strung onto his belt. Eyes narrowed, I pushed myself to a sitting position. My braid coiled heavily on my neck; my hat lay a few feet away. Apparently this stranger hadn’t noticed my hair yet, but it couldn’t be long before he did. I rotated my wrists, feeling my knives’ leather bindings bite into my forearms. An instant’s work and my blade could be at this stranger’s throat. But there was no need to attack him and arouse his suspicions. Not yet.
I darted a glance behind me. The horses stood near the stream, but Antonio was still gone.
“You have my apologies for waking you,” the stranger said. He spoke with a highborn London accent, his syllables crisp and precise.
He had gotten to his feet, and he flicked a guinea in my direction. It hit the dirt next to me, but I made no move to pick it up, watching him instead. This boy looked to be about my age, and his brown hair fell to his shoulders in curling waves. He was uncommonly tall, at least six feet, and wore a doublet and breeches of yellow silk.
“Who are you?” I asked, taking care to pitch my voice low.
He didn’t seem to hear me; he was staring at some point on my chest. I followed the line of his gaze: my braid had slipped over my shoulder and hung over my bust.
“A girl—” he started to gasp, but I didn’t give him the chance to finish. I pulled a knife free from its sheath, then launched myself at him. He fell hard, landing on his back in the dirt. Before he could even blink, I had my weapon at his throat.
“Who are you?” I snapped.
He hissed out an impatient breath. “It’s clear who you are. Miss Milton, correct?”
“Your name or you’ll feel the point of my blade.”
“Robert Crofts!” he shouted. “I’ve come from London—”
“Elizabeth!” Antonio’s voice cracked through the air like a rifle shot. I looked up to see him running toward me, weaving through the fringe of trees—a blur of black and white. He drew his sword free from its scabbard, the blade flashing silver with reflected sunlight.
“This boy has been looking for us,” I called to him. “He says he goes by the name Robert Crofts.”
Antonio dropped to his knees beside me. “Are you all right?” he asked in a low voice. “This fellow didn’t hurt you?”
Why did boys always imagine they had to play the savior? I rolled my eyes. “I’m well enough, but I can’t guarantee how much longer Mr. Crofts can say the same—unless he answers my questions.”
“I mean neither of you harm, I swear it,” Crofts said. All the color had leached from his face, leaving it deathly pale. “I’ve been seeking both of you to warn you that you’re in terrible danger.”
“An aristocrat like you wants to help the daughter of a supposed regicide like me?” I asked. “If you think I’ll believe this hearth tale, then either you have too high an opinion of your storytelling abilities or too low an opinion of my intellect.”
Beside me, Antonio snorted out a laugh. Crofts shot him a startled look. “Is she always this bold?”
Antonio grinned. “I only made her acquaintance two days ago, but based on what I’ve seen so far—yes.”
“Instead of discussing my character, perhaps we could return to more important matters.” I moved back slightly, keeping my weapon a few inches distant from Crofts’s neck. “How do you know about us?”
He sat up. “A few days ago at court, we received word that a Florentine had come to London seeking John Milton. Buckingham left at once for Chalfont St. Giles, and I followed on my own. Unfortunately, by the time I arrived Mr. Milton’s household had disappeared. The villagers thought they had tired of country life and returned to London.”
Crofts hesitated. “They all seemed so inclined to believe the lie, I myself was tempted to. Until I spoke to Mr. Francis Sutton. Once I parted with some coins, he was happy to tell me your destination, and to draw me a map of the route he had advised you to take.”
“A pretty story,” Antonio said. “You still haven’t told us why the king would care that I came to London in search of Mr. Milton.”
“I don’t know.”
Antonio and I looked at each other. As one, we moved closer to Crofts, our faces hard. His eyes darted back and forth between the two of us, and he held up his hands in surrender.
“I swear it, I don’t know!” A faint sheen of sweat gleamed on Crofts’s forehead. “The king became wild with fear wh
en we were told a Florentine had been looking for Mr. Milton.”
The skin on the back of my neck prickled. The king’s fear had to be tied into the secret my father had hidden thirty years ago. But how had the king found out about it in the first place? And how had he learned of my father’s connection to any Italians?
“So why did you journey to Chalfont?” Antonio asked, touching the hilt of his sword, his ring clinking against the metal.
“After the old king was executed, the present king languished in exile for eleven years. Ever since he claimed the throne, he’s been desperate to keep it.” Crofts’s face was grim, his voice steady. “Such men are too dangerous. Only a few slippery steps and they become tyrants. It wasn’t too long ago that the king’s dead father tried to assume absolute control over England, and all we got was a civil war and thousands of dead. I care too much about this country to let our rulers bully their subjects again. Even though I don’t know you, I’ll help you, if it means stopping the king. England can’t survive another despot.”
He held out his hands in a placating gesture. “As you see, I came alone at considerable expense and trouble to myself. Let me help you.”
“Just a moment.” I jerked my head at Antonio, then walked a short distance away. Even with my back turned to Crofts, I felt his eyes digging into my spine. “What do you think?” I whispered.
Antonio, looking thoughtful, rubbed the back of his neck. “If Crofts was on the king’s side, he would have ridden to Chalfont with Buckingham. As he’s come all this way on his own, he must believe the king’s intentions are wrong.”
I glanced over my shoulder at Crofts. He had gotten to his feet. Even as I watched, he rested his hand on the hilt of his sword.
“His weapon!” I whispered.
But he didn’t draw it. He stood waiting, his head bowed. Antonio and I exchanged a swift look.
“He easily could have crept up behind us and stabbed us,” I said.
Antonio nodded, laying a hand on my shoulder. “I think he’s just proved his trustworthiness.”
I nodded. Dropping his hand from my shoulder, Antonio walked back to where Crofts stood. As I followed him, I could have sworn I still felt the weight of his hand and the heat of his skin burning through the thin fabric of my shirt.
Ten
WE RODE HARD ACROSS THE FIELDS, THE SUN BEATING down on our heads. When we stopped to sip from our water skins, I explained to Crofts why we were journeying to Oxford—that we believed my father had concealed a political secret in one of his Italian sonnets, and the Bodleian was one of the last places in the country where we could be assured of finding my father’s old books.
We reached the outskirts of Oxford by midafternoon. The streets were long and straight. The farther we rode, the more I was struck by the tidiness of the city’s stone buildings and the cleanliness of its gutters. This city, with its coffeehouses and taverns and inns siting sedately next to one another, seemed another world from London’s jumble of buildings crammed higgledy-piggledy together or Chalfont’s cottages and farm fields. The people weren’t the tangle of vendors, merchants, tradesmen, and aristocrats I was accustomed to seeing in London’s narrow streets or the soberly dressed religious freethinkers and farmers of Chalfont. Here I saw university tutors in long black robes, their arms bent around bundles of books, and fine men and ladies in carriages, their clothes of midnight blue, green, or peach showing through the open windows as they rumbled past.
Crofts led the way. He said that he knew the city well, for he’d stayed here last autumn with his family to escape the plague that was then sweeping through London. The Bodleian was housed in a large building of pale stone that formed a quadrangle. The massive dragon of a structure was several stories tall, its walls pitted with dozens of windows.
We tied our horses to hitching posts. On the library’s front steps stood a couple of students talking with one another, dressed in their required long black gowns. They stepped to the side, allowing us to pass.
Inside we found ourselves in a deserted corridor lined with windows. In the sun-flooded warmth, dust motes spun like dots of gold in the air.
Without looking at us to see if we followed, Crofts strode down the corridor. He led us through a series of long passageways, one of which was lined with numerous gilt-framed paintings. At last he brought us into a large, high-ceilinged room crowded with stalls, which were similar to what I’d seen in markets. All of them were lined on both sides with shelves of books. A few dozen students sat at wooden tables, studying or scribbling notes. The place was silent as a tomb, except for the scratch of quills on paper and an occasional cough. No one looked up as we entered.
A middle-aged man with shoulder-length dark hair hurried toward us, his black robes fluttering about his ankles. “Your Grace,” he whispered, bowing to Crofts, “I’m honored by your presence. If I had known you were in town, I would have arranged for you to have private use of the Bodleian. How may I be of help today?”
Something cold settled in the pit of my stomach. Your Grace. What had the librarian meant by addressing Mr. Crofts with such an illustrious title? Unless our new companion wasn’t a mere gentleman, as his name implied . . .
Crofts gave him a polite smile. “How delightful to see you again. I didn’t think you would remember me.” He glanced at us. “This is the Bodleian librarian, Mr. Thomas Hyde.” He turned back to the gentleman. “We need to see Mr. John Milton’s 1645 book of poems.”
“This way, if you please.” Hyde ushered the three of us into an alcove. When he picked up a book, I saw it had been attached to its shelf by a long chain. As I ran my gaze down the stalls, I realized all of the folios had been chained to their shelves, no doubt to prevent students from stealing the library’s many rare or valuable books.
“Here it is,” Hyde said, setting the chained book on a nearby table. Sunlight pouring through the window cast a pool of dusty yellow on the leather-bound volume. Hyde flipped to the title page, and I read the irregular print: Poems of Mr. John Milton, Both English and Latin, and then the place of publication and the date, London, 1645. My heart painfully skipped a beat. This was it. I would find out what my father had been trying to tell me.
The librarian cast an anxious look at Crofts. “I hope you will pardon my predecessor’s actions, Your Grace.”
There was that troubling salutation again. What did the librarian mean by addressing Crofts so formally? I was missing something, but what?
When Crofts raised his eyebrows, Hyde said hastily, “Six years ago, when the warrant for Mr. Milton’s arrest was written, all of his books were supposed to have been removed from the library.”
Images of the bonfires I had seen throughout London during the summer of 1660—the summer of the king’s return from exile—flickered through my mind. The flames had been stoked by the words of men who had once been leaders or visionaries, but who were viewed as traitors after the dead king’s son returned. Father’s pamphlets had disintegrated into smoke as my sisters and I watched from the steps of St. Paul’s Cathedral, the acrid scent weaving into our hair and skin so we could smell it everywhere we went. I hadn’t realized Father’s books had been banned from the Bodleian as well. Yet here this volume sat on a table.
“They were taken out of the collection,” Hyde said. “But Mr. Rouse, my predecessor, was a great admirer of Mr. Milton’s poetry and couldn’t bear to destroy any of his books. When I took over last year, I thought perhaps enough time had passed to put his works on our shelves again.”
“Set your mind at ease, Mr. Hyde.” Crofts clapped the man on the back. “You won’t be punished for Mr. Rouse’s actions. We require no more of your help.”
The dismissal was obvious. The librarian bowed again, then backed away, keeping his front turned to us. Another block of ice dropped into my stomach. Although we didn’t speak of the court in my home, I was familiar with the custom of never turning your back on a member of the royal family. Yet Crofts was too young to be the king, who was six
and thirty years of age. And the king and his Portuguese queen had no children.
Which meant Crofts could be only one of two people. And they were equally dangerous.
I grabbed Antonio’s wrist. “We must go at once,” I whispered.
But Antonio had found the sonnet and was skimming it, his forehead furrowed in concentration. “‘Qual in colle aspro, al imbrunir di sera . . . ,’” he read aloud quietly.
Crofts leaned across the table toward us, a shaft of sunlight laying itself on his face—a slash of yellow stretching from his left temple to the right side of his jaw. “What’s wrong? You look scared of me.”
“No, of course not.” We had to get out of here right now. I knew who Crofts had to be—there was always so much gossip swirling about him, and the members of his family, in London, that I was sure I couldn’t be mistaken. Even my father, who rarely mentioned the royal household, had talked about the twin brothers, so handsome and young, accomplished fighters who had grown up with almost nothing and who now had more riches than they could ever have dreamed of. But which twin stood before me?
“There’s only one reason you would suddenly be scared of me,” Crofts whispered, keeping his eyes locked on mine, “and that’s if you’ve figured out who I am.”
To my astonishment, he smiled—such a clear, relieved smile it transformed his face, changing him from forbidding to handsome.
“Masquerades are a burden,” he whispered, “and I’ve labored under their weight too many times.”
“You didn’t masquerade,” I hissed. “Crofts is the name that you and your brother go by, isn’t it?”
“Yes. One of our earliest guardians was called Crofts, and when we lived in France it seemed safer to adopt his surname than to use our true one.” His eyes flicked over to Antonio, who was now watching us warily. “You’re a foreigner, so I don’t expect you to understand what we’re speaking about.”