Traitor Angels

by Anne Blankman

  His smile quirked up the corners of his mouth but didn’t change anything else in his face. A false smile. “It’s fine,” he said quickly. “I’ve always known he wasn’t angelic. Kings can’t be. They don’t have the luxury of kindness, not when so many lives depend on them. It’s fine,” he said again when Antonio clapped his shoulder in solidarity. “Let’s ride, can’t we?”

  I wanted to press the issue, but the misery on his face kept me quiet. We spurred our horses onward without another word.

  Just as the sun had begun to dip beneath the horizon—a blazing red ball sending its last fiery rays across the sky—we spied the irregular wooden houses and crooked lanes of Southwark. London lay across the river. My heart kicked in my chest. We were so close.

  We clattered through the narrow streets. Tradespeople wended their way home after a long day’s work: milkmaids carrying jugs on their heads, butchers whose leather aprons were stained with animals’ blood, and cobblers who stank of lye. Market vendors led their horse-drawn carts, laden with empty baskets that had once contained cloth and buttons, strawberries, fish, onions, potatoes, and grain, sold and gone now.

  London Bridge loomed ahead of us. It was the only crossing that spanned the Thames, and this ensured both of its ends were usually crowded with travelers waiting to make the trip to the other side. Today was no exception: coaches, carts, and people on horseback or on foot stood in a long queue. We joined the back of the line. No one gave Robert a second look; he wore his hat low, obscuring his face. In everyone I looked at, I imagined I saw my Oxford attacker’s face, but when I looked again, he wasn’t there. Even so, the back of my neck prickled. He and his companions might have made it to London ahead of us. They could be anywhere. I swallowed hard, realizing I had been staring at one of the men waiting in line. Hastily I looked away.

  Beneath the bridge, massive waterwheels groaned in their slow revolutions. The river’s surface bristled with a variety of craft: grain and timber ships, oyster-, dung-, and eel-boats, coasters, merchantmen, and wherries, the cheap, low-bottomed boats that had helped me understand Galileo’s theory of constant motion. On the opposite bank, the Thames lapped at the water gates of the Tower, whose lower walls were dotted black with cannons. The White Tower speared toward the sky, a vast column of pale stone, the original part of the fortress and prison that had been built some six hundred years ago. A massive wall wrapped itself around the Tower and the vast complex of buildings surrounding it.

  As we inched forward on the bridge, I saw the city spreading out in all directions before us: a mix of workshops, warehouses, tenements, and slums alongside mansions, guildhalls, and churches. Lines of shadows snaked between the buildings, marking the streets, alleys, and lanes that made up the confused jumble of London’s system of roads. Earthenware roofs glowed orange in the light of the setting sun, and above them, kites flew back and forth, searching the streets for carrion.

  A portion of the bridge was lined with grand timber-framed houses with elaborately carved and gilded facades. I saw the house belonging to my weapons instructor, Mr. Hade, whose success as a merchant had enabled him to rent a place in such a coveted area. I wondered how he had fared during the plague—he and my father hadn’t written each other letters, fearing the disease could live in the paper.

  Robert leaned across his horse, murmuring, “What are you looking at so intently?”

  I nodded at the five-story wooden house we were passing. “The man who trained me in sword fighting, Mr. Hade, lives there.”

  Robert glanced at the house. “He’s a lucky man, to live surrounded by water.”

  “A hard taskmaster, too. I used to hate how he’d strike my hands with the flat of his sword if I let them drift out of position.” I shivered, remembering the man in the fields outside Oxford, the lines of blood trickling between his fingers. “I’m grateful now for his high standards.”

  We reached the stone keep of Bridge Gate, the last impediment before we could move onto land again. A score of criminals’ heads had been left impaled on the battlements. Ravens had picked out most of their eyes and eaten the flesh off the skulls, leaving behind only sun-bleached bone. Shuddering, I looked away.

  Our horses stepped off the bridge. Side by side we plodded down the street. At the corner I grabbed Robert’s bridle, forcing him to come to a halt. He looked at me questioningly.

  “I must go to my family’s home alone,” I told him, as Antonio and I had earlier agreed. His mouth dropped open in astonishment—I doubted anyone had spoken to him so firmly before—but I didn’t back down. “My sisters and I are the daughters of one of the most notorious political traitors in the country,” I reminded him. “If they see a king’s son at their door, they’ll be terrified.”

  “Very well,” Robert muttered, but he didn’t look pleased. “Where should we meet you?”

  “At the edge of Bunhill Fields. It’s close to my family’s house on Artillery Walk.” I slid off my horse, holding out the reins to Antonio. “I can’t ride home. I live on a poor street, and a boy on a horse would attract attention.”

  He took the reins, his gloved hands brushing my bare ones. “Keep yourself safe.” There was something in his tone I couldn’t identify.

  “And you, as well.”

  His gaze weighed heavily on my shoulders as I walked away. Every beat of my heart seemed to scream hurry, hurry, and I quickened my pace. By the time I rounded the corner, I was running.

  The farther north I went, the more twisted and narrow the streets became, a sign I was entering a poor section. Here the wooden houses sagged against one another, their additions jutting out so far that the houses on opposite sides of the street almost touched, blotting out the last strains of daylight. Some of their doors still bore the faint impression of an X, indicating that the people who had lived there had fallen ill from the plague.

  The sounds of the city rose up all around me: dogs and cats screeching from alleys, wooden signs creaking overhead, carriage wheels rattling over pavers, and everywhere, everywhere the voices of dozens of people, calling, shouting, laughing. I had forgotten what an alive city London was—how it wrapped itself around you like a cloak, surrounding you with colors and sights and smells until your senses were overcome.

  All at once Artillery Walk opened up before me—a slender lane lined with shabby row houses. My family’s home was a plain brick building fronted with a couple of steps where my father used to sit on summer evenings, strumming his mandolin and chatting with neighborhood men as they returned home from their work.

  The steps were empty now. In the lane a handful of dirty-faced children were playing jacks, and several men walked together, their steps slow and tired after a day spent baking bread, sewing clothes, or toiling in the tanneries that lined the river. I recognized some of them and ducked my head, pulling my hat lower over my face. I hoped my boy’s clothes provided enough of a disguise to trick their eyes.

  I jogged up the steps, then hesitated. What if our attackers had already reached London—and were inside with my family right now? Fear swirled in my stomach. All I had were my knives; they would have to be enough.

  Setting my shoulders, I reached for the door. The handle turned easily in my hand. I stepped inside, then stood still, listening with all of my might. The low murmur of female voices. No males. Either our assailants had already been here and left, or they hadn’t reached London yet. Either way, I’d better be fast.

  Although it had been well over a year since I had last seen the parlor, it looked just as I remembered: a small, plain chamber containing a few wooden chairs and a single table, the whitewashed plaster walls devoid of decoration. Mary, Deborah, and Betty sat perched on the chairs, their heads bent over the samplers in their hands. As in the old days, Anne sat on a stool by the hearth, humming under her breath. When they caught sight of me, their faces slackened in shock.

  “E-E-Eliz,” Anne gasped out. Hearing her familiar voice brought tears to my eyes. She jumped to her feet and managed a few u
nsteady steps before tripping and landing hard on her knees. I ran to her, dropping down beside her and pulling her into my arms. The bones in her back felt as delicate as a bird’s. Only days had passed since we had seen each other, but she already seemed thinner. I hoped the strain of Father’s imprisonment hadn’t been too much for her. Save her and all your sisters, whispered a voice in my mind. It was up to me to secure Father’s release, I knew, or he would die, leaving us to face an uncertain future. The pressure built up in my chest until I could scarcely breathe.

  I looked at Betty.

  “Have any men come here since you returned?” I demanded.

  “No. The king’s men escorted us here, but they’ve left us alone ever since.”

  I sagged with relief. Thank God, I had arrived in time. Arms encircled my waist from behind, and another pair twined around my neck. Mary and Deborah—I recognized their scent of flour and chamomile.

  “There’s been no word of Father,” Mary said in a strangled-sounding voice. “Oh, Elizabeth, we’ve been so frightened for you! Where have you been all this time?”

  “I wish I could tell you everything, but I must hurry.” Gently I released Anne, who regarded me with tear-filled eyes. “I want to stay with you, more than I can say, but I need to help Father. There’s something hidden in the cellar that might free him.”

  As my sisters murmured in surprise, I turned to the table where my stepmother kept our supply of tallow candles and was startled to see her holding out a lit taper.

  “You’ll need this.” There was a catch in her voice.

  It was the first time I could remember her helping me. “I—thank you,” I stammered.

  With the candle clutched in my hand, I hurried to the back of the house, where a set of steps in the kitchen led to the cellar. The smell of damp earth assailed my nose as I crept down the stairs, the candle’s flame splashing gold on the dirt walls and floor. Wooden bins and barrels lined the edges of the room.

  The creak of decaying wood told me my sisters were descending the steps. Without turning, I said, “Father hid something in one of the barrels of sand. Please, I’m begging you, help me find it—”

  “What are you talking about?” Mary interrupted. “You’re scaring us, Elizabeth!”

  I whirled around. Mary and Deborah stood a few feet away, their faces slack with confusion. Anne watched us from the top of the stairs, her hands braced on the wall for support. Even in the golden-lit darkness, she looked pale.

  “I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “There’s no time to explain. The king’s men desperately want whatever it is that Father has hidden down here. If I find it first, I can use it in exchange for Father’s release.”

  Anne cried out something unintelligible, and Mary and Deborah gasped.

  “You might be able to free Father?” Mary raced down the steps. “How? The king will never let him go!”

  “If we have something he wants, he will.” I flew to the opposite wall, where the barrels of sand stood. One-handed, I ripped the lid off the nearest one. The candle I held showed me its interior: layers upon layers of pale yellow sand, which we’d used for years to scour the kitchen dishes clean and to blot my father’s writings. I plunged my hand down as deep as it would go. Stiff granules pressed against my skin. I felt around, my fingers raking through the sand from one side of the barrel to the other. Nothing.

  Mary and Deborah, white faced, appeared on either side of me.

  “Tell us what we’re seeking,” Deborah said.

  “I don’t know, not exactly.” I dropped the lid into place. “A box, maybe, or papers.”

  The next barrel had been shoved in the corner, behind the vegetable bins. Again I tore off the lid, letting it land on the dirt floor with a soft thump. I reached inside. More granules of sand, cold and minuscule. I pushed my hand deeper. The tip of my index finger brushed something hard. My heart knocked against my breastbone. Could this be it?

  My fingers wrapped around the object. It was no bigger than my hand. With a gasp of triumph, I pulled it out, sending a shower of sand raining down on the floor.

  What I held was a small metal box. Its hinged top looked as though it had rusted shut. Probably it had lain in this barrel for years, the cool, damp sand slowly warping the metal and stretching reddish streaks across its surface.

  Mary and Deborah rushed to my side. “What is it? Open it!”

  My fingers tightened on the box. I could try to open it right now. A few minutes’ work and I should be able to pry the top off. And then I could know the secrets behind the vial—the secrets that might cost my father his life if I wasn’t careful.

  Overhead a floorboard creaked. My head snapped up. I peered into the darkness, holding my breath, trying to trace the source of the sound. Was it Betty, pacing impatiently in the sitting room? Or were the king’s men entering our house even now?

  There was no time to waste. I had to get out of there before they arrived. With shaking hands, I slipped the box inside my shirt, where it nestled against the warmth of my belly. “I must go,” I said in answer to my sisters’ bewildered expressions. “Men might come here looking for this box. If they do, you know nothing of it. You haven’t seen me, you haven’t searched the cellar—do you understand? Your answers could mean your lives.”

  “But Elizabeth, you haven’t explained anything—” Mary started to protest.

  “I can’t right now! I must get away.” I clasped Mary’s hand, squeezing hard. “You have to trust me.”

  Her eyes, shining with tears, met mine. “I would trust you with my life.”

  Emotion welled in my throat. Despite all the differences between us, she still trusted me. It was the best thing she ever could have said.

  “Good-bye, I pray only temporarily,” I said. Then I dashed up the stairs, pausing at the landing next to Anne. She looked up at me, her lower lip quivering.

  “E-E—no go,” she said.

  “I have to.” Blinking away tears, I kissed her cheek, murmuring, “I’ll save Father. I swear it.”

  She nodded hard, choking back a sob. I turned from her quickly, before I could think myself out of leaving. Father needed me; there was no other choice I could make.

  I raced through the hall and out the front door. Down the front steps into the road, where children played jacks and shrieked with laughter. I barely heard them. Sunset had pressed a heavy hand onto the earth, staining the row houses bloodred. I held the treasure to my stomach and took off at a run, making for the fields beyond the houses on the opposite side of the street. As I raced up the hill, my eyes seeking the dark shapes of Antonio and Robert, I allowed myself a grim smile. I had done it.

  Sixteen

  “I THINK,” ROBERT SAID, “YOUR FATHER MAY HAVE been too clever for his own good.”

  The three of us looked glumly at the piece of vellum in my hand. We were alone, the fields deserted at this early evening hour. I glanced over my shoulder, wondering if our Oxford assailants were out there somewhere, but I saw no one. Our only companions were the bones of the dead, for the fields had been turned into a burial ground during the plague. From where we stood beneath the shelter of a group of trees, I could see the dark outline of a brick wall, presumably erected to encircle the new graves.

  I turned away from the depressing sight to study the vellum strip again. After I’d found the boys waiting for me at the edge of the fields, we had led our horses to this wooded thicket, where we had pried the lid off the box and peered inside. As before, my father had inscribed a message on a piece of animal hide. Unfortunately, this time he had written a poem that seemed incomprehensible.

  “I know little about poetry,” Antonio said. “Is this typical of your father’s style, Elizabeth?”

  “He experiments with different literary forms,” I replied. “He has little interest in natural philosophy, so the subject matter is unusual for him, although it does link the poem to Galileo.”

  Silently I reread it, hoping a previously unnoticed word or phrase would le
ap out at me:

  The Stars hide Their mysteries from our eyes,

  Keeping us foolish when we would be wise.

  From naught to silver to gray, thence again,

  Dazzling our sight and confounding men.

  We chart their Progress Across the dark skies,

  Seeking their movements, misled by old lies.

  Who among Us watches as master of all,

  A human fail or then an angel fall,

  Without a flicker of pain in his heart,

  And Lets the new world end instead of Start?

  “Who is this master he writes about?” Robert asked. “Could he be Galileo?”

  “I think the ‘master of all’ must refer to God,” I said. “My father is saying it’s impossible to imagine the Father of the Universe as uncaring—as someone who isn’t grieved when he sees someone sin. As for this final line, I think it means God isn’t narrow-minded, that he’s willing to usher in a new age of understanding. By phrasing this passage as a question, my father is forcing his readers to consider the true nature of God.”

  “This poem may provide fodder for a fascinating discussion, but it doesn’t help us.” Antonio had taken off his hat, and his hair tumbled loose to his shoulders, framing a face tight with impatience. “There must be something more.”

  We all looked at the vellum again. The imagery was unlike Father’s, but what else? I tried to imagine him writing this as a young man, before his eyes were misted white or his hair streaked with silver. A slender figure in black, hunched over a desk as his quill moved across the vellum, swooping higher to form a capital letter before dipping lower into its lowercase follower—

  Capital and lowercase letters. I reread the poem, my heart beating faster. The punctuation was utterly unlike my father’s usual patterns.

  “The grammar is peculiar,” I said. “And ordinarily my father would have capitalized nouns such as ‘master’ or ‘angel,’ and the uppercase verbs ought to be lowercase.”