Traitor Angels

by Anne Blankman

  We left our horses at the church’s western end, in front of a series of black marble steps leading up to a portico. I had feared the doors would be locked, but Robert pushed them open and strode into the place. Antonio and I hurried after him.

  The sanctuary smelled of candles and stone. It was dark, its long rows of pews empty. The interior was fashioned like a cross, with the sanctuary forming one long line intersected by the north and south transepts. The only light came from a patch of evening sky showing through a jagged hole in the roof. Bluish lines appeared elsewhere in the vaulted ceiling—the sky peeking through the cracks, I realized. Instinctively I looked at the walls. Even in the dimness I could see how they bulged outward, clearly buckling from the tremendous pressure of supporting the damaged roof. It was a wonder the building didn’t fall down on our heads at that very moment.

  Pieces of the floor were broken or missing entirely. The lack of light forced us to adopt a shuffling gait, stepping carefully over missing stones in the floor. As we reached the spot where the transepts met the sanctuary, footsteps sounded in the distance. The guttering yellow circle of a candle’s flame appeared ahead of us—coming from the altar, I guessed.

  “Who goes there?” called a man’s pleasant voice. “Have you come to worship?”

  Antonio and I looked at each other, and he shrugged. Playing the part of a late-night pilgrim was far better than admitting the true reason for our visit.

  “Yes—” I started to reply, but Robert interrupted me with a harsh whisper: “It’s no use pretending—I recognize the man’s voice. He’s one of the ministers, and he knows me.

  “It’s I, the Duke of Lockton,” he went on, more loudly. “We’ve come to pray in solitude.”

  The minister hurried toward us, the candle flame bobbing beside him. By its weak illumination I could see the man’s weathered, friendly face and shoulder-length gray hair. He wore a white clerical collar and long black robes.

  “Your Grace,” he said, beaming, and bowed. “You are most welcome in the Lord’s House, as indeed are all those who praise his name. If you wish to worship in private, then by all means I will remove myself from your presence.”

  He backed away, but Robert stayed his progress with a raised hand. “Wait. Where’s the font? I—I wish to see it, for I’ve heard it’s in poor condition. Perhaps I could replace it.”

  “Your Grace is most generous,” the minister said, bowing again. “Have you come on behalf of the commission?”

  Robert’s forehead wrinkled. “The what?”

  “A commission has been formed to oversee the possible renovation of our beloved church.” The minister’s words tumbled out in excitement, one after the other. “It’s a group of respectable gentlemen—John Evelyn, Hugh May, Roger Pratt, and Christopher Wren. They began inspecting our church earlier this month.”

  My eyes darted to the front of the sanctuary, which was draped in shadows, so I couldn’t see anything, not even the small half-pillar shape of a baptismal font.

  “Oh. Yes. We’re new members of the commission,” Robert said hastily. “We’ve come to look at the font.”

  “Follow me, Your Grace.” The minister walked backward to the altar, keeping his body half bent in a perpetual bow. It took all of my self-discipline not to snap at him to go faster. At last, we were so close! He bumped into the altar rail and stopped, waving toward a shadowy object to his right. “The baptismal font is here, Your Grace.”

  “Thank you. You’re dismissed.” Without another word, Robert took the candle the minister held out to him and clambered over the altar rail, with Antonio and me right behind him. My hands shook with excitement. We were almost to the answers now. I glanced over my shoulder at the minister. He was shuffling backward down the center aisle between the rows of pews. Soon enough he’d be gone, and even if he found our behavior strange, he wouldn’t dare complain about it to anyone.

  The font was carved from dark wood. We ran our hands over its sides. In some places the wood was warped, its surface bulging out like miniature bubbles. When I pressed my fingers into the protuberances, though, the wood gave easily. It was rotted, probably from decades of water damage. There was nothing hidden inside.

  “Roll it onto its side,” Antonio ordered. “Maybe there’s something under it.”

  Quickly we levered the heavy font to the floor. By the light from Robert’s candle, we peered at the bottom. The octagonal panel of wood was still pale, untouched by water or sunlight. Two tiny nail holes marred its otherwise smooth surface. Nothing else.

  Robert vaulted over the rail. “What are those holes on the bottom of the font?” he called after the minister.

  The elderly man rushed up the aisle toward us. “An object was nailed there, Your Grace. The commission found it when they came a fortnight ago, for I told them it’s cracked and leaks holy water onto the floor—clearly an intolerable situation.”

  My heart dropped. We were too late.

  “What was it?” Robert demanded.

  “Your Grace, it was nothing important, I assure you—”

  In a few strides, Robert had reached the minister and grabbed the man’s hands. “What,” he said through gritted teeth, “was it?”

  The minister opened and closed his mouth a few times. I gripped the altar rail so tightly wood splinters dug into my palms. Beside me, I heard Antonio’s ragged breathing.

  “It was a piece of vellum,” the minister said shakily. “Inside it was rolled a piece of paper covered with drawings and writings in a tongue that looked remarkably like Latin, but which one of the commission gentlemen said was Italian.” He drew himself to his full height, his mouth settling into a disapproving frown. “To my eyes, it looked like witchcraft, and I was relieved when they took it with them. Only the Lord knows how long the paper’s impure presence has polluted our house of worship.”

  I couldn’t move, could barely breathe as I listened.

  “Where’s the paper now?” Robert demanded.

  The minister glanced at his hands gripped in Robert’s and cleared his throat, looking nervous. “In a place most easy for you to reach, Your Grace. Mr. Wren is an accomplished astronomy tutor at the University of Oxford, you see, and he grew nearly wild with excitement when he saw the paper. He said he knew well of the king’s interest in natural philosophy, and he insisted on bringing the discovery to him immediately.” The minister attempted a placating smile. “For the past fortnight, the vellum has been in your father’s possession. I daresay if you told him of your interest, he would be happy to share it with you.”

  Eighteen

  BACK AT LADY KATHERINE’S ESTATE, A FAIR-HAIRED serving girl in a plain gray gown helped me prepare for supper. She chattered while she washed the dust of travel from my limbs with a dampened strip of linen, saying her name was Thomasine Adams and she had been hired as Lady Katherine’s maid when the Irish girl had been invited to London by the king himself. I couldn’t bring myself to say a word to her. I didn’t want to talk ever again.

  Our ride from St. Paul’s had been silent. Not even Antonio had spoken or made a jest. Sometimes I felt the weight of his eyes bearing down on me, but I didn’t lift my hanging head to look at him. I wished a curtain could drop around me, surrounding me on all sides, hiding me from the world outside, so I wouldn’t have to see the sun rise and set and know another day had passed without my father in it. And more days would pass without him, I knew. Because we had failed.

  The king had the next clue. The king.

  My throat tightened until I could scarcely breathe. My father was as good as dead, and there was nothing I could do to save him. Either the king now had all the information he needed to solve the treasure hunt, or my father would never tell him the rest. All because of his lofty ideals.

  Tears spurted into my eyes. How could you do this to us, Father? You abandoned your daughters and your wife, all for the sake of an old secret. Don’t you care about us? How could anything be more important to you than your children? Despair se
aled off my throat. For the first time since he had been arrested, I wondered if I would be able to forgive Father.

  “His Majesty has been seeking a wife for the Duke of Lockton,” Thomasine said, “and I daresay he wanted to see if Lady Katherine would suffice.”

  I nodded absently, choking back a sob and staring at my hands. The same hands Father had wrapped around a quill and moved across a page when he had first taught me to write. Even blinded, he had known the letters well enough to teach me how to form them. Because he was brilliant and he was tough. And soon he would be nothing more than dust. Tears swam in my eyes, blurring my hands.

  I couldn’t help it—I still loved him, even though a part of me resented him for maintaining his silence. How could I go on without him? All of my life, I had been at his side, taking down his dictation, letting my mind open and swell from his teachings. We were so alike, feathers from the same bird. Who was I without him? And would I even want to be whoever that person was?

  Thomasine’s voice was akin to a droning bumblebee, echoing in my ears as she helped me into garments lent by Lady Katherine. The snowy white shift and dark blue gown were finer than anything I had put on before. Another time, I would have been secretly thrilled to put on something so fancy, to wear colors other than green or brown.

  If it would bring Father back, I would gladly wear my Puritan garb for the rest of my life. Gowns made of hissing snakes that bit me, like in the stories Father told me when I was a child. Anything.

  “You’re ready, miss,” Thomasine said brightly.

  I raised my head. In the large, gilt-framed mirror, a girl stared at me. She barely resembled the person I had seen in the glass at the inn in Oxford; this girl was dressed as an aristocrat, with the front of her hair drawn into a bun, the rest left to flow down her back. A pearl necklace had been strung around her neck. I hadn’t noticed its weight until now, its cold spheres slowly being warmed by the heat of my skin. As for the gown, it was unlike anything I had worn before: silk dyed to match the sky at twilight, and cut low to expose the swell of my breasts. The bodice was so tight I could manage only sips of air, and the enormous skirts rustled when I rose from my chair.

  “Are you pleased, miss?” Thomasine asked.

  It almost hurt to open my mouth, as though I were a machine long gone rusty. Say something or you’ll hurt her feelings. “I’m more than pleased. You’ve made me pretty.”

  “If I may be bold enough to say so, you already are, miss.” Thomasine bobbed in a curtsy, then ushered me into a hallway lit by candelabra. We walked a series of long, straight corridors until we came to the dining room—a massive, high-ceilinged space where dozens of white candles glowed on the table, casting gold on the plates and the silver tableware. Ancient-looking tapestries covered the stone walls.

  The others were already seated. Lady Katherine remained in her chair, inclining her head in acknowledgment when I entered the chamber. The three boys lounging about the table stood and bowed to me. Antonio had changed into a clean doublet and breeches of sky blue. They hadn’t been among his possessions when I had gone through his room at the Rose Inn, and I supposed Robert must have lent him the clothes. The sleeves were too long, the cuffs extending over his wrists.

  Robert stood at the head of the table, opposite Lady Katherine. Once again he was dressed in yellow silk, but these clothes were fresh. “Elizabeth, may I present my brother, the Duke of Monmouth? I went home to Whitehall while you were dressing and convinced him to return with me. You needn’t worry,” he added, correctly interpreting my startled expression. “There’s no one else in the world whom I would trust with my life other than my brother. We may speak freely in front of him.”

  “Ah, Miss Milton, the daughter of the Puritan regicide.” Monmouth’s tone was light. He looked so much like Robert I would have known at a glance they were brothers—they had the same clear hazel eyes and impressive height. He gave me a lazy smile, then turned my hand over in his and kissed my palm. Unbidden, my eyes darted to Antonio. He was watching us without expression. Apparently hand kisses were commonplace among aristocrats and their friends. So it hadn’t meant a thing when he had pressed his lips to the inside of my wrist. What a child I was!

  “I hope the food’s decent,” Lady Katherine said. “Since my brother is away for the evening, I hadn’t ordered a proper meal prepared, so I sent for fare from a cookshop.”

  She snapped her fingers. Several servers who had been standing against the wall came to the table, bearing bowls of rose-scented water. Once we had washed our hands, a seemingly endless stream of servants flowed into the room bearing platters of food: a brace of stewed carps, six roasted chickens, a jowl of salmon. It was more food than I’d ever seen on one table.

  “You are dismissed,” Robert said to the servants. “We’ll ring for you when we want you again.”

  “Very good, Your Grace,” they murmured, bowing before they backed out of the room.

  Monmouth opened his mouth to speak, but Robert stopped him with a raised hand. He crept to the door and looked out into the corridor. Nodding as if satisfied, he closed the door and returned to the table. “I thought some of the servants might remain in the corridor to spy on us.” He sent Monmouth a grim look. “You can never be too careful. Father taught us that.”

  “Yes, and now you plan to go against him.” Monmouth shook his head, looking suddenly tired. “This is treason, Robert. If Father finds out, he’ll have no choice but to order you executed.”

  “I know.” Robert’s fingers tightened on his table knife, the knuckles whitening.

  “Where you go, I cannot follow,” Monmouth said softly. “I’ll help you concoct a plan, for you begged me, and then wash my hands of this business. You said earlier that this valuable paper is in Father’s possession, and though I have wracked my brain, I can’t think of how you could retrieve it.”

  Robert glanced at me. “Doubtless the paper is at Whitehall. Our father’s an amateur natural philosopher, and he keeps his personal notes in his laboratory at the palace.”

  The king was interested in natural philosophy? I froze. Was this a coincidence—or yet one more link in a tightening chain?

  “Even if you find the paper from St. Paul’s, what good will it do?” Lady Katherine toyed with her wineglass. “His Grace explained the circumstances to me while we were waiting for you to arrive for supper,” she said when I looked at her in surprise. “Anyway, it sounds to me as if the king and his men already have Mr. Milton’s secrets in their possession.” She ticked off items on her fingers. “The piece of paper from St. Paul’s, which they found a few weeks ago and which probably started this hunt in the first place. The vial and vellum from the Physic Garden in Oxford. You may have the box from Miss Milton’s cellar, but since that directed you to St. Paul’s, I’d say you have—”

  “Nothing,” Robert interrupted, and slumped in his chair.

  “Maybe not.” Antonio leaned forward, his eyes bright. “Mr. Milton’s Italian sonnet sent us to the Physic Garden. And it stands to reason that the paper in St. Paul’s would have had a different message, correct, Elizabeth? Would your father have planted two clues pointing to the same location?”

  I fiddled with a piece of cheese, unable to bring myself to eat. “I doubt it. That would have been out of character for him. He would have wanted each clue to direct its seekers to a new place.”

  “So presumably the message in St. Paul’s alerted the king’s men to the possibility that there were dealings between Mr. Milton and some Italians—which was why they were on the lookout for any Italian visitors to his London home and why they sent men to the cottage in Chalfont as soon as they heard about my arrival.” Antonio held up his hand for silence as we started to interrupt. “That partly explains why they went to Chalfont. But how did they know to go to Oxford? Robert found out our destination from Elizabeth’s neighbor. Perhaps the king’s men did the same. Or maybe there was another reason—such as a clue nailed to the font in St. Paul’s.”


  “There are too many pieces to this puzzle, and we only have a handful of them.” Robert groaned.

  Lady Katherine gazed at Antonio, realization dawning on her face. “But what Mr. Viviani is saying is, maybe the king and his men have only a handful of them, too. You need to find out what is written in that paper from St. Paul’s. Maybe you’ll glean clues from it that the king’s men haven’t. It’s the only road left open to you now.”

  My heart lifted. Could she possibly be right—was there still a chance we could outwit the king and save my father?

  Robert nodded hard. “I agree. But when my brother and I are at Whitehall, we can’t move about unobserved—there are always dozens of eyes watching us. So I can’t sneak into my father’s laboratory, and there’s no way either Elizabeth or Antonio can get onto the palace grounds. The whole thing seems impossible.”

  I sagged with disappointment. He was right. The palace gates were heavily guarded.

  “Maybe not,” Lady Katherine said quickly. “The Touching for the King’s Evil ceremony is scheduled for tomorrow, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but what does that matter . . . ?” Robert trailed off, his eyes widening.

  Antonio looked up from his plate. “What’s the Touching for the King’s Evil?”

  “It’s a very old ceremony,” I replied, my mind leaping ahead of my words as I realized what Lady Katherine was suggesting. My heart began to beat with a rapid, steady sharpness. “The city’s ill and infirm gather at the Banqueting House at Whitehall. The king blesses them, and his benediction is thought to heal them. Everyone who attends is permitted inside the palace grounds.”