Traitor Angels

by Anne Blankman

  “Father!” I screamed. “Take my hand!”

  He nodded without hesitation and let Antonio help him onto the sill. Gripping the broken frame with one hand, he stretched out the other, skimming the air wildly in search of mine.

  My hand closed around his. “Come toward the sound of my voice!”

  Father crawled nearer, staying on his knees, one hand touching the tiles for guidance, the other clasped in mine. His face gleamed with perspiration. Behind him Antonio appeared in the opening.

  When Father reached me, I yelled in his ear, “I must let go of your hand! We have to crawl to the garret of the next house. I’ll put your hand on my ankle, so you know which direction to go.”

  “No,” he said at once. “That’s too dangerous. If I fall, I’ll take you with me.”

  “It’s the only way!” I shouted. His mouth opened, probably to argue, but I clamped his hand around my ankle and started crawling. Ahead, the others were banging on the window of the garret in the neighboring house. A face appeared behind the glass, and the casement was thrown open.

  The tiles cut my hands, a dozen stings making me grit my teeth. Father and I inched forward. At last the garret window yawned wide before us. Arms reached through it to grasp my father under the armpits and pull him inside. I clambered onto the ledge, then looked back.

  Antonio was crawling a few feet behind me. At some point he had lost his hat, and his hair hung over his face, obscuring it from my view. The elderly maidservant was nowhere to be seen. A thick column of smoke poured through the window we had crept through.

  Hands grabbed my arms, yanking me into the garret. I landed hard on my feet, the impact sending vibrations up my legs. A handful of people pressed against me—Farriner and his manservant, the burned girl, and another man, presumably the house’s owner. Father and Thomasine stood a few feet away, coughing and wiping their sweaty brows with the backs of their hands.

  “Who are you?” the others demanded. “What happened?”

  Ignoring them, I whirled to watch as Antonio climbed through the window and jumped to the floor. He straightened, and then he opened his mouth, but all that streamed forth was a series of wracking coughs. His doublet was ripped in several places, revealing the silk shirt he wore under it, once snowy white, now a faded gray. A welt had already risen on the back of his hand. A line seeping blood marred the smooth skin of his cheek.

  He had never looked better to me.

  I opened my mouth to thank him for helping my father, but my throat was sealed with smoke. Hacking, I staggered to him, grabbing his hand and interlacing our filthy, bloodstained fingers. He gave me a small smile, then looked away as he started coughing harder, his entire body shaking.

  “We have to get out of here!” Farriner shouted. “The fire could jump to this house at any moment.”

  My father shook his head. Understanding, I dropped Antonio’s hand and seized my father’s. He wouldn’t agree to leave unless he knew I was with him. I tried to speak again, to reassure him of my presence, but all I could manage was a series of violent coughs. In desperation, I ran my father’s hand over my face. At once his worried expression smoothed into a smile. He had recognized me.

  As one, our group raced from the garret. In full blackness we hurtled down the stairs, tripping over uneven steps, trying to keep inside us the screams that wanted to burst out. We bolted into the lane, where lanterns and candles were flaring into life and people leaned out of windows, shouting, “What’s happening?” The bells of nearby St. Margaret’s had started ringing, the signal a fire had broken out.

  Flames had burst through the roof of Farriner’s house. Even as we looked, the single shower of sparks widened into a swath of fire that raced across the roof in all directions. The roof tiles turned black, and I realized what was happening—the roof was coming apart, the tiles falling inside into the attic. A black hole started to spread across the roof. With a massive roar, the remaining tiles disappeared, leaving a dark space rimmed with red to show where the roof had been.

  Far above our heads, embers carried by the breeze spun across the lane to land on the roofs of the houses opposite. Men and women, most still dressed in their nightgowns, poured into the lane. Some carried buckets of water. “To Butchers’ Hall!” they yelled. “There should be fire squirts stored there!”

  It was a hopeless proposition; the brass fire squirts contained a gallon at the most and shot only a skinny stream of water. This fire was already leaping to more houses, fed by their wooden frames and the wind. I feared there was little we could do to halt its progress; the city hadn’t had rain in nearly a year and most of the houses in this area were hovels, constructed so shabbily their jetties nearly touched, giving the fire an easy route to take.

  The city was a tinderbox. But we had other nightmares to confront.

  I glanced at Antonio. “We have to go after Robert! He might already be at London Bridge.”

  He nodded, his grim face colored red by the flames. I whirled on Thomasine. “Please take my father home,” I begged her. “It’s a small row house on Artillery Walk, not far from Bunhill Fields. Can you guide him there?”

  “Yes,” she promised at once.

  I stepped toward Father, intending to kiss him farewell on the cheek in our usual manner, but he reached out, his hands cutting through the air until they found me. He drew me close, holding me in the cradle of his arms so my head fit in the hollow of his neck. The protective embrace clogged my throat with tears; I couldn’t recall feeling sheltered by him before.

  “You’ve done well.” It was the highest praise I had ever received from him. “You must end this, daughter. Do whatever you have to.”

  “I will,” I vowed.

  Then I grabbed Antonio’s hand. Together we plunged into the crowded lane, which was slowly turning red from the glow of the flames. For once I didn’t look back at my father to see whether or not he wore an expression of approval.

  I did not look back at all.

  Thirty-Three

  PUDDING LANE HAD GROWN THICK WITH SMOKE, slowing our progress. Men, women, and children poured out of their houses, their arms laden with possessions—clothing, bowls, wooden chests. They streamed along the lane, no doubt planning on storing their valuables at St. Margaret’s, the only stone building for blocks.

  Our pace was practically a crawl. More and more people charged up the lane, their faces white with horror. We squeezed between them. My breath was coming in quick wheezes, strangled by the growing smoke.

  A chain of people had formed up and down the lane. They passed leather buckets, bowls, and chamber pots brimming with water in a desperate attempt to douse the flames. Firelight bathed their faces red, turning them into the figures of nightmares. Frantically I spun around, trying to figure out exactly where we were. From far off, beneath the veil of screams and crackling flames, I caught the rumble of waterwheels.

  “This way!” I shouted at Antonio, pointing south, in the direction of the bridge.

  We tried to run, but we were moving against the tide of people rushing up the lane, and we could barely take a step. A man in a white nightgown and cap pushed me out of the way, and I fell to my knees. I cried out in frustration. We would never reach the bridge in time to stop Robert.

  “Go!” I rasped at Antonio.

  He grabbed my hand, hauling me to my feet. “Come on!” he panted.

  Trying to reach Fish Street Hill, we weaved through the tangle of shouting men and women. Each step I took, my mind screamed, Faster! Fire had spread outward from Farriner’s house, turning the buildings on either side into glowing red walls and transforming the air into a miasma of choking smoke and glittering embers. Men swung axes at the cobblestones, trying to reach the elm pipes beneath that carried water throughout the city. The roar of flames and the groan of breaking timbers filled the air, and somewhere, far off, I thought I heard horses neighing in terror.

  We shoved through another clump of people and popped like corks into the suddenly empty a
ir leading to Fish Street Hill. Fire had already spread here, too: twin lines of flames coursed down the sides of the street. More people were running, some holding their possessions, frantic to save whatever they could, others throwing buckets of water at the inferno. Antonio and I took to the middle of the street, running as hard as we could. I skirted a sobbing little girl clutching at her mother’s nightgown. I looked away, my heart twisting. All around us our city was disintegrating, and I couldn’t stop to help anyone.

  Fish Street Hill spilled directly into London Bridge. As we ran, I peered ahead. The bridge’s hulking shape loomed like a dragon in the night, a massive pathway rising from twenty stone arches spanning the Thames. The stone keep of Bridge Gate, topped with the severed heads of traitors and criminals, should have been a black, tangled mass at night, but I could see it as clearly as if it were bathed in daylight: the sun-whitened skulls on pikes, their gaping eye sockets, picked clean by the ravens from the Tower.

  The flames’ reflection had painted the sky red, turning night into day. Beneath its hellish dome, I could see the stately homes lining the bridge past Bridge Gate; their gilded facades flashed gold from the light of the fires. The houses, though, still seemed quiet; I didn’t hear anyone’s voice.

  We raced onto the bridge. Beneath the walkway, I could feel the enormous waterwheels churning, sending vibrations up my legs. We dashed through the stone keep. Ahead stood the houses. Here the roadway narrowed to some twenty feet, and the houses rose four, five, or six stories high, jutting out over the river on either side of the bridge and supported by a network of timbers. Some of the finer homes spanned the bridge from one side to the other, and the roadway continued beneath them, forming black tunnels.

  People had begun trickling out of their homes to stare, slack jawed, at the carpet of flames spreading across the cityscape behind us. I glanced back. The once-dark riverbanks were turning orange. My stomach clenched. This fire was spreading faster than I could have ever dreamed.

  I whipped my head around to face front. We had reached the first span of houses. There was another grouping of houses farther on, the gap between the two sets of homes spanning six bridge arches. A handful of people had begun running toward the opposite bank, which was still dark, and others were darting inside their homes, presumably to gather their valuables. None of them were paying attention to me or Antonio.

  Mr. Hade’s house was the last on the right. “That one!” I shouted, pointing to a five-story wooden house with an elaborately carved facade. Its ground-floor windows were black, but a yellow glow bobbed in an upper window. The light of a candle held in Robert’s hand, perhaps? Or was Mr. Hade still at home?

  The door gaped open, and we dashed inside. The darkness was so complete we couldn’t see where we were going. I bumped into a table, knocking something to the floor—several somethings, for they landed on the floor with soft thumps, and I belatedly remembered the ground floor contained a shop.

  “Mr. Hade!” I yelled. “It’s Elizabeth Milton! Are you here?”

  Please let him be gone from here, safe somewhere else.

  No response. Only the groaning of the waterwheels under the bridge and the cascade of running feet outside. Through the windows, I could see men and women racing past, making for the southern end of the bridge. Oh, God. We had to hurry. The fire could jump onto the bridge itself at any time. The flames would easily eat the wooden walkway and houses.

  “He must have gone already,” Antonio said. “Come, Robert must be upstairs.” He handed me a knife. “You’ll want this.”

  It was one of my knives, the plain, wooden-handled weapons I had strapped to my forearms for years. My hand closed around the hilt; it felt as familiar and comforting as a well-worn garment. “Thank you.”

  Together we fumbled through the darkened room, trailing our hands across the walls until we found the opening for the stairs. We pounded up them, stopping at every landing to listen for someone rifling through Mr. Hade’s belongings. At the third floor, Antonio stiffened. “Do you hear that? It sounds like what I heard when I took a boat across the Channel—like the roar of the ocean hitting the shore.”

  This was a sound I didn’t know. But I heard something—an overwhelming rumble, the river tide magnified a thousand times. “That’s impossible. . . .”

  I shoved open the window on the stairway landing and ducked my head out. What I saw nearly stopped the beating of my heart. The fire had reached the bridge. Flames had already engulfed the gate tower; it was a hulking black shadow surrounded by plumes of flickering red and orange. Even as I watched, flames were racing along the walkway and sides of the bridge—heading directly toward us.

  I jerked back from the window. “The bridge is on fire!”

  Before Antonio could reply, the screech of wood giving way reached our ears. Robert. He was upstairs somewhere, searching.

  Antonio and I looked at each other. I saw understanding in his face. We couldn’t take the chance Robert would find Galileo’s map and survive this inferno. We had to go on.

  “Are you ready?” Antonio asked, pulling his sword free.

  My hands tightened on the knife. “Yes.”

  As one we rushed up the stairs. The door of the first room on the left was open, and candlelight glimmered from within. Together we burst in.

  Robert stood over a large writing table. He looked up, his eyes wild. He had set a candlestick on the table; in its weak light, his face was pale, his skull ghostly white. Blood still smeared his chin and nostrils.

  When he saw us, his lips firmed. Without a word, he returned to his task, sliding the point of a knife into the lock on the top drawer.

  “Robert, stop!” I cried. “The bridge is on fire. We have to get away from here!”

  He didn’t bother looking at me. The lines of his shoulders were tight as he bent over the table, muttering to himself, “It must be in here; there’s no other place left to search.”

  “It’s over!” Antonio shouted. “Come with us.”

  He gripped Robert’s arm, trying to pull him away from the table, but Robert shoved him off and cracked him across the mouth. Antonio staggered backward. I grabbed him by the shoulders, steadying him.

  “You want to distract me and take the map for yourselves!” Robert’s eyes glittered with tears. “It’s mine. I need it!”

  He returned to the drawer. I ran to the window and peered out. I could see the fire had consumed the first group of houses on the opposite side of the bridge, leaving blackened shells in its wake. Some of the houses’ jetties tumbled into the river, hitting the water with such force that splashes rose over the side of the bridge—iridescent showers gleaming with reflected light. Steam puffed up in large clouds from the surface of the Thames. A few men and women had clambered out of their windows onto the timbers projecting over the river, the wind whipping their nightgowns about their legs and sending blazing embers dancing through the air.

  I leaned out the window, craning my neck to see if the fire had reached the houses on our side of the bridge. Flames had turned some of them into glowing red boxes. Smoke pressed against my eyes, filling them with stinging tears. The horrifying sight—the flames, the white-gowned men and women crouched on the timbers, the steam rising from the water—blurred before me. I jerked my head around to shout a warning into the room, but I saw Antonio had joined me; he was peering through the glass, his face hard.

  “There’s no time to search for the map,” I said quickly. “If we stay, we die.”

  He nodded. “Can you swim?”

  This was hardly the question I had expected. “No. But why—”

  “I can.” He shucked off his shoes, then his doublet, as I stared at him. “Take off your clothes!” he ordered. “They’ll weigh you down in the water.”

  At once I understood. There was no time to run for the southern side of the bridge.

  We were going to jump.

  Fear made my fingers clumsy, and I struggled with the laces at my waist, finally untying them a
nd letting my heavy skirts fall to the floor. I kicked off my mules. Clad in only my bodice and shift, I ran to Robert, dropping my knife to the floor. Despite everything, I wasn’t willing to use it on him.

  “Elizabeth!” Antonio shouted. “We have to jump now!”

  I looked at Robert, his face deathly pale, blood-darkened in spots. He was paying no attention to me; he was intent on the lock. There was nothing there of the boy I had thought was my friend. And yet I still hated myself for what I was about to do.

  I plowed my fist into Robert’s cheek with all of my strength. A terrible crack sounded, perhaps from his cheekbone shattering.

  He gasped, sinking to his knees. Before he could react, I plunged my hands under the collar of his doublet. My fingers trailed over the smooth hardness of his muscled chest. There it was. The vial. I could feel it, its slender, rounded shape, warmed by the heat of his flesh. I grabbed it, the string of the necklace yanking loose.

  “No!” Robert shouted.

  He staggered to his feet, lunging at me. I raced across the room, holding the vial tightly to my chest. Antonio crouched on the windowsill, which overlooked the river. He was waving me on, yelling something I couldn’t make out above the crackle of the flames. Smoke drifted through the open doorway from the stairs, harbinger of the horrors to come.

  I scrambled onto the windowsill. The black water below looked hundreds of feet away. My stomach plummeted. How could I jump into that water when I didn’t know how to swim?

  “You must trust me,” Antonio said, as if he had somehow sensed my thoughts.

  Swiftly I looked at him: his familiar face, rendered strange by smoke and soot. “I trust you,” I said.

  He held out his hand. I clasped it in my free one, keeping the other pressed to my chest, clutching the vial. I glanced over my shoulder. Flames were racing across the floor, throwing nightmarish red wavering lines on the ceiling. Robert was stumbling toward us, pressing a dirt- and blood-stained hand to the cheek I had punched. He was halfway across the room, just a few paces away. His boots had begun to smoke, gray tendrils drifting up. He looked down, his eyes widening in horror.