by Eric Flint
“Well, I think the ‘buy an RV’ idea has pretty much bitten the dust,” Farrell said. “But we could try Magdeburg. Or Bamberg, if you want to be near Judy.”
“I want something for us, babe,” Mary said. “We always talked about what we’d do for us, once all the responsibilities were taken care of. About what we’d do when we weren’t stifled anymore.”
“Well, we did get that once-in-a-lifetime trip to Europe we talked about.”
Mary grinned. “Indeed we did. Why don’t we do something with it? We haven’t seen London yet. We always wanted to go there. And Athens. Rome. Naples. And, well, everywhere.”
“Ah...”
“Yes, dear. I know. We hadn’t planned on it being the year 1636. But we do have planes now. It’s just a matter of getting enough of them. Before you know it, there will be tourist traps all along the Med, just like back up-time.”
Her husband gave her the “you’re being silly” look. Mary knew perfectly well that “before you know it” in this case meant fifteen or twenty years.
“Well, maybe not tourist traps like we had up-time. On the other hand if you’re one of the owners of Boeing... Which we are—” That look again. “—close enough. Magdeburg is a start, at any rate. We ought to be able to take a hop to Brussels and visit Merton. We’re stockholders, after all. I can’t see how RDA won’t add a route to Magdeburg from Brussels, sooner or later. It’s Gustav’s headquarters. The pilots have to come pick up the planes, and dropping them off in Grantville to take the train is, well, silly, seems to me. And I bet they’ll put Bamberg on a route, sometime. All those government functions, you know.”
“We can get tickets if we want them,” Farrell conceded. “Even do a charter if they don’t open a route soon enough to suit us.”
“Georg is going to run the Brussels plant. King Fernando made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”
“Then it’s doubly important for you to visit Brussels often. You know how Georg is. He’ll be trying to handle the paperwork while covered in fiberglass.”
Milton’s Choice
Mark Huston
The power of Kings and Magistrates is nothing else, but what is only derivative, transferred and committed to them in trust from the People, to the Common good of them all, in whom the power yet remains fundamentally, and cannot be taken from them, without a violation of their natural birthright.
—John Milton
“I demand to be let out of here. There is no reason for you to keep me in this prison! I demand—” Milton’s loud protestation was cut short. He didn’t see the guard’s fist streaking toward him in the half-light of the prison cell. The blow caught him in the side of the face, squarely on his cheek. The guard laughed as Milton fell back into the cell, stunned.
He lay sprawled half aware and bleeding on the floor. The floor smelled like a sewer, and was slippery under the rancid straw. It was the smell, combined with the surprise and the pain that nearly caused him to pass out. He was brought back to his senses by a kick in the ribs.
“Wake up, John Milton! Ye be here by royal order!” Milton half rolled on his side as the guard was flexing his fingers inside his weighted leather glove. The guard smiled down at him “Any more questions?”
Milton blinked a couple of times, and tried to stand. “On what grounds am I being held? Why am I here? Why was I grabbed on the road, minding my own business, and trussed off to this godforsaken Gatehouse Prison?” He used the wall as his support until he was standing, leaning against the back wall of the cell while he fought the dizziness from the blow.
The guard smiled at him again. “Why indeed? Why was ye caught makin’ your way t’ Kent, t’ the sea? Per’aps to ’scape t’ the continent? Carryin’ your traitorous messages back to your masters? And don’t disparage me prison. Gatehouse Prison ha’ seen many a fine lord, finer than you. We not be as fancy as the Tower, but we be close to Whitehall.”
Struggling to regain his equilibrium, Milton spoke quietly. “I have done nothing since I left Cambridge except study. This is ridiculous. You are an imbecile.” He could no longer contain his temper, and he began to shout again. “Will someone with the ability to reason at a level above that of a dog come here soon to relieve you? You are tedious. Now be off and bring me some answers.”
The guard swept Milton’s feet out from under him, and he landed hard on the stone floor, crying out in pain and surprise. “Fer someone who’ s’posed t’ be so bloody smart, ye are one slow learner, ain’t ye?”
“Why in the name of all that is holy are you doing this to me? By what right—” His words were cut off by another boot to the ribs. This time there was an audible crack as boot broke bone. Milton shrieked, clutched his right side, and rolled in the filth towards the wall, curling into a ball, whimpering.
“Ye got no such thing as a ‘right,’ you traitorous bastard. And soon ye will join the other ‘fine lords’ we have sent to the block already.” Milton winced as he saw the guard pull his leg back to deliver another kick, when a command was shouted from the corridor. John risked a small turn of his head.
“Wilson! Hold! Wha’ are you doing?”
The guard’s head snapped around, and he smiled. “Jus’ teachin’ ’im some rules. Manners as it were, sir. That’s all.”
“They want to talk to this one.” A squat man who looked like a bulldog, with a large square jaw and jowls to match, lumbered into the cell. “I ’ave ’eard the minister his own self is comin’ down to talk to this one. So go a bit easy, Wilson. We want ’im a bit presentable, now don’t we?”
“The minist’r?”
“Aye.”
Wilson turned to the whimpering form on the ground. “I guess you is special, Mr. John Milton. And you’re no’ even a lordship like some of the others.” Wilson knelt down to whisper. “I got nothi’ fer traitorous bastards like ye. Just as soon see their heads roll. So be quiet, and behave yerself, so I don’t have to teach ye any more manners. Do ye understand me?”
Milton managed a small nod.
“That’s better.” The guard straightened, and mockingly extended his right hand, and spoke a bit louder. “I don’ think we have been properly introduced. Me name is John Wilson, and I be a guard in this part o’ Gatehouse Prison. I will be expectin’ proper payment from ye by tomorrow. Prisoners are expected to pay for their upkeep and treatment ’ere. It’s clear to me that you never been in this sort of a situation before, so I am ’splaining it to ye all special and quiet like.” Wilson looked at his still extended hand, then glanced at his supervisor with a half smile. “Not very p’lite. Didn’t even shake me ’and.”
The bulldog supervisor laughed. “Roll over and pay attention. This is simple. Who in London can pay for your keep ’ere? Give us an address where someone lives who can pay for you. Otherwise the conditions go downhill. D’ye understand, John Milton? This is one of our best cells.” The men grinned at each other.
Wincing in pain, Milton gasped, “I understand. Bread Street. My father is a scrivener in Bread Street. He can pay.” He gritted his teeth against the pain.
“Thank ye, sir. I will send me son round on the morrow.”
“I had silver.” Milton tried to talk without inhaling or exhaling.
The bulldog face changed, and added the smile of an insincere shark. “I’m sure you did. But you see, by the time you arrived here, there was none to be found. The soldiers that captured you in Kent must have taken some—for expenses, you understand. And then there was the wagon to bring ye here, and then the bridge tolls, hay for the horses—it adds up quickly, and there is never any left for us when the prisoner arrives. Sad, but it always seems t’ work out that way.”
“But don’t worry,” Wilson said. “Ye probably won’t be ’ere long. None of the others were ’ere long...before they was beheaded.” Wilson and the shark-toothed bulldog laughed loudly, and clanged the door shut behind them.
* * *
“John, can you hear me?”
John Milton was sti
rred from a light sleep by his father’s voice, and tried to inhale. The pain in his right side wrenched him awake, and he moaned. He felt hands turning him and gritted his teeth against the pain.
“What have they done to you, John?”
John gasped. The pain of simply trying to breathe was tremendous.
“Father, what have they done to him?” John recognized the voice of his younger brother Christopher, who had recently begun studies for the bar. “Is he injured?”
“John, can you hear me? Son, what did they do to you? Tell me.”
“Kicked...Ribs...ohhhh...” His hands clutched his side.
“Dammit. Christopher, he has broken ribs. We must get him vertical. He’ll die of congestion of the chest if he’s allowed to lie here like this. Help me get him up.”
Christopher and the senior Milton picked up John as gently as possible, pushed insect ridden straw into another corner, and used it to prop him in a sitting position. Both visitors retched at the smell of the floor.
“You have got to stay vertical, John. Otherwise you might catch a disease of the lungs and die. Do you understand me? You must sit upright!”
John managed a slight nod, but a wave of nausea came over him. He moaned slightly.
“Bastards!” Christopher exclaimed. “You’ve done nothing to deserve this. No crime has been committed. This is injustice at the highest level, total disregard of the law—”
“Shush! None of that here. Be quiet, boy. There is a time and a place for such talk. And this is neither. We’re here for your brother. No sense in all of us being locked up. Hush, or return home.”
Christopher glanced over his shoulder at the closed door of the cell, looking for signs of an eavesdropping guard. “I’m sorry, Father. I shouldn’t let my feelings get in the way of our immediate needs.”
The elder Milton nodded grimly. “And those needs are great, if we are to save your brother’s life. The beatings should stop now we have paid the guards, but what remains? That concerns me, Christopher.”
John finally produced a rasping voice. “Will somebody please tell me what the fuck is going on? Wh—” He stopped and licked his lips. “Why am I here?”
“Give him some brandy, Christopher. Then some bread,” his father said.
Christopher nodded and began digging into the knapsack he was carrying, brushing a semi-clean area on the floor where he could sit in front of his brother. His father lowered his voice. “You got our letter in time at the cottage in Hammersmith, I assume?”
Milton nodded.
“We understand they caught you in Kent?”
Milton nodded again. Christopher gave him some brandy to drink, and he sipped it carefully so as not to cough.
His father sighed. “We have learned some things since that time. This all goes back to that accursed Grantville, landed in the Germanies. Apparently the king, in that history, was beheaded. The whole thing was there in the books of the town. There were lists of who was on what side in the revolution—who was a royalist, and who was not. Most of what would have occurred would have happened in a few years. So, in truth, nobody has done anything yet. Except the king, who is having nearly everyone on that list brought in for questioning. And anyone who signed his death warrant is put to death.”
Christopher jumped in, fuming. “Have you heard of John Bradshaw? He was a fine legal mind, and mayor of Congleton in Cheshire. The rumors say that he was taken from his home and executed in front of his young wife. No trial, no hearing, just summary execution. Outrageous.”
Father continued. “He was apparently the Chief Justice at the trial where they found Charles guilty.” He paused and shook his head. “To kill a man in front of his family for something he has not done, nor likely will ever do! It makes me ill to think of it. Once we heard of what was going on, we were afraid—everyone was afraid, but we did not appear on any lists, at least so far.”
John blinked at them in disbelief, and then became thoughtful. “Am I on that list? Is that why I am here?”
“Thank God, no.”
Milton steeled himself to speak, softly. “I am a student. A poet. That is what I do. There is no secret to that.” He paused, and tested a deeper breath, and winced. “You’re right, Father, it’s better if I am upright.”
“John, you have always been a proud and strong willed young man. Brilliant, yes. But contrary. You know what happened at Cambridge. You were nearly thrown out—”
“That man was an imbecile.” Milton’s outburst sent him into a painful cough. When his coughing stopped, Christopher offered him more brandy, and a small chunk of bread. John nodded gratefully.
“Nonetheless,” his father continued, “you jeopardized your academic career because of pride and stubbornness. You are a man of principle, John, but not always the greatest of judgment. When we heard that you were involved with this government that killed Charles, we believed it. It sounds like something you would do, quite frankly. With so many legal minds being taken—did you ever meet Oliver Cromwell? He was the leader of the rebellion. He is in the Tower, awaiting what fate I do not know. Others have disappeared. And many of them are young. Thomas Grey, son of the earl of Stamford, only eleven years old, was dragged away from his mother by soldiers. We do not know what has happened to him. A ship’s chandler by the name of Okey here in London...simply disappeared. We think he’s dead. There are many others. Sir John Danvers, MP for Oxford. Did you know John Hutchinson at Cambridge? Many others. We just don’t know.”
Christopher said, “I was able to get some word out to you because I heard of it—you—at Lincoln’s Inn. We occasionally handle paperwork for Whitehall, and thank God for serendipity. I tell you John, this was a grave mistake on the part of the king. To kill men who have done nothing, and up to now were either innocent children or loyal subjects...I tell you it has set the courts on their collective heads. And several of the men taken were practicing before the bar, or were sons of Lords, or were members of Parliament—if it ever meets again. ’Tis tyranny, simple and pure. I have never seen so many learned and respectable men so angry. It’s infuriating to anyone with a sense of justice. I truly do not know what will come of this.”
“But what of me,” John whispered. “Where do I fit into this insanity?”
His father looked worried. “We truly do not know, John. Apparently you were known for your poetry in the future world. That is comforting, I am sure. But why would a poet be the object of this sort of persecution? We are still hoping to find out. Perhaps the Americans in the Tower would help us, if we can speak to them somehow. You must take care until we understand what is happening. We will do our best to discover why, and get you out of this. There are many who will help us.”
“What should I do?”
“Stay alive, John Milton. Stay alive until we can do something.”
* * *
He had no Plato, no Homer, no quill, ink or paper. It was the boredom, killing him a little each day. Once a week, his father or brother were allowed to visit, briefly. This week, it was his brother.
“I’m sorry, John. They found them—”
“My mind has been honed sharp for the last five years! To be imprisoned here, held here with no stimuli, no challenge worthy of my mind, is—is maddening! I feel as if I am falling into atrophy. Do you understand, Chris? Atrophy! I can feel my brains and heart and soul shriveling like dried fruit. I may as well be dead.”
They were sitting next to each other in the small cell, on a recently acquired pallet for a bed. Christopher looked down at the floor, embarrassed. “I was too ambitious, and they found the papers on me, John. I was trying to bring you more than last time. I—I am sorry, John. Sorry.”
John stood and began pacing around the small cell, frustrated. “I have been here nearly two months with not much news, and even less to read. I must have stimulation, Chris, or I shall go mad, surely as I stand here. Stark-raving-foaming-at-the-mouth mad.” He quieted and turned to his brother. “I tell you, I have never felt so dark
a time such as these. I want to write about it. Yet I am unable to write about it. That makes things darker still.”
Christopher looked up, nodding in agreement. “I do not have your mind, brother. I cannot profess to know what it is like for you. Some can survive this sort of thing better than others.” He smiled, with a bit of mischief in his eyes. “But. I have brought you something. Something that is quite legal.” He opened a cloth and pulled several small pieces of chalk from the folds. “You cannot have pen and paper, but there was no order against chalk. You have the walls and floors to write upon. It is an advantage to have a lawyer in the family now and again. Parsing rules is our specialty.”
John could feel himself stepping back from the abyss, where his mind had dwelled of late. He could not hold back the tears.
* * *
“Norton. Sir Gregory Norton. Looks as if we are to be cell mates for a while. Pleased to meet you. And you are?” The tall gangly man with an affable face extended his hand.
“John Milton.” John shook hands, standing up from his pallet, still wincing a little.
“Quite a nice cell, I suppose. Nicer than where I was at the Tower. Odd decorations though. Are these your writings all about?” Sir Gregory squinted at the tiny writing, in Latin and Greek, on the walls. One wall was completely covered, each stone a page.
“It is my way of remaining sane. At least as sane as one can be in this place.”
Sir Gregory coughed a little. “I had no such problems, Milton. I’m a patient man by nature. Not too bad a thing for a man to bear, if you are strong. How long have you been here?”
“Two months, Sir Gregory.”
“What have you heard?”