Traitor Angels

  I looked up from the sheet of vellum to find both boys staring at me.

  “It must be a message!” Robert said. “Quick, string together the capitalized words. What do they say?”

  “The stars their keeping from dazzling we progress across seeking who us a without and lets start,” Antonio said haltingly. Then he groaned. “Unless my understanding of the English tongue is worse than I thought, surely that can’t be correct.”

  “Let’s try ignoring the first word in each line and take only the other capitalized words,” I suggested. “Stars their progress across us lets start. Hmm. That isn’t much better.”

  For several moments we stared at the vellum, as if by gazing at it long enough we could convince it to surrender its secrets to us. Again and again I tried different combinations: starting with the final capitalized word and collecting them backward, stringing together the lowercase words. Nothing. All I got for my efforts was nonsense.

  Robert swore under his breath. “It’s no use. I can’t make head or tail of this message.” He glanced around the boneyard, his eyes narrowed. The sun had almost disappeared, a giant red ball limning the horizon with fire. We had been immersed in my father’s clues for longer than I had realized. “We shouldn’t remain out in the open like this. There’s no telling when we’ll come across someone who recognizes one of us. Come.” He strode toward the horses, tossing over his shoulder, “My lady will let us stay with her. Once we get to her house, we can talk more in private—and I pray we’ll get to the bottom of things. Or else I fear the answers may be irretrievably lost to us.”

  Which would mean my father was lost, too. Even as I gasped in horror, Robert wheeled his horse around and took off across the fields, leaving me and Antonio to race after him just as the last vestiges of light faded from the sky and the city spread out below us, a shifting mass of shadows painted blue and black by the deepening twilight.

  Once the most prized lands in London had lined the Strand, but the street had become clogged with massive homes. After the king’s triumphant return to the capital, scores of nobles had flooded back to our island after a decade of exile on the Continent, and the most fashionable place to live became Piccadilly. Lady Katherine Daly, I realized as I followed Robert through the thickening night, may have been an Irishwoman, but she was well informed about London’s most desirable address, for this was where she kept a home.

  The road was quiet except for the rumble of carriages. Although Antonio, Robert, and I rode side by side, we said nothing—indeed, there was nothing to say.

  Sorrow and fury pressed down on me, bowing my shoulders and tightening my fingers on the reins. We had failed. We had no ideas, no bargaining tool to secure my father’s release, nothing that the king could possibly want. Father would remain hidden until his execution.

  Up and down Piccadilly, homes were tucked away behind elaborate gateways, set so far back from the street they were wrapped in black. I saw them with dull eyes, catching only the impression of hulking blocks of stone and brick.

  We turned under a large archway. Lady Katherine’s estate rose before us: a massive brick box of a house flanked by two wings and topped by a cupola whose gold-covered dome glittered in the darkness. Flaming torches lined the courtyard.

  As we dismounted, a couple of passing grooms came over to relieve us of our horses. I pulled my hat’s brim lower over my face, thankful the light the torches provided was faint. The grooms bowed and murmured “Your Grace,” to Robert, who acknowledged them with a brisk nod.

  “You must forgive my bruised face; I had a fall from my horse,” he said smoothly. I wondered why he bothered explaining himself to the servants, then realized he probably wanted to prevent their gossiping about his appearance. “Is your lady at home?” he asked.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” a groomsman answered, then whispered to a boy behind him, “Find one of Lady Katherine’s servants and tell her the Duke of Lockton has arrived.” The boy nodded and scampered away, silent as a ghost.

  “Come,” Robert said. He led me and Antonio up a row of steps topped by a set of double doors that sprang open at our approach. I could see the glimmer of candlelight from within, flickering like liquid gold.

  We entered the hall. The sound of our riding boots clicking on the stone floor seemed loud in the cavernous space. The servant who had opened the door, dressed soberly in black, bowed as we passed him. Automatically I started to bow in return, but Robert caught my eye and shook his head. Hastily I straightened.

  At the room’s far end a girl of about my own age stood at the base of a staircase that rose high and split in two, each end spreading off to a different wing of the house. This must be Lady Katherine. I had assumed Robert had called her beautiful because he was expected to, but I saw now he had simply been telling the truth—she was the prettiest girl I’d ever seen, with a delicate heart-shaped face. Her pale pink gown skimmed her bodice before flaring into full skirts. The front half of her dark, curly hair was drawn into a bun, the rest tumbling in waves almost to her waist.

  “Your Grace, you do me great honor by visiting my home.” Lady Katherine’s Irish accent lent a soft lilt to her words, turning them into music. Smiling slightly, she glided across the room. Robert dropped into a bow, kissing the hand she offered him.

  “My lady, you’re more beautiful than ever,” he said.

  “And I see you continue to hold your own appearance in low regard.” She giggled. “I hope you got the best of whoever it was you fought. What was it about this time? A dice game? An insult to your honor?”

  “Your good humor does you credit.” Robert rose. “Unfortunately, my lady, we’ve come here with a desperate purpose, and we beg to become your guests. My father has imprisoned hers,” he added, jerking his head in my direction.

  Lady Katherine peered at me in my boy’s clothes, her eyebrows rising. “That is a girl?” she whispered.

  “Yes, and I fear we have more distressing news,” Robert said. “We suspect my father possesses something that has the power to push kings off their thrones.”

  There was a long beat of silence. Lady Katherine’s face had gone blank. At last she opened her mouth. “Well,” she said, “I suppose you had best stay for supper, then.”

  Antonio and I were given rooms on the same corridor. Alone, I stood at the window, studying the countryside behind Lady Katherine’s estate, a rectangle of black in the deepening darkness.

  My father was out there somewhere. Perhaps even in Newgate. One of Father’s friends been jailed there for his Quaker beliefs, and many times I’d heard his tales of unlighted dungeons where lice crawled so thickly on the floor that when one walked, one heard them crunching underfoot. Prisoners waiting to be hanged were kept in cellars underground, where they could watch the jailers boiling the heads of the recently executed in massive kettles, to keep the flesh from putrefying so the heads could be displayed on poles throughout the city.

  I sank to my knees. Please, Lord, don’t let this be Father’s fate. Don’t let him tremble in his own darkness while all around him the air fills with prisoners’ lamentable cries and the stink of blood.

  Eight days. That was all that was left between tonight and the next Hanging Day. We were running out of time. I would go to Whitehall and throw myself on the king’s mercy. Offer myself in my father’s place. Anything. I would save him. I had to.

  A knock sounded on the door. I swiped at the tears on my cheeks. “Enter,” I called.

  The door swung open to reveal Antonio. He wore only dark breeches and a white shirt. The half smile I was accustomed to seeing on his lips was gone. He looked wild, his jaw clenched, his hair raining to his shoulders as though he had been running his hands through it.

  He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him.

  “I swear to you,” he said, “I won’t rest until your father is free.”

  “Why do you care?” My voice cracked. “You should return to Florence and your master and the work you love so much.”


  I covered my face with my hands, unable to look at him. My tears trickled down my palms, hot and fast.

  “Elizabeth.” He said my name like a breath. His clothes rustled as he sank to his knees beside me on the floor, silk and velvet rubbing together. I kept my hands clapped to my face, shielding me in my own private world.

  “I can’t go on like this,” I choked out. “Wondering all the time if he’s still alive or already dead.”

  I broke into sobs. Rough and hard, they tore up my throat, and I had to gasp to get them out. Antonio’s hand fell to my shoulder, his touch gentle.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “No matter what happens, your father’s a good man—let that thought comfort you.”

  “A good man!” My voice lashed out, bitter and ragged. “He’s chosen death, even when he knows he’ll leave behind three daughters and a wife who can’t support themselves! They’ll have to depend on our relatives’ charity or go to the almshouse.” Or the street, to work as doxies, I thought, but couldn’t bring myself to say the words aloud.

  For a moment, Antonio didn’t say anything. “You didn’t include yourself. Won’t your father be leaving you, too, if he dies?”

  I swiped at my eyes, still not looking at him. “I can take care of myself. And I’ll do my best to help my sisters—and what does it matter to you anyway?” I interrupted myself. “You should return to Florence.”

  “I care because you love your father,” he said. “That’s reason enough for me to stay.”

  “You’re remaining here for my sake?”

  He didn’t answer, and I dropped my hands from my face.

  The guttering candlelight illuminated Antonio’s face, brushing it with gold one instant and shadow the next, flickering him in and out of focus. He was studying me closely, in a way I couldn’t remember anyone looking at me before—as though he wanted to commit each of my features to memory so that years from now he could unwrap my image from the farthest recesses of his mind and be able to recall me in exact detail. I shivered under the intensity of his gaze.

  “Are you cold?” he asked. Lacing our fingers together, he squeezed my hand. The heat of his skin nearly made me jump. I knew I should move away to a proper distance. I must.

  But I stayed where I was, now cross-legged on the marble floor, so close to Antonio our knees touched. With his thumb he traced circles in my palm, sending sparks shooting up my arm. My voice shook when I spoke. “Wh-what are you doing?”

  He made a strangled noise that might have been partly a laugh. “If you have to ask, then . . . Never mind, Elizabeth. I will see you at supper.”

  He turned my hand over in his, then bent his head over them. He kissed the inside of my wrist. His lips felt impossibly soft and warm. I sucked in a breath, staring down at his head bowed over our joined hands, candlelight glinting gold in the black strands of his hair. The blood that he and Robert had said circulated in our veins seemed to turn to honey in mine, traveling from my wrist up my arm to my chest, melting me from within.

  Then he lifted his head. I couldn’t speak as he smiled at me. The lines of his face were tired, and there was a smudge of dirt on his temple—he had come to my room without bothering to wash first. Because he hadn’t wanted to wait to comfort me.

  He’s beautiful, I realized with a jolt of shock. The hands that held telescopes and scribbled long mathematical equations; the eyes that peered at the stars night after night. The slim line of a cut on his forehead from our fight in the fields outside Oxford. The way the fabric of his shirt stilled, as if he were holding his breath while he looked at me.

  The fabric rose and fell; he had released his breath. “I had better dress for supper,” he said quietly.

  Dress. For supper. Which meant in a few minutes he would be in his own room, taking off his shirt and breeches. I could almost imagine the ridged muscles of his chest, which I had seen through his water-soaked shirt.

  My face turned to flame. Antonio laughed and sent me a wicked grin, as if he knew precisely what I was thinking. Odd’s fish! Couldn’t I just melt into the floor and be put out of my humiliation?

  Jumping to his feet, he said, “I’ll see you in the dining room.”

  I couldn’t say a word. I stared at the black and white marble squares of the floor, watching Antonio’s shadow cross them. The door opened and closed; he was gone.

  I laid a hand on my overheated cheek. What on earth was wrong with me? Betty would tan my hide for having such impure thoughts.

  Like someone in a trance, I went to the door. When I pressed my hand against it, I imagined I felt the vibrations of Antonio’s footsteps traveling along the corridor and up the wooden door into the tips of my fingers. Linking me to him. And I couldn’t help wondering if my thoughts truly were impure . . . or if maybe I was just beginning to see the world with different eyes.

  Seventeen

  THE DOOR BURST OPEN, NEARLY WHACKING ME IN the face. I jumped back just in time. Robert came inside, grinning and waving my father’s strip of vellum in the air.

  “The entire word isn’t capitalized,” he said.

  Antonio appeared over Robert’s shoulder, buttoning his travel-worn shirt one-handed, as if he had been in the middle of undressing when he’d heard the commotion and rushed out. I could see the lines of his collarbones. Quickly I averted my gaze.

  “You’d better come in before you attract the servants’ attention,” I said, ushering the boys into my room. “What exactly are you talking about, Robert?”

  “Only the first letter is capitalized.” He looked expectantly at Antonio and me, but we stared at him blankly. “Don’t you see? If only the first letter is capitalized, then perhaps only the first letter is significant! We should put together only the capitalized first letters and see if they spell out a secret message.”

  I shrugged; it was as good a suggestion as any. “We can try that.”

  Antonio closed the door and leaned against it, raising his eyebrows. It was clear he didn’t think much of Robert’s idea. I took the proffered vellum and scanned it again. The first capitalized word within a line was “Stars.” “S,” I said aloud, privately wondering if there was another layer of meaning behind my father’s poem—for stars, after all, had been the focus of many of Galileo’s investigations, and it had been his findings about the skies that had raised the Church’s ire and nearly cost him his life.

  I skimmed the rest of the line. “Their—T. S and T so far.” Oddly enough, there weren’t more relevant capitalized letters in the next three lines, and then there were two in adjacent words. “P and A.”

  “S-T-P-A,” Robert recited, and frowned. “It doesn’t sound like a real word yet.”

  “Let me finish.” Father wouldn’t have made a mistake; I was sure of it. Thus far he’d shown himself to be a canny word magician, imbuing his writings with multiple meanings. I skimmed the rest of the poem. There were three more words we could use—“Us,” “Lets,” and “Start.” “U, L, and S. The entire message reads, ‘S-T-P-A-U-L-S.’”

  My heart raced. St. Paul’s! I knew it well; there probably wasn’t a soul in London who didn’t. It was the largest church in the city, perhaps the largest church in the world. And the place held a tender place in my father’s heart—as a boy, he’d attended St. Paul’s school, which was affiliated with the church, and as a young man he had mourned when Cromwell allowed his troops to use the church as a barracks and the building fell into terrible disrepair.

  “St. Paul’s?” Antonio asked. “I thought you Protestants didn’t worship saints.”

  “It’s a church.” A wide grin crossed Robert’s face, and he clapped me on the back, laughing. “Your father must have hidden this treasure in St. Paul’s!”

  My heart sank. “The place is enormous,” I said. “St. Paul’s must have hundreds of possible hiding places. How can we ever hope to find them all? And how can we even look? The ministers and worshipers would certainly notice us tearing apart the walls and floor!”

  ?
??Confound it!” Robert aimed a vicious kick at the wall, then hopped around in agony, clutching the toe of his shoe and uttering a string of curses.

  “When you’ve finished dancing, you might want to take a look at this,” Antonio said dryly. He had bent to study the vellum in my hand, coming so close that his hair brushed my fingers. I jolted. Antonio glanced over his shoulder at me, grinning as if he knew exactly why I had started. I scowled at him. Never mind that the dusting of his hair on my fingers had made my pulse leap; he didn’t need to know that.

  Robert limped over to us. “What is it?”

  “The ink has faded in an odd pattern,” Antonio said. He pointed to the words “our” and “would.” “Do you see how the letters r in ‘our’ and d in ‘would’ are gray, while the other letters are still black? I can’t think why only some letters should have faded unless”—he regarded me, all trace of merriment gone—“unless your father used two bottles of ink.”

  “A second secret message,” I breathed. “What do the gray letters spell?”

  I held the vellum while Antonio rattled them off: “U-n-d-e-r-t-h-e-f-o-n-t.”

  Under the font. The baptismal font, it had to be! Most likely it was a small piece of furniture made of wood or carved from stone, kept near St. Paul’s altar to be used in infants’ baptisms.

  I seized Antonio’s hand, tugging him after me toward the door. “Come! There’s no time to lose!”

  We shot into the corridor. As we raced headlong down the passage, the stones in the walls flashing past us, Robert grabbed my wrist, jerking me to a stop.

  “How long has it been since your father hid this treasure?”

  “I don’t know.” I tried to shake his hand off; I was desperate to keep going. “Years, I suppose. The box in Oxford was buried in 1642, and this poem is in my father’s handwriting, so he must have penned it before he went blind.”

  “Then let’s pray the church hasn’t replaced its font anytime in the past twenty years,” Robert said grimly.

  St. Paul’s Cathedral was a massive building clad in white stone, which gleamed ghostly in the darkness. A series of lean-to shops huddled against one wall; they were little more than shacks. By day the stalls did a bustling business, selling books and pamphlets. Many times I had strolled among them, looking for yet another book my father had requested. Now their flaps were tied closed for the night, and the air was quiet except for the clatter of our horses’ hooves on the courtyard pavers.