John eyed Sir Gregory carefully. His father’s voice sounded in his mind. Trust no one. “Almost nothing.”
“Damn. I was hoping you knew something. I’ve been locked away and not able to hear any word from the outside. I do know there are all sorts of men missing from across the country, and it has something to do with some plot against the king. Quite extraordinary. I was taken prisoner on the first day, and have been in the Tower since. Then they moved me here... Quite disconcerting. I know nothing of my family. Nothing of what is happening. Do you know why I have been moved here? Placed with you?”
“No idea.” John regarded the man. He had a subtle Irish lilt to his speech, and what seemed to be a genuinely sunny disposition, despite his recent hardships.
“Not much of a talker, are you, Milton? Please excuse, I have been talking to myself for almost two months, and I am quite ready to talk to someone who will return my conversation. Talking to one’s self becomes rather predictable after a while.”
John looked at the man with a small smile, hiding his suspicions. “You don’t appear to have been beaten, Sir Gregory.” John turned his face so Sir Gregory could see the scar, cut into the side of his face the first day at Gatehouse.
Gregory looked startled. “I say, sir. That looks nasty. They did that to you in here?”
“That’s not the half of it. Three broken ribs too. Fortunately, my family is allowed to visit.”
Sir Gregory stepped closer, and looked at his face in the only light that came into the room, through a small slit near the stone ceiling. “Oh, my.”
“The guard Wilson did it. I have since learned he welcomes nearly everyone like that, especially if the new guest has money. You may want to be ready.”
“Certainly that would not apply to me. I’m a baronet of Nova Scotia. I can’t imagine a man like that treating a man like me in that manner. I was well liked at court before this idiocy occurred. I think it is a test of my loyalty, an obscene joke of some sort.”
For the entire world, Sir Gregory seemed sincere. Not too bright, true, but sincere. Milton’s narrowed his eyes. “Are you aware that Nova Scotia, or New Scotland as some call it, has been given to the French?”
Sir Gregory’s eyebrows knitted into a single bundle on his forehead for a moment, as if in deep thought. The eyebrows then went up to the top of his forehead, and he started laughing. “That is a good one, Milton. Very funny. You had me going for a moment. Ha!”
“Very well, Sir Gregory.” Milton sat on his pallet. “There’s some clean straw. It’s changed every other day for an outrageous sum, but does keep the lice down a bit. Sleep on it for tonight. You’ll need to make some arrangements soon, for your own comforts.”
“Very good of you, Milton. Very good. Thank you.”
“You are welcome, Sir Gregory.”
John watched this new man. Was he here to spy on him for some reason? John had never seen him before. The man seemed so unconcerned. So innocent. And not the sharpest quill on the table. John shrugged, then lay back. He would watch the man carefully, listen carefully, and tell him as little as possible. He didn’t want to let his captors know of the effort being quietly put forth by the London legal community in the investigation of what was now called Charles’ Purge.
* * *
The next morning they were awakened before sunrise by Wilson and his bulldog supervisor, along with another man and a priest. They came into the room, motioned for Sir Gregory to come with them.
Wilson stayed behind and grinned. “ ’Tis his turn.”
John was puzzled. “Turn for what?”
Wilson drew his finger across his throat and made a slicing sound. “Off with his ’ead. And you’re the guest of ’onor. Come along.”
He grabbed John’s arm and steered him down a narrow corridor that opened onto an enclosed courtyard. There was just enough light to see in the gray predawn. The guards and the bulldog supervisor tied Sir Gregory’s hands behind his back, and were leading him to the chopping block that stood in the corner of the yard. Sir Gregory had just started to figure out what was going to happen, and he began to struggle.
“This is ridiculous. There must be some kind of mistake. I am Sir Gregory Norton. You can’t do this. There has been no trial. Is this a test of my loyalty? Is that it? Some kind of a test? Certainly there can be no doubt? I have done nothing. Nothing!”
The priest began his low prayer, and another two guards came to hold Sir Gregory, and force his head to the block.
“I don’t understand! Why are you doing this? Why?” He began to sob hysterically. “Please tell me why...please?”
The executioner came from behind a door in the courtyard, tugging at his black hood, and carrying his axe. As he drew closer, Sir Gregory began to scream. “No! This is not happening! No-no-no-no!” The executioner knelt in front of the priest for a moment, and received a blessing. He then rose, and knelt on one knee before Sir Gregory. Gregory stopped sobbing, as the executioner quietly spoke to him. Milton could barely hear the executioner, who was a skinny and wiry man.
“...Keep still, sir. This is inevitable ’tis, sir. You don’t wa’ me t’miss and ’ave to take two or three swings, now do you? Let’s jus’ do this quick and get it o’er wit. Ye needs t’be brave now, sir...”
The calm speech of the black-hooded man seemed to quiet Sir Gregory. The executioner swiftly stood, then stepped back to swing. As the heavy ax came down, Gregory flinched with surprising strength against the men holding him, and the axe hit the top of his head, glancing off and taking a lot of scalp with it. Milton could see the gleaming white of his skull. Gregory fell back on the block, stunned, and the executioner swung again. That swing was rushed, and only half of the neck was severed. Sir Gregory gave a gurgling shriek. The executioner took his time with the last swing, ignoring the pitiful sounds of Gregory, and chopped the head off clean. It rolled to the ground and toward Milton. When it stopped, Milton saw the eyes flick back and forth and the jaw seemed to be gasping for breath. Then it was still.
* * *
“You must excuse me for being so late. I have been extraordinarily busy these past months, and I have not had the time to visit you as I hoped. I trust your accommodations are satisfactory?” Thomas Wentworth, the earl of Stafford, was smooth, professional, mature and polite as he spoke.
John smiled coolly. “We got off to a rather poor start, but things have improved.”
“Good.” Wentworth stood with his back to the door, and Milton stood in the corner. Wentworth had a small book under his arm. “It is odd, but I thought you would be older. I know when you were born, of course. After reading so much of your work I just assumed I would be talking to an older man. You are quite famous, you know, in the future. We found out a lot about you, what you wrote, your biographies, analysis of your work, criticisms. Fascinating, really. There was more information on you than on many of the vastly more important people of our era.” Wentworth let the last phrase hang in the air for a moment.
John ignored the jibe. “I’ve heard that’s the case, although I have not been allowed any books or paper during my imprisonment.”
Wentworth’s eyes began to travel slowly around the walls of the cell, now nearly covered with chalk writings, and he smiled bemusedly. “I will be more specific in my orders next time. You came from a family of lawyers.” He squinted at a couple of writings. “Nothing treasonous I assume.”
“Of course not, milord.” John tried to guess the man’s motives. His several month imprisonment had given him time to think, to guess what it was that Wentworth was going to do. John had several ideas, and he discussed many with his father. But now, it looked like Wentworth was about to start putting him into play. It was time to discover the game.
“It is curious,” said Wentworth, “one of the most famous poems ever written was written in this very prison, in the shadow of Westminster Abbey. And not by you, I might add. In that other future, when Cromwell became a king in everything but the name, many royalists were imprisoned.
One who was imprisoned here wrote a poem:
Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for an hermitage.
“Of course, the man who wrote that is only a lad of fourteen or fifteen today, so it is unlikely he will ever write such a verse. I wonder how that will make him feel? What do you think, John?”
“I cannot say. I have not yet read anything I have written from the future.”
“I have brought something for you to read.”
John desired the book under Wentworth’s arm. His eyes flicked quickly to it, then back to Wentworth’s smiling face. Wentworth’s smile went a little larger. John was determined not to speak first.
“Aren’t you curious about what I have?” Wentworth asked after a pause.
“It is something of mine, something a future version of myself wrote in that other world.”
“Indeed, yes. It is something I personally picked out for you, although it is not poetry. Some of your poetry I have read, by the way. Overrated, I thought, but then I am not a poet. I am a practical man, above all else.” Wentworth held up the book. “This is a political tract. This I understand.” He looked briefly at the small book, changed his grip, and held it in front of him, looking at the binding. “It argues first against prelacy, and then a second article is written as an apologist tract, defending the regicidal government of Oliver Cromwell.”
Milton waited patiently once again for Wentworth to continue.
Wentworth smiled again, and nodded. “Very well, John. Since you appear to show no curiosity, I will simply tell you what I wish. But first, I want you to understand the futility of the wrong course of action, so something terrible does not happen to you.” Wentworth tucked the book back under his arm.
“Is that why you put Sir Gregory in my cell for a night? So I can see firsthand these consequences?”
Wentworth shrugged. “No sense in letting an inevitable execution go to waste without being instructive to someone. Otherwise, what has it done except to kill one man?”
“That man had done nothing!” Milton spat in anger. “Nothing!”
Wentworth casually held up the book in front of him. “Exactly, John. He had done nothing. You have done much. These books precede you, and are overwhelming evidence of treason. And yet a man who had done nothing, as much as it grieves me personally, was put to death by order of the king. Where does that put you, John Milton?”
Milton’s mouth went dry. Fear and anger surged in his gut. He fought to regain his emotions. He was surprised how quickly Wentworth had drawn out his fear. He swallowed and tried to remain calm.
“In a very precarious position, Milton. Very. Sir Gregory could do nothing for himself. He had no special influence or talents. The king’s orders sealed his fate, and his best use was to serve as an example. You have done greater injury to the monarchy, yet are still alive. The difference between you and Sir Gregory is you are famous, and the ‘greatest English poet,’ at least according to the history books. Sir Gregory was a minor baronet, of a land that now belongs to France. That is not to say that there haven’t been calls for your head. There have been several, including suggestions by the king. But so far, I have been able to convince others you can be more help to us alive on our side than dead and a martyr. Martyrs can sometimes become a problem.”
“I have no side. I have done nothing. Not that it matters any longer.”
“Well then. It is answered. You will refute these tracts. In exchange for that, you may escape the axe.”
Astonished, John looked at Wentworth. The man was smiling as if he had just asked a simple favor, not served up a life or death decision.
John swallowed, trying to keep his voice calm. “I—I will consider it. I need reading and writing materials, obviously. I will need to do research.”
Wentworth smiled broadly. “That can be arranged. As a matter of fact, I will allow you full access to materials, even your own writings.”
“Why would you do that?”
Wentworth’s face became polite, officious, and an unreadable mask. “Do not look a gift horse in the mouth, Milton.” He extended his arm, showing the book.
John reached for it, and at midpoint hesitated, then drew back his hand. “Odd,” he said. “Since I have been in this cell, and learned about the existence of my work in the future, I have been struggling with what I would do when faced with it. Would I read it? Or would I not? Would I reject the old works, and create new works? Fresh words, rooted in fresh soil? Pride is a very strong thing, Wentworth.” He sighed. “I think I would have read them eventually. I would like to think not, that I could go on with my life and become a poet without comparing myself, but I am not so strong as that. I’m a poet, not a God.”
He held out his hand and Wentworth gave him the book. John took it and let the hand holding the book fall to his side.
“ ’Tis better you get started now, rather than later,” Wentworth said. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have another meeting.” He turned and rapped on the door, and one of the guards opened it. He turned back. “Is a month sufficient time for you?”
John nodded.
Wentworth smiled. “Very well.” He pointed to a few of the stones on the wall. “You may want to wipe some of those away before someone else visits here, John. You are in enough trouble as it is.” He nodded a slight bow, and turned.
The cell door closed behind him, leaving John with the book in his hand. He stood for quite a long while, staring at the closed door. Eventually, he turned and sat on his pallet, opened the book, and began to read his own writings.
* * *
For three weeks, he paced back and forth in his cell, reading in his own voice words that were familiar, yet not. His “collected works.” Some of the poems written in college he considered sophomoric. He remembered writing those but never imagined they would be reprinted three centuries later.
There was a selection of criticisms that accompanied his writings. When the embargo of paper and writing materials was lifted, he finally had access to the library his father and brother accumulated during his incarceration. The library of materials was impressive. The books from Grantville were meticulously reprinted, then smuggled with great risk to England. Milton’s writings were outlawed, on pain of death, by order of the king.
He especially enjoyed his essay on censorship “Areopagitica” in light of the present situation.
John understood one thing almost immediately. He had succeeded. His life’s goal was to become a... No. Not “become a,” as in one of many, but to become the master of the English language. His desire was to write the most important works ever written, for the glory of God and England. For as long as he remembered, that was his goal. Lofty, to be sure. But he always believed. To meet that goal, he had sequestered himself away for as long as it took, cultivating his mind for the task ahead. From the looks of the publication dates, he had stayed in his father’s house for several more years, doing little else except study. So much so that his eyesight began to fail. Study. Study more. Study until he was ready. Ready to write. To write the definitive poems of the English language.
He achieved his life’s goals.
He looked at the thin book with the original two articles Wentworth gave him. He did not want to refute them. They were right. A tyrant is not a worthy leader, whether it be Charles or Cromwell. To recall a tyrant from power is a right all thinking men should have. He sat with a blank pad of paper in his lap, and tried to write a refutation to his articles. He tried sketching notes. He tried to outline his arguments. He tried writing them in Latin, then German, then French. He tried to argue them through in his head, but he always came back to the same conclusion. After some hours of this inaction, he tossed the book aside.
There was a rattling of keys in the hallway, and the door opened. Wentworth entered, smiling. John rose and bowed stiffly to his captor, who bowed in return. Wentworth’s eyes flicked to the boo
k lying on Milton’s pallet, then quickly to the walls and their writings, and then back to Milton. “How is your refutation coming, John? Well, I hope.”
“It’s coming along. It is difficult to refute oneself, especially when one has been so eloquent. It presents unique challenges.”
Wentworth nodded and began to look at the other books collected in the cell. “You have everything? All of your works?”
“Near as I can ascertain. I am frankly embarrassed by some of the early works. But there they are, for the entire world to read.”
“One should be cautious about what one writes, John. You never know how it can be interpreted in the future.” Wentworth pulled one of the books from a makeshift shelf and looked at it with a wry smile. “Or the past, for that matter.” He slid the book back, and turned to Milton, looking him directly in the eyes. “Do you know why you are still alive, John?”
“To refute these two articles.”
“More than that, John. I want you on my side. The king’s side.”
Milton’s face remained impassive. “Go on.”
“I would rather have your powers of persuasion and writing on my side, than have them wasted by removing your head. It would seem such a loss. A manageable loss, yes. But still a loss.” Wentworth paused, his focus burning into Milton’s brain.
Milton was quiet for a moment. He looked past Wentworth, staring at the lock on the cell door. He had come to the conclusion that he had achieved his goals. He had written the definitive poems of the English language. He had said all that needed to be said. He had soared to heights unimagined, even by him, with his poetry. What other works could he possibly write? What else could he do?
It was grossly unfair, he felt.
On the other hand, how many men know their work will live for hundreds of years? He sighed a long heavy sigh, and finally made his decision. His father would not be pleased, nor would his mother. But he was his own man, and understood the consequences. He took a deep breath, broke his stare at the lock, and looked Wentworth in the eye. “I—I cannot refute them. I will not refute them. My life is already written.” He broke eye contact and laughed. “What a dilemma, eh, Wentworth? A real Calvinist dilemma. It will have theologians arguing for centuries as to what predestination really means.” He stopped his laughing, and a smile lingered as he again looked at Wentworth. “I strove for great things, and I achieved them. That was my destiny. The proof is all around you, in these volumes. But what am I to do now? My destiny is achieved. Should I continue to live? Am I an anomaly of God? And you ask me to go against everything I have done, every word I have written, and every argument I made? You want me to ignore my life’s work, as if nothing had happened? How can you—”