Deliver us from Evil (55 page)

Robert bowed. 'Your Ladyship's modesty does you wondrous credit.'

'And yet
..
.' Lady Castlemaine smiled faintly, it is true what is said - there is a magic to his eye. One might well desire such a charm for oneself

Robert did not answer. He thought of Milady: of the feel of her lips upon his own and of how, in Oxford, she had twisted from his grasp.

'One might indeed,' he murmured at last.

He bowed again, and bade Lady Castlemaine farewell; then turned and left through the Holbein Gate. So distracted did he feel that he no longer sought to keep amongst the crowds, but strode along the emptiest, darkest lanes until suddenly, above the muffled clamour of the Strand, he heard the splashing of footsteps hurrying after him. He rounded a corner, and crouched inside a doorway; while still the footsteps came splashing down the lane. As a dark figure rounded the corner, Robert stepped out and tripped it, seizing its arms; then he pointed a knife to its throat.

The figure gave a strangled half-yelp of fear.

Robert frowned, and slowly lowered his knife. 'Mr Aubrey?' he whispered.

The figure nodded desperately. 'Mr Lovelace?' he gasped,
I
saw you
...
as
I
was leaving my rooms - and
I
watched - well - it was foolish, sir, of course, to follow anyone down such dangerous streets

'Foolish, sir? No - the fault was all my own.'

But Mr Aubrey brushed his apologies aside. 'For
I
was curious, sir - you understand - about Dr Dee's book - and whether you had succeeded in translating the script.'

Robert smiled faintly; then shook his head.

'A challenge, sir,' Mr Aubrey nodded, 'an indisputable challenge -such as would tax the most learned of men. And indeed - it was on that very point . . . when
I
saw you just now
...
I
was struck by the thought - there is indeed a learned man whom you might desire to meet.'

Robert's doubt must have been visible on his face, for Mr Aubrey began to nod ever more violently. 'He is a most remarkably learned and ingenious man,' he insisted. 'And indeed,
I
am appointed to meet with him tomorrow night.'

Robert shrugged faintly. 'What is his name?'

'Mr John Milton,' Mr Aubrey replied.

Robert nodded slowly. 'Yes,' he whispered. 'Yes, of course. But why the delay, sir?' He paused. 'Why not visit him tonight?'

They travelled first to London Bridge, for that was where Robert had arranged to meet with Milady. He saw her standing cloaked in shadow, at the point on the bridge where she had stood many years before, to show him for the first time the vast expanse of London. As he clambered out from the hackney coach, Milady turned round; and lowered the hood which had covered her face. 'Please, sir,' Robert whispered at once to Mr Aubrey, 'stay here, if you will.' Then he slammed the door behind him, and hurried across the street.

'What is it?' he whispered, taking Milady by her hands. He embraced her tightly. 'What has happened?'

'Lightborn.'

'Where?'

'On Pudding Lane.' 'Did he see you?'

'No . . .
I
. . .' Milady shook her head,
I
do not believe so, no.' 'Then what was his business there?'

I
. ..' She swallowed; then shook her head, and did not reply to the question. 'He was standing at the top of the hill, surveying the street.'

'Was he looking for you?'

Milady shrugged faintly.

'Very well.' Robert frowned, and tried to think. 'The ship, Milady. Is our passage booked?'

She nodded. 'For Liibeck, in three days' time. Our luggage is already being boarded. And in the meanwhile,
I
have rented us rooms in the Dolphin, by Tower wharf.' She paused again, and arched an eyebrow,
I
am to assume, then, that his Lordship is not yet wed?'

'We must put his Lordship entirely from our minds. And that may mean' - Robert swallowed - 'before we leave, perhaps . . . since there is no other way

His voice faded, as though his words were morning mist and Milady's stare a burning sun. He looked down, towards the river below; for he could not endure to meet the glitter of her eyes.

'Lovelace,' she whispered. 'No other way but
..
. what?'

Still Robert gazed down, at the rapids boiling through the arches of the bridge. 'But it is not yet certain,' he said suddenly. 'There may still be another, a final chance.'

'Lovelace,
I
do not understand you.'

Robert turned, and met Milady's stare at last. 'The book,' he asked her, 'do you have it with you now?'

Milady frowned faintly. 'Naturally,' she replied.

'Give it to me.'

'Why?'

'Because . . .' Robert took the book from her hands and slipped it beneath his cloak, it may be,' he whispered, 'that all will still be well. For if there is anyone who has the learning to read this book - then it is the man
I
am leaving to visit now.' He kissed Milady. 'Pray for my success.'

'Lovelace, wait!'

But he had already turned, and was crossing to the hackney. Milady cried out after him again; but he paused only to shout back, as he clambered into his seat, that he would see her in their rooms; and then the hackney was rattling up Fish Street Hill, and she was lost to his view. The carriage continued through the City, Mr Aubrey talking at his usual scatter-fast rate, and then out into the open fields past Bishop's Gate. Not far from the road, Robert saw a vast expanse of freshly dug ground, and he recognised it as a pit where he and Lightborn had hunted victims for Milady. Thin patches of grass were already growing across the soil; and Robert wondered how long it would be before the very site of the pit had been forgotten, and all its vast freight with it. And then he thought of Emily; and he wondered where she lay, unmarked as she was, forever lost amidst the myriads of London's dead.

The hackney jolted suddenly to a halt and Robert, woken from his brooding, realised that they must have arrived at their destination. He followed Mr Aubrey out of the carriage, and into a tiny house from which he could hear the sound of an organ being played. They were shown by a maid into a long, low-beamed room. Several guests were already gathered there; and at the far end of the room, his back to them, another man was playing on the organ. At the sound of footsteps, however, he paused, and slowly turned round; and Robert recognised at once his former master and guardian. His steel-grey hair had grown more silver; but otherwise, he seemed utterly unchanged.

Robert remained silent as Mr Aubrey introduced them both. 'Lovelace,' grunted Mr Milton, as he shook Robert's hand. 'Such a name, sir, would seem to suit the Court better than this mean, rude place.
I
am afraid you will discover no great entertainments here.'

Mr Aubrey interrupted him, to explain the purpose of Robert's visit and describe the mystery of the book. Mr Milton grunted again. 'But
I
am blind,' he muttered. 'How am
I
, then, to make out an unknown script?'

I
had thought, sir,' explained Mr Aubrey eagerly, 'that we might copy out a portion of it across an expanse of dirt, which you might then, with your fingers, be able to trace.'

Mr Milton laughed, in the grisly manner Robert remembered so well.

'You find my suggestion' - Mr Aubrey swallowed uncertainly - 'a ridiculous one?'

Mr Milton shook his head. 'No, no,' he grinned mirthlessly. 'But you find us gathered here, Mr Aubrey, to hear a reading from the fruit of many years' labour, in which
I
have sought to penetrate the mysteries of God, to scale the empyreal air of the very heavens, and now - now you would have me scrabble in the dust. So should all our ambitions be rewarded, lest we forget our humility.
I
thank you Mr Aubrey.
I
shall do as you wish.'

He sighed, and stirred, and reached down below his seat, drawing out a thick manuscript. 'But first,' he nodded, 'you shall make your payment, and listen to my poem.' His eyes rolled, as though straining to make out his guests, and he smiled again grimly. 'None of your Court pleasures here, Mr Lovelace.
I
trust the tedium will not prove too extreme.'

Robert did not answer; for he was remembering those long afternoons when the poet had sat at his desk, measuring on his fingers the rhythms of a secret poem; and of how, on that same evening when they had later been arrested, Mr Milton had left the manuscript unlocked upon his desk. Robert could still recall the lines.
'What though the field be lost?'
He smiled softly to himself.
'All is not lost.'
Perhaps now, he thought, once again, at the great crossroads of his life, Mr Milton's poem would provide him with guidance, and point him a second time towards the way he should take.

He sat down as Mr Milton, fingers brushing across the manuscript as though the pages were a lyre, began to chant from memory the opening to his poem. Robert listened, first in doubt and then in awe, overwhelmed by the scale of the vast design. For it did indeed seem the poet's ambition, as he had claimed it to be, to scale the heights of Heaven; and to plumb, as well, the fiery gulf of Hell. It was into such depths that Satan was described as falling, the infernal serpent with all his rebel host, flung down from heaven with hideous ruin, to gaze for the first time at the dismal penal flames. And yet still, mixed with the rebel angel's affliction and dismay, there seemed pride as well, and steadfast hate; and Robert, listening to the description, felt a sudden stirring of horror as Mr Milton began to read from Satan's opening speech, addressed in defiance to Beelzebub - altered like himself, forever altered and damned.
'If thou beest he; but O how fallen! how changed . ..'
Mr Milton paused; and Robert half-imagined that his sightless eyes were watching him. Then the poet swallowed and began once again, sounding the Evil One's defiance and pain; until at length came the words Robert already knew.

'What though the field be lost?'

Robert started, and half-jumped from his chair.

'All is not lost. . .'

Robert rose now to his feet.

Mr Milton paused, then suddenly frowned. 'Lovelace?' he whispered, as though in puzzlement.

'You surprised me, sir,' said Robert,
I
had never thought that it was Satan . . . that is . . . that Satan could have spoken with such courage and resolve.'

The frown deepened on the poet's face; and he angled his head, as though to catch a distant sound. 'Evil,' he answered slowly, 'is never more dangerous, Mr Lovelace, than when burnished by the embers of a dying moral sense.' He paused again; and for a moment, the room seemed frozen by the chill of the silence. Then slowly, Mr Milton lowered his poem to the floor. 'Your book, sir,' he whispered. 'Let us make a trial of its script. For it is good,
I
think, after a descent into Hell, to feel the fresh night breezes soft against our faces.'

He rose to his feet; and Mr Aubrey crossed to him hurriedly, to lend him an arm. Together they passed out into the garden - Robert following, and then the rest of the room. Mr Aubrey was already bending down; he took the book from Robert's hand and copied a line across the dirt; and Mr Milton traced it with his fingertip. He frowned, clearly puzzled; then shook his head. 'This is no script that
I
can recognise,' he muttered. He felt for Mr Aubrey's hands, and took the manuscript. 'Where, did you say, did you discover this book?'

Robert glanced at Mr Aubrey, it was written,' he murmured,
I
suspect, by a Jew.' He studied Mr Milton's face closely, then reached for his hand. 'That was why, sir,' he whispered,
I
had hoped you might read it.'

Mr Milton stood frozen for a moment; then reached for Robert's face and began to feel it.
I
, sir?' he asked slowly.

'Why, yes,' answered Robert. He paused, then reached in turn to feel Mr Milton's face. 'For it was you, after all, who taught me to read Hebrew - that. . . and much else.'

Again, Mr Milton froze; and then suddenly he laughed, not grimly as before but almost choking, and Robert saw upon his cheek the silent silver of tears, is it you?' the old man whispered, his voice hoarse. 'Truly you? Master Foxe - who came to me in the bleakest depths of my night
..
. and who then seemed lost forever to me.' He laughed again, and gestured with his arms to the circle of his friends. 'For this boy was to me, when all seemed irrevocably dark, without hope of day - he was to me light - and the promise of hope. And yet
I
never had the chance
..
. to inform him so
...'
His voice trailed away; he breathed in deeply and tightened his grip upon the book, so that his fingertips dug inwards and brushed against the pages. At the same moment, he screamed; and the cry was so unexpected, so terrible, that everyone around him seemed paralysed. Slowly, Mr Milton opened the book; he seemed to read it; and then he dropped it suddenly, and slumped to the ground.