and I exchanged a swift look.
“He easily could have crept up behind us and stabbed us,” I said.
Antonio nodded, laying a hand on my shoulder. “I think he’s just proved his trustworthiness.”
I nodded. Dropping his hand from my shoulder, Antonio walked back to where Crofts stood. As I followed him, I could have sworn I still felt the weight of his hand and the heat of his skin burning through the thin fabric of my shirt.
Ten
WE RODE HARD ACROSS THE FIELDS, THE SUN BEATING down on our heads. When we stopped to sip from our water skins, I explained to Crofts why we were journeying to Oxford—that we believed my father had concealed a political secret in one of his Italian sonnets, and the Bodleian was one of the last places in the country where we could be assured of finding my father’s old books.
We reached the outskirts of Oxford by midafternoon. The streets were long and straight. The farther we rode, the more I was struck by the tidiness of the city’s stone buildings and the cleanliness of its gutters. This city, with its coffeehouses and taverns and inns siting sedately next to one another, seemed another world from London’s jumble of buildings crammed higgledy-piggledy together or Chalfont’s cottages and farm fields. The people weren’t the tangle of vendors, merchants, tradesmen, andaristocrats I was accustomed to seeing in London’s narrow streets or the soberly dressed religious freethinkers and farmers of Chalfont. Here I saw university tutors in long black robes, their arms bent around bundles of books, and fine men and ladies in carriages, their clothes of midnight blue, green, or peach showing through the open windows as they rumbled past.
Crofts led the way. He said that he knew the city well, for he’d stayed here last autumn with his family to escape the plague that was then sweeping through London. The Bodleian was housed in a large building of pale stone that formed a quadrangle. The massive dragon of a structure was several stories tall, its walls pitted with dozens of windows.
We tied our horses to hitching posts. On the library’s front steps stood a couple of students talking with one another, dressed in their required long black gowns. They stepped to the side, allowing us to pass.
Inside we found ourselves in a deserted corridor lined with windows. In the sun-flooded warmth, dust motes spun like dots of gold in the air.
Without looking at us to see if we followed, Crofts strode down the corridor. He led us through a series of long passageways, one of which was lined with numerous gilt-framed paintings. At last he brought us into a large, high-ceilinged room crowded with stalls, which were similar to what I’d seen in markets. All of them were lined on both sides with shelves of books. A few dozen students sat at wooden tables, studying or scribbling notes. The place was silent as a tomb, except for the scratch of quills on paper and an occasional cough. No one looked up as we entered.
A middle-aged man with shoulder-length dark hair hurriedtoward us, his black robes fluttering about his ankles. “Your Grace,” he whispered, bowing to Crofts, “I’m honored by your presence. If I had known you were in town, I would have arranged for you to have private use of the Bodleian. How may I be of help today?”
Something cold settled in the pit of my stomach. Your Grace . What had the librarian meant by addressing Mr. Crofts with such an illustrious title? Unless our new companion wasn’t a mere gentleman, as his name implied . . .
Crofts gave him a polite smile. “How delightful to see you again. I didn’t think you would remember me.” He glanced at us. “This is the Bodleian librarian, Mr. Thomas Hyde.” He turned back to the gentleman. “We need to see Mr. John Milton’s 1645 book of poems.”
“This way, if you please.” Hyde ushered the three of us into an alcove. When he picked up a book, I saw it had been attached to its shelf by a long chain. As I ran my
“He easily could have crept up behind us and stabbed us,” I said.
Antonio nodded, laying a hand on my shoulder. “I think he’s just proved his trustworthiness.”
I nodded. Dropping his hand from my shoulder, Antonio walked back to where Crofts stood. As I followed him, I could have sworn I still felt the weight of his hand and the heat of his skin burning through the thin fabric of my shirt.
Ten
WE RODE HARD ACROSS THE FIELDS, THE SUN BEATING down on our heads. When we stopped to sip from our water skins, I explained to Crofts why we were journeying to Oxford—that we believed my father had concealed a political secret in one of his Italian sonnets, and the Bodleian was one of the last places in the country where we could be assured of finding my father’s old books.
We reached the outskirts of Oxford by midafternoon. The streets were long and straight. The farther we rode, the more I was struck by the tidiness of the city’s stone buildings and the cleanliness of its gutters. This city, with its coffeehouses and taverns and inns siting sedately next to one another, seemed another world from London’s jumble of buildings crammed higgledy-piggledy together or Chalfont’s cottages and farm fields. The people weren’t the tangle of vendors, merchants, tradesmen, andaristocrats I was accustomed to seeing in London’s narrow streets or the soberly dressed religious freethinkers and farmers of Chalfont. Here I saw university tutors in long black robes, their arms bent around bundles of books, and fine men and ladies in carriages, their clothes of midnight blue, green, or peach showing through the open windows as they rumbled past.
Crofts led the way. He said that he knew the city well, for he’d stayed here last autumn with his family to escape the plague that was then sweeping through London. The Bodleian was housed in a large building of pale stone that formed a quadrangle. The massive dragon of a structure was several stories tall, its walls pitted with dozens of windows.
We tied our horses to hitching posts. On the library’s front steps stood a couple of students talking with one another, dressed in their required long black gowns. They stepped to the side, allowing us to pass.
Inside we found ourselves in a deserted corridor lined with windows. In the sun-flooded warmth, dust motes spun like dots of gold in the air.
Without looking at us to see if we followed, Crofts strode down the corridor. He led us through a series of long passageways, one of which was lined with numerous gilt-framed paintings. At last he brought us into a large, high-ceilinged room crowded with stalls, which were similar to what I’d seen in markets. All of them were lined on both sides with shelves of books. A few dozen students sat at wooden tables, studying or scribbling notes. The place was silent as a tomb, except for the scratch of quills on paper and an occasional cough. No one looked up as we entered.
A middle-aged man with shoulder-length dark hair hurriedtoward us, his black robes fluttering about his ankles. “Your Grace,” he whispered, bowing to Crofts, “I’m honored by your presence. If I had known you were in town, I would have arranged for you to have private use of the Bodleian. How may I be of help today?”
Something cold settled in the pit of my stomach. Your Grace . What had the librarian meant by addressing Mr. Crofts with such an illustrious title? Unless our new companion wasn’t a mere gentleman, as his name implied . . .
Crofts gave him a polite smile. “How delightful to see you again. I didn’t think you would remember me.” He glanced at us. “This is the Bodleian librarian, Mr. Thomas Hyde.” He turned back to the gentleman. “We need to see Mr. John Milton’s 1645 book of poems.”
“This way, if you please.” Hyde ushered the three of us into an alcove. When he picked up a book, I saw it had been attached to its shelf by a long chain. As I ran my
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