“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
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.
“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.