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Christopher looked up, nodding in agreement. “I do not have your mind, brother. I cannot profess to know what it is like for you. Some can survive this sort of thing better than others.” He smiled, with a bit of mischief in his eyes. “But. I have brought you something. Something that is quite legal.” He opened a cloth and pulled several small pieces of chalk from the folds. “You cannot have pen and paper, but there was no order against chalk. You have the walls and floors to write upon. It is an advantage to have a lawyer in the family now and again. Parsing rules is our specialty.”

John could feel himself stepping back from the abyss, where his mind had dwelled of late. He could not hold back the tears.

“Norton. Sir Gregory Norton. Looks as if we are to be cell mates for a while. Pleased to meet you. And you are?” The tall gangly man with an affable face extended his hand.

“John Milton.” John shook hands, standing up from his pallet, still wincing a little.

“Quite a nice cell, I suppose. Nicer than where I was at the Tower. Odd decorations though. Are these your writings all about?” Sir Gregory squinted at the tiny writing, in Latin and Greek, on the walls. One wall was completely covered, each stone a page.

“It is my way of remaining sane. At least as sane as one can be in this place.”

Sir Gregory coughed a little. “I had no such problems, Milton. I’m a patient man by nature. Not too bad a thing for a man to bear, if you are strong. How long have you been here?”

“Two months, Sir Gregory.”

“What have you heard?”

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.