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.