God’s Liar: A Novel

By Thom Satterlee

The year is 1665. England is in the midst of the Restoration, and John Milton, a blind, politically and religiously marginalized writer associated with Oliver Cromwell's failed attempt to form a republic, has not yet published Paradise Lost. When one of the worst plagues in history descends upon London, he and his much younger wife are forced to flee to the countryside. 
 
There Milton is befriended by the local curate, Rev. Theodore Wesson, who knows nothing about Milton's controversial past or the dangers of associating with him. Soon their fates become intertwined when the curate's hopes for advancement are threatened by his relationship to the notorious traitor and "king-killer," John Milton.  
 
The situation tests Wesson's loyalty--to the monarchy, to friendship, to a church career--while complicating his already blurry sense of God's involvement in human affairs. For Milton, the cost is potentially even greater: the target of assassination attempts since the restoration of the monarchy five years earlier, he has real reason to fear for his life. 
 
A riveting and briskly paced novel that transports the reader to a very particular place and time even as its themes resonate with our own time, Thom Satterlee's God's Liar will take its place next to works as varied as Hilary Mantel's Wolf Hall and Colm Toibin's The Master.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Slant Books
• Release date: Jan 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9781639820412

Thom Satterlee

Thom Satterlee is the author of The Stages: A Novel (2012) and Burning Wyclif: Poems (2006). He lives in Marion, Indiana.

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God’s Liar

A Novel

Thom Satterlee

758.png

God’s Liar

A Novel

Copyright ©

2020

Thom Satterlee. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Slant Books,

P.O. Box 60295

, Seattle, WA

98160

.

Slant Books

199

W.

P.O. Box 60295

Seattle, WA

98160

www.slantbooks.com

paperback isbn: 978-1-63982-039-9

hardcover isbn: 978-1-63982-040-5

ebook isbn: 978-1-63982-041-2

Cataloguing-in-Publication data:

Names: Satterlee, Thom.

Title: God’s liar : A novel / Thom Satterlee.

Description: Seattle, WA: Slant Books,

2020

.

Identifiers:

isbn 978-1-63982-039-9 (

paperback

) | isbn 978-1-63982-040-5 (

hardcover

) | isbn 978-1-63982-041-2 (

ebook

)

Subjects: LCSH: Milton, John, — 1608-1674 — Fiction | Milton, John, 1608-1674 | Fiction—Historical| Historical Fiction

Classification:

PS3619.A8226 G63 2020 (

print

) | PS3619.A8226 (

ebook

)

Manufactured in the U.S.A.

02/03/20

Table of Contents

Title Page

~ An Uninvited Guest ~

~ Gaps in the Story ~

~ Important Matters ~

~ Young Stags ~

~ In Great Detail ~

~ In the Garden, Morning the First ~

~ If I Publish ~

~ The Diary of Theodore Wesson, Curate ~

~ Church Troubles ~

~ A Fine Poetic Style ~

~ Apologies ~

~ Restoration ~

~ The Outlandish Mr. Moffat, &c. ~

~ Assassins! ~

~ Thou Preparest a Table ~

~ A Lesson in Providence ~

~ The Truth Behind Your Lies ~

~ Paradise Lost ~

~ Some Wrong Steps in the Right Direction ~

~ The Battle Resumes & Quickly Ends ~

~ God’s Liar ~

~ A Proposal of Marriage ~

~ Spiritual Guidance ~

~ Decisions Made, Then Un-Made ~

~ Final Rest ~

Acknowledgments

For John Leax: teacher, mentor, friend

Chapter One

~ An Uninvited Guest ~

I learnt som Particulars from a Person that had bin once his Amanuensis. . . .

—John Toland, The Life of John Milton (1698)

Yes, it is true: I knew John Milton.

I let the words stand on the page, the ink still wet. It has taken me all of three weeks to find the courage to write this letter, and I hope to write it in a way that will not solicit further inquiry. I want to be circumspect without appearing to be so, an approach I have chosen not only for my sake, but out of concern for at least two other people.

Although I would like to offer you the sort of personal detail that would aid in writing a biography, my acquaintance w/ Mr. Milton was but brief & occurred during a time when I was v. busy with my duties as assistant priest in Chalfont, St. Giles. That is the charming little village in Buckinghamshire where, as you pointed out correctly in your letter, Mr. Milton escaped the plague then terrorizing London. I can confirm what you have learned about the cottage they lived in, but whether Mr. Ellwood or some other secured the lodging for Mr. Milton I cannot say. It is also true, as you write, that he remained in the village for nearly five months. However, since my daily responsibilities lay with a church that Mr. Milton, as an Independent, did not approve of, & since his political positions were intolerable to a Royalist like myself, you can imagine that we had little in common & did not go out of our way to develop a close relationship. I would advise you, if at all possible, to seek an interview with his widow, whom I understand to be still living. . . .

I pause with the pen hovering over the page, for I was about to write, Her name is Elizabeth. Better to avoid even that personalization, I decide.

I deeply regret that I cannot be of more help to you, & wish you the greatest success with your project.

There. Sign my name: Theodore Wesson, Rector of Cripplegate Church, London. Press my seal. And charge my curate with its delivery.

To have the matter out of my hands as quickly as possible, I decide to carry the letter to the curate immediately. I stand up on these wobbly old legs of mine, steadying myself against the desk, and prepare for what will likely be my longest walk of the day—through the rectory and down the street to the church. But before I have even left my study, the curate appears.

Ah, I say. I was just going to find you. I should like this letter sent today. There is probably still time to make one of the mail coaches.

I hand him the letter.

It goes to Surrey, I inform him.

He nods but wears a smirk on his face.

It would come to him faster if I carried it to him myself, he says.

"And be back in time for Morning Prayer? Ronald, you ride fast, I will grant you that, but even you cannot ride that fast."

Oh, yes, I certainly can.

Did you hear me say that the letter must be delivered to Surrey?

Yes, but I also read the recipient’s name: John Toland. And as he is waiting to meet you in the library now, I do not expect it will take me all day to deliver your letter.

I sigh, a long and deep sigh.

Is something the matter? the curate asks. Should I not have invited him in? He seemed a perfect gentleman. I thought you might be expecting him.

I was not, I say.

Then . . . I shall tell him to leave. I shall hand him your letter and tell him you cannot see him today.

No, that is not necessary, I say, and then suddenly realise the danger I am in.

This Mr. Toland, whom I believed to be a safe distance away in the countryside, is actually here in the city, in my parish, in my rectory. The man is alone in my library! At this very moment he may be perusing my bookshelves and finding there certain volumes that call into question the veracity of my letter. For if I am so disinterested in John Milton, why do I possess an extensive collection of his works? And—yet more troubling to me—how can I know that my uninvited guest is not perhaps rascal enough to peek into the drawer of my desk? It is safely locked—I am certain of it—but scholars are not above thieving and do often possess an extra-keen perception when it comes to hidden treasures. When their curiosities are aroused, they may quite easily turn into pick-locks.

Let’s go, I command the curate. Give me your arm but walk quickly.

Ronald extends the crook of his arm to me but does not move forward with the alacrity I desire. Instead, he addresses me in that half-amused, overly familiar manner all too common with him of late.

Is your gout bothering you again today? he asks with a smile.

"I do not have the gout, I tell him. I am just old. Though, if you do not walk faster, I shall be a corpse before we reach the library, and you shall have to carry me the rest of the way."

Should I get started on last rites, then? he teases.

His words do not incline me towards laughter. I snatch the letter back from him, and in the process stumble over my own feet. As I start to go down, Ronald saves me with his young, strong arms.

Careful, he says.

Just hurry, I say, fearing that a more important fall has already befallen me.

As we walk down the hallway, my mind moves more quickly than my legs, assembling the requisite untruths for guiding my guest away from the truths he may have discovered.

But when we reach the library, I am relieved to see Mr. Toland sitting down with papers on his lap and a leather bag at his feet. I scan the room; nothing appears out of place. Perhaps he has only been studying his notes and not browsing my shelves. When he sees us enter, he puts his work aside and stands up to greet me. He is a handsome fellow with straw-coloured hair and a hawkish nose. Dressed in a suit of country clothes and riding boots. Probably in his late twenties.

Mr. Toland, I say. What a pleasure to meet you. I am so sorry for my tardy reply to your letter. As you can see, I have only just now got ‘round to it.

I wave the letter in the air between us, then hand it to him.

Thank you, he says, taking it. I apologise for arriving unannounced. If this is not a convenient time for you, I could leave and come back later.

I note his accent: Irish. But not a Catholic, surely. A Catholic would hardly be interested in John Milton.

Now is fine, I say. I shall have my girl make us tea.

I raise my eyebrows at Ronald, which should be sign enough to make him understand that he is to go into the kitchen and tell Jeannine to prepare tea. But he just stands in the doorway with his arms crossed and an amused look on his face.

I fear I cannot be of much help to you with your project, I tell my guest, "but I can offer you the best tea in the city."

I glance over at Ronald, who remains stubbornly fixed in his place.

Meanwhile, my legs are about to buckle. When I reach out for a chair, my helpful curate finally breaks his statuary existence and comes to my aid, holding me firmly by the shoulders as I settle into the seat. The process is something like lowering a bell from a bell tower, plenty of swaying heaviness and the occasional sound of groaning rafters. Once I am well-situated, I wave him off with a flick of my hand. He leaves, smiling for some unknown reason, gallingly chipper. He would find life more difficult, perhaps, if he too weighed fifteen stone and were nearing his sixtieth birthday.

I turn to my guest to discover that he has already broken the seal on my letter and is reading it intently. I wait silently, studying his features to see if he believes my words. He does not glance away from the page—that is a good sign. But I notice that one corner of his mouth twitches occasionally, a spasm that comes and goes. What to make of that?

So, he says, looking up from the letter, you really do not recall much of your acquaintance with John Milton?

No, I say. I should hardly even call it an acquaintance.

It was a long time ago, he offers.

"Thirty-odd years ago.

1665

."

And yet I have spoken with many of your age who recall that time surprisingly well. Perhaps because that was the year of the great plague, which disrupted so many lives.

I move around in my seat, trying to get comfortable. A silly rhyme occurs to me: My derriere will not conform to this chair. It is the sort of innocent bawdy that John and Elizabeth would have laughed at. Of course, I was not so fat back then.

Do you not find it so? Mr. Toland asks. That a disturbing time impresses itself on the memory more permanently than peaceful ones?

I suppose so. But I am old and have lived through many disturbing times.

The civil wars, he suggests.

Yes.

Charles’s execution.

Of course, though I was only a boy then.

And I have only read about it in histories, he says. They seem to me like such dark times, when many people had to hide what they truly believed or be persecuted for it.

I cannot recall anyone being persecuted. Not in my circles, at least.

Jeannine arrives with the tea set and places it on a table. I thank her with a nod of my head.

Shall I pour? he asks.

Please.

I was thinking of the Christian sects who were persecuted for their disagreement with the Official Church, he continues.

Oh, I say, "you mean throwing Quakers in gaol and fining Baptists for nearly drowning people in icy streams? I would hardly call that persecution. Nothing like the Inquisition. We are English, after all. Agreeable, but firm when necessary. We simply did not tolerate tomfoolery, especially on important matters of our faith. There was a radical fringe that needed to be . . . to be suppressed."

He hands me my cup. I look down and see that it is barely half full of tea. Then I watch him pull a bottle out of his saddle bag.

What might that be? I ask.

This? he says, holding up a dusty bottle. Just some fine canary my friend brought back from his latest voyage. I find it sweetens the tea rather nicely. May I? he asks, tilting the bottle towards my cup.

Certainly.

He pours. A pleasant sugary fragrance fills my nostrils. I take a sip and enjoy the warm liquid sliding down my throat.

I rather like your company, Mr. Toland, I must say.

And I yours, Reverend Wesson. Just as Mrs. Milton told me I would.

I do my best to hide my shock from him—rather well, I think.

Ah, so you have visited the man’s widow, I say. Excellent. I am sure she provided you with all the detail you need to write your biography.

She has been very helpful, yes. But about the months they spent in Chalfont, she could not recall much.

Is that so?

So she said. Even my simplest queries left her blank. For instance, she could not recall whether Milton’s daughters accompanied them to the cottage.

No, I say, shaking my head. They did not. They stayed with relatives in Oxford, as I recall. Milton and his wife lived alone in the cottage.

He reaches into his bag and pulls out some papers. Sets an inkhorn on the table. Dips a pen.

Do you mind if I make a record? I have a terrible memory.

No, go right ahead.

Not like yours, he says.

Mine, you say?

Yes. That is one thing Mrs. Milton remembered. What was it she told me? He consults a piece of paper before him. ‘An extraordinary memory,’ she called it. Said it was even better than her husband’s, which was legendary.

Did she tell you that? I couldn’t help smiling.

Yes.

He hands the page to me, so I can read it for myself. A messy script. But there are the words, Xtrdnry memry. Btr evn thn Milton’s.

I’m surprised she remembered me, though, I say. I thought you said her memory was rather foggy on those months in Chalfont.

Yes, oddly, he says, pouring more wine into his cup, and offering to top off mine—an offer I would never, for politeness sake, refuse. But she seemed to recall you particularly well. She even knew where I would find you now.

Odd, I say, shaking my head. What else did she tell you about me?

Some things rather different from what you wrote in your letter.

Yes?

That you and Mr. Milton met together regularly, for one thing. She particularly remembered your reading to him and serving as his amanuensis.

Did she! Well, it was a very long time ago. I suppose, well, yes—I suppose she is right. Occasionally I did stop by their cottage, as part of my regular rounds. If I could help a blind man get a few lines of poetry down on the page, I am sure I would want to do that.

My guest sits up straighter in his chair.

"Paradise Lost?" he asks, with a tone of reverence that almost makes me spit out my tea, which would be a terrible pity since it is now nearly fifty-percent canary.

I smile at him, then look away, as if struggling to remember.

Paradise something or other, I think it was called. So long ago, you know. So, so long ago, I say, letting my head loll to one side the way old people do, but keeping one eye trained on Mr. Toland to see how he reacts.

Right, he says, and leans forward to rummage through his bag, pulling out more papers. But the date would suggest that Milton was nearing completion of his greatest poem. Here, he says, holding up a page as proof, "I have learned from Thomas Ellwood that Milton showed him a complete draft of Paradise Lost in late August of

1665

."

That is not possible, I think to myself, knowing the date to be two months too early.

Is that so? I say. "Then it must have been Paradise Lost. Is that significant to your biography?"

I should say so. Very.

Then I am delighted to have shared something of assistance to you.

Every fact lends a clearer picture of the subject, he says.

I nod.

The church bells ring, signalling Morning Prayer. The timing has been just about perfect.

Work calls, I say, pointing upwards.

Now to extricate myself from this chair, whose elbows grip me around the waist like an intimate dancer. I push and shimmy and lift myself onto my feet. Could the chair speak, it would offer God innumerable thanks for the benefit of being rid of me.

Mr. Toland rises also, with considerably greater ease. He packs his papers and the empty bottle into his saddle bag, then flings it over his shoulder.

I offer him my hand.

A pleasure to have met you, I say. And, truly, good luck with your book.

We shake hands and part. I wait for him to go out the front door and down the street before I make my way through a side door that leads to the garden, thence a shortcut to the church.

Ronald, my curate, stands waiting for me at the rector’s private entrance, his arms folded. On the table by which he stands lies my surplice, which he has thoughtfully taken from the closet and will thoughtfully offer to help me dress in. As I near the door, he smiles at me and, why not, I smile back. The morning has gone as well as I suppose it could have. I let him take my arm and help me up the step and through the door.

The familiar smell of musty garments and stale communion wine greets me as I walk into the sacristy. Like a child—a rather large, old, and tired child—I lift my arms in the air and let the curate drape the surplice over my head. It falls in white folds around my body. I follow him through the sanctuary door, walk up the altar steps by my own powers (as I have done for over three decades, and will continue