The Noble Assassin. Christie Dickason. Читать онлайн. Newlib. NEWLIB.NET

Автор: Christie Dickason
Издательство: HarperCollins
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Жанр произведения: Историческая литература
Год издания: 0
isbn: 9780007383818
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       The Noble Assassin

      CHRISTIE DICKASON

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       Dedication

       For John

      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Chapter 21

      Chapter 22

      Chapter 23

      Chapter 24

      Chapter 25

      Chapter 26

      Chapter 27

      Chapter 28

      Part Two

      Chapter 29

      Chapter 30

      Chapter 31

      Chapter 32

      Chapter 33

      Chapter 34

      Chapter 35

      Chapter 36

      Chapter 37

      Chapter 38

      Chapter 39

      Chapter 40

      Chapter 41

      Chapter 42

      Chapter 43

      Chapter 44

      Chapter 45

      Chapter 46

      Chapter 47

      Chapter 48

      Chapter 49

      Chapter 50

      Chapter 51

      Chapter 52

      Chapter 53

      Chapter 54

      Epilogue

      The People In THE NOBLE ASSASSIN

      Author’s Notes

      By the same author

      Some Helpful Books

      The Noble Assassin – TIME LINE

      About the Author

      Copyright

       About the Publisher

      Thank you to:

      John Faulkner, my personal Google Stephen Wyatt, my creative SOS, as always Olena Kostovska Lindsay Smith Stephen Siddall Tom French for IT support and rescue Emma Faulkner, for the title Orly, for listening, among much else Leonardo, Giuseppe and Rosa Giannini for my office away from home Sarah Ritherdon and Victoria Hughes-Williams at HarperCollins My agents, Robert Kirby and Charlotte Knee Jon M. Moore, Chief Executive, Moor Park Golf Club The Museum of Richmond, Richmond Surrey The Richmond Reference Library Jeremy Preston and the staff of East Sheen Library for invaluable support in research, readings, and readership involvement

      (And, welcome to Matilda, who arrived in this world

       just before I hit ‘SEND’.)

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       Part One

       Chapter 1

      LUCY – MOOR PARK, HERTFORDSHIRE, NOVEMBER 1620

      The air is so cold that I fear my eyelashes will snap off like the frozen grass. Only my two youngest, most eager hounds have left the fireside to bound at my side.

      I do not want to die. But I cannot go on as I am, neither. I ride my horse closer to the edge of the snow cliff. I imagine turning his head out to the void and kicking him on. I imagine the screams behind me.

      We would fly, my horse and I, falling in a great arc towards the icy River Chess far below. My hair would loosen and tumble free. His tail and my darned red gown would flutter like flags.

      Then we would begin to tumble, slowly, end over end, like a boy’s toy soldier on horseback, my bent knee clamped around the saddle horn, his legs frozen in mid-gallop. The winter sun reflecting off his black polished hoofs. My last unsold jewels scattering through the air like bright rain. For those frozen dreamlike moments, my life would again be glorious.

      I feel the alarmed looks being exchanged behind me on the high, snowy ridge, among the moth-eaten furs and puffs of frozen breath. I quiver like a leashed dog, braced for the first voice to cry, ‘Take care!’

      I walk my horse still closer to the edge.

      It would be so easy.

      I look down again at the river. Why not? What is left to lose now?

      The in-drawn breath of that vast space pulls at me. The serrated edges of the snow cliff glisten, sharp enough to slice off Time.

      Welcome, the space whispers. Below me, I see the smiling faces of my two dead babes. Welcome. I see the face of my poet, my only love, now dead to me.

      One kick, then no more fighting. No more debts. No more loss. No more of the scorn and silence already denying that I am alive.

      Even my Princess is gone from England.

      I listen to the uneasy stirring behind me. Who would break first and call me back?

      You can die from lack of a purpose to live.

      ‘Your Grace . . .’ The waiting gentleman speaks quietly lest he startle me, or my horse, and send us over the edge. Speaking carefully, as if I were poor, maimed, self-indulgent Edward, who suffers so nobly before witnesses then beats his fist against his chair when he thinks himself alone.

      The cold air is a knife in my chest. The sun on the snow blinds me. I am made of ice.

      I let my small band