Читать онлайн «The Noble Assassin»
Автор Christie Dickason
CHRISTIE DICKASON
Contents
Dedication
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
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
Author’s Notes
By the same author
Some Helpful Books
The Noble Assassin – TIME LINE
About the Author
Copyright
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
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’. )
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.
