Review
"Clements has a real feel for the Elizabethan period...he understands the religious challenges and historical events that shaped 16th century politics and amidst it all he has devised a thrilling plot. An excellent start to a new series" -- Lancashire Evening Post, Pam Norfolk 'A cracking plot full of twists right up to the last minute. I look forward to the next', -- Sunday Express, Rory Clements 'Beautifully done ... alive and tremendously engrossing' -- Daily Telegraph 'A colourful history lesson ... exciting narrative twists' -- Sunday Telegraph 'Enjoyable, bloody and brutish' -- Guardian 'An engrossing thriller' -- Washington Post 'An excellent debut' -- Publishers Weekly 'Captivates and carries one along through the strength of its plot and its intelligent main character' -- Dallas Morning News 'The joy of this book is the way it interweaves commonly known history with the story. The atmosphere and attention to detail will commend this book to devotees of the period' -- Crimesquad
Book Description
England is close to war. Within days the axe could fall on the neck of Mary Queen of Scots, and Spain is already gathering a battle fleet to avenge her. Tensions in Elizabeth I's government are at breaking point. At the eye of the storm is John Shakespeare, chief intelligencer in the secret service of Sir Francis Walsingham. When an intercept reveals a plot to assassinate England's 'sea dragon', Francis Drake, Shakespeare is ordered to protect him. With Drake on land fitting out his ships, he is frighteningly vulnerable. If he dies, England will be open to invasion. In a London rife with rumour, Shakespeare must decide which leads to follow, which to ignore. When a high-born young woman is found mutilated and murdered at an illicit printing house, it is political gunpowder -- and he has no option but to investigate. But why is Shakespeare shadowed at every turn by the brutal Richard Topcliffe, the blood-drenched priest-hunter who claims intimacy with Queen Elizabeth herself? What is Topcliffe's interest in a housemaid, whose baby has been stolen? And where do two fugitive Jesuit priests fit into the puzzle, one happy to die for God, the other to kill for Him? From the splendour and intrigue of the royal court, to the sleek warships of Her Majesty's Navy and the teeming brothels of Southwark, Shakespeare soon learns that nothing is as it seems ...
About the Author
Author Rory Clements has had a long and successful newspaper career including being Features Editor and Associate Editor of Today, Editor of the Daily Mail's Good Health Pages and, most recently, Editor of the health section at the Evening Standard He is now writing full-time in an idyllic corner of Norfolk. 'I have a healthy obsession with the 16th century,' says Clements. 'I love the world as it then was, the characters, the conspiracies and the extraordinary resolve of people who were willing to cast themselves adrift into uncharted oceans with no way of knowing whether they would ever return. I wanted to explore, too, the contrast between the barbarity of men like the licensed sadist Richard Topcliffe and the humanity of William Shakespeare, the glitter and glamour of Elizabeth's court and the squalor of the streets. So different and yet so similar to the world we now inhabit with its religious tensions and great movements of people.'
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One
ROSE DOWNIE SAT ON THE COLD COBBLES, CRADLING a swaddled baby that was not hers.
She leaned her aching back against the wall of the imposing stone house, close to its arched oak door. Under any other circumstance, nothing could have brought her near this building where baleful apprehension hung heavy in the air like the stink of tallow, but the man who lived here, Richard Topcliffe, was her last hope. She had been to the court of law, and the justice merely shook his head dismissively and said that even had he believed her-and that, he said with a scowl, was as unlikely as apple blossom in November-there was nothing he could do for her.
The constable had been no more helpful. “Mistress Downie,” he said, “put the baby in a bag like a kitten and throw it in the Thames. What use is it alive? I promise you, in God's name, that I will not consider the killing a crime but an act of mercy, and you shall never hear another word of the matter.”
Now, outside Topcliffe's house in the snow-flecked street, close by St. Margaret's churchyard in Westminster, Rose sat and waited. She had knocked at the door once already, and it had been answered by a sturdy youth with a thin beard who looked her up and down with distaste and told her to go away. She refused and he closed the door in her face. The intense cold would have driven anyone else home to sit at the fireside wrapped in blankets, but Rose would not go until she had seen Topcliffe and begged him to help.
The bitter embers of sunlight dipped behind the edifices of St. Margaret's and the Abbey, and the cold grew deeper. Rose was fair, young, no more than seventeen with a face that, in other times, sparkled with smiles. She shivered uncontrollably in her heavy gowns and clutched the baby close to share what little warmth she had. Occasionally she lifted a large, well-formed breast from her garments to feed the infant; the milk was free-flowing and rich and her need of relief was almost as insistent as the child's hunger. Steam rose from her breast in the icy winter air. The child sucked at her with ferocity and she was thankful for it. Monstrous as she considered the baby, some instinct still made her keep it and feed it, even though it was not hers. The day moved on into darkness, but she was as immovable as stone.
From the Hardcover edition. --This text refers to the Paperback edition.
ROSE DOWNIE SAT ON THE COLD COBBLES, CRADLING a swaddled baby that was not hers.
She leaned her aching back against the wall of the imposing stone house, close to its arched oak door. Under any other circumstance, nothing could have brought her near this building where baleful apprehension hung heavy in the air like the stink of tallow, but the man who lived here, Richard Topcliffe, was her last hope. She had been to the court of law, and the justice merely shook his head dismissively and said that even had he believed her-and that, he said with a scowl, was as unlikely as apple blossom in November-there was nothing he could do for her.
The constable had been no more helpful. “Mistress Downie,” he said, “put the baby in a bag like a kitten and throw it in the Thames. What use is it alive? I promise you, in God's name, that I will not consider the killing a crime but an act of mercy, and you shall never hear another word of the matter.”
Now, outside Topcliffe's house in the snow-flecked street, close by St. Margaret's churchyard in Westminster, Rose sat and waited. She had knocked at the door once already, and it had been answered by a sturdy youth with a thin beard who looked her up and down with distaste and told her to go away. She refused and he closed the door in her face. The intense cold would have driven anyone else home to sit at the fireside wrapped in blankets, but Rose would not go until she had seen Topcliffe and begged him to help.
The bitter embers of sunlight dipped behind the edifices of St. Margaret's and the Abbey, and the cold grew deeper. Rose was fair, young, no more than seventeen with a face that, in other times, sparkled with smiles. She shivered uncontrollably in her heavy gowns and clutched the baby close to share what little warmth she had. Occasionally she lifted a large, well-formed breast from her garments to feed the infant; the milk was free-flowing and rich and her need of relief was almost as insistent as the child's hunger. Steam rose from her breast in the icy winter air. The child sucked at her with ferocity and she was thankful for it. Monstrous as she considered the baby, some instinct still made her keep it and feed it, even though it was not hers. The day moved on into darkness, but she was as immovable as stone.
From the Hardcover edition. --This text refers to the Paperback edition.
