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The Noble Assassin
CHRISTIE DICKASON
For John
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 THE NOBLE ASSASSIN 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 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’.) 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
