The King’s Evil. Andrew Taylor
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Название: The King’s Evil
Автор: Andrew Taylor
Издательство: HarperCollins
isbn: 9780008119171
isbn:
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
About the Author
By the same Author
About the Publisher
Infirmary Close, The Savoy
James Marwood, clerk to Joseph Williamson, and to the Board of Red Cloth
Margaret and Sam Witherdine, his servants
The Drawing Office, Henrietta Street
Simon Hakesby, surveyor and architect
‘Jane Hakesby’, his maid, formerly known as Catherine Lovett
Brennan, his draughtsman
Whitehall
King Charles II
James, Duke of York, his brother
Joseph Williamson, Undersecretary of State to Lord Arlington
William Chiffinch, Keeper of the King’s Private Closet
George Villiers, second Duke of Buckingham
John Knight, the King’s Surgeon General
Clarendon House
Edward Hyde, Earl of Clarendon, the former Lord Chancellor of England
George Milcote, a gentleman of his household
Matthew Gorse, a servant
Others
Olivia, Lady Quincy, formerly Mistress Alderley
Stephen, her footboy
Mr Turner, a lawyer, of Barnard’s Inn
Mr Veal, of London
Roger, his servant
Rev Dr Burbrough, of Cambridge
Rev Richard Warley, of Cambridge
Mistress Warley, his grandmother
Frances, a child
Mr Mangot, of Woor Green
Israel Halmore, a refugee
HE COULD NOT help himself. In one fluid movement, he stepped back, twisting to present his side to the enemy. His right leg was slightly bent at the knee, the foot pointing towards danger. In that instant, he was perfectly poised, as his fencing master had taught him, ready to thrust in tierce, ready to spit the devil before him like a fowl for the roasting.
As he moved, he heard a sharp intake of breath, not his own. His right foot was on solid ground. But the left (‘at right angles to the body, monsieur, for stability and strength’) was floating in the air.
‘God’s—’
In that same instant, he stared at the figure in front of him. Dusk was pouring through the grimy windows of the basement like a noxious vapour. He wanted to beg for help. No words came.
He flung out his arms in front of him in a violent attempt to restore his balance. His fingers stretched, groping for a hand to pull him back. Steel clattered on stone.
He fell with no more choice in the matter than a poleaxed ox. His head slammed against the coping. Pain dazzled him. He cried out. His arms and legs flailed as he fell. The damp, unyielding masonry grazed his fingers.
Nothing to hold. Nothing to—
His shoulder jarred against stone. The water hit him. The wintry chill cancelled all pain and drove the breath from his body. He opened his mouth to cry out, to breathe. The cold flooded his lungs. He choked.
Fiery agonies stabbed his chest. He sank. He had always feared water, had never learned to swim. His hands scraped against unyielding stone. His boots filled, dragging his legs down.
His head broke free. He gulped a mouthful of air. Far above him, he glimpsed the shadowy outline of a head and shoulders.
‘Help me,’ he cried. ‘For the—’
But the words drowned as his body sank again and the water sealed him into its embrace. The purest in London, that’s what her ladyship claimed. His fingernails scrabbled against the stone, trying to prise out the mortar to find handholds. His limbs were leaden. The pain СКАЧАТЬ