I'm currently reading PRINCE by Rory Clements. This is 3rd of 3 in series featuring John Shakespeare, an investigator and older brother of Will, in Elizabethan England. Here is a summary:
Spring 1593. England is a powder keg of rumour and fear. Plague rages, famine is rife, the ageing Queen's couriers scheme: Elizabeth's Golden Age is truly tarnished. Meanwhile Spain watches and waits - and plots.Into this turmoil a small cart clatters through the streets of London, carrying a deadly load. It is the first in a wave of horrific bombing attacks on the Dutch immigrant community that will change John Shakespeare's life for ever.Driven on by cold rage, Shakespeare's investigations will take him from magnificent royal horseraces to the opulent chambers of Black Luce's brothel, from the theatrical underworld of Marlowe and Kyd to the pain-wracked torture cells of priest-hunter Richard Topcliffe, and from the elegant offices of master tactician Robert Cecil to the splintering timbers of an explosive encounter at sea. As Shakespeare delves ever deeper, he uncovers intricate layers of mystery and deception that threaten the heart not only of the realm, but of all that he holds dear.
It was published in May 2011 in the UK and has 432 pages.
And here is an excerpt:
FOUR MEN STARED DOWN at the body of Christopher Marlowe. A last trickle of bright gore oozed from the deep wound over his right eye. His face and hair and upper torso were all thick with blood. One of the four men, Ingram Frizer, held the dripping dagger in his hand.
Frizer looked across at Robert Poley and grinned foolishly. ‘He came at me.’‘Boar’s balls, Mr Frizer, give me the dagger,’ Poley said angrily.Frizer held out the dagger. All the living eyes in the room followed the tentative movement of the blood-red blade. A sliver of brain hung like a grey-pink rat’s tail from its tip. Poley took the weapon and wiped it on the dead poet’s white hose. Suddenly, he struck out with the hilt and caught Frizer a hard blow on the side of his head. Frizer lurched backwards. Poley pushed him to the floor and jumped on him, knees on chest, hitting his head again, harder, pounding him until Nick Skeres tried to pull him away.
Poley stood back, shook off Skeres’s hands and brushed down his doublet with sharp irritation. He was not a tall man, but he was strongly-built and the veins in his muscled forearms and temples bulged out and pulsed. He kicked Frizer in the ribs. ‘You were only supposed to gag him and apply the fingerscrew, you dung-witted dawcock. Not kill him.’
The afternoon sunlight of late May slanted in through the single, west-facing window. The presence of the men and the body made the room feel smaller than it really was. It was cleanly furnished; a well-turned settle made of fine-grained elm, a day-bed where the body now lay, a table of polished walnut with benches either side and half-drunk jugs of ale atop it. The floorboards were scuffed from the dust off the men’s shoes; there was, too, a lot of blood and a few splashes of ale on the wood between the table and the day-bed.
‘And you…’ Poley turned to Skeres. ‘You were supposed to hold him. He was out of his mind with drink and you couldn’t keep a grip.’ Ingram Frizer pulled himself painfully to his feet. He was doubled over, clutching his side where Poley’s boot had connected.
Poley handed him the dagger. ‘Here, take it. And listen well: it was his dagger – Marlowe’s dagger. He came at you, pummelled your head with it. You fought back. In the struggle, the blade pierced his eye. You were defending yourself – it was an accident.’
Frizer looked across at Robert Poley and grinned foolishly. ‘He came at me.’‘Boar’s balls, Mr Frizer, give me the dagger,’ Poley said angrily.Frizer held out the dagger. All the living eyes in the room followed the tentative movement of the blood-red blade. A sliver of brain hung like a grey-pink rat’s tail from its tip. Poley took the weapon and wiped it on the dead poet’s white hose. Suddenly, he struck out with the hilt and caught Frizer a hard blow on the side of his head. Frizer lurched backwards. Poley pushed him to the floor and jumped on him, knees on chest, hitting his head again, harder, pounding him until Nick Skeres tried to pull him away.
Poley stood back, shook off Skeres’s hands and brushed down his doublet with sharp irritation. He was not a tall man, but he was strongly-built and the veins in his muscled forearms and temples bulged out and pulsed. He kicked Frizer in the ribs. ‘You were only supposed to gag him and apply the fingerscrew, you dung-witted dawcock. Not kill him.’
The afternoon sunlight of late May slanted in through the single, west-facing window. The presence of the men and the body made the room feel smaller than it really was. It was cleanly furnished; a well-turned settle made of fine-grained elm, a day-bed where the body now lay, a table of polished walnut with benches either side and half-drunk jugs of ale atop it. The floorboards were scuffed from the dust off the men’s shoes; there was, too, a lot of blood and a few splashes of ale on the wood between the table and the day-bed.
‘And you…’ Poley turned to Skeres. ‘You were supposed to hold him. He was out of his mind with drink and you couldn’t keep a grip.’ Ingram Frizer pulled himself painfully to his feet. He was doubled over, clutching his side where Poley’s boot had connected.
Poley handed him the dagger. ‘Here, take it. And listen well: it was his dagger – Marlowe’s dagger. He came at you, pummelled your head with it. You fought back. In the struggle, the blade pierced his eye. You were defending yourself – it was an accident.’
So.... working away on the newsletter some more until my computer decided to tank. I took that a sign to stop for the night.
Still ungodly hot. Moby's temp said 102 on the drive home. Bank temp signs were saying 100 and 101. Blech blech blech.
Today's fun call: she wasn't going to give any more "f***ing money" and hung up. Start saying hello to the collection agency, honey. I need to come up with a game for each time I'm called "you people". Sadly, it can't be a drinking game.
Much love,
PK the Bookeemonster
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