Prophecy
S. J. Parris
A Tudor thriller featuring Giordano Bruno, renegade monk, philosopher and heretic, for fans of C. J. Sansom and The Name of the RoseAutumn, 1583. Under Elizabeth’s rule, loyalty is bought with blood…An astrological phenomenon heralds the dawn of a new age and Queen Elizabeth’s throne is in peril. As Mary Stuart’s supporters scheme to usurp the rightful monarch, a young maid of honour is murdered, occult symbols carved into her flesh.The Queen’s spymaster, Francis Walsingham, calls on maverick agent Giordano Bruno to infiltrate the plotters and secure the evidence that will condemn them to death.Bruno is cunning, but so are his enemies. His identity could be exposed at any moment. The proof he seeks is within his grasp. But the young woman’s murder could point to an even more sinister truth…
S. J. PARRIS
Prophecy
Copyright
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
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Copyright © Stephanie Merritt 2011
Stephanie Merritt asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780007317714
Ebook edition © 2011 ISBN: 9780007317752
Version: 2018-08-13
Contents
Title Page (#ua30c5ebb-09bc-5766-834d-86f1c4e284a6)
Copyright (#u93b83d5a-4fc4-5364-af34-a281d4f82fdc)
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author
Also by S. J. Parris
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue
Mortlake, House of John Dee 3rd September, Year of Our Lord 1583
Without warning, all the candles in the room’s corners flicker and feint, as if a sudden gust has entered, but the air remains still. At the same moment, the hairs on my arms prickle and stand erect and I shudder; a cold breath descends on us, though outside the day is close. I chance a sideways glance at Doctor Dee; he stands unmoving as marble, his hands clasped as if in prayer, the knuckles of both thumbs pressed anxiously to his lips – or what can be seen of them through his ash-grey beard, which he wears in a point down to his chest in imitation of Merlin, whose heir Dee secretly considers himself. The cunning-man, Ned Kelley, kneels on the floor in front of the table of practice with his back to us, eyes fixed on the pale, translucent crystal about the size of a goose-egg mounted in fixings of brass and standing upon a square of red silk. The wooden shutters of the study windows have been closed; this business must be conducted in shadow and candlelight. Kelley draws breath like a player about to deliver his prologue, and stretches his arms out wide at shoulder height, in a posture of crucifixion.
‘Yes . . .’ he breathes, finally, his voice little more than a whisper. ‘He is here. He beckons to me.’
‘Who?’ Dee leans forward eagerly, his eyes bright. ‘Who is he?’
Kelley waits a moment before answering, his brow creasing as he concentrates his gaze on the stone.
‘A man of more than mortal height, with skin as dark as polished mahogany. He is dressed head to foot in a white garment, which is torn, and his eyes are of red fire. In his right hand he holds aloft a sword.’