The Noble Assassin

The Noble Assassin

CHRISTIE DICKASON

Dedication

For John

Contents

Cover

Title Page

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

About the Publisher

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’.)

Part One

Chapter 1

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 of attendants hold their breaths by the edge of the snow cliff. They should be grateful to me for this small gift of fear, I think. Salting the bland soup of their day.

I look down at the river again. Edward is wrong to say that I lie to myself. I face the reality in front of me. Listen to its melody. Then I rewrite it, sometimes on paper, sometimes only in my head. I give it more beauty, or terror or meaning. I tell the story better. But I never deceive myself as to which is which.

For instance, I can see that the scene I am now writing in my head is impossible. The fall would be messy, not glorious. Almost certainly, the horse would have to be shot. I would land at the bottom broken but still breathing. And then I would become a captive with my husband in his fretful rage.

I see the pair of us, invalids side-by-side in our fur rugs, dropping malice as the stars drop the dew until we die.

I still brim with unwritten words, unsung music, unplanted gardens. I still keep most of the looks and all of the wit that had made me the darling of the Whitehall poets. I feel like a piece of verse begun but not finished. There is one poet who could have written me but never will.

In the void below me, I see him striding up and down the gravel path of my lost garden in Twickenham, stirring the air, reciting a poem born from the passionate union of our thoughts. I hear words I had offered him, whole lines, even. An easy rhythm where my ear had pointed out a stumbling line for him to revise. All now made his own. He recites the completed poem for the first time, to me alone, too intent to notice that spray from the fountain spangles his dark hair and coat with sparkling diamond chips.

He glares up at the sky and down at the gravel path. I watch his clenched hands spring open to mark each stress of his metre. Watch his long fingers and feel them on my skin. His words sail out of his body on the fierce current of his breath into the wide air of the universe. I imagine them sailing on past the moon, past the sun, until they reach the farthest heavens to lodge as new stars. He comes to the end of the poem, listens for a moment to its last echo in his head, then turns to look at me, almost with fear. Was it good?

I have lost him along with all the rest.

When I had been the Queen’s favourite, she bathed me in her generosity. Passing it on with an open hand, I became that bountiful goddess known as a patron, a source of prizes, favours and preferment.

But my fortunes had declined with the Queen’s health and the vigour of her court. My husband and I never recovered from his fine for treason. I often spent what I did not have. Our growing debts had forced me to sell the lease of my Twickenham garden to that reptile Lord Bacon. When the Queen died, almost two years past, I was finished. Her court was dissolved. I lost my place and the wealth that went with it. I could no longer afford to be patron, to my poet or anyone else. Now I am branded a ‘court cormorant’, a beggar, wife of a debtor, a woman of no use to anyone, burying her shame in the country. Like the pox, my fall from grace threatens to infect others.

What remains for me? Why not open my wings and fly? If not here, somewhere higher and more certain.

My gelding suddenly shies away from the shining ice edge.

I lean forward and pat his neck. ‘Don’t fear,’ I murmur. ‘When I jump, I won’t take you with me. I swear it. Nor anyone else.’

Not today.

But I have never yet given up on anything I set my mind to.

I will do it, I promise myself. Soon.

My poor hounds have begun to shiver, up to their shoulders in the drifts.

I turn my horse’s head to let him begin to pick his way back down along the icy track towards Moor Park, with the dogs racing ahead and my attendants behind, no doubt relieved. I press my old beaver muff to my cold face then bite savagely into the fur like a hound on a hare’s nape.

I have little patience with wilful misery, least of all my own, but I see no way out for me now. I clench my teeth on the side of my hand, deep inside the muff. I want to throw back my head and howl. To crack open the steady deadly progress of time and set loose demons and angels with flaming swords. I would welcome the novelty of a second Great Flood, cheer on the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Anything to change what my life has become.

When I drag my frozen skirts back to the fire in the hall at Moor Park, I learn that those demons and angels have already escaped. As my skirts steam and drip and my shivering grey hounds curl close to the flames beside their fellows, I listen with horror to Edward’s urgent report.

The dark, gaunt Horseman of War had heard my desperate plea.

‘There is war in Bohemia.’ My husband can scarcely conceal the pleasure he takes in telling me.

I didn’t mean it! I think. Not like this! Not Elizabeth!

‘They lasted scarcely a year on the Bohemian throne, your English princess and her little Palatine husband.’ He shakes his head and waits for me to ask if she is dead.

Queen Anne’s daughter Elizabeth. My father’s former charge, raised in our home at Combe Abbey. Elizabeth Stuart, the only woman I love who is still left alive. In spite of her younger years, she could always match me thought for thought. At times, she had left me, the older girl, laughing in her wake.

When I remain silent, he can’t contain himself any longer. ‘All reports say the Hapsburg armies have invaded Prague, routed the new young King’s Protestant forces and arrested the rebel leaders.’

‘How certain is this news?’

‘A courier arrived from my cousin today.’

‘What of the King and Queen?’ I ask when my voice is again under control. My Elizabeth and her Frederick, who had been pressed into accepting the crown of Bohemia.

‘Fled, I’m told . . . and still in flight. Declared outlaws by the Hapsburgs, under Ban of the Empire.’

I want to hit him for the pleasure in his voice. ‘Will England go to war to save her?’

‘That’s for her father to decide.’ I have asked a foolish question. Then he smiles and shrugs. ‘King James is England’s self-styled “rex pacificus”. Draw your own conclusions.’

‘There’d be no honour in his “peace” now.’ I wish I could say that my feelings at that moment are pure, generous and patriotic, but honesty insists otherwise. A sudden jolt of excitement runs through my horror.

‘The Bohemians might prefer to call their leaders “heroes” not “rebels”,’ I say mildly while my racing thoughts drown both Edward’s voice and his quiet malice.

I survived my first seven years of marriage chiefly by pretending to ignore my husband. He had soon proved to be a master of the puzzled tone, the helpless shrug, the meaningful glances over my head. He let my words fall to the floor as if they had no meaning. Or he would seize on one and examine it with puzzled incomprehension before tossing it away. Or he shook his head sadly and told me what I had meant to say. In the company of other men, he ignored me altogether. When he managed to provoke me past endurance, he would smile with satisfaction. Look at her! See what a harridan I have married!

Having once again failed to goad me into an unseemly outburst, my husband now purses his lips. I scarcely notice.

If what Edward tells me is true, I know that the future of England has just changed. My future could change with it. I see escape from Edward and from Moor Park. I see the return of warmth and true companionship. I see purpose for my life again. I confess that I begin to listen to his news of unfolding disaster in Bohemia with a heart turned suddenly light with renewed possibility.

Chapter 2

ELIZABETH STUART – PRAGUE, BOHEMIA, NOVEMBER 1620

In the royal palace in Prague, the King, Queen and guests pretended to eat. The young, Scottish-born Queen of Bohemia, Elizabeth Stuart, jumped at a sudden boom and spilled the sauce from her silver spoon. She set the spoon down on her plate and picked up her French fork. She looked at the fork, unable to remember what she should do with it. With its two long sharp tines, it resembled a weapon. She found herself gripping the gold mermaid of its handle in her fist.

They no longer pretended to converse, in any of the several languages spoken around the table. All words had now deserted them. Up and down the long polished table, people stared at their food as if puzzled by it or chewed on morsels that they forgot to swallow. All their senses seemed to have deserted them except that of hearing. Sir Edward Conway, one of the two ambassadors sent by James from England to parlay for peace with the Hapsburg enemy, sat with one hand at his hip, resting on an absent sword hilt. Even the servers standing behind each chair forgot to offer the food they held, frozen in listening.

Cannons had begun to boom far too close, from the west.

The child in her womb jumped.

Elizabeth could almost have persuaded herself that the guns were summer thunder bouncing off the mountains.

‘It’s noisy for a Sunday that was meant to be a day of truce,’ said the other English ambassador, Sir Richard Weston.

‘We’re high here,’ said Elizabeth. Her unspoken meaning – the Hradcany Palace, home to the King and Queen of Bohemia, sat on a rocky summit high above the Vltava river. Sounds from far away reached them with unnatural clarity. Therefore, the fighting was not as close as it sounded. She was reassuring her white-faced husband as much as the rest of them.

Her husband shook his head. Frederick, elected King of Bohemia for a little more than a year, had been weighed down beyond his strength from the age of sixteen by his leadership of the German Union of Protestant Princes. ‘They’re fighting on the White Mountain. I should be there, not at table.’ He stood abruptly. Fabric rustled and stool feet squeaked on the stone floor as everyone else rose with him. Then he paused uncertainly, head lifted, listening to the sounds of the battle.

The forces of the mighty Catholic Hapsburg Empire had engaged Frederick’s twenty-five thousand German mercenaries and Protestant Bohemians less than half an hour’s ride from the city.

‘But we have them outnumbered,’ said Frederick. ‘They’re only seventeen and a half thousand men.’

‘Go tell the stables to prepare His Majesty’s horse,’ Elizabeth ordered a serving groom.

The fear and relief on the boy’s face as he ran from the hall made her question whether he would take her order to the stables or flee from the castle entirely.

‘You must go arm yourself, my love,’ she told her husband quietly.

‘Oh, Lizzie!’ He looked at her with terror in his large dark eyes. ‘I fear that we can’t . . .’

‘I shall come serve as your armourer, myself.’ Elizabeth, First Daughter of England and child of its King, married to Frederick at fifteen, now the twenty-four-year-old Serene and Puissant Queen of Bohemia, took her King firmly by the arm and led him towards the door of the great hall.

‘You must leave Prague at once,’ said Frederick. ‘Go early to Bresslau.’ She was to spend her confinement in Bresslau. He had already ordered some of her furniture sent there.

She shook her head. ‘I stay here in Prague as long as you do.’

The doors had no sooner closed behind him than they opened again on bad news. The arriving messenger smelled of gunpowder, blood and horse. Elizabeth could scarcely hear his words through the thunder of cannons inside her head.

The messenger finished speaking.

Behind her, Elizabeth heard screams and the crash of falling stools. Courtiers ran past her out of the hall, pushing and jostling in the door.

‘Where are the other German princes?’ she demanded. ‘Our allies? Where’s Thyssen? Bethlem Gabor and his Hungarians? Are they on their way to relieve us?’

‘I don’t know, Your Majesty. But our army is on the run with the Imperial army on their heels.’ The messenger looked back at the door.

‘Go run with the rest of them, then!’ she said with contempt.

She stood in a small still centre of the maelstrom unleashed by his message. She saw a man run by her carrying two jewelled goblets from the royal table.

‘Your Highness, do you wish me to take your knives and forks?’ A voice at her elbow, her chief lady-in-waiting, balanced on her toes, wanting to run, but still at her English mistress’s side.

She looked back and saw a waiting woman rolling up one of the Russian carpets on the royal dais.

Reality hit her. A hostile army was about to invade this very space in which she was standing.

Feeling unnaturally calm, she nodded at her lady-in-waiting. ‘And all my jewels.’ She turned to the two English ambassadors, still present, heads together. ‘You must return to England and tell my father to send soldiers and money at once!’

Weston nodded, but looked away.

Into the maelstrom, a white-faced, trembling Frederick returned. ‘It’s too late, Lizzie. My army has deserted. Even Anhalt and Hohenlohe were clamouring at the city gate in the midst of their own soldiers, begging to be let back inside the walls. We must all leave Prague now!’

‘Then you can ride with me and the children,’ Elizabeth said. ‘We will need you and the castle militia to protect us.’

Scarcely a year after she had arrived in Prague as the new queen of Bohemia, Elizabeth packed to leave again.

First, the children. The boys must not become Imperial captives! Thank God the Crown Prince had already been sent to safety in Berlin! Get the others away from here! Look to their needs. Clouts for the coming babe, petticoats, toy soldiers, cups and spoons, coverlets, shoes and boots, bread and wine. Gloves.

Oh God! She could not think with that thunder in her head.

Cradle . . . a welcoming gift from her new people less than a year ago, for Rupert her first Bohemian child . . . Too heavy to carry?

She looked out of a high window as if expecting to see Hapsburg soldiers climbing towards the castle.

Snow, falling. Great pillows of snow fell onto the thick coverlet that already hid steps and cart tracks. The staircase down to the river looked like a smooth white slope. They would have to take the wagons and carriages the long way round, to the north where the land rose more gradually, towards the advancing enemy, before curving south again.

Money chest, she thought. Petticoats, riding boots. Fill brass warming pans with charcoal. Likewise the iron heaters for the carriages. Feather mattresses . . . Leave all farthingales behind to save room in the carriages.

All the time, her ears listened to the gunfire, growing closer.

‘Madam . . .! Madam!’ cried frightened voices. ‘Do you want me to take . . .?’

No time. They must leave now!

The First Daughter of England, child of the would-be Peacemaker English King, could not become a prisoner-of-war.

Apart from all else, she thought, my father would never forgive me for forcing him to take a stand. Not after he had advised Frederick to stay at home in Heidelberg and refuse the Bohemian crown.

‘Into the second and third carriages,’ she ordered the children’s nurses with their bundles. Where was the castle steward who should be overseeing this rout?

Food! she thought. And ale. Who was supervising the packing of food and drink for them all?

How many were they?

She sat on a packed chest, pulled up her skirts and hauled on her riding boot unassisted. Her ladies were all running with loaded arms. Or had vanished.

And who can blame them? she thought. She hauled on her other boot.

How far away was her intended refuge in Bresslau? Too far. The mountains would be impassable in this weather.

Our departure from Prague is merely a series of problems to be solved, she told herself. But they all needed solving at once. There was no time . . .

Think!

Food, she thought again. Don’t let yourself become distracted from the most important things.

She found the steward in the kitchen courtyard, making a tally of flitches of bacon and smoked hams as they were thrown into carts.

‘Where are your clerks?’ she asked.

He gestured at the mêlée around them and shrugged. ‘I want to be certain, myself . . . Bread already in that cart, madam.’ He pointed, then ran across the courtyard to chivvy along two men who were loading barrels of ale onto another cart. She saw a guardsman carrying a pike.

The armoury! She ran back to the steward. ‘Weapons,’ she said. ‘We must not leave weapons for the enemy to take.’ He nodded and pointed at bundled pikes and stacked shields waiting to be loaded.

We must go to Berlin, she decided. A long ride in this weather. But once there, they would find warmth and food and safety, for a time at least. Time to think about their suddenly unthinkable situation. She didn’t entirely believe it, even now.

Snow was already blanketing the contents of the carts. Churned-up slush washed past the ankles of her boots as she ran back into the castle to oversee her own chests, which were being loaded onto carts in the main courtyard. And her money chest and jewel case, stowed in her carriage at the front of the forming line. And the chest holding state papers.

Letters!

She turned to go back to her apartments, but a militiaman blocked her way.

‘No time, madam,’ he said. ‘You must leave now!’ The militiaman disappeared again.

She lifted her head. The cannons had stopped. For a moment, she felt an intense silence, as if the world had stopped turning. Then shouts and gunfire, and the screaming of wounded horses arrived on the wind, far too close.

Children already in their carriage. Shadowy heads and the heads of their nurses . . .

Cloak. Gloves. Money pouch tied under her soft riding skirts, over her seven-month bulge of belly. Dagger.

She clambered up into her carriage. Two women in it already. Her chief lady-in-waiting sat huddled under a bearskin rug with Elizabeth’s jewel case in her arms.

She helped to wrap Elizabeth in another rug. ‘Put your feet here, my lady.’ Elizabeth lifted her soaked boots onto the iron warming pan of burning charcoal. Melted snow was already making a puddle on the floor of the coach. She lifted back the curtain over the window to watch their departure. In both directions along the line, indistinct figures took shape in the snow then disappeared again, both mounted and on foot. Though the light felt unnaturally bright, she could scarcely see the walls of her adopted home.