Fallen Angels by Bernard Cornwell Read Free Book Online Page A

chaperone. 'It's bad news, Mary.'
    'Oh no, dear. Oh dear, no.'
    Lucille was dead, there would be no babies in Lazen, and Campion cried.
    —«»—«»—«»—
    Gitan left Lazen that afternoon, his fed and rested mare strong on the road eastward.
    He smiled as he went into the wet woodlands that bordered the estate, the autumn leaves dripping monotonously with rainwater and the air rich with the smells of a damp forest.
    He carried messages from Marchenoir to London, messages of secrecy, messages hidden within his sword scabbard.
    He had come safely to England, brought by Lord Werlatton, but his true purposes were hidden, hidden as well as the naked swimming girl that he had seen in the great blue-green portrait in the gallery. He had almost laughed when he saw it, so lifelike did the image seem and so like the beautiful girl who was his master's sister.
    He thought of fat Jean Brissot. He thought how the Parisians would like to have that girl in their hands. He patted his horse's neck and smiled. Bertrand Marchenoir would like her most of all; the rabble-roaring ex-priest who had led Paris into blood and more blood was famous for his dealings with the daughters of the fallen aristocracy, and there would be added pleasure for Marchenoir in the fact that this lovely creature was, on her mother's side, one of the hated d'Auxignys. Gitan laughed at the thought.
    The wind blew the rain cold from the west as man and horse rode through the brown, wet woods of an English autumn. He stopped in a clearing on the hill's crest, turned in his saddle, and stared at the great house that was now beneath him. It was, he thought, a most beautiful house. It was also, though it did not yet know it, a house under siege. The Gypsy clicked his tongue and rode on.

Chapter 3
    'What is your name?'
    The answer came from a man who stood alone in the centre of a sunken, marble floor. The man was naked.
    The room was brilliantly lit by a ring of candles, hundreds of flames reflected from polished marble, silver, and mirrors that threw the man's shadow in a complex coronet radiating from his bare feet. The room was circular and, high above the naked man's head, there was the gleam of gold mosaics that decorated the domed ceilings. It was a lavish room, fit for an Emperor or a great whore.
    The questioner spoke again. He could not be seen and his voice came as a hoarse whisper that seemed to fill the room, coming from no direction and every direction. 'What is your desire?'
    'To join you.'
    'What gives light?'
    'Reason.'
    'What gives darkness?'
    'God.'
    'How do you apprehend this?'
    'With reason.'
    'What is your name?'
    The naked man answered again. His voice was strong in the room, echoing from the marble and from the magnificent gold mosaics of the dome.
    Another voice, also a whisper, echoed mysteriously about the great chamber. 'What protects the weak?'
    'The law.'
    'What is above the law?'
    'Reason.'
    'What is your name?'
    The man answered. He stood quite still. He was a tall man and well muscled. He did not seem uncomfortable with his nakedness.
    A third voice whispered. 'What is death?'
    'Nothing.'
    Silence.
    Real silence. No windows opened to the outside world in this extraordinary place. The doors by which the naked man had entered were of bronze, doors so heavy that it had taken all his strength to close them on the night.
    It was October outside. In this room it could be any season, any hour, any year.
    One of the whispers sounded. 'Kill him.'
    Silence again.
    The man expected this, yet he felt a crawling fear within him. He kept his face rigid. He was being judged.
    'Why did you come here?'
    'To serve you.'
    'Whom do we serve?'
    'Reason.'
    'What bounds does reason have?'
    'None.'
    'Kill him.'
    'Kill him.'
    The third voice did not sound.
    Europe was rife with secret societies, most imitating the Masons, all offering a man the secret pride of belonging to a privileged group. Some, like the Rosati, were harmless, devoted to poetry and wine.