A Conspiracy of Violence Read Online Free PDF

suggested
     another attack was about to be launched. He looped the satchel around his shoulder, gripped his dagger and prepared to make
     his move.
    ‘You do not … understand.’ Chaloner glanced at the servant a second time, and sensed he no longer knew what he was saying.
     ‘I am … John Hewson … of seven … Trust no one, and praise …’
    There was a sharp crack, as someone trod on a twig in the bushes ahead. Chaloner tensed, trying to see through the tangled
     undergrowth. He heard Hewson’s breathing stop, and a detached part of his mind pondered the question of whether the knife
     had missed its real target, or whether Hewson had been killed because he was dispensing information. There was no way to know,
     although he was able to conclude, from the direction of the snap and the shivering foliage, that there were
two
men lurking in the thicket ahead. Knowing they would expect him to head for the gate, since it was the obvious route to freedom,
     he scrambled upright and ran in the opposite direction – towards the house that stood at the end of the garden. There was
     a loud pop as a pistol went off, and he hit the ground hard. His senses reeled from the impact, and he became aware of urgent
     shouting from the road. The King was coming. Then another shot rang out.
    The discharge of firearms close to a monarch was a relatively unusual event in London, and, after a short, stunnedsilence, chaos erupted. Footsteps clattered as people ran towards the Banqueting House, and voices clamoured to know what
     was happening. An agitated horse whinnied in a way that suggested its rider was losing control of it, and a dog barked furiously.
     The word ‘treason’ was suddenly in the air, and it was not long before folk were yelling that the King had been assassinated.
    Inside the garden, Chaloner’s attackers held a hissing conversation that suggested one of them had not associated the discharge
     of his own firearm with the commotion, and was keen to go to the King’s assistance. The other rebuked him with a testy impatience
     that indicated it was not the first time his companion had drawn stupid conclusions. While they argued, Chaloner climbed to
     his feet, ignoring the protesting stab in his weak leg, and took refuge in a patch of nettles. The weeds were thick, but he
     was oblivious to their stings as he waited to see what his assailants would do, fingers wrapped loosely around his dagger.
    He ducked when they moved along the path towards him. The one in front wore a white skullcap, a cloak of burgundy wool, blue
     petticoat breeches and a satin shirt with ruffled sleeves. His face reminded Chaloner of a wolf ’s, with pointed chin, wide
     mouth, sharp yellow teeth and close-set eyes. He carried a pistol in one hand and a sword in the other, and his face wore
     a fierce expression that turned to anger when he saw the servant.
    ‘Jones is dead,’ he whispered furiously, turning to his companion.
    ‘So I see,’ replied the other. Chaloner studied him carefully, sensing him to be the more dangerous of the pair. He was heavily
     built, and had massive fists, like hams. He was almost as finely dressed as the first man,although his coat was last year’s fashion and his wig looked as though it had been made using someone else’s measurements.
     Rings adorned his fingers, and there was a pair of calfskin gloves tucked into his belt. However, his finery and the superior
     airs he gave himself did not disguise the fact that he had probably not been born to them, and that elegance and wealth was
     something he had acquired along the way.
    ‘That is
your
dagger,’ hissed the wolf.
    The second man seemed unperturbed by what was essentially an accusation. ‘Then the intruder used it to kill Jones. It is obvious.’
    The wolf sighed angrily, but appeared to accept the claim. ‘He will be heading for the back gate, aiming to escape into the
     crowds around the Banqueting House. Guard it, while I search the