Assassin's Reign: Book 4 of The Civil War Chronicles Read Online Free PDF Page A

great waves of brown Thames water slopping over the bows to dampen shoes and spirits alike.
    Lisette whispered a vicious oath beneath her breath, a silent hand snaking to the hilt of a dirk within the voluminous folds of the cloak, but she knew she could not challenge the plump fool. No one would recognize her here, of course, but London was still the capital of her enemies. Parliament’s headquarters, its heartland. The vipers’ nest. A knife-wielding Frenchwoman would not go unnoticed. She stifled a smile at the thought, nevertheless.
    ‘Blackfriars!’ the waterman called suddenly, lifting his oars from the river. He leant back to rest briefly while the vessel slid gently to its berth.
    Lisette stared out across the water, scanning the shoreline for danger. There was none, and, as the wherry touched the submerged shore, she waited her turn while the rest of the passengers rose to alight. The fat man stood, a catastrophic motion that caused the boat to rock wildly, and she gripped the damp timbers to steady herself, but soon he was on the stairs, puffing and grunting his way up the slick wedges of cut stone. Lisette – last off – shuffled forwards. She lunged for a cold ring of iron that dangled from the dank staircase, letting it take her weight as she steadied herself, and twisted back to toss the waterman a coin. He nodded his thanks, wiped his long, glistening nose with a crusty sleeve, and pushed off towards Southwark. Lisette Gaillard watched him go, crossed herself beneath the concealing cloak, and scuttled quickly up Blackfriars Stairs to street level.
    She moved swiftly, keen to keep out of the prying gaze of surly apprentices or Parliamentarian troops. They roamed the streets in these dangerous days, eager to spy out men – and women – who might say or do something that marked them as Royalist. Lisette was not unduly worried, for her training made her hard to track and harder to fight, but this was the very epicentre of the rebellion. The place where the enemy was strongest and most numerous. Plenty of Londoners would harbour sympathies for the king, she did not doubt, but those voices had been hushed, at least for now.
    Moving up to a large stone building that had once been part of the old Dominican friary, Lisette made for an alley on its far side. She plunged into the narrow thoroughfare, thankful for its protective gloom, and scuttled its muddy course, skirting a stick-toting child terrorizing a small dog, a couple of large women squabbling over some trivial matter, and the outstretched legs of a prostrate drunk. And then she was in full daylight again, bathed in late summer sun, and enveloped by London’s chaos.
    It was still early, yet already the city broiled with life. There were bustling shops and slant-walled homes, and squawking peddlers, barrow-boys, servants and well-to-do personages with their noses thrust up at the clouds. Piles of dung looked like small, steaming islands in the vast ocean that was the road, their stench stinging the eyes in the balmy heat. Above, and looming like God’s own sentinel, was the grand edifice of St Paul’s Cathedral, and Lisette made straight for it, glad that she might use the vast church to plot her course. She had been in this cursed place since June, but, preferring to spend much of her time amongst the less salubrious, and, by turns, less closely watched neighbourhoods on the Surrey side of the river, she still struggled to grasp the infuriatingly intricate web of London’s streets and alleys. Best, she had decided, to keep the city’s landmarks at the forefront of her mind. To travel directly south from Smithfield would take her to the safe house on Pie Corner, while aiming for the spires of the Tower would, regardless of the road she chose, ultimately lead to the little gilder’s premises beside Custom House that was used to pass messages between the king’s agents. St Paul’s, though, was the greatest marker of all, and she knew that keeping the