Über die Autorinnen und Autoren

Bernard Cornwell is the author of over fifty novels, including the acclaimed New York Times bestselling Saxon Tales, which serve as the basis for the hit Netflix series The Last Kingdom. He lives with his wife on Cape Cod and in Charleston, South Carolina.

Susannah Kells is the pen name of Bernard's wife, Judy Cornwell. They live on Cape Cod, Massachusetts.

Von der hinteren Coverseite

The Reign of Terror has washed the streets of France blood-red. And in England a terrified aristocracy awaits the next blow.

Secure in their wealth and power, the noble Lazenders remain safe from history's violent storm behind the walls of their opulent "little kingdom." But theirs is a house under siege. With the family's heir, Toby Lazender, away in revolution-torn France hunting the brutal murderers of the woman he loved, a secret cabal of powerful and dangerous assassins—the Fallen Angels—conspires to bring the chaos to England's shores by seizing the vast resources of Lazen Castle.

And only one obstacle stands in their way: Toby's sister, Lady Campion Lazender. Caught in an ever-tightening net of conspiracy, Campion sees treachery all around her—even as she follows a mysterious horseman into a realm of fascination and desire. And in the clashing of nations—as traitors, spies, and their masters move furtively through the night—Campion's heart could be leading her to destruction . . . by the hand of one she trusts above all.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

The Fallen Angels

HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

Chapter One

Fear, like the rumor of plague, can empty a city's streets.

Paris, on that hot September evening of 1792, seemedempty. The citizens stayed behind closed doors asthough, after a week of slaughter, they were suddenlyashamed of the horrors they had fetched on their city.There was a silence in Paris, not an absolute quiet, but astrange, almost reverent, hush in which a raised voiceseemed out of place.

Fear, on that evening, smelled like a charnel house.

Four horsemen rode through the streets. There was amenace in the sound of their hooves, a menace that madethe hidden, listening citizens hold their breath until thesound passed. Death had become a commonplace thatweek, not decent death at sickness's end, but the death ofthe slaughterhouse. The hollow sound of the hooves wasurgent, as if the horsemen had business with the horrorsthat had choked Paris' gutters with blood.

It was a hot evening. If it had not been for the stink inthe city it would have been a beautiful evening. The roofswere outlined with startling clarity against a watercolorsky. Clouds banded the west where the sun, like a huge,blood-red globe, was suspended over the horizon.

The whole summer of 1792 had been hot. The soldierswho had gone north to fight the invading Austrians and Prussians had marched through Paris with a grime ofsweat and dust caked on their faces. Rumor said thatthose soldiers were now losing the war on France's northernfrontier, and that too had made this city fearful.

The summer had been so hot that the leaves, witheredand dry, had fallen early. On the day that the King wastaken prisoner, he had walked from the Tuileries Palaceto the National Assembly and his son, the dauphin, hadkicked the piles of fallen leaves into the air as if it was agame. That had been the second week of August, only thesecond week, yet the leaves had fallen. Never, it was said,had there been a summer so hot, a heat that had not diminishedas autumn came, that turned the corpses intothe stench which fouled the exhausted city.

The four horsemen rode into a square where martinsdipped over the darkening cobbles. They slowed theirhorses to a walk.

Facing the four men was a great building with an imposingarchway. The gates were open. In the entrance ofthe building was a small crowd, oddly cheerful and noisyon this evening of silence and fear. The people in thesmall crowd were tired, yet the bottles from which theydrank, and the memories of their great day, gave them afeverish energy and ebullience. Nearly all of them woresoft red hats that sat rakishly on their long hair.

The oldest of the four horsemen motioned with hishand for his companions to hold back while he rode onalone. The crowd, eager for more excitement, came tomeet him.

The horseman looked over the group. "Who's incharge?"

One man stepped forward, a man with a great bellythat sagged over the rope belt of his trousers. He lookedup at the horseman and then, instead of answering, tooka slow drink from his bottle. When he had finished all the wine, he belched. The crowd laughed. The fat man,pleased with his performance, spat, and looked truculentlyat the rider. "And who, citizen, are you?"

The horseman took a folded square of paper from apouch on his belt and handed it wordlessly to the fat manwho made a great pantomime with it. First he handed hisempty bottle to a companion, then he brushed his moustache,then he planted his feet wide, and finally, with aflourish, he shook the square of paper open.

He read it slowly, his lips moving. He frowned, lookedsuspiciously at the horseman, then turned the paper overas though its blank reverse might hold an answer to hispuzzlement. He turned it back.

He stared at the signature at the foot of the paper. Hestared at the seal. "You're from the English Embassy?"The horseman sighed. He spoke in patient French.

"The British embassy."

"All of you?"

The horseman gestured at his companions. Closest tohim was a young man with bright red hair. "That is Mr.Lazender, behind him is Mr. Drew, and my name isPierce. Our names are all listed there." He did not botherto introduce the fourth horseman who hung back as if hedid not wish to be associated with the three Englishmen.The fourth man was the only one in the group who wasarmed. At his left hip there hung a long, blackscabbardedsword.

The fat man frowned. The signature seemed genuine,and the seal seemed genuine, and the orders did not seemparticularly troublesome. He scratched his cheek, pulledup his trousers, then handed the paper back to the mancalled Pierce. "Who are you looking for?"

"A woman."

"Name?"

"Lucille de Fauquemberghes. You've heard of her?"

The fat man shook his head. "Never heard of her." Helooked at the fourth horseman, a young man dressed entirelyin black who, unseen to the three Englishmen, gavethe smallest nod to the fat man. The fat man seemed relievedby the signal. He waved carelessly toward thearchway. "Go on, then!"

The three Englishmen dismounted and gave their reinsto the man in black who tethered their horses to a gratingbeside the archway. His own horse, a superb black mare,he let stand free. He walked to the open prison gates. Thegutter that came out of the building was darkly choked,smelly, and busy with flies. A dog, its ribs stark againstits matted skin, licked at the black substance that cloggedthe drain.

The fat man watched the three Englishmen go into theprison. He waited till they had disappeared, then grinned atthe man in black and offered his hand ...

Excerpted from The Fallen Angelsby Bernard Cornwell Copyright © 2005 by Bernard Cornwell. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.