心石

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内容简介

中文简介

作者简介

媒体评论

精彩书摘

心石

英文名：Heartstone作　者/Author:C. J. Sansom（C·J·桑森） 著

出 版 社/Publisher:Pan Macmillan

ISBN:9780230711259

出版时间/Publication Date:2010-09-03

页　数/Pages:450

装　帧/Format:平装

正文语种/Language:英文

所属分类/Category:图书 > 英文原版书 > Mystery & Thrillers（神秘与惊悚）

定 价：￥165.70

京 东 价：￥90.80（55折）

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In 1545, times are perilous for London counsel Matthew Shardlake and for his country. While the English, heavily taxed and with their coinage debased by Henry VIII, prepare for a naval attack from the French at Portsmouth, Shardlake takes on a case at the request of Catherine Parr on behalf of her former servant, whose son committed suicide after discovering "monstrous wrongs" against a teenage ward he once tutored. As the 43-year-old, hunchbacked Shardlake seeks to uncover secrets in the ward's household, he also investigates the past of a presumably sane woman kept for years in Bedlam. Even with the queen's patronage, the dogged Shardlake is threatened bodily while pursuing answers to both cases, which ultimately pit him against his old court nemesis, Sir Richard Rich. The heft of this fifth in the Shardlake series may be intimidating, but Sansom's supple and action-packed prose should keep readers engaged. The novel vividly captures the Tudor scene, from its corrupt politics to the stench of its streets and the horror of battle. Historical mystery at its finest.

在1545年,伦敦的时间是危险的Shardlake律师马太福音,为自己的国家效力。在英国,课以重税和他们的货币被亨利八世的贬低,准备一个海军攻击的法国到朴茨茅斯的时候,Shardlake作为一种情况要求代表她凯瑟琳·帕尔前的仆人,他的儿子之后自杀发掘“巨大的错误",对他曾经辅导一个十几岁的病房。为43岁,Shardlake试图揭开秘密弓腰驼背的家庭病房里,他对以前的一个女人保持清醒多年来推测在疯人院里。即使有女王的人气,顽强的Shardlake受到威胁的身体在追求回答这两种情况下,他最终坑,对阵他的老法院强敌,理查德爵士丰富。这第五个分量的Shardlake系列可以挺吓人,但是Sansom的柔软和火爆的散文应该使读者订婚了。这部小说生动地捕捉到图多尔场景,从它的政治腐败,发臭的街道和令人恐怖的战斗。在它历史神秘倒下。

内容简介

This is the new Shardlake mystery from the No 1 bestselling author of "REVELATION". Summer, 1545. England is at war. Henry VIII's invasion of France has gone badly wrong, and a massive French fleet is preparing to sail across the Channel. As the English fleet gathers at Portsmouth, the country raises the largest militia army it has ever seen. The King has debased the currency to pay for the war, and England is in the grip of soaring inflation and economic crisis. Meanwhile Matthew Shardlake is given an intriguing legal case by an old servant of Queen Catherine Parr. Asked to investigate claims of 'monstrous wrongs' committed against a young ward of the court, which have already involved one mysterious death, Shardlake and his assistant Barak journey to Portsmouth. Once arrived, Shardlake and Barak find themselves in a city preparing to become a war zone; and Shardlake takes the opportunity to also investigate the mysterious past of Ellen Fettipace, a young woman incarcerated in the Bedlam. The emerging mysteries around the young ward, and the events that destroyed Ellen's family nineteen years before, involve Shardlake in reunions both with an old friend and an old enemy close to the throne. Events will converge on board one of the King's great warships, primed for battle in Portsmouth harbour: the Mary Rose...

中文简介

这是一个新的Shardlake神秘从第一畅销作者“启示”。夏天,1545。英国在战争。亨利八世的入侵法国已经严重错误的,一个巨大的法国舰队正准备横渡英吉利海峡。作为英国舰队聚集到朴茨茅斯的时候,国家养军队来说最大的民兵从未见过。王也贬低了货币支付的战争,英国在操纵通货膨胀和经济危机。同时给出了马太福音Shardlake引人入胜的案子由一个老仆人女王的凯瑟琳·帕尔。要求调查声称的巨大的错误的事上得罪一个年轻的病房的法庭,哪有涉及一个神秘死亡,Shardlake巴拉和他的助手旅程朴茨茅斯。一旦到达时,Shardlake巴拉发现自己在一个城市准备成为一个战争地带,Shardlake以机会也调查的艾伦Fettipace神秘的过去,一个年轻的女人被关押在这个混乱。新兴的谜团围绕年轻病房,事件破坏了艾伦的家庭十九岁之前,涉及Shardlake都在和一位老朋友团聚和一个老敌人接近的宝座上。事件将聚集在板王的一个伟大的战舰,正确的战斗在朴次茅斯港口:玛丽玫瑰…

作者简介

C. J. Sansom was educated at Birmingham University, where he took a BA and then a Ph.D. in history. He lives in Sussex.

与受过教育之Sansom伯明翰大学,在那里他带疤,然后一个博士学位的历史。他住在苏塞克斯。

媒体评论

"Engrossing."

--The Spectator (UK)

"Atmospheric and erudite . . . . Not since Umberto Eco penned The Name of the Rose has a historical crime novelist captured so perfectly a people and their place, and harnessed them with such intelligence and credibility to shadowy tales of politics, misdeeds, murder and mystery."

--Lancashire Evening Post

"An enthralling historical crime novel packed with details of life in Tudor England. Highly recommended."

--Irish Independent

"Compulsively readable and highly satisfying. . . . An entirely engrossing novel with an intriguing twist."

--Daily Express

"This wonderful Tudor-era series is must reading for any devotee of historical mysteries."

--Margaret Cannon, The Globe and Mail

"Another fascinating story from a gifted author."

--London Free Press

"A rousing tour de force of period re-creation, testifying to Sansom's fascination with history. . . . Like all the Shardlake books, Heartstone winningly shows Sansom's crafty flair for hoodwinking even the most hawk-eyed reader. . . . What there is no doubt about . . .　is the breadth of Sansom's achievement in this novel that twists together murder mystery and turbulent history."

--Peter Kemp, The Sunday Times

“引人入胜的”。

观众(英国)——

“大气和知识渊博的。自从翁贝托的名字写环保玫瑰有一个历史小说家捕获犯罪如此完美的子民,使自己的地方,利用他们的智力和信誉阴暗的政治故事,罪行,谋杀和神秘。”

——兰开夏郡晚报

“一个迷人的历史犯罪小说中挤满了的生活细节图多尔英格兰。强烈推荐。”

——爱尔兰独立

“可读性和高度满意强制。一个完全引人入胜的小说和引人入胜的曲折。”

——《每日快讯

“这美妙的Tudor-era系列是必须阅读历史谜团的任何奉献者。”

玛格丽特大炮——《环球邮报》

“另一个引人入胜的故事从一个很有天赋的作家。”

——伦敦新闻自由

“休斯顿参加一个热烈的绝技的时期赋予迫切,向Sansom与历史的魅力。像所有的Shardlake书籍、Heartstone winningly Sansom才能显示的狡猾,即使是最hawk-eyed读者又是艳阳天。什么是无庸置疑的。是Sansom的成就的宽度在这部小说中来扭曲在一起谋杀谜团和混乱的历史。”

——彼得·坎普,《星期日泰晤士报》

精彩书摘

The churchyard was peaceful in the summer afternoon. Twigs and branches lay strewn across the gravel path, torn from the trees by the gales which had swept the country in that stormy June of 1545. In London we had escaped lightly, only a few chimneypots gone, but the winds had wreaked havoc in the north. People spoke of hailstones there as large as fists, with the shapes of faces on them. But tales become more dramatic as they spread, as any lawyer knows.

I had been in my chambers in Lincoln's Inn all morning, working through some new briefs for cases in the Court of Requests. They would not be heard until the autumn now; the Trinity law term had ended early by order of the King, in view of the threat of invasion.

In recent months I had found myself becoming restless with my paperwork. With a few exceptions the same cases came up again and again in Requests: landlords wanting to turn tenant farmers off their lands to pasture sheep for the profitable wool trade, or for the same reason trying to appropriate the village commons on which the poor depended. Worthy cases, but always the same. And as I worked, my eyes kept drifting to the letter delivered by a messenger from Hampton Court. It lay on the corner of my desk, a white rectangle with a lump of red sealing wax glinting in the centre. The letter worried me, all the more for its lack of detail. Eventually, unable to keep my thoughts from wandering, I decided to go for a walk.

When I left chambers I saw a flower seller, a young woman, had got past the Lincoln's Inn gatekeeper. She stood in a corner of Gatehouse Court, in a grey dress with a dirty apron, her face framed by a white coif, holding out posies to the passing barristers. As I went by she called out that she was a widow, her husband dead in the war. I saw she had wallflowers in her basket; they reminded me I had not visited my poor housekeeper's grave for nearly a month, for wallflowers had been Joan's favourite. I asked for a bunch, and she held them out to me with a work-roughened hand. I passed her a halfpenny; she curtsied and thanked me graciously, though her eyes were cold. I walked on, under the Great Gate and up newly paved Chancery Lane to the little church at the top.

As I walked I chided myself for my discontent, reminding myself that many of my colleagues envied my position as counsel at the Court of Requests, and that I also had the occasional lucrative case put my way by the Queen's solicitor. But, as the many thoughtful and worried faces I passed in the street reminded me, the times were enough to make any man's mind unquiet. They said the French had gathered thirty thousand men in their Channel ports, ready to invade England in a great fleet of warships, some even with stables on board for horses. No one knew where they might land, and throughout the country men were being mustered and sent to defend the coasts. Every vessel in the King's fleet had put to sea, and large merchant ships were being impounded and made ready for war. The King had levied unprecedented taxes to pay for his invasion of France the previous year. It had been a complete failure and since last winter an English army had been besieged in Boulogne. And now the war might be coming to us.

I passed into the churchyard. However much one lacks piety, the atmosphere in a graveyard encourages quiet reflection. I knelt and laid the flowers on Joan's grave. She had run my little household near twenty years; when she first came to me she had been a widow of forty and I a callow, recently qualified barrister. A widow with no family, she had devoted her life to looking after my needs; quiet, efficient, kindly. She had caught influenza in the spring and been dead in a week. I missed her deeply, all the more because I realized how all these years I had taken her devoted care for granted. The contrast with the wretch I now had for a steward was bitter.

I stood up with a sigh, my knees cracking. Visiting the grave had quieted me, but stirred those melancholy humours to which I was naturally prey. I walked on among the headstones, for there were others I had known who lay buried here. I paused before a fine marble stone:

Roger Elliard

Barrister of Lincoln's Inn

Beloved husband and father

1502–1543

I remembered a conversation Roger and I had had, shortly before his death two years before, and smiled sadly. We had talked of how the King had wasted the riches he had gained from the monasteries, spending them on palaces and display, doing nothing to replace the limited help the monks had given the poor. I laid a hand on the stone and said quietly, 'Ah, Roger, if you could see what he has brought us to now.' An old woman arranging flowers on a grave nearby looked round at me, an anxious frown on her wrinkled face at the sight of a hunchbacked lawyer talking to the dead. I moved away.

A little way off stood another headstone, one which, like Joan's, I had had set in that place, with but a short inscription;

Giles Wrenne

Barrister of York

1467–1541

That headstone I did not touch, nor did I address the old man who lay beneath, but I remembered how Giles had died and realized that indeed I was inviting a black mood to descend on me.

Then a sudden blaring noise startled me almost out of my wits. The old woman stood and stared around her, wide-eyed. I guessed what must be happening. I walked over to the wall separating the churchyard from Lincoln's Inn Fields and opened the wooden gate. I stepped through, and looked at the scene beyond.

Lincoln's Inn Fields was an empty, open space of heathland, where law students hunted rabbits on the grassy hill of Coney Garth. Normally on a Tuesday afternoon there would have been only a few people passing to and fro. Today, though, a crowd was gathered, watching as fifty young men, many in shirts and jerkins but some in the blue robes of apprentices, stood in five untidy rows. Some looked sulky, some apprehensive, some eager. Most carried the warbows that men of military age were required to own by law for the practice of archery, though many disobeyed the rule, preferring the bowling greens or the dice and cards that were illegal now for those without gentleman status. The warbows were two yards long, taller than their owners for the most part. Some men, though, carried smaller bows, a few of inferior elm rather than yew. Nearly all wore leather bracers on one arm, finger guards on the hand of the other. Their bows were strung ready for use.

The men were being shepherded into rows of ten by a middle-aged soldier with a square face, a short black beard and a sternly disapproving expression. He was resplendent in the uniform of the London Trained Bands, a white doublet with sleeves and upper hose slashed to reveal the red lining beneath, and a round, polished helmet.

Over two hundred yards away stood the butts, turfed earthen mounds six feet high. Here men eligible for service were supposed to practise every Sunday. Squinting, I made out a straw dummy, dressed in tatters of clothing, fixed there, a battered helmet on its head and a crude French fleur-de-lys painted on the front. I realized this was another View of Arms, that more city men were having their skills tested to select those who would be sent to the armies converging on the coast or to the King's ships. I was glad that, as a hunchback of forty-three, I was exempt from military service.

A plump little man on a fine grey mare watched the men shuffling into place. The horse, draped in City of London livery, wore a metal face plate with holes for its eyes that made its head resemble a skull. The rider wore half-armour, his arms and upper body encased in polished steel, a peacock feather in his wide black cap stirring in the breeze. I recognized Edmund Carver, one of the city's senior aldermen; I had won a case for him in court two years before. He looked uneasy in his armour, shifting awkwardly on his horse. He was a decent enough fellow, from the Mercers' Guild, whose main interest I remembered as fine dining. Beside him stood two more soldiers in Trained Bands uniform, one holding a long brass trumpet and the other a halberd. Nearby a clerk in a black doublet stood, a portable desk with a sheaf of papers set on it slung round his neck.

The soldier with the halberd laid down his weapon and picked up half a dozen leather arrowbags. He ran along the front row of recruits, spilling out a line of arrows on the ground. The soldier in charge was still casting sharp, appraising eyes over the men. I guessed he was a professional officer, such as I had encountered on the King's Great Progress to York four years before. He was probably working with the Trained Bands now, a corps of volunteer soldiers set up in London a few years ago who practised soldiers' craft at week's end.

He spoke to the men, in a loud, carrying voice. 'England needs men to serve in her hour of greatest peril! The French stand ready to invade, to rain down fire and destruction on our women and children. But we remember Agincourt!' He paused dramatically: Carver shouted, 'Ay!', followed by the recruits.

The officer continued. 'We know from Agincourt that one Englishman is worth three Frenchmen, and we shall send our legendary archers to meet them! Those chosen today will get a coat, and thruppence a day!' His tone hardened. 'Now we shall see which of you lads have been practising weekly as the law requires, and which have not. Those who have not – ' he paused for dramatic effect – 'may find themselves levied instead to be pikemen, to face the French at close quarters! So don't think a weak performance will save you from going to war.' He ran his eye over the men, who shuffled and looked uneasy. There was something ...

在教堂的墓地是和平的夏日午后。树枝和洒在树枝躺的石子小路,撕裂的大风从树上的暴风雨横扫整个国家在1545年6月。我们在伦敦轻松逃脱,只有少数chimneypots不见了,但风搞乱了北方。人们说的那样大冰雹在拳头,与形状的面孔。但是故事变得更加戏剧性的,因为它们散布的,任何一个律师知道。

我在林肯饭店所有舱的早晨,透过一些新的内裤在法院审理的案件的要求。他们将不会听到推迟到秋天了,结束了三位一体的法律术语王的吩咐,在早期,针对入侵的威胁。

在最近几个月里,我已经找到了自己和我的文书工作变的不平静。除了极少数例外同样的情况下又上来,又在要求:要把地主从他们的土地佃农前往草场的羊羊毛贸易有利可图,或出于同样的原因,试图在下议院的村庄穷人依靠的人。值得的病例,但总是一样的。当我工作的时候,我的眼睛一直飘到这封信交一个信使从汉普顿。它躺在角落里我的书桌,一个白色长方形,一块红色映封蜡的中心。这封信使我担心,更因其缺乏细节。最后,无法保持我的思想从徘徊,我决定去散步。

当我离开的时候,我看到了一朵花卖方室,一个年轻的女人,有过去的林肯饭店守门人。她站在角落里的门房法院,一只灰色的裙子,一个肮脏的围裙,她的脸白coif掩映,伸出了posies传球的律师。她叫我去,她是一位寡妇,她的丈夫死于战争。我看见她在她的篮子wallflowers;他们使我想起我没有访问我可怜的女管家的坟墓近一个月,因为wallflowers已经琼的最爱。我想要一大堆的问题;她抱出来work-roughened我手。我把她的一枚半便士的;她达成curtsied献计施恩,向我道谢,但她的眼睛是冷的。我走在伟大的门,新铺的小教堂的大法官法庭小路站在顶端。

当我走我责备自己为我的不满,提醒自己,我的许多同事羡慕我担任律师在法庭上请求的,我也有有利的情况下把我偶尔被女王的初级律师。但是,当很多人深思熟虑和忧心忡忡的脸在街上我通过提醒我,足以让任何时代人的思想不安宁的。他们说,法国人在自己的渠道搜集到三万个港口,准备入侵英国大舰队的战舰,有些人甚至在船上带有马厩的马。没有人知道哪里他们可能地,全国各地的人被招,打发来保卫他们的境界。每一船舶在王的舰队已经叫海,大型商船被扣押和预备打仗。王前所未有的税收征收支付他去年入侵法国。这是一个彻底的失败,从去年冬天的一个英国军队被围困在Boulogne。和现在的战争可能会向我们走来。

我进了墓地。无论一个缺乏,虔诚的气氛,鼓励静思墓地。我跪下来,把花在琼的坟墓。她跑近二十年来我的家庭;当她第一次出现的时候,我的妻子,她原本是一个四十岁了,我一个初出茅庐,最近合格的律师。一个寡妇,没有家庭,她把自己的生命去照看我的需要;安静的、高效、和蔼可亲。她抓住了流感在春天的在一个星期内已经死了。我错过了她深,所有的更多,因为我意识到这些年来我领忠实于她护理是理所当然的。将那个可怜的人相比,我现在一个管家是苦的。

我站起来可唱,叹息一声,我的膝盖开裂。参观坟墓书记安抚了我,但搅了那些我忧郁气质完全自然的猎物。我走在墓碑,因为有其他我所知道谁被埋在这里。我停下来在一个精美的大理石石材:

罗杰Elliard

律师的林肯饭店

心爱的丈夫和父亲

1502 - 1543

我记得罗杰和我交谈过的,不久之后,达芬奇与世长辞的前两年,笑得很悲伤。我们说过这些话,国王的财富已经浪费了他有了从修道院,花费在宫殿和显示,什么事也不做来取代和尚所帮助有限穷人。我把一只手放在在石头上,平静地说:“啊,明白,如果你可以看见他把我们带到了现在。“一个老妇人在坟墓附近插花回头去看我,焦急的皱着她满是皱纹的脸上看一弓腰驼背的律师说死者。我搬走了。

一个小离站在另一个墓碑,一种,像琼的,我已将那地方,而是一个短的碑文。

贾尔斯Wrenne

纽约律师

1467 - 1541

那墓碑我没有提及,我也没有地址大海海底的一位老人,但我想起吉尔已经去世了,意识到我实在诱人的黑色的心情下我。

然后突然吵的噪音几乎吓得我不知所措。这位老妇人站在那里,我开始在她四周,睁大眼睛。我猜要发生。我走到墙上分离从林肯饭店领域墓地,打开了木制门。我走通过,看着那场景超越。

林肯饭店领域是一个空、开放空间的heathland,那里的法律专业学生在追捕兔子的长草的小山丘康尼贾斯。通常一个星期二的下午已经只有少数几个人通过来回摆动。虽然,今日一群人聚集在,看着五十个年轻人,在众多的衬衫和开衫,但有些在蓝色长袍的学徒,站在五个邋遢的行。有些人看起来不高兴,有些恐惧,有些充满渴望。大多数的人把warbows军事时代需要拥有法律实践的历练,尽管许多违反了规则,喜欢打保龄球蔬菜或骰子都是不合法的卡片现在对于那些没有绅士地位。warbows两码的长,身体比众民高过主人的大部分。有些人,虽然,把小弓、一些劣质的榆树而不是红豆杉。在几乎所有的穿着皮革防御护腕,另一只手的手的手指上的保护。他们的弓已经可以使用了。

这些人被带进一排排十由一个中年士兵方脸、短黑胡子和一个严厉的否定表达。他是辉煌的统一的伦敦训练的乐队,一件白上衣的袖子,软管,上了红衬在揭示了,一个圆,擦亮的头盔。

站在二百码外的臀部,处理6英尺高丘瓦。这里的人应该是符合服务练习每一个星期天。可是,我犯了一个假草,身着支离破碎的服装,固定在那里,一个受虐的盔,其头部和一个简陋的法国fleur-de-lys画在前面。我意识到这是另一种观点武器,多的城市人有他们的技能测试,选择那些将被派往部队集聚在海岸或王的船只。我很高兴,作为一个驼背的43个,我是免除服兵役。

一个丰满的小个子男人在一个晴朗的灰马看著那些男人洗牌到位。那匹马,覆盖在伦敦城外壳,穿着一件金属面板与洞为它的眼睛,就像一个骷髅头。骑手穿着half-armour、手臂和上身在离家不远的抛光的钢,一条孔雀羽毛在他宽大的黑色帽子搅拌在微风里。我认出埃德蒙·雕工、市内的一个高级aldermen;我赢得了一次对他来说两年前在法庭上。他看上去很不安,在他的盔甲,笨拙地在他的马。转移他是一个像样的足够的人,从Mercers行会,其主要兴趣我记得美食。在他身旁的两个人站立在受训带更多的士兵制服,举行一个长的黄铜喇叭,另一个是长戟。附近的店员黑色上衣站,便携式的桌子上面捆报纸抛出的套在他的脖子上。

士兵们用长戟放下他的武器,拿起了半打皮革arrowbags。他跑着前排的战士,溢出一个箭头线在地上。士兵们还铸造负责锋利,看一下这些人。评价我猜想他是位职业军官,如我所遇到的最伟大的进步,纽约王的四年之前。他可能是训练有素的乐队一起工作了,一个军的志愿士兵在伦敦设置几年前实行的士兵的工艺在星期的结束。

他对这两个人,一声,携带的声音。英国人的需要服务于她最大的危险的时刻!法国人准备入侵,象雨降火、破坏我们的妇女和儿童。但我们记得,也!”他停了戏剧性的:卡说:“哦!',其次是新兵。

军官继续说道。“我们知道从一个英国人,也值得三个法国人,我们将给我们的传奇射手迎接他们!那些被选今天将得到一件外套,thruppence一天了!“他的语气硬化。“现在,我们将会看到你们哪一个小伙子已经练了每周按法律要求,没有。那些没有-他停顿了戏剧性的效果-可能会发现自己被征收而得过长枪兵,面对法国亲密接触!所以不要认为一个脆弱的表现必救你们脱离要去参战。“他跑他的眼睛的人,看起来很不自在。慢吞吞地有一些…