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Anna Castle
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Anthony Bacon
Anthony Bacon (1558-1601) was Francis Bacon’s full brother and one of the few people we know 
he truly loved. They were close friends throughout Anthony’s life. That’s his only known portrait on the cover of my new book, The Spymaster’s Brother.
The ideal biographer
Francis Bacon is the subject of at least half a dozen biographies. There are so many books about him and his works they have a collectiv
Read more of this blog post »
“Tom." Mrs. Sprye's tone was severe. "I expect you to look after this boy, not encourage him to go about brawling in the street. In broad daylight!"
Tom was stung. "It's nigh impossible to brawl in the dark, Mrs. Sprye. And look—" He put his hands on Trumpet's shoulders and turned him full circle. "Scarcely a scratch on him. A bit dirty, true, but I believe that Pygmies can be washed.”
― Murder by Misrule
Tom was stung. "It's nigh impossible to brawl in the dark, Mrs. Sprye. And look—" He put his hands on Trumpet's shoulders and turned him full circle. "Scarcely a scratch on him. A bit dirty, true, but I believe that Pygmies can be washed.”
― Murder by Misrule
“Tom smiled at the Fleming — a bright, friendly smile — and bobbed his head courteously. That confused the jolt-head. Then, by way of making conversation while his confederates gained their positions, he said, "I suppose someone must have told you — your mother, perhaps, or your father, though I doubt you ever knew him — that you're an idle-headed canker. A rank pustule? No? Not even an irksome, crook-pated, pathetical nit?"
The Fleming, his face as red as hot steel, roared and swung a fist like a blacksmith's hammer.”
― Murder by Misrule
The Fleming, his face as red as hot steel, roared and swung a fist like a blacksmith's hammer.”
― Murder by Misrule
“[Francis] skipped chapel for the first time in seven years, praying that his mother would never come to hear of it. He spent a hair-raising half hour sneaking into every staircase and running up and down on tiptoe, straining his ears to catch the murmur of chanting and sniffing at gaps under doors for the scent of incense.”
― Murder by Misrule
― Murder by Misrule
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“[Francis] skipped chapel for the first time in seven years, praying that his mother would never come to hear of it. He spent a hair-raising half hour sneaking into every staircase and running up and down on tiptoe, straining his ears to catch the murmur of chanting and sniffing at gaps under doors for the scent of incense.”
― Murder by Misrule
― Murder by Misrule
“That’s close,” Francis said. “I’m using a small fish to catch a larger one and fear mine will slip the hook and join the school, swimming happily away and forgetting all about his assignment.”
“Wait a minute.” Trumpet swung his legs around to sit upright at the edge of the bed, spilling more ale in the process. “Are you suggesting Tom might become one of the people he was sent to investigate? That he might honestly become one of those narrow-minded Puritans?”
“Yes,” Francis said. “I fear that is precisely what is happening.”
― Death by Disputation
“Wait a minute.” Trumpet swung his legs around to sit upright at the edge of the bed, spilling more ale in the process. “Are you suggesting Tom might become one of the people he was sent to investigate? That he might honestly become one of those narrow-minded Puritans?”
“Yes,” Francis said. “I fear that is precisely what is happening.”
― Death by Disputation
“Tom." Mrs. Sprye's tone was severe. "I expect you to look after this boy, not encourage him to go about brawling in the street. In broad daylight!"
Tom was stung. "It's nigh impossible to brawl in the dark, Mrs. Sprye. And look—" He put his hands on Trumpet's shoulders and turned him full circle. "Scarcely a scratch on him. A bit dirty, true, but I believe that Pygmies can be washed.”
― Murder by Misrule
Tom was stung. "It's nigh impossible to brawl in the dark, Mrs. Sprye. And look—" He put his hands on Trumpet's shoulders and turned him full circle. "Scarcely a scratch on him. A bit dirty, true, but I believe that Pygmies can be washed.”
― Murder by Misrule
“Tom smiled at the Fleming — a bright, friendly smile — and bobbed his head courteously. That confused the jolt-head. Then, by way of making conversation while his confederates gained their positions, he said, "I suppose someone must have told you — your mother, perhaps, or your father, though I doubt you ever knew him — that you're an idle-headed canker. A rank pustule? No? Not even an irksome, crook-pated, pathetical nit?"
The Fleming, his face as red as hot steel, roared and swung a fist like a blacksmith's hammer.”
― Murder by Misrule
The Fleming, his face as red as hot steel, roared and swung a fist like a blacksmith's hammer.”
― Murder by Misrule
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