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Tea, coffee, water? Rob Temple is back to guide you through the maze of idiosyncrasies, loveable foibles and - let's admit - outright eccentricities that define this sceptred isle.

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Rob Temple is an award-winning features editor and the founder of soverybritish. Customer Reviews Average Review. See All Customer Reviews. Shop Books.

Read an excerpt of this book! Add to Wishlist. USD Sign in to Purchase Instantly. Overview Have you ever Product Details About the Author. About the Author Rob Temple is an award-winning features editor and the founder of soverybritish. Average Review. Write a Review. Related Searches. A God in Ruins. View Product. Before Michael Connelly became a novelist, he was a crime reporter, covering the detectives who Before Michael Connelly became a novelist, he was a crime reporter, covering the detectives who worked the homicide beat.

In these vivid, hard-hitting pieces, Connelly leads the reader past the yellow police tape as he follows the investigators, the victims, Drawing on the most recent scientific findings about the way the body processes food, Dr. Although Queen Anne spends much of her time with her children, I have not seen either of them for a year.

Last summer the queen decided I was too dependent on others, and so I was left behind every time she joined the court at Whitehall or Greenwich or Richmond. I spent six months at Hever and six months at Blickling Hall as her resident lady.

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A great privilege, to be sure--but I would have given up any privilege to see my friends! Dominic has come as well. A waiting woman told me that Master Courtenay rode in after dark last night and is even now with the king. I have not seen him for a full sixteen months, not since he was named Lieutenant of the March along the Welsh border.

I am sure he could have managed to visit at least once in all that time, but his letters always pleaded duty, a virtue to which he is too much wed. I wonder what he has brought me for my birthday. I hope it is fabric--velvet or satin or shot silk. But it is probably only a book. Dominic has always thought it his calling to teach me to be wise. Minuette closed the diary, pristine vellum pages bound by soft calfskin, and marked her place with a bit of burgundy velvet ribbon. The sharp, familiar voice of Alyce de Clare came from the open doorway behind her.

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I was looking forward to having the chamber to myself for once. She and Minuette had been steady chambermates for the last two years. I think. I think you are in trouble. I would help you if I could. On Alyce, it had the effect of sharpening her generous mouth and rounded cheeks, so she looked more like a statue of a woman rather than her usual vivacious, warm self. Though still tightly cinched beneath a yellow-and-black-patterned stomacher, it had been growing thicker over the last eight weeks.

Certainly not the princess. She is the very last person who would help me. It was a question she had pondered often the last few weeks. One would think that, in the close quarters of the court, she would know whom Alyce had been dallying with.

ISBN 10: 0749954329

But her friend also knew how to keep secrets. Alyce shook her head. You are too trusting and too generous. Those qualities will hurt you one day--but not through any action of mine. Forget what you have guessed. I can take care of myself. Minuette sighed, knowing she would hold her tongue, as Alyce had asked.

ISBN 13: 9780749954321

For now. Dominic Courtenay fingered the necklace he had bought at the abbey fair in Shrewsbury: cabochon-cut sapphires and pearls to circle the neck, with a filigree star pendant. Neither exotic nor terribly expensive, but Minuette had little jewelry of her own and she delighted in impractical gifts. He had just finished tying up the pendant in a square of fabric when William opened the door without knocking and shut it in the faces of those who followed him everywhere.

He was dressed for sport, in a linen shirt and leather jerkin. Picking up a sheet of heavy paper from the desk, he read a few words aloud. And speaking of gifts. Dominic shook his head. Still, Dominic was five years older and a natural swordsman.

Only once had Dominic made the mistake of going easy. When William was ten and had been king just six months, he and Dominic had spent the morning fighting with wooden practice swords. But William grew impatient with the clumsy replicas and demanded real swords. The swordmaster hesitated, but a nod from Lord Rochford, who was watching their practice, sent him scurrying off.

William caught the implied permission from the Lord Protector. He said nothing, but Dominic saw the set of his still-childish jaw as they were laced into the bulky, padded jerkins that would be some measure of protection against blunted steel. For the first time ever, Dominic allowed himself to make mistakes as they sparred--nothing obvious, or so he thought. Just a misstep here and a delayed feint there, enough to give the younger boy the edge. But he had miscalculated. Only a quick duck saved him from being hit squarely by the hilt. Too surprised to move further, Dominic stood silent as William marched up to him, the command in his voice making up for the fact that he was six inches shorter.

William struck him once, hard on the cheek. He had not raised his voice or lost control of his colour, but Dominic had felt the force of his anger whipping through the air. He opened his trunk and removed a layer of neatly folded clothing--plain tunics and jerkins, as befitted a soldier in the field--to uncover the gift that lay beneath. There was really no way to make a sword unrecognizable. With a grin of delight, William pulled it free from its scabbard and took a few enthusiastic swings before holding it horizontally in one hand to test the balance.

Dominic turned the sword so that William could see clearly the four star-shaped gems laid in the gold hilt.

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Elizabeth had heard her mother cut a lady to shreds with her tongue for an uneven hem or a slight stain, and she did not doubt that Anne would subject her own daughter to the same. Several were working on a tapestry while others wrote letters or talked quietly amongst themselves.

One lady, with a straight fall of rich brown hair, played lightly on a lute. As Elizabeth passed her, the young woman looked up and her fingers missed a chord. She returned to playing almost at once, but not before giving Elizabeth a hostile glance. What was her name? One of the de Clares, she thought, but not from an important branch or Elizabeth would know her better.

Almost she stopped to speak to the woman, but her mother was waiting. Queen Anne sat in a gilded wooden chair placed next to a tall window, a Tyndale Bible open on her lap. As Elizabeth curtsied, she wondered how much longer her mother would be able to see the fine print of the books she loved so well.