The Silent Boy
From the No. 1 bestselling author of THE AMERICAN BOY comes a brilliant new historical thriller set during the French Revolution. Selected as Historical Novel of the Year by The Times and Sunday Times, and picked as one of Radio 4’s Crime Books of the Year.Paris, 1792. The city is gripped by revolution and the gutters run with blood as thousands lose their heads to the guillotine.Edward Savill, a London merchant, receives word that his estranged wife has been killed in France. Her ten-year-old son, Charles, has been taken by émigré refugees to Charnwood Court, deep in the English countryside.Savill is sent to fetch Charles, only to discover the child is mute. The boy has witnessed unimaginable horrors, but a terrible secret keeps him from saying a word. Locked in a prison of his own mind, his silence is the only thing that will keep him safe.Or so he thinks …
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Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2014
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2014
Copyright © Andrew Taylor 2014
Cover design layout © HarperCollinsPublishers 2014
Cover photographs © Julian Elliott / Getty Images (street); Henry Steadman (boy)
Andrew Taylor asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it, while at times based on historical fact, are the work of the author’s imagination.
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Source ISBN: 9780007506576
Ebook Edition © AUGUST 2014 ISBN: 9780007506590
Version: 2017-06-02
For James
Say nothing. Not a word to anyone. Whatever you see. Whatever you hear. Do you understand? Say nothing. Ever.
Tip-tap. Like cracking a walnut.
Now and always Charles sees the blood. It runs down his cheek and soaks into his shirt. He licks his dry lips and tastes it, salty and metallic and forbidden.
He has fallen as he ran down the steep stairs. He’s lying on his back. He looks up. It is raining blood from a black sky striped with yellow. Blood glistens in the light of the lantern on the table.
There’s shouting and banging outside.
Inside, the blood is crying out. It’s screaming and shouting and grunting. The sound twists through his skull. It cuts into bone and splinters into a thousand daggers that draw more blood.
He scrambles to his feet. His shoes are by the door. He slips his feet into them.
There are no words for this, all he has heard and seen. There are no words for anything. There must never be any words.
Awake and asleep, here and anywhere, now and always. Never any words.
Charles lifts the latch and drags open the heavy door. No more words.
Hush now. Say nothing.
Tip-tap.
Charles darts out of the cottage and pulls the door shut. The cobbled yard is in darkness. So are the workshops and the big house beyond. Above the rooftops, though, the air flickers orange and yellow with the light of torches. The noise is deafening. He wants to cover his ears.
The tocsin is ringing. There are other bells. Their jangling fills the night and mingles with the host of unnatural sounds. The street on the far side of the house is as noisy as by day – much noisier, with shouts and screams, with barks and explosions, with the clatter of hooves and the grating of iron-rimmed wheels.
Someone begins to knock at a door – not with a hand or a knocker. These blows are slow and purposeful. They make the air itself tremble. Glass shatters. Someone is shrieking.
Wood splinters. They are breaking down the door of the main house. In a matter of minutes they will be in the yard.
Charles stumbles towards the big gates beyond the cottage. Two heavy bars hold them shut, sealing the back of the yard. In one leaf is a little low wicket.
At night the wicket is secured by two bolts. He fumbles for them in the darkness, only to find that they are already open.
Of course they are.
He pushes the gate outward. Nothing happens. Locked, not bolted? In desperation he tugs it towards him. The gate slams into him with such force that he falls on the slippery cobbles.
