It is the year of the Great Conjunction, the year the powerful planets of Saturn and Jupiter align to herald the end of one age and the dawn of another, and the streets of London are abuzz with predictions of Queen Elizabeth’s death. When one of the queen’s ladies is found dead amidst rumors of black magic, Elizabeth calls upon Giordano Bruno to solve the crimes, along with the help of her personal astrologer, John Dee. But while Dee turns to a mysterious medium claiming knowledge of the murders, Bruno fears that something far more sinister is at work. “Giordano Bruno turns out to be that rare hero, charismatic and nuanced.” —Matthew Pearl, author of The Dante Club     “An outstanding historical thriller. . . . The suspenseful search for the murderer and the conspirators behind him makes the pages fly by.” — Publishers Weekly (starred review)   “As in Heresy , Parris has crafted a cracking good suspense yarn, with twists and turns enough to satisfy the most exacting fan of the spy thriller.” — The Free Lance-Star (Fredericksburg, VA)   “Parris’s plot is well crafted and full of surprises, an imaginatively satisfying addition to the many real intrigues surrounding the imprisoned Mary Stuart and the threats to Elizabeth’s security.” — The Times (London) “The characters in Prophecy are richly drawn, especially the intelligent, politically moderate French ambassador, whose kindness to Bruno, a spy in his house, pains Bruno's conscience. Woven into the vividly authentic historical setting is a flamboyant fictional murder mystery. . . . Both sophisticated and gripping.” — Historical Novels   “If you don’t already know and love Parris’ historical thrillers, try this one.” — New York Daily News “ Parris takes on the smells, the bells, the very essence of a great city afraid of the unknown and awaiting catastrophe.” — The Globe and Mail (Toronto) “Tense and lively, a welcome follow-up to Heresy , fully living up to its predecessor’s promise.” — The Daily Mail (London)   “ The cross-genre blend of serial killer and historical fiction is a bold one. . . . Prophecy boasts . . . fast-paced, densely plotted thrills.” — The Observer (London)   “Readers will hear the sounds of Elizabethan England, smell the Thames River, taste the food and feel the luxurious fabrics of the clothes worn by courtiers.” — Kirkus Reviews   “Parris’s compelling combination of history with drama is always balanced as she instills her hero with a generous handful of good fortune.” — Curled Up With a Good Book S. J. PARRIS is the author of Heresy and a contrib­uting journalist for various publications, including the Observer and the Guardian . Chapter 1 Barn Elms, House of Sir Francis Walsingham. 21st September, Year of Our Lord 1583 The wedding feast of Sir Philip Sidney and Frances Walsingham threatens to spill over into the next day; dusk has fallen, lamps have been lit, and above the din from the musicians in the gallery and the laughter of the guests, the young woman with whom I have been dancing tells me excitedly that she was once at a marriage party that lasted four days altogether. She leans in close when she says this and presses her hand to my shoulder; her breath is laced with sweet wine. The musicians strike up another galliard; my dancing partner exclaims with delight and clutches eagerly at my hand, laughing. I am about to protest that the hall is warm, that I would like a cup of wine and a moment’s respite in the fresh air before I return to the fray, but I have barely opened my mouth when the wind is knocked out of me by a fist between the shoulder blades, accompanied by a hearty cry. “Giordano Bruno! Now what is this I see? The great philosopher throwing off his scholar’s gown and lifting a leg with the flower of Her Majesty’s court? Did you learn to dance like that at the monastery? Your hidden talents never cease to astonish me, amico mio.” Recovering my balance, I turn, smiling widely. Here is the bridegroom in all his finery, six feet tall and flushed with wine and triumph: breeches of copper-coloured silk so voluminous it is a wonder he can pass through a doorway; doublet of ivory sewn all over with seed pearls; a lace ruff at his neck so severely starched that his handsome, beardless face seems constantly straining to see above it, like a small boy peering over a wall. His hair still sticks up in the front like a schoolboy hastened out of bed. In all the tumult I have not exchanged a word with him since the morning’s ceremony, he and his young bride have been so comprehensively surrounded by high- ranking well-wishers and relatives, all the highest ornaments of Her Majesty’s court. “Well,” he says, grinning broadly, “aren’t you going to congratulate me, then, or are you just here for the food from my table?” “Your father-in-law’s table, I had thought,” I answer, laughing. “Or which part of the feast did you buy yourself?” “You can leave your debating-hall