By Helen Dunmore
The Betrayal is the sequel to Helen Dunmore's highly profitable old novel The Siege, set in Stalin's Russia.
Leningrad, 1952. Andrei, a tender clinic medical professional and Anna, a nursery institution instructor, are forging a existence jointly within the post-war, post-siege wreckage. yet their happiness is precarious, like that of hundreds of thousands of Russians who needs to steer clear of the claws of Stalin's cruel Ministry for country safety. So while Andrei is requested to regard the heavily unwell baby of a senior mystery police officer, he and Anna are worried. Trapped in an very unlikely, might be unwinnable video game, can they stay away from the whispers and watchful eyes of these who will say or do something to avoid wasting themselves?
The Betrayal is a robust and touching novel of standard humans within the grip of a bad and sinister regime, and a relocating portrait of a love that may not be extinguished.
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Extra resources for The Betrayal (Siege, Book 2)
Sample text
But our lovemaking had been very real, and I yet treasured the memory. Nor, I told myself, would I forget this one, for I’d never been inside the vast structure that housed the queen’s wardrobe, that which was not of immediate need and kept at Whitehall Palace. I’d adored Elizabeth of England from the first moment I’d seen her, gorgeously gowned, on a white horse, when I was but eleven and she’d come to visit her favorite, the Earl of Leicester, near my home in Warwickshire. The boy led me round the corner into an alcove hidden from the street.
I asked, for a man as important as Edward Arden in this area owed direct allegiance to Leicester. He shook his head and leaned closer. “More like, he’s foregone it. Leicester’s been as mean as that bear on the tunics. He pesters and prosecutes recusants, and Cousin Edward’s spleen is up over it. ” Recusants were those with Catholic loyalties or leanings. They were recorded and fined if they didn’t attend the Protestant church. In the early days of her reign, the queen had commanded that everyone could keep his conscience private, but since several attempted Catholic plots and rebellions, she’d let her advisors convince her to change her policy.
We seemed to have passed from attire to military materials. As we rounded the next corner, my worst fears leaped at me from the shadows. Within a dimly lit grotto of garments, behind a small portable table sat a man simply but finely attired all in black; his amber eyes shone flatly, like an adder’s. It took me but a moment to realize I knew him—that is, I knew who he was. I had glimpsed him at court the time the players had taken me with them. His hunchback form was unmistakable. For months, the whole city had talked of naught but the bloodless battles between this man and the Earl of Essex.