 Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantell, narrated by Simon Slater. The author begins with the following quotation from the Truvious Day Architectura on the theatre, 27 B.C. There are three kinds of scenes, one called the tragic, second the comic, third the satiric. The decorations are different and unlike each other in Scheme. Tragic scenes are delineated with columns, pediments, statues and other objects suited to kings. Comic scenes exhibit private dwellings with balconies and views representing rows of windows after the manner of ordinary dwellings. Satiric scenes are decorated with trees, caverns, mountains and other rustic objects delineated in landscape style. And with the following from John Skelton's Magnificence and Interlude, 1520. These be the names of the players. Felicity, liberty, measure, magnificence, fancy, counterfeit countenance, crafty conveyance, cloaked collusion, courtly abusion, folly, adversity, poverty, despair, mischief, good hope, redress, circumspection, perseverance. And now, Wolf Hall. Part one. Chapter one. Across the narrow sea. Putney, 1500. So now get up! Felled, dazed, silent he has fallen. Knocked full length on the cobbles of the yard. His head turns sideways. His eyes are turned towards the gate, as if someone might arrive to help him out. One blow properly placed could kill him now. Blood from the gash on his head, which was his father's first effort, is trickling across his face. Add to this, his left eye is blinded. But if he squints sideways, with his right eye, he can see that the stitching of his father's boot is unravelling. The twine has sprung clear of the leather, and a hard knot in it has caught his eyebrow and opened another cut. So now get up! Walter is roaring down at him, working out where to kick him next. He lifts his head an inch or two, and moves forward on his belly, trying to do it without exposing his hands, on which Walter enjoys stamping. What are you, an eel? His parent asks. He trots backwards, gathers pace, and aims another kick. It knocks the last breath out of him. He thinks it may be his last. His forehead returns to the ground. He lies waiting for Walter to jump on him. The dog, Bella, is barking, shut away in an outhouse. I'll miss my dog, he thinks. The yard smells of beer and blood. Someone is shouting down on the riverbank. Nothing hurts, or perhaps it's that everything hurts, because there is no separate pain that he can pick out. But the cold strikes him, just in one place, just through the cheekbone as it rests on the cobbles. Look now, look now, Walter bellows. He hops on one foot as if he's dancing. Look what I've done, burst my boot, kicking your head. Inch by inch. Inch by inch forward. Never mind if he calls you an eel or a worm or a snake. Head down. Don't provoke him. His nose is cluttered with blood, and he has to open his mouth to breathe. His father's momentary distraction at the loss of his good boot allows him the leisure to vomit. That's right, Walter yells, spew everywhere. Spew everywhere on my good cobbles. Come on, boy, get up. Let's see you get up by the blood of Creeping Christ. Stand on your feet. Creeping Christ, he thinks. What does he mean? His head turns sideways. His hair rests on his own vomit, the dog barks, Walter roars, and bells peel out across the water. He feels a sensation of movement as if the filthy ground has become the Thames. It gives and sways beneath him. Sample complete. Ready to continue?