Oh, nothing but the paragraph I have been waiting for since 2003; an opening sentence for The Stratford Man that doesn't actually suck. (First it opened with the weather report; then it opened with a sunset. Sometimes you just stick something on the page and hope you are smart enough to fix it later.
Christofer Marley died as he was born: on the bank of a river, within the sound and stench of slaughterhouses.
The news reached London before the red sun ebbed, while alleys fell into straitened darkness under rooftops still stained bright. There were those who neither gasped nor mourned to hear it.
It was a bloody end to the penultimate day of May, in the 35th year of the reign of the excommunicate Elizabeth, surviving bastard of Henry Tudor.
...Yep. You caught me. The book really does start Marley was dead to begin with.