Free The Death of a King by Paul C. Doherty

my presence was urgently needed in London. The queen nodded understandingly. I kissed her hand and was shown out by Michael the Scot. In the courtyard, he returned both my sword and commission. As I mounted, he pricked my horse in its haunches to send it thundering across the lowered drawbridge to the jeers of the watching garrison. Eventually, the cob broke its gallop whilst my fury at such a graceless exit was outweighed by the relief of getting away unharmed.
    Late winter darkness had now shrouded the narrow track, so I let my cob pick its own way down to the village. I could find no inn inn there but a green bush over a cottage door meant there was a tavern, and for a few coins, I managed to buy sleeping space on the vermin-ridden floor. I drank some of the wine I carried to warm my body as well as soothe my troubled mind, for Queen Isabella was clearly alarmed at my questions, yet she had spoken so smoothly as if what she knew and told me would go no further. But then she had let me go. I was still trying to find the solution to this when I fell into a fitful sleep.
    I woke early next morning and, after breaking my fast on a slice of fatty bacon and a tankard of ale, I began my journey back to King’s Lynn. The weather made me forget the problems of the previous day. A hoar-frost had hardened the ground and a thick sea mist had swirled in over the countryside. A few miles out of Castle Rising, I found myself on a small track which, I remembered, would lead me down to the crossroads and the road to King’s Lynn. Dense forest ran along either side of it and, although the misty silence oppressed me, I only became alarmed when it was suddenly broken by the clink of chained mail. I loosened the sword in my scabbard and then swiftly drew it as a file of hooded figures rose out of the mist to block my way. They were armed with swords and spears and were evidently waiting for me to stop or dismount. I did neither but forced my horse from a trot into a swift gallop and bore down on them, yelling curses and waving my sword, like a veteran of a hundred successful charges. Surprised, they stood disconcerted until I was among them, hacking blindly with terror. I felt my sword cut and bite. A man screamed in agony, another reeled away, his face a bloody mask, and, suddenly, apart from a blow on the cantle of my saddle, I was through them and riding like the wind.
    Eventually, I pulled off the track, stopped and, after listening vainly for sounds of pursuit, vomited my breakfast and finally paused to regain some composure. I realized that the ambush was no mere outlaw sortie. If it had been, I would have never known about it until the first shower of arrows. My attackers had been confident that my natural timidity would force a meek surrender, but my sudden charge and the thick concealing mist had foiled their ambush. The attackers could have only been Isabella’s men. The queen must have realized that I was aware of her lies. She probably wanted the sources for the questions I had asked, followed by my prompt disappearance into some marsh or unmarked forest grave. The thought of such a quick and violent end only increased my desperation to escape.
    I had planned to return to King’s Lynn for my sumpter-pony and saddlebags, but I immediately decided to leave Norfolk as quickly as possible. I turned and travelled southeast, the direction my pursuers would least expect me to take. Four days later, I safely reached the port of Harwich and lodged at a dingy, waterside tavern, where I hoped to negotiate a passage for myself and my horse to one of the London ports.
    Whilst staying there, I took stock of the situation and, as you may appreciate, Richard, I quickly reached the conclusion that the accepted story of Edward II’s murder at Berkeley Castle seemed to be permeated with lies. At first, this had been only a suspicion, but the queen’s glib responses and her attempt to kill me, only strengthened the case for further investigation.