Free The Splendour Falls by Susanna Kearsley

Isabelle.’ He was not moved; his ugly face was resolute. ‘Upon your life my own life hangs. I am not sent to save the household – only you. It is yourself the rebels seek,’ he reminded her, ‘and once they learn their prize is flown, the castle will be safe. The siege will end.’
    ‘There is the Treasury, still.’
    ‘These men have no desire for treasure.’
    No, she thought. They had one cause, and one cause only – to force John to release his nephew Arthur. And so he would, in time. Frowning, she drew back, gathering the folds of her robe about her. ‘What news of Arthur of Brittany?’ she asked, slowly. ‘Is he well?’
    The eyes that touched hers held a fleeting trace of pity. And then he looked beyond her to where Alice stood in silence by the bed, and for a moment understanding passed between the dark knight and the old woman. ‘See that your mistress dresses warm,’ he said. He bowed and turned away.
    Watching the last faint flickering of torchlight vanish down the twisting stairs, it seemed to Isabelle that every stone around her breathed a sigh of cold despair, as if by sorcery her own bedchamber had become a prison … or a tomb.

C HAPTER S IX
    From all a closer interest flourish’d up …
    ‘You’ve done it now,’ said Paul, as we watched Simon bounding off away from us.
    ‘Whatever do you mean?’
    ‘That story you just told us, about Queen Isabelle. You mentioned treasure. Big mistake.’ With Simon safely out of sight, he rummaged in his pocket for his cigarettes, shifting clear of the shadow cast by the tower at his shoulder. It was in ruins now, the Moulin Tower – an empty hull of stone with dark weeds sprouting in the roofless chambers. And no one walked those chambers, any more. A sign beside the bolted door said sternly: Danger! so we leaned instead against the low lichen-crusted wall that formed the western boundary of the château grounds. Behind our backs the slumbering Vienne flowed seaward, unconcerned.
    Paul cupped the match against the breeze. ‘Telling a story like that to Simon,’ he advised me, ‘is kind of likewaving a red flag in front of a bull. He’s all fired up, now.’
    ‘He’s only gone to find the toilet, Paul.’
    ‘Don’t you believe it. Not my brother.’ He grinned. ‘He has the bladder of a camel. No, you wait and see – he’s sneaked off down to the entrance booth to see what he can learn about the tunnels.’
    I looked along the empty path, intrigued. ‘But he doesn’t speak French.’
    ‘That wouldn’t stop him.’ Stretching his legs out in front of him, Paul dug his feet into the gravel and braced his hands beside him on the sun-warmed stone. ‘So,’ he said, ‘what happened?’
    ‘When?’
    ‘To John and Isabelle. You never finished the story.’
    ‘Oh, that.’ The breeze blew my hair in my eyes and I pushed it back absently. ‘It’s not the happiest of endings, I’m afraid. John did kill Arthur, or at least he had him killed, depending on which chronicler one reads. The King of France – Philippe – you remember the statue? Well, Philippe went rather wild. He’d raised the boy, you see. He’d been great friends with John’s big brother Geoffrey, Arthur’s father, and when Geoffrey died Philippe took Arthur back to Paris, brought him up. John might as well have killed Philippe’s own son.’
    ‘So he started a war.’
    I nodded. ‘A terrible war. It cost John nearly everything. Chinon was one of the first castles to be captured, actually – it fell to Philippe not long after Arthur died.’
    ‘And Isabelle?’
    I looked up at the Moulin Tower, lonely and abandoned,the green weeds grasping at the crumbled window ledge. ‘He lost her too, in the end. John had foul moods and jealous rages, like his father. He even followed in his father’s footsteps in another way – kept Isabelle locked up and under guard, just as his mother had been kept.’
    Paul frowned. ‘How sad.’
    ‘Yes, well,’ I shrugged, ‘it’s