Free The King Must Die (The Isabella Books) by N. Gemini Sasson

fires. With the darkening sky, they were all but shadows in the silver mist that was gathering in the valley and creeping slowly across the land.
    Mortimer lowered his voice, spitting his words between clenched teeth. “Flemish mercenaries, Isabeau. Foreigners .”
    “And did we not land at Harwich with these very same mercenaries? How is this different? As I recall, it was you who touted their worth.”
    “We had no choice then. There was no guarantee that your husband was not going to raise an army against us. Even so, they were resented, mistrusted, barely tolerated. Need I remind you of the fights that nearly broke out every day?”
    “No,” I said, “you need not.” Arguing over such matters was too much effort. What I needed was something to fill my stomach and a good night’s rest, not this. “But it was the king’s request and it has been honored. It’s too late to renege now.”
    He pushed a hand through his hair and eased back down beside me. Bits of eggshell began to litter the ground as he plucked them away angrily. “How many?”
    “Twenty-five hundred, still only a fraction of our own numbers, but enough to make a difference. Why does this vex you so, Roger? Because he did not consult you?”
    Mortimer shrugged, but the twitch in his jaw muscles conveyed something far deeper than indifference. He clutched the bare egg with a tense fist. “He should have.”
    “Perhaps.” Mortimer was desperate to assert control over this campaign, but wisely reluctant to demand it. It didn’t matter if it was the king or Lancaster or someone else making a decision, he would resent it if they did not consult and heed him. As always, it seemed my duty to create compromise wherever discord existed. “If you wish to gain his respect, don’t tell him what to do. I know my son, Roger. He may need guidance, but he’ll resent anything being forced upon him—the same as you would.”
    “But I am forty, not fourteen. Isabeau, if he refuses to seek the wise counsel of those around him, I fear what may happen when we face the Scots on the battlefield. It could end brutally, and all too soon.”
    I laid both my hands on his. “So do I, Roger. So do I. That is why I’m trying so hard to seek compromise, even though Lancaster protests. I have sent so many letters, pleading letters, to the Scots, that I’ve lost count. But they’re wagering on this timing, hoping Young Edward is weak, that we lack cohesiveness and leadership. Short of giving them everything they ask for, it seems unlikely that an agreement of any sort will be reached. So when the king mentioned Sir John, there was sound reasoning behind it, don’t you think? He’s wise for his years, Roger. Wise enough to know that he has a lot to learn yet—and far from believing he can lead men into battle tomorrow without someone like you or Sir John beside him. He’ll turn to you when he needs you. Trust him at least that much.”
    Drawing his hands away, he turned them over, the white egg glistening in his palm. “Trust is such a delicate thing, isn’t it? So easily broken. So easily destroyed.”
    He curled his fingers around the egg, enclosing it. For a moment, I thought he might fling it at the ground, the tree trunk—or perhaps even me. Instead, he stuffed it in his mouth, devouring it in two hasty bites, as if it had never existed at all. Then he ripped off a hunk of the sweet bread and began to chew, a thought flickering over his pupils.
    “I forgot to bring us wine to wash our meal down with,” he said with an apologetic smile.
    “You’ll be forgiven, if you remedy your error before the sun sets. I’m afraid I’ll not last much longer.”
    As he rose to leave, I reached out to tap him on the leg, my fingertips grazing the rough links of his chausses. “When we reach York ...”
    Beneath dark eyes, soft with yearning, he smiled. I did not need to say more. For too long, we had been surrounded by too many people. Only the promise of being with