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

him again, wrapped in the warmth of his arms, kept me from going entirely mad. How I longed for those days in France when we had been afforded so much time alone. Longed to feel his chest pressed to my back, nothing more than a sheen of sweat between us, our lungs hungry for air as we returned to earth, deliriously spent.
    It was as if there were two pairs of us: the Roger and Isabeau, who in private meshed like the hand fitted to the glove, tender words whispered over silken sheets ... and the Sir Roger Mortimer and Queen Isabella who had sought to deliver England from tyranny, succeeded and must now forever struggle to hold onto power, lest it fall to someone else and be turned against us.
    Without a word, he turned and went, striding down the hill and disappearing in a swarm of soldiers laying out their blankets and squires tending to their knights’ horses. So many people. It was a wonder they could all move in one direction and arrive at the same place without disorder erupting daily.
    I waited beneath the tree, red sunset fading to dusky gray, the first silver pinpricks of starlight sparkling in the east. Waited for my knight to return, bearing a flask of wine and a pair of goblets. Waited for peace, elusive and rare. The night enveloped me, sending a breath of cool air down my back. All around, the camp quieted. Even the birds went silent. Soldiers, weary from a day’s march, were bedding down. I slid from the rock, mindless of the damp ground and drew my knees to my chest. My head sank down to the pillow of my forearm.
    “Isabeau?”
    I shook myself awake. Patrice laid a hand on my shoulder.
    “Your quarters have been ready for some time now.” Then she added with a smile, “Sir Roger sent a flask of French wine—and his regrets. It seems the Earl of Lancaster waylaid him and insisted on discussing strategy. Why are men so obsessed with the details of war? Can it really be so complicated?”
    She helped me up. As we strolled down the hill, I hooked my arm through hers and leaned against her. “Sometimes, Patrice, I think they don’t know any other way. Their pride prevents compromise.”
    ***
     
    As we approached York, a soft rain yielded to cloudless skies. A merlin, perched on a distant cairn, studied our creeping horde from on high, the constant wind ruffling his feathers and scouring our faces. Far to the north of the city stretched the first hint of undulating gold-green moors. There, grouse fed among the tender spring shoots of budding heather.
    My memories of York were far from being good ones. Five years ago, I had been chased from Tynemouth by James Douglas, as he and his bloodthirsty hobelars had descended upon the priory, even as lightning split the sky. After a stormy voyage aboard ship and then a pressed ride inland from Scarborough, I had stumbled sea-tossed and wind-beaten into the king’s chambers at York, only to be curtly dismissed by my husband, as Hugh Despenser sat leering beside him.
    Just a few days after our arrival, Sir John of Hainault led five hundred Flemish mercenaries into York. He was assigned the Whitefriars abbey as his headquarters, while Young Edward and I claimed residence at the house of the Blackfriars. It was Mortimer’s suggestion that the Hainaulters be lodged apart from our own soldiers as much as possible. No one, not even Sir John, protested.
    On a few occasions, there were slurs exchanged and taunts muttered. I could only hope that if called to pursue the Scots, a common enemy would make them forget their unfounded mistrust of one another. While little could be done to engender harmony amongst the common soldiers, I thought it wise to at least encourage familiarity between the English lords and Sir John. Thus, a feast was arranged in his honor. Come evening, full bellies and an endless stream of drink would put them all in better humor.
    That afternoon, my damsels parted my hair, combed it with great care and plaited it into two halves that were brought forward