Read Online Isabeau, A Novel of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer by N. Gemini Sasson - Free Book Online

gloved palms together to bring the blood to my stiff fingers. With care, I picked my way between dozing men and poked at a dying fire with my sword. A charred pot lay overturned beside the fire, traces of burnt bean pottage crusted along the rim. Beside it was an empty cask, still smelling of ale. I jabbed at the logs, turning them over in the white ash, until I found the glowing embers. But when I looked about for more firewood, there was none to be had. I sank down, my sword resting in my lap, and stretched my hands toward the faltering flames.
    Across from me, a man writhed beneath layers of muddied wool, rolled to his knees and stood. My companion Sir John Maltravers. Eyes still shut, he swayed from side to side and scratched at his crotch, yawning. He opened one eye just wide enough to locate the struggling little fire and fumbled beneath his tunic to slide a hand into his breeches.
    My sword blade hovered above the dying flames. I raised it to his widening eyes. “Piss on my fire, Maltravers, and I’ll make a eunuch of you.”
    At the sound of my voice, Maltravers blinked to clear the sleep from his eyes. Muttering an apology, he yanked his hand free, retreated backward, and stumbled over the cask. He fell with a thunderous thud. In lighter times I would have mocked him for his clumsiness, but I was still in a bad temper from my sleepless night. He gave a rough moan and rolled to his side, clutching the back of his head. I started toward him to offer a hand, but something, a sound in the distance, made me turn around.
    Hooves pounded against frozen earth. A mounted messenger came down the row at an easy canter, searching left and right. He slowed as he saw me and brought his horse to a halt. “Where can I find Sir Roger of Wigmore or Lord Roger of Chirk?” he said.
    I shoved the end of my sword blade into the rock hard ground and rested both hands on the crossguard. “That depends. Who are you?”
    His fair eyebrows lifted. “Simon de Beresford.”
    “And whose man are you, Simon de Beresford?”
    He gave me a skeptical look. His pale blue eyes had the cold, hard look of steel. “I am Lord Pembroke’s squire.”
    “Then I am Sir Roger.”
    He tipped his chin up as a sly grin flickered across his mouth. “Ah then, I have, at times, had my purse filled by your uncle when he had need of information. My Lord Pembroke sends me to tell you that he has news of the Earl of Lancaster that should interest you.”
    “Go on.”
    “He has proof that the earl is in league with the Scots.”
    That should have come as no surprise to anyone, least of all a man as well-informed as Pembroke. “And the king knows of this?
    Simon nodded his head of silver-fair hair.
    “What proof?”
    “If you answer this, Earl Pembroke will tell you himself.” From beneath his padded tunic, he produced a letter and extended it to me.
    As soon as the letter left his hands, he turned his horse and started away.
    “Stop!” I called. “Were you not told to wait for a reply?”
    “You are to be the reply, my lord!” he shouted over his shoulder. “Or not.”
    He kicked his mount hard in the flanks and galloped away. I skimmed the letter once. Then, I read it more slowly. I snatched up my sword and slammed it back into its scabbard. “Christ’s blood,” I mumbled to myself, but Maltravers heard me.
    He got up on one knee, still rubbing at his skull. “What? The king on his way? Is there to be a fight?”
    “Not today, no. But if I’m not returned by this time tomorrow, put yourselves as far from the king as you can.”
    I raced to my uncle’s tent, thrust the flap aside and found him still snoring like a bear under his heap of furs. I nudged him in the small of his back with my boot.
    “Unless you’ve got food or drink,” he grumbled, “go the hell away.”
    I smacked the top of his white head with the letter. He thrashed an arm at me in refusal. Unwilling to abandon the warmth of his little cave, he clutched his covers