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

wounded man tumbled to the ground, his horse wheeled around, feeling the sudden yank of its bit. Unable to scramble free, the man threw an arm over his head. But too late. An iron-shod hoof circled through the air and cracked squarely against his skull, shattering it like an eggshell beneath the blow of a hammer.
    I gaped in horror, barely able to comprehend what I had just seen.
    Then, the air hissed. Arrows sailed above the breaking mist, arced downward and plunged into flesh. Two horses went down, pinning their riders. Another man fell from his mount, eyes wide in death. His party trapped on the narrow tongue of land, Arnaud flailed an arm, signaling retreat. But even as they turned to go without ever having put up a fight, another volley of arrows sang their requiem. The causeway was too narrow to allow them to all flee at once. Corpses clogged the way.
    I could not move or speak. A dozen dead or wounded lay scattered before the gate and along the land bridge. One man staggered to his feet and took two steps before he was struck through the neck. Another behind him, his way blocked, leapt into the water, desperate to escape. His head bobbed above the surface, then flew back as an arrow pierced his cheek. Blood sprayed around him. With a drawn-out gurgle, he slipped below, crimson bubbles marking the spot where he had last drawn air.
    Trumpeting in alarm, the swans beat their wings and arose in a cloud of white above the silver-dark water. Sleek necks stretched out before them, they ascended, going higher, higher. Above the pandemonium unfolding in the mist. Away from the massacre.
    The remaining men cleared the causeway and rounded the lake with a rumble of shouts. When Arnaud came to me, he said nothing, but grabbed my reins and led me away.
    My heart thudded in my throat. Hooves clattered around me. Taunts rang out from the castle.
    The moans of the dying fell away behind me. But I could not look back.
    It had begun.

 
    4
     
    Roger Mortimer:
    Kingston-upon-Thames – October, 1321

    THE RIVER THAMES FLOWED by in ageless indolence. A young boy, adrift on the current in a battered old rowing boat, rested his oars in his lap. In open-mouthed awe, he stared up at the long column of eight thousand fighting men moving along the road. My men. Many had fought with me in Ireland. Others lived on my lands or those of neighboring Marcher lords. They had all seen the consequences of Edward’s indulgences on Despenser. With every footfall and plodding hoof they stirred up swirls of dust. Several men stared back menacingly at the boy. He flipped his oars down into the water and pulled away as fast as he could.
    We had not yet crossed to Kingston-upon-Thames on our way from Oxford to Leeds Castle when the banner of Aymer Valence, the Earl of Pembroke, appeared at the bridge over the river. I reined my horse and signaled the column behind me to stop.
    “Who is it?” My uncle, Roger of Chirk, squinted into the angled morning rays of a late October sun. The creases around his eyes deepened with shadows. Beside him, Lord Bartholomew de Badlesmere stiffened and readjusted his dented helmet with a finger to his noseguard. He was Edward’s Royal Steward and the reason we had been plunged into this latest mire. He was also my kinsman by marriage. My eldest son, Edmund, had been married to his daughter, Elizabeth, for some years now, although at eight the girl was not yet old enough to join my son’s household. Of late, Bartholomew likely regretted the union, for it placed him squarely at odds with the king.
    I shaded my eyes with a bare hand. Plates of armor caught the sun’s reflection in scattered bursts. Pennons fluttered atop lances in the cool breeze. The earl’s small contingent clattered over the stone bridge. “Pembroke, but he hasn’t more than fifty men with him.”
    My uncle snorted. “So, the king sends Pembroke to do his talking for him. At least he picked the right man.”
    Bartholomew touched the hilt of his sword.