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

His jaw quivered. “Is there hope yet, d’you think?”
    “I’ll not grasp at hope until I hear what the earl has to say.” I spurred my horse forward and my personal guard fell in behind me. My uncle let out a sharp curse as he struggled to catch up before I reached the earl, who was now across the bridge and coming up the road.
    My uncle huffed as he came abreast of me and strained to stay in his saddle. “Do you believe me – what I said about Despenser long ago?”
    I gave him a sidelong glance. He jounced hard in his saddle, but rather than a grimace he threw me a smug smile. I leered back at him. “Your gloating is of no help at the moment. But yes, I do. I should have believed you when you first warned me about Despenser. And I should have believed what you said about the king. But what good would that have done, Uncle?” I lowered my voice as the earl slowed his horse and prepared to dismount beneath a grove of oaks on the north side of the road. “In the end, we’re all forced to choose sides anyway. And if we don’t, the king will somehow make us, won’t he?” I leaned back and jerked so hard on the reins that my horse arched his neck and spun in a half circle before coming to a stop.
    I dropped to the ground and felt the weight of my armor with the impact.
    “Good day, Earl Pembroke!” I called with feigned enthusiasm. I swept my mail coif from my head, tossed it to a squire behind me and reached a hand toward the earl in greeting.
    He clasped my hand firmly and drew me to him in an embrace. His head barely came to my shoulder, but he was broad of girth. Each of his thighs was as stout as a Yule log. As reputation had it, he was not a man one wanted to face in the jousts. “A good morning it is, my lords.”
    When he stepped away, his eyes, dark as a Moor’s, were grim with foreboding. His gaze swept toward Bartholomew. The strained smile that crossed his mouth was not one of goodwill, I guessed.
    “King Edward is still besieging Leeds?” I said.
    My uncle sidled up to me, his breathing still ragged. He acknowledged the earl with a stiff bow.
    Pembroke nodded at each of us in turn. “He is. Lady Badlesmere will not surrender the fortress.”
    Bartholomew clambered down from his saddle and stretched his hands forward, imploring. “M-my wife,” he sputtered, unable to hide the desperation in his voice, “she did not understand my orders. She did not know the queen was merely returning from a pilgrimage. Please, she meant no harm.”
    “Perhaps,” Pembroke impugned dryly, “she should have advised her archers not to aim so accurately.”
    I silenced Bartholomew with a glare. “Earl Pembroke, let us not waste breath arguing over what is already done. We come, at the lady’s request, to relieve the siege. However,” – I summoned a smile as diplomatic and genial as I could, given the circumstances – “this can be easily resolved with words alone. There need be no more blood shed.”
    “You would do well, Sir Roger, to go back to Wigmore and stay there awhile.”
    I glanced over my shoulder at the sizable army my uncle and I had brought with us. “There are more coming.”
    Pembroke was too levelheaded, and well-informed, to be swayed by my threat. “Who? Lancaster? Forgive me, but whatever promises he may have made to any of you, he won’t hold.”
    It was true. Lancaster had proven unreliable more than once. What’s more, he detested Badlesmere and made no secret of it.
    My uncle shook his finger in the air and limped intrusively close to Pembroke. Without his stick to lean on, he was noticeably lame. “Aymer, we’re old friends, are we not? Fought together in Scotland how many times? You were there when I tumbled from my horse and shattered my hip. It has never been good since.” He clamped a hand lightly on Pembroke’s upper arm and gave him a stern look. “We know each other too well to dance around this. So, let us leap to the truth, shall we? It was well out of Queen