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

to the king. Mercy, however, was not forthcoming. They hung twelve of the garrison from its walls as a warning. Lady Badlesmere and her children, including Elizabeth, went to the Tower. As prisoners of the king.
    In Pontefract, we secured Lancaster’s promise to join us, then swiftly returned to the Marches to secure our holdings. Edward, bloated with confidence, advanced up the Thames from Leeds. He halted in Gloucester long enough to gorge himself at Christmas supper and take wicked amusement in a few more hangings.
    In haste, we withdrew west of the Severn, secured the bridge at Worcester against the royal army and pressed north to wait for Lancaster.
    How easily Lancaster had sworn to stand with us. How easily he soon forgot.
    Rain turned to sleet. Sleet to snow. The hills gleamed like polished marble beneath an iron sky. The valleys lay eerily still and the towns barren as folk fled before us. All the while Edward’s army stalked us like the specter of death from the other side of the Severn.
    We had no time to stop and warm our bodies before a fire. Our bellies roared with hunger. Yet every day we pushed on, our fingers stiff and frozen, our feet swinging like dead stumps from the ends of our legs. My horse began to lag and soon he developed a rattle in his chest. I left him tied to a post at the gate of a farmer’s pen and hoped he might live to serve another, but knew he probably would not. Men went off to piss and never came back or disappeared into the darkness while others fought for sleep beneath tattered cloaks. Each day we waited for word of Lancaster. Each day none came. Just as the winter sun became veiled behind high clouds, our hopes grew ever dimmer.
    I looked southward into a coal black sky smeared with amber flames. Smoke rose in twisting spires from the town of Bridgnorth and drifted on a brisk, cold wind to sting my nostrils. Earlier that night, we had launched a surprise attack across the bridge. Edward, unfortunately, recovered quickly enough to prevent a complete routing. Before my men fled back west across the bridge, they touched torch to thatch. The damp thatch was slow to spark, but once it did, billows of thick smoke poured into the streets, creating confusion amongst the king’s ranks.
    A growl of contempt rumbled deep in my uncle’s throat. “So what did this buy us? One more day? A few hours?” A streak of soot ran from the right side of his forehead to the edge of his mail coif, making him look like some old beggar who had been digging in the ashes for bones. “What do you suppose the king was thinking,” he mused, rubbing at his sagging jowls, “when he told me to secure Wales against you?”
    “That it would come to something like this. He gambled, his luck against ours. And if Lancaster does not arrive on the morrow, the king will win.”
    My uncle gulped down ale and handed me the flask. “If Thomas of Lancaster could keep his blessed word, we’d be warm and dry right now. Spineless bastard.”
    I had no desire to banter over the obvious. Lancaster should have arrived days ago. He had broken his promise. It was not the first time. Even Pembroke had warned us that the earl was all bombast and bluster. I emptied the flask and let it drop to the ground. Had I a dozen casks, I would have drained them dry, too.
    “To think,” my uncle lamented, “our bliss lasted all of two months before King Edward lashed out like a teased and tethered dog. Longshanks was a horrid tyrant, but he honored loyalty and let no one rule him. His son is a limp kitten who wants to be stroked and suckle himself to sleep.”
    I said nothing. Once, I had been high in the king’s favor; now, I was a hunted rebel. I sank to my haunches and cradled my throbbing head in my hands.
    “What now, nephew? We can’t go west. The Welsh will slaughter us like lame cattle before they allow the king that pleasure.”
    The taunts of Edward’s archers carried from across the bridge. Arrows hissed back and forth in