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

languor that was slowly devouring my men and turning them against one another like starving dogs in a pit.
    When we left Bridgnorth, skulking away in the darkness, I thought we would gain enough lead to get across the bridge at Shrewsbury before Edward ever took sight of us. But illness struck too many of my men along the way. Already they were weak from hunger and exhaustion. We did not march to Shrewsbury; we crawled. There, we came upon our dread – the king’s army not only holding the bridge to Shrewsbury, but encamped along the near bank. Had Edward wanted to, he could have sprung on us like a cat pounces on a cornered mouse.
    Why kill the prey, though, when he could play with it a while? Supplied with provisions from Shrewsbury, the king was more than willing, and able, to starve us into submission. I could either send my men to a quick and bloody end or condemn them to a long, slow death at winter’s cruel whim. If, however, my uncle and I gave ourselves up, our men could all go home.
    Edward demanded our complete submission. We were not in a position to bargain. Edward knew it. I knew it. My uncle, however, did not. He again requested full pardons. Edward refused.
    For a long, wearisome week, I argued with my uncle, but he would not give in to the king. He was all stubbornness and no sense, even as he grew weaker day by day. The winter cold had gripped him hard. His skin was as white as the snow capping the mountains. The circles around his eyes were the deep blue of an evening sky. His lungs and throat were choked with phlegm. In the mornings he coughed so hard it sounded as though he might expel his innards. Between spells, he wheezed like a sickly child. I feared that if I did not deliver him to rudimentary comfort, he would die from his own obstinacy.
    My uncle’s tent next to mine, I lay awake, unable to sleep. A dozen arguments swirled in my mind: why I should still hold my ground against the king, why I should give in, why I should fight  ... and above the muddle of questions, my uncle’s bellowed protests echoed in my head. I heard then his hacking cough, followed by hoarse retching through the canvas walls. Defeated, I sat up, hunched forward, and tugged the blanket up around my aching shoulders. My elbows on my knees, I buried my head in my hands.
    Edmund stirred beneath his covers. “Uncle Roger – how is he?”
    I looked toward my son through the veil of night, his face only a vague outline of black against a field of darkest gray. “He will not last, I fear.”
    There was a long silence. Edmund sniffed and I heard him rub his nose with a sleeve. “Perhaps he doesn’t want to.” He flopped over and within minutes his chest rose and fell in the steady rhythm of peaceful slumber.
    Half the night or more I stared at my son, wrapped tight in his thin cocoon. I did not ponder on what he might think of me. I did not want to know. Hours went by before I came back to Edmund’s simple observation about his great-uncle. If my uncle died before he was forced to give himself up, then he would have won one small victory. He would die never having given in to a tyrant.
    Come morning, I would bend to my uncle, sense or no, and let him keep his pride. We would go back south, find somewhere to make our stand, and pray to God winter did not kill us before the king’s army did. If we could hold out until spring, perhaps old allies would return to defend us. Perhaps angels would swoop from the sky and strike the king dead with bolts of lightning. A man could dream  ...
    Restless, I rose at first light, even though I heard nothing but the rumbling snores of my uncle. I trudged out into the camp and wandered along the narrow rows between the tents. It was so quiet it looked as though the plague had struck. Had the king attacked early that morning, he would have butchered us beneath our blankets. Frost shimmered on the cloaks of soldiers as they lay on the ground. Even in their sleep, some shivered. I pounded my