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

looked over my shoulder. But it was only a mouse, scurrying from under the bed into a tiny hole between the stones at floor level. I leaned back against the cold, rough wall and gazed out at the world beyond. A world to which I no longer belonged. Below, fishing boats slipped downriver on their way out to open sea. Merchants’ barges slogged past them against the current. One maneuvered into a wharf to unload sacks of grain. The sun beamed bright over London, alive with activity, but I felt only the icy fingers of winter slip beneath my tunic to steal the warmth from my flesh and the pain sharp in every rattled bone and bruised muscle.
    At intervals, I heard dampened voices through the thickness of the door. Mostly, there was only silence and the faint clack of boot heels from the sentries along the walls connecting the towers. Finally, the latch turned. Hinges squeaked. The door opened. A guard shuffled in, flashed me a look of contempt, and flung a hunk of bread and a cup of drink on the floor next to the door. Had I remarked on how he had spilt half the drink in his carelessness, I would have gotten a rude welcome from him. He backed out. Two others behind him parted, but instead of one of them reaching to close the door, another stepped between them and entered. It was the man who had given the orders to send me here last night. He gestured for the guards to close the door.
    “I take it you know who I am?” I grinned facetiously. “Sir Roger Mortimer, England’s greatest traitor, did they tell you? Some might argue that. Myself for one. But I wager you’re an important man in these ranks to have been granted the honor of looking after me. What is your name, good sir?”
     He crossed his arms. The lines of his face were firmly set to show he afforded me no sympathy. “Gerard d’Alspaye, Sub-lieutenant of the Tower. I came to see if you needed a physician?”
    “I am to live after all, then?” But even as I asked it, I feared the only purpose in keeping me alive was to put me on trial. A trial with the sentence already written. When he gave no reply, I plied him further. “How many years have you been in the king’s service?”
    “All of it. And ten years under his father before that.”
    “Well then, you deserve the honor. Although it may not be for long. If Edward has his way I’ll be headless ere springtime.” I went to the chair and eased my aching body onto it. If I stood any longer, my legs would give way. “So, where have you put my uncle and son?”
    Impervious to my attempts to learn more, he repeated himself. “Do you need a physician?”
    “Do I look broken?” I answered peevishly. I looked toward the window, quite sure I would be spending many days, months perhaps, alone like this as I awaited my fate. “Send your physician to my uncle. He is old and ill.”
    D’Alspaye nodded and turned to go.
    “Lieutenant,” I called, still not looking at him, “is there anything you can tell me?”
     “Only that it is a pity to see you here  ... my lord.”
    Then I heard his knock on the door, the sliding of the outer bar, and his footsteps fading away. I sighed and regarded my meager meal. The mouse froze momentarily, a morsel of bread clenched between its tiny claws. Its whiskers twitched in frantic indecision. We studied each other closely. At length, it scampered away.
    I rose, kicked the cup against the door and lay down in my cold, hard bed.

    *****

    Never again did I see the guards that had escorted us from Shrewsbury to London. Those that kept watch over me daily were less violent men, but more impressionable. They had heard of my exploits in Ireland. I told them how I tamed the Irish and brought law to the land. I told them of Bannockburn, a tale that needed no embellishment. Shortly after that, Gerard d’Alspaye came and asked me to tell it again. He poured us both cups of ale and sat down on my decrepit chair, listening with the rapt attention of a young boy who sits at his father’s