The King Must Die (The Isabella Books) by N. Gemini Sasson Page B
Authors: N. Gemini Sasson
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horse skittered. A stag, its great pronged horns gleaming white in the darkness, bounded onto the path before us. It turned with a kick and crashed into a thicket of woods, branches snapping.
The jolt had more than awakened me, it set my heart racing. My thighs were cramped, my back aching from lack of rest. Again, I closed my eyes, my horse following my standard bearer before me.
From time to time, I took a glimpse around me and for hour after hour everything was black and oddly silent. I kept waiting for dawn’s first light to break beyond the western hills, but the clouds remained thick, the world beneath a cavern of nothingness.
A burst of light blazed across the sky, followed by the ear-splitting crack of thunder. The shrill whinny of horses rent the air. Moments later, lightning flashed again and again, until night became day then became night again. Then, the rain began. It poured from above as if we stood beneath a mighty waterfall and could not move from it.
The sky was a watery gray, every image around me blurred by the deluge. Yet we rode on, shoulders slumped beneath the pounding rain, water leaking into the cracks of our armor, soaking our shirts beneath. Wind stirred across my face. Shivering now, I realized it must be morning, even though there was no sun to be seen.
The front line lurched to a halt at a row of pine trees spread across the top of a hill. In the valley before us lay a mud-engorged river. A stone bridge, leading to a small town, spanned its width. Surprisingly, there was no sign that the Scots had laid ruin to the town. Had they indeed run back north? Or had we passed them in the night as they watched from the forest depths, laughing? Somewhere in the branches above, an irritated ‘chuck, chuck’ sounded. I glanced up to see a red squirrel grasping its pine cone, tufted ears pointed alertly forward.
Mortimer blinked against the rain pelting his face. “Haydon Bridge.”
“What river is that?”
“That, my lord, is the South Tyne. But it doesn’t look as if they’ve crossed here. We should rest a few hours, allow the men to eat.”
I nodded dully. A burning cramp spread from my neck through my shoulders and upper back. I reached inside the sack slung from my saddle and groped for the loaf of bread. My fingers met a soggy lump. I pulled it out, wrinkled my nose, and tore off a piece with my teeth. Rank with mold, I spit it at the ground and then flung the entire loaf away. It smacked against a tree with a dull thud. The squirrel scampered down the pine’s trunk, tail flicking wildly as it eyed the tainted food.
My stomach groaned. I unstoppered my flask of wine and took a long swallow, even though I was too wet to be thirsty and knew it would do little to fill my belly. I might have asked for a cake made of oats, but there would be no fires in this downpour. “What next then?”
Climbing down from his saddle, Mortimer glanced about. The others had already staggered beneath the trees, but there was no dry shelter to be found there, and so they crumpled into sodden heaps beneath their horses’ bellies, reins clutched in stiff hands, or made a tent of their cloaks barely big enough to keep the rain off their faces.
“Same as before.” His voice cracked with fatigue and he sank to his haunches. “First, we must find them.”
I swung a leg over my saddle and slid to the ground, clutching the cantle to keep from falling. “It seems it would be easier if they found us.”
Mortimer’s lip twitched, as if to answer. But instead, he flopped over on his side with a grunt and curled into a ball, pulling his wet cloak over his head.
***
For days it rained. Heavy, relentless rain, stabbing the misery sharply into the marrow of our bones. Food was quickly becoming scarce, for we had each packed no more than a few days’ worth and much of that had been ruined by the rain and the sweat of our horses. We drank from the rivers, brown and gritty with silt, and took sleep when we
The jolt had more than awakened me, it set my heart racing. My thighs were cramped, my back aching from lack of rest. Again, I closed my eyes, my horse following my standard bearer before me.
From time to time, I took a glimpse around me and for hour after hour everything was black and oddly silent. I kept waiting for dawn’s first light to break beyond the western hills, but the clouds remained thick, the world beneath a cavern of nothingness.
A burst of light blazed across the sky, followed by the ear-splitting crack of thunder. The shrill whinny of horses rent the air. Moments later, lightning flashed again and again, until night became day then became night again. Then, the rain began. It poured from above as if we stood beneath a mighty waterfall and could not move from it.
The sky was a watery gray, every image around me blurred by the deluge. Yet we rode on, shoulders slumped beneath the pounding rain, water leaking into the cracks of our armor, soaking our shirts beneath. Wind stirred across my face. Shivering now, I realized it must be morning, even though there was no sun to be seen.
The front line lurched to a halt at a row of pine trees spread across the top of a hill. In the valley before us lay a mud-engorged river. A stone bridge, leading to a small town, spanned its width. Surprisingly, there was no sign that the Scots had laid ruin to the town. Had they indeed run back north? Or had we passed them in the night as they watched from the forest depths, laughing? Somewhere in the branches above, an irritated ‘chuck, chuck’ sounded. I glanced up to see a red squirrel grasping its pine cone, tufted ears pointed alertly forward.
Mortimer blinked against the rain pelting his face. “Haydon Bridge.”
“What river is that?”
“That, my lord, is the South Tyne. But it doesn’t look as if they’ve crossed here. We should rest a few hours, allow the men to eat.”
I nodded dully. A burning cramp spread from my neck through my shoulders and upper back. I reached inside the sack slung from my saddle and groped for the loaf of bread. My fingers met a soggy lump. I pulled it out, wrinkled my nose, and tore off a piece with my teeth. Rank with mold, I spit it at the ground and then flung the entire loaf away. It smacked against a tree with a dull thud. The squirrel scampered down the pine’s trunk, tail flicking wildly as it eyed the tainted food.
My stomach groaned. I unstoppered my flask of wine and took a long swallow, even though I was too wet to be thirsty and knew it would do little to fill my belly. I might have asked for a cake made of oats, but there would be no fires in this downpour. “What next then?”
Climbing down from his saddle, Mortimer glanced about. The others had already staggered beneath the trees, but there was no dry shelter to be found there, and so they crumpled into sodden heaps beneath their horses’ bellies, reins clutched in stiff hands, or made a tent of their cloaks barely big enough to keep the rain off their faces.
“Same as before.” His voice cracked with fatigue and he sank to his haunches. “First, we must find them.”
I swung a leg over my saddle and slid to the ground, clutching the cantle to keep from falling. “It seems it would be easier if they found us.”
Mortimer’s lip twitched, as if to answer. But instead, he flopped over on his side with a grunt and curled into a ball, pulling his wet cloak over his head.
***
For days it rained. Heavy, relentless rain, stabbing the misery sharply into the marrow of our bones. Food was quickly becoming scarce, for we had each packed no more than a few days’ worth and much of that had been ruined by the rain and the sweat of our horses. We drank from the rivers, brown and gritty with silt, and took sleep when we
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