The exiled lord of Wigmore was gloriously drunk. Alcohol was one of his favourite mistresses, though their relationship had cooled when he embarked on his affair with Isabella. The Queen of England was the jealous, possessive type, and would not allow Mortimer any lovers besides her.
“But she is not talking to me,” he muttered, weaving unsteadily down a corridor, “so, for the moment, we can be together again.”
He grinned foolishly at the goblet in his hand. The goblet contained hot, strong wine, and rather more of it had spilled down his hose or onto the floor than into his mouth. Concentrating, Mortimer tipped his head and upended the contents, grunting in pleasure as the spicy liquid poured down his throat.
He leaned his forehead against the wall, replaying in his mind the scene of his furious row with Isabella, several days previously. They had been at dinner, discussing the possibility of raising mercenaries and the issue of young Edward’s betrothal to Philippa of Hainault. Isabella had suggested that she leave for her territory of Ponthieu to raise the soldiers, while Mortimer, acting as the prince’s guardian, escorted him to Hainault to begin negotiations with Count William.
“I blame you, you evil bitch,” Mortimer mumbled, glaring at the dregs of his secret mistress lurking in the goblet. “As always, you clouded my judgment and loosened my tongue.”
The conversation should have been an amicable one, but tensions were running high. One of Mortimer’s ships had recently intercepted a vessel from England and discovered barrels of silver pennies in her hold. When pressed, the English captain had admitted that the money was from the Younger Despenser, and intended to bribe French assassins to murder Mortimer and Isabella.
The ship had been brought into port in Calais and impounded, and the money sent to Mortimer as useful funds for his war chest, but the captain claimed that there were other ships. One or two might have slipped past the coastal guards already, and the blood money found its way into willing hands.
Isabella had also reckoned without her lover in his cups. Nervous, paranoid and drunk, he had flared up, accusing her of planning to flee back to England and her husband. She had strenuously denied it, much foul language had passed between them, and the meal broke up with Mortimer threatening to slit her throat if she ever dared abandon him.
“And I won’t act as your brat’s fucking nursemaid, either!” he had bellowed, hurling a bowl against the wall for emphasis.
News of the row had reached the ear of King Charles, and he had responded by summoning his sister to a private audience. Shortly afterwards she was given chambers of her own, well away from those she usually shared with Mortimer. He was left to prowl about the palace, feeling like a caged beast, except he was not caged. He was free to come and go as he pleased, and the King and his court treated him with respectful, if distant, courtesy.
Mortimer’s only option, as he was doing his best to ignore by drowning his wits in drink, was to swallow his pride and apologise to Isabella. He had too much invested in her, and nowhere to go except a life of permanent exile if she cut him adrift. However, he had never apologised to anyone in his life, and even the thought of it him feel almost physically sick.
“Fuck them,” he muttered as he shuffled down the corridor, pushing himself along with his hand against the wall. There was more wine in his chamber, or should be. If not, he would thrash his servant for his inefficiency, and get more wine himself. There was always more wine, somewhere.
The corridor was wide, ill-lit, and led to a spiral staircase. Shadows huddled together for company at the base of the stair, and now one detached itself and blocked the end of the corridor.
“Milord Mortimer,” the shadow said in a soft French accent, “vous devriez être au lit.”
“Eh? What’s that?” Mortimer grunted, trying to see who it was that spoke to him. “Did you say I ought to be in bed? I am drunk, you insolent French bastard, speak English.”
The shadow moved closer, at great speed, accompanied by a hiss of steel against leather. Mortimer glimpsed the reflection of torch-light from a short, wide blade, and one word pierced the fumes clouding his brain. Assassin.
He was unarmed, having left his eating knife on the supper table, but wore a heavy, fur-lined cloak against the cold. The blade of the poniard stabbed at his chest, but he managed to catch it in the folds of his cloak, along with the assassin’s hand and forearm. The other hand grabbed for his throat, and the two men grappled silently in the darkness of the corridor.
Mortimer tried to wrest the poniard out of the other’s grip, but the Frenchman was too strong. Abandoning the attempt, he threw his superior weight against him and managed to heave him, legs kicking, into the air. Mortimer hurled the man against the far wall, where he cracked his skull against the stone and slid down in an unconscious heap.
Breathing hard, Mortimer caught his breath and wiped the sweat from his brow. He had dropped his goblet during the fight, and it lay on its side, the contents spilling out slowly over the flagstones, red wine, red as blood. But there was no blood on the knife he held in his left hand, and none bleeding from his body. Muttering a prayer of thanks, he cautiously bent over the unconscious man and used the knife to twitch aside his hood.
He vaguely recognised the plump, bearded face underneath as belonging to a French knight of the court, though his name escaped him. Mortimer lifted the man’s wrist and checked his pulse. He was alive.
Mortimer sat back on his haunches and tried to think through the fog of alcohol and shock. A Frenchman he did not know personally had just tried to kill him, and had clearly planned the murder beforehand. The would-be assassin had been lying in wait by the stair, knowing that his victim had to come this way to reach his bedchamber.
Two obvious answers presented themselves to Mortimer. King Charles might be trying to kill him, which he considered unlikely. Charles might not like his sister’s unpredictable, hard-drinking lover, but he and Isabella had political value. The other possibility was that the assassin had recently acquired some silver pennies from England.
The thought of the Younger Despenser’s face made Mortimer’s knuckles turn white and angry blood flow up the side of his neck. He felt no hatred to the French knight who had just tried to kill him, rather the man who had paid him to do the deed.
There was no question of killing the unconscious man. This was not Ireland, where such events were common and the timber halls of the petty kings were spattered with blood, but the chief palace of the King of France.
Mortimer decided to simply leave him where he lay. If he woke up with a throbbing skull and a degree more wisdom, all well and good. If the damage to his skull was more serious and he failed to wake up, Mortimer would not answer for it. He had to leave, and quickly. Perhaps there were more assassins lurking in the palace, and he could not hope to be lucky the next time one tried to stick a knife in him. But where could he go?
There was only one option. He would have to swallow his pride, indigestible morsel though it might be, and go rushing after Isabella. He felt sure she would accept it, after he had burbled enough remorseful endearments and pleasured her once or twice into the bargain.
His mistress entirely forgotten, Mortimer straightened up and hurried away down the corridor.