Insurrection: Renegade [02]

by Robyn Young

  ‘I want Earl Robert alive!’

  The shock of his own name resounded through him.

  The realisation that this was no random attack vanished as Robert was forced to focus his attention forward, trees and low branches whipping past, perilously close. There was a scream of pain as one of the squires caught his knee on a trunk, the force wrenching his leg back so hard his thighbone snapped. He tumbled from the saddle, disappearing into the bracken, leaving his palfrey to gallop on without him. Hearing a mad barking behind him, Robert realised Uathach was still tethered to the crupper, the bitch running frantically at Fleet’s hooves. He slashed back and down with his blade, feeling the snap as the leash broke. Between the trees to the right, he caught snatched views of the lough. Thoughts raced through his mind.

  They must have been watching. Following. Ulster’s men? Or, worse, King Edward’s?

  Against his body, wedged through his sword belt, Malachy’s staff had an uncomfortable solidity; more tangible with the threat that it would now be taken from him. Risking a look over his shoulder, Robert saw flashes of colour: a cloak, sky-blue, a horse’s patterned trapper. The enemy was gaining.

  ‘Robert!’

  Hearing the shout, he whipped back round to see the hulking mass of a fallen tree blocking the way ahead, roots splayed skyward. He jerked hard on the reins, causing Fleet to veer to the right. Robert swore as he saw Edward and Thomas swerving left behind Alexander and Christopher Seton, but it was too late to change direction. He was committed to the course.

  Harsh shouts rose from their pursuers, punctuated by the baying of the dogs, as the company split, Robert galloping after Niall, Cormac and Murtough. Another pained cry echoed, the sound dislocated in the tightly packed trees. Had one of his brothers been unhorsed? Or Alexander, or Christopher? Uathach was no longer behind him. Robert gripped the reins. He couldn’t think about anyone else.

  They were following a natural pathway of sorts, the trees thinning as the land descended into a valley, carved by a stream. Ahead, another fallen bough lay twisted across the track. Robert saw Niall kick his horse up and over, his black hair flying as he landed on the other side and urged his courser on towards the stream. As Cormac followed, the back hoof of his horse clipped the bough. The rotten wood splintered on impact, but he too landed neatly. Next, Murtough made the leap, the cowl of his habit flapping free from his head.

  Even as he took the jump, Robert knew the monk wasn’t going to make it. His sturdy palfrey was used to track ambling, not this reckless forest pursuit. Smaller than the swift coursers, it wasn’t strong enough for the hurdle. It made a brave attempt, but caught its front hooves on the top of the bough. This time the wood didn’t splinter. The palfrey pitched forward sending Murtough hurtling into the ground. There was a hideous squeal as the horse collapsed, its front leg fracturing on impact. Robert was only paces behind. There was nowhere else to go. Spurring at Fleet’s sides for all he was worth, he aimed at the fallen tree, hoping against hope he could make it over the top of the flailing horse on the other side.

  Fleet saw the danger and tried to veer in mid-flight to avoid the wounded palfrey. He might have made it, but the palfrey twisted instinctively away, sensing the animal bearing down on it. Fleet’s hoof landed between its front legs. Robert was flung violently from the saddle as the courser buckled on top of the palfrey. The world spun, treetops wheeling in his vision, before he crashed into the mud, the breath knocked from him. His sword sailed from his grasp into the undergrowth.

  Robert lay motionless, heaving the air back into his lungs, before pushing himself up. Fleet was trying to stand, the palfrey struggling beneath. Murtough was still in the saddle, being ground into the mud by the weight of both horses. The monk’s scarred face was just visible. It was covered in blood. One arm was flung above his head, switching this way and that with the horse’s frantic movements. Hearing hoof-beats, Robert turned to see Niall riding back.

  ‘Hurry!’ Niall drew to a skidding halt, holding out a hand. ‘They’re coming!’

  As Robert staggered to his feet, he saw their pursuers racing towards them beyond the fallen bough. Some of the riders broke away, clearly meaning to ride around the obstacle and outflank them. He wrenched the staff from his belt, the cloth falling away as he thrust the relic at his brother’s outstretched hand. ‘Take it!’

  Niall Bruce grasped the gem-encrusted crosier, but his youthful face filled with shock. ‘No, Robert! Get up behind me!’

  ‘Your horse cannot carry us both.’ Robert glanced back. A man in a sky-blue cloak was leading the charge, his face determined. ‘Go! Get it to Scotland. To James Stewart. Go!’ He roared the last word, striking Niall’s courser on the rump and sending the animal charging away.

  Robert lunged for the bushes where his weapon had landed. His fingers curled around the hilt as the thunder of hooves filled the forest. He turned, swinging the blade round to defend himself as the man in the blue cloak came hurtling towards him. There was a fierce shout and a rush of limbs and red hair as Cormac swept in from the side. He lashed out with his sword, catching the man in blue in the back. It was a glancing blow that was deflected by mail, but the man had been leaning in to tackle Robert and the attack caught him by surprise. He fell forward in his stirrup and crashed against the pommel. While he was off-balance, Robert crouched and swung his broadsword, two-handed, into the front leg of the man’s horse. As the animal and its rider smashed into the mud, Robert swooped.

  The man reacted quickly, rolling to avoid Robert’s first strike, then bringing up his sword to deflect the second. The blades clashed, the man snarling with the effort as Robert pressed down on top of him. He kicked out, catching Robert in the knee with his mailed boot. Robert staggered back, his sword going wide, giving his opponent the chance to haul himself to his feet. The man’s blue cloak was streaked with mud and there was a gash down the side of his face. His black hair was matted with blood, but his gaze was focused as he came in for the attack, thrusting at Robert’s side.

  Robert battered his sword away, then switched back and lunged with the pommel, aiming to break his enemy’s nose. The man flung his head to one side and reeled out of reach, then came in hard and fast, with a brutal cut to the shoulder. As Robert deflected it, grunting at the vicious concussion of steel, he dimly heard the squeal of a horse and Cormac’s yell, but he didn’t have a chance to see what had happened to his foster-brother before his opponent struck again.

  Robert ducked under one blow, blocked the second, then caught the third in the shoulder. His hauberk and the padded gambeson beneath protected him from any cut, but the impact still drove him to his knees. He shoved back fiercely with his own blade, sending his opponent stumbling away, but the man recovered quickly. Swiping at his forehead with the back of his gloved hand, wiping a stroke of blood across his brow, he came in again. Pushing up from his knees, Robert launched forward, taking the man by surprise. He roared with the effort, propelling him into a tree trunk. The force knocked the breath from the man’s lungs and the sword from his hand. Fear flooded his eyes, as Robert brought up his broadsword.

  ‘Earl Robert!’

  The sound of his name blasted through his concentration. In the periphery of his vision, Robert saw that one of the knights had hold of Cormac, one hand grasping a fistful of his hair, the other pressing the blade of a sword against his throat.

  ‘Lower your sword,’ came the knight’s voice. ‘Or I’ll slit the bastard’s neck.’

  Robert paused, his gaze flicking back to the man in front of him, pinned to the tree trunk at the mercy of his blade. Even through the blood-lust that pounded in him with the desire to finish the fight, Robert knew the threat wasn’t idle. The death of an Irishman, even a nobleman, would mean little to these men. The penalty for killing a native was much less than it was for the murder of an Englishman.

  Slowly, he backed away, breathing hard. Lowering his sword, he placed it on the ground in front of him. The knight who had hold of Cormac didn’t re
linquish his grip. There were six others with him, three mounted, the rest on foot. Two of the men held mastiffs on leashes. The dogs strained at the bonds, growling.

  Keeping his eyes on Robert, the man in blue bent to pick up his fallen blade. He hefted it, jaw pulsing with anger, but made no move towards Robert. Instead, he gestured to his three mounted comrades. ‘Follow the others. Take the dogs. I think he gave the staff to one of his men.’ He looked back at Robert. ‘Who was it? One of your brothers?’ He stepped forward, his sword levelled at Robert’s chest. ‘Tell me.’

  The air filled with a ferocious barking as a grey shape hurtled out of the undergrowth.

  ‘Esgar!’ came a warning cry.

  The man in blue turned, startled, as Uathach leapt at him, her jaws stretching wide. He just had time to thrust up with his sword, before she was on him. The blade caught the hound in mid-air, punching through the soft skin of her stomach. Uathach howled as the blade was withdrawn in a spray of red and she was sent sprawling. Robert roared in fury at the sight of his beloved hound, daughter of his grandfather’s favourite bitch, curled in agony in a pool of her own spreading blood. He lunged for the man, meaning to tear him apart with his hands, but was grabbed roughly by two of the knights.

  The man in the blue cloak turned on him, his blade gleaming with Uathach’s blood. ‘You should have stayed in Scotland, Sir Robert.’

  Glenarm, Ireland, 1301 AD

  Adam walked his white charger through the streets of Glenarm, between rows of wattle houses daubed with clay and peat. The horse’s hooves sank in the dung and refuse packed down deep in the mud. It was market day and the town was crowded with farmers leading livestock into the square where a cluster of stalls had been erected. The clanking bells around the necks of goats and cows made a hollow cacophony. As a flock of sheep was driven in front of him, Adam slowed his horse, but kept his gaze on the young man in the russet tunic hurrying ahead of the jostling animals, a large basket carried awkwardly under his arm.

  It was a bright March morning, the sea dark blue, hemmed with white along the shoreline where a river bubbled into the bay. Fishing boats bobbed on the tide, the men hauling up wicker baskets crawling with crabs and lobsters. There was a buoyant atmosphere in the little port, the inhabitants stirred by the promise of spring and the breath of warmth in the salty air. A woman pushed pale domes of dough into a bakehouse, releasing smoke fragrant with the cooked loaves inside. Above her, two men laughed and talked as they laid fresh straw on a roof. Farmers greeted one another, their Gaelic brusque over the bleating of their animals.

  Adam remained aloof on his horse as he rode through their midst, an outsider looking in. It was how he spent much of his life, but while in larger towns and cities he was usually invisible, here it was impossible to remain unnoticed. His presence had already generated a great deal of curiosity, some fearful, some hostile. For a start, his charger was much bigger than the native horses, which to him looked like ponies. His navy cloak, although soiled from travel, was well-tailored and, beneath it, the fish-scale shimmer of mail was unmistakable. His dark hair had grown long these past months and his beard was full, but neither could disguise the olive tone of his skin that so distinctly marked him as a foreigner. But by far the most conspicuous thing about him was the great crossbow that hung from his back on a thick leather strap.

  The composite bow was made of horn, sinew and yew, covered with leather and decorated with coloured cord that criss-crossed the stave all the way to the stirrup that was used to load it. It was the weapon of mercenaries; banned by popes, employed by kings. Feared by all. Along with the packs strapped to his saddle swung a basket of quarrels, each iron-tipped head capable of piercing a knight’s armour, his leg and the saddle and horse beneath. Glenarm, under the lordship of Robert Bruce, lay in hostile territory, for much of Antrim’s hinterland was controlled by the English. But even here, in these troubled times, people weren’t accustomed to seeing such a weapon.

  As the goats crowding the thoroughfare were driven into a pen, Adam pricked his horse into an idle trot, leaving the stares behind him. The young man with the basket was heading for the beach, his russet tunic like a flag against the blue sea. Adam hung back, watching as his target approached a fisherman standing by a line of lobster pots. The two men greeted one another, their voices faint on the breeze. When Adam had arrived he had worried that he wouldn’t be able to glean any information from the Gaelic-speaking inhabitants, but after a fortnight watching Lord Donough’s hall he realised that quite a few of them could speak English, no doubt from living so closely with the settlers for generations.

  The youth opened the lid of his basket for the fisherman to deposit four lobsters inside, then, hefting the basket on his hip, made for the river mouth where a track ran alongside the estuary, following the narrowing waters inland. Adam trailed him, keeping his distance until the wattle houses of the town gave way to fields and animal paddocks. Lord Donough’s hall appeared in the foreground, rising from its mound above a loop in the river. Beyond, the hills rose into rocky peaks where buzzards circled. As his target approached a copse of trees, Adam trotted closer. The young man glanced round at the jangle of the bridle and wandered off the track, expecting horse and rider to pass. Adam drew nearer. The youth turned again, a frown furrowing his brow as he took in the great horse and the armed man astride it.

  ‘You’re Lord Donough’s man?’ Adam called.

  The young man halted at the strangely accented English. He looked nervously around, as if seeking assistance, but the track was empty. Only a few horses grazed in the paddock that ran alongside the river. ‘Yes,’ he answered, uncertain.

  Adam dismounted, looping the reins over one of the paddock’s posts. He held up his hands. A gesture of peace. ‘I am looking for Sir Robert Bruce, the Earl of Carrick. I bear a message for him.’

  The youth’s frown relaxed a little. ‘He was here, sir. But no longer.’ The English was thick in his mouth, as though his tongue were wrapped in treacle.

  ‘Where is he now?’

  The man shook his head, too quickly. ‘I know not.’ He began to walk. ‘I must go. My master waits.’

  ‘Please,’ called Adam. ‘The message is urgent.’

  The young man hesitated. After a pause, he nodded towards the distant hall. ‘You must speak to Lord Donough, sir.’

  Adam watched him turn and walk away quickly. The youth knew more than he was saying; that much was clear from his manner, but even if he hadn’t been so furtive Adam would have known he was lying. Servants knew everything. Invisible, they waited at the edges of halls to clear the platters at feasts, ignored by kings who plotted wars and lords who schemed for power. They filled basins in ladies’ bedchambers and emptied bedpans, silent witnesses to affairs of state and love: a horde of listeners, thronging every passageway. Adam could wait and find a more malleable target, but he had neither the time, nor the patience. He had already spent too long chasing a phantom.

  Scotland, ravaged by war and overrun with insurgents, had proven a challenge, even for him. Forced to remain inconspicuous lest he be recognised, unable to get near the rebels – holed up in the hidden base established by William Wallace deep in Selkirk Forest – it had taken far longer than anticipated to discover that Bruce was long gone. Finally, picking up his trail from Carrick, Adam had followed him across the race – the wild stretch of sea between Scotland and Ireland. Arriving in Glenarm a fortnight ago, it had been a blow to discover the earl had moved on again. He wasn’t about to spend another six months kicking his heels in this hovel.

  Adam let the servant go only a few paces before he moved up behind him, drawing a dagger from the sheath on his belt. Grabbing a fistful of the young man’s hair, he brought the blade up to his throat. The servant dropped the basket in shock. The lid fell open as it hit the ground, the lobsters scuttling for the river. The young man cried out a stream of high-pitched Gaelic that could have been surprise or fear, or anger for the loss of his catch, then Adam was draggi
ng him into the copse of trees.

  ‘Tell me,’ he commanded, pushing the servant up against a trunk, one hand on his chest, the other keeping the dagger at his throat. ‘Where has Bruce gone?’

  The young man licked his lips. ‘He left after the Christ Mass. Weeks ago.’

  ‘Where. Not when.’

  ‘South. On the road to Kildare.’ The servant’s eyes pleaded the truth of his words. ‘With Lord Donough’s son and the monks.’

  ‘Monks?’

  ‘From Bangor Abbey. The monks who took the staff from Armagh. The staff the Earl of Ulster burned our hall for. Sir Robert wants it.’

  As the reason Robert had abandoned the war in Scotland and resigned his position as guardian became clear, Adam’s blood was stirred. It was even more imperative that he fulfil the king’s order. Bruce could not be allowed to take possession of the relic, under any circumstance. All the king had worked to achieve would be in jeopardy. ‘Will he return when he has it?’

  The servant shook his head. ‘Please,’ he murmured, glancing down at the dagger and swallowing dryly. ‘It is all I know.’

  ‘I believe you.’

  Adam sliced the dagger swiftly across the young man’s throat, severing his windpipe with one brutal cut. The servant dropped to the ground, where he convulsed for a few moments, then shuddered to still. Bending, Adam wiped the blade on the grass. As he did so, his mind filled with an image of a cliff-top path in stormy darkness, a thunderclap drowning the scream as Alexander sailed over the edge with his horse. Adam sheathed the dagger, musing that metal had no compunction about rank. It killed servant as easily as it murdered king. Returning to his horse, he mounted.

  The hunt was on.