Insurrection: Renegade [02] (5 page)

‘Then you know how much he wants this last relic. How he will stop at nothing to get it.’

‘And what about you, Earl Robert?’ said Murtough, his eyes glittery in the candlelight. As he took a draught of wine, some of the liquid dribbled through the cleft in his lip. ‘Do you believe in Merlin’s prophecy?’

‘It does not matter what I believe. What matters is that the king’s subjects and many of his men believe. They fight for it, bleed and die for it. They are the sword that enabled him to conquer Wales. Now Scotland. The belief that they are saving Britain from ruin adds fire to their conviction. Edward conquers not just with might, but with the power of prophecy. He will make himself a new Brutus, a new Arthur. And all Britain will bend before him.’

‘If you had the staff, what would you do with it?’

Robert steeled himself to the challenge in the older monk’s stare, feeling Murtough could see right through to the desire in his heart – a desire that had little to do with protecting the relic and everything to do with atonement for his sin in the theft of another. If King Edward offered him the Stone of Destiny in return for the staff tomorrow he would gladly accept. He levelled the monk with his gaze, giving away nothing of his thoughts. ‘I would prevent him from taking it. My ancestor offended St Malachy and our family has suffered ever since. For my grandfather and my line, this is my chance to right that wrong.’

For a long moment, Robert didn’t think Murtough was going to respond, then the monk set down his goblet.

‘After Ulster’s men ransacked our abbey and found nothing we thought that would be the end of it, but then we discovered his knights were keeping watch on us, following our brothers when they left the abbey grounds, questioning anyone who visited – labourers, laundresses. A little over two months ago one of our acolytes disappeared. It emerged that he had been seen meeting with Ulster’s knights. Some time later, we discovered documents were missing from our vault.’ Murtough paused. ‘We fear Ulster may now know of Ibracense.’

Robert frowned. ‘Ibracense?’

The younger monk glanced at Murtough, who nodded. ‘When Malachy was elected Abbot of Bangor he rebuilt the abbey, but soon after it was attacked by a local chieftain and Malachy and his brethren were forced to flee south. On an island in a great lake, our blessed founder built a monastery where he and his brothers remained, isolated from the barbarities of the world, for three years. Malachy called it Ibracense. He was forced to leave this sanctuary when he took up his position as Archbishop of Armagh, wresting the Staff of Jesus from Niall mac Edan. He never returned. It is only recalled in the records of our abbey, which he rebuilt once more before he passed away. The documents that were stolen from our vault speak of Ibracense – not its location, which is known to only a handful of our brethren – but the description is enough to offer a guide. Soon after our acolyte disappeared, Ulster’s men vanished from Bangor. We believe they are looking for the island. If they find it, they will find the staff.’

Murtough looked at Donough, his expression now weary, defeated. ‘It is why we answered your summons. We do not have the ability to keep moving it, or soldiers to guard it. The relic’s concealment was all we could rely on.’

Robert spoke. ‘I can take it to Scotland and secure it until both our countries are free of Edward’s control. When it is safe to do so, I will return it to you.’

After a silence, Murtough nodded. ‘We will take your proposition to the abbot.’

Loughrea, Ireland, 1301 AD

Richard de Burgh, Earl of Ulster and Lord of Connacht, took the roll of parchment the clerk handed to him. The royal seal hung heavily from it, the red beeswax, imprinted with King Edward’s coat of arms, cracking around the edges. The earl’s face, webbed with scars, was grim as he scanned the inked rows of letters and numerals. Around him the chamber bustled with servants, packing clothes into chests and removing tapestries from the lime-washed walls, emptying the chamber of its movable wealth.

‘As you can see, Sir Richard,’ said the chancellor carefully, ‘the revenues requested from Westminster have almost doubled this past year. The exchequer has been forced to raise taxes in order to meet King Edward’s demands without further impoverishing our administration at Dublin. We are stretched to the limit as it is.’

Ulster looked up from the roll at the chancellor’s solemn face, thinking the man was shrewd to blame the office for the rise, rather than himself as the exchequer’s chief clerk, or indeed the king.

The chancellor laced his thin fingers. ‘You must know how much King Edward relies upon you, Sir Richard. You have the power to change his fortunes here. He needs the revenue only a man of your stature can provide in order to succeed in his fight against the Scots. Victory is close. His enemies suffered grave losses at Falkirk and a new campaign has been planned for the coming months, but the king’s treasury was drained by the war against his cousin in Gascony and the rebellion he was forced to crush in Wales. He has been compelled to raise taxes throughout his crown lands. We, every one of us, must suffer that burden if our king is to succeed in bringing Britain under his dominion.’

‘It was Ireland’s grain that fed his troops in Gascony and Wales,’ responded Ulster, his deep voice grinding over the chancellor’s mollifying tones. ‘My tenants and I suffered this burden long before today.’

‘And for that you have his gratitude. King Edward will reward your sacrifice when the war in Scotland is won. There are rich lands there, ripe for the picking.’

Ulster rose, his gold-embroidered mantle of fine Flemish cloth shifting around his large frame as he walked to the windows, through which the steel-bright February sun was streaming. Beyond the panes of leaded glass Lough Rea was spread out before him, its blue expanse ruffled by wind. His family had built this castle, their chief stronghold in Connacht, and the walled town that surrounded it sixty years ago, but their supremacy in the land extended back further still to the Norman lords who sailed to Ireland under King John, continuing the conquest begun by his father, Henry II.

Those men had carved out a broad swathe of territory from Cork to Antrim, taming the landscape under the plough, altering the face of it with castles, mills and towns. Here, in the fertile east, they settled for generations, the native Irish driven into the harsh, mountainous west. During those years, the de Burgh family had grown in prominence and power until, under Richard, they had reached their zenith. But things were changing. The Irish were pushing back. Already, there was war on the borders, native kings banding together to force out the English along the frontiers. The conquerors’ control was deteriorating as the economy weakened under King Edward’s increasing demands.

How galling, Ulster thought, now to be looking down from the heights of the illustrious position he had attained and seeing only the slope of decline. He turned to the chancellor. ‘The building of my new castle at Ballymote has put a strain on my resources and with the exodus of so many of our countrymen, unable to protect themselves from Irish brigands, I am left to shoulder the duties of many. Whole settlements have been abandoned by those choosing to return to England. The more men leave, the more soldiers the rest of us have to find for the breach. If King Edward takes much more, we will no longer be able to hold back the tide of felons and marauders who wait on our borders, testing them always for signs of weakness.’

Ulster paused, his attention snared by a tall, well-built man in a sky-blue cloak, who had moved into the chamber past two servants carrying out a chest. ‘But I will do whatever I can for my lord. You have my word on that.’ Ulster strode from the window. ‘Show the Lord Chancellor and his men to lodgings,’ he ordered one of his servants, before confronting the man in the doorway, who looked as though he had ridden through several nights. The captain’s cloak was stained with horse sweat, his hair unkempt, eyes shadowed.

‘Sir Esgar? What brings you?’

Esgar inclined his head, his cloak parting to reveal the glimmer of mail. ‘I bear tidings, my lord, from the north.’

‘Walk with me.’ Ulster headed from the chamber, leaving the chancellor and clerks to gather up their rolls.

The captain fell into step beside the earl as he led the way along the passage. All around, people hurried about their duties, making ready to move the earl’s considerable household to his new castle, eighty miles north. ‘I believe I may have a new trail to follow in our hunt for the staff.’

Ulster felt his anticipation stirred, but didn’t allow it to consume him. There had been leads before, without success. He had several companies in the south searching for islands that fitted the description in the abbey’s records, but so far they had found nothing. He made his way down the stairs, a servant who had been heading up backing hastily down before him. ‘What trail?’

‘My men and I kept watch on the abbey, but at a distance as you instructed. Our strategy worked and we began to notice the monks coming and going more freely. Shortly after the Christ Mass we observed the abbot’s trusted man, Murtough, and two brethren leaving the abbey, equipped for a journey.’ Esgar moved back into step with the earl as they descended to the ground floor. ‘At a settlement they joined fifteen men and headed south. When I discovered who was leading this company, I left my men trailing them and rode straight here.’

‘Who was it?’

‘Robert Bruce, the Earl of Carrick.’

‘Bruce?’ Ulster’s voice sharpened with surprise. He halted, facing the captain.

‘We already knew Bruce was in Antrim from reports by our men. Travelling with him were two of his brothers, who reside with Lord Donough at Glenarm, and one of the lord’s sons. The rest I did not know.’

‘You believe they are going after the staff?’

‘From what our informant in the abbey told us we know Murtough was involved in the relic’s disappearance. The monks would have no doubt discovered their missing documents by now and would assume we are closer to finding Ibracense. I think they will try to move it.’

Ulster’s anticipation now took him over. Robert Bruce – King Edward’s enemy – and the Staff of Malachy in one fell swoop? How much would such a prize be worth to the king? Much more, he guessed, than those additional taxes. ‘Will you be able to track them?’

‘My men will leave messages at our garrisons en route. It shouldn’t be hard.’

‘Let them take the relic before you make a move, understand? Seize the staff, capture Bruce and bring him to me at Ballymote.’ Ulster levelled the captain with a challenging stare. ‘I will be waiting, Esgar.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

As Esgar headed to the stables, Ulster strode out into the castle courtyard, enlivened by the prospect. Servants were piling chests into the backs of wagons, while knights and squires checked gear and weapons. It was a small army that would accompany him and his family through what had become known as the land of war. The men’s surcoats were decorated with the blazons of their respective commanders, but all bore a red band of cloth around their upper arms, decorated with the black lion from Ulster’s coat of arms. In these troubled times it was becoming more necessary to be able to identify friend from foe quickly.

As Ulster spoke with his men, checking preparations for the journey, he saw a young woman moving through the crowd. In her white gown she was a pearl, glimmering among the grey shells of armour. He smiled as she approached, his hard face softening. ‘Are you ready to leave?’ he asked, kissing the top of her head, which was covered by a stiff white coif. Her sisters wore their black locks piled in braids, decorated with silver and jewels, but Elizabeth, at sixteen the youngest of his daughters, had worn hers covered since the age of ten.

‘I have been praying for our safe passage to Ballymote, Father.’

As she turned up her face to his, her pale skin reddened by the wind, Ulster saw the worry in her eyes. ‘I am certain the Lord will have heard your prayers.’ When she didn’t respond, he moved her gently to face the crowded courtyard. ‘Look at the men He has provided me with.’ Beneath his hands he felt the tension in her slim shoulders. She was always so anxious. When she was a child Elizabeth had been as carefree and wild as a sprite, but the accident had changed that.

On a June day six years before, Elizabeth had been playing on the banks of Lough Rea when she had slipped and fallen in. Her governess had not been watching her. The lough was deep and the child couldn’t swim. By chance two squires had been passing and leapt in and saved her. At first, Ulster blessed his good fortune, then, after the shock of almost losing his daughter wore off, he thanked God in prayers more heartfelt than ever before. By that evening everyone in the castle, himself included, was calling it a miracle.

But when God had saved her He seemed to have claimed her for Himself, so that now Elizabeth was wed to Him, her prayers and piety demanding all her time, leaving little room for merriment, or indeed a suitor. It was why she remained the only unmarried one of all his children. Still, Ulster refused to send her to a convent, despite her pleas. Elizabeth’s youth and beauty made her one of his greatest assets and the earl was determined that while God might have her soul, a husband would have her heart.

Chapter 3

Caerlaverock, Scotland, 1301 AD

The siege engines towered out of the mist – monstrous forms dedicated to destruction. Each had been christened by the Englishmen who manned them. The Vanquisher. The Hammer. The Boar. Each was primed, ready for the day’s ruin.