Insurrection: Renegade [02] (8 page)

After Nes had tightened Fleet’s girth and tethered Uathach to the crupper, Robert walked his horse to the edge of the glade. The others followed, the monks on their sturdy palfreys, the squires on rouncies, leading the pack-horses, and his brothers and the Setons on coursers. Together, they made their way out of the clearing, the vestiges of smoke from the campfire drifting in their wake.

There was no track to follow, except for the natural lines made by trees and the going was slow. As a grey light revealed the way ahead, Robert picked out the deep pocks the hooves of their horses had made yesterday. Satisfied they were headed in the right direction, he let Fleet be his guide, allowing the horse to find the best paths through the boggy ground. The land rose steadily, until he glimpsed the lough stretching away behind him, glass-smooth, the distant isle of Ibracense breaking the surface. They hadn’t gone more than a mile, when Uathach began to growl.

Robert looked round to see the bitch straining on her leash, ears flat against her head. Pulling Fleet to a halt, he gave a whistle, but Uathach didn’t heed it. Her gaze was fixed on a high ridge to their left, where the trees marched up, thinning as they neared the crest.

‘What has she smelled?’ called Cormac, turning in his saddle. ‘A coney?’

Suddenly, Uathach sprang forward, the leash snapping tight. At the same time, the other hounds began barking harshly, all of them fixed on the ridge. The tension in Robert broke in a rush of anticipation. ‘To me!’ he roared, pulling his sword from its scabbard.

Over the ridge came an answering cry. Figures appeared on the bank – more than thirty men. Some were mounted, leaning back in their saddles as they spurred their horses down the slope. Others sprinted in their wake, wielding spears and daggers. Dogs ran with them, barking fiercely. By their mail coats and crested helms, and the great swords in their hands, the riders were knights. English knights. Each wore a red band of cloth around his upper arm. Robert had a second to take this in, then he was pricking his spurs into Fleet’s sides, yelling at his men to follow as he plunged through the trees. His company of eighteen, three of whom were monks, was outnumbered and outmatched. The woods filled with the rumble of hooves as his men wheeled their horses around and charged behind him. Dimly, he heard a man’s cry echo at his back as the trees closed around him.

‘
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 relinquish 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.