Insurrection Read online

  As the cathedral bells fell silent, Adam urged his horse up the street towards the imposing walls of the castle that overlooked the city. Banners and flags flapped from the turrets, making gaudy statements in the sky. One scarlet banner, larger than the others and adorned with three golden lions, held Adam’s gaze as he headed towards the gates, then the guards in their well-fitted gambesons and colourful hose were asking his business and his attention was diverted. Dismounting, Adam took a roll of parchment from the bag strapped to his saddle, the leather soiled from the journey through France. One guard inspected the seal attached to the document, while the other questioned him. His answers being to their satisfaction, they moved aside, allowing him to pass beneath the iron teeth of the portcullis.

  Although it was early, the courtyard was bustling with servants and royal officials. The pale elegance of the buildings and the rich dress of the men and women Adam passed breathed sweetness into him after the long winter in Edinburgh, shipwrecked on that coarse black mountain, where the howling wind haunted the halls, along with so many white-faced Scotsmen. Seeing men unfurling lengths of coloured flags and tying them to the sides of the buildings, he realised with surprise that it must be approaching the Christ Mass. The mildness of the air, which had increased the further south he had travelled, had fooled him into believing spring had come. A girl with spice-brown hair passed him, escorting three plump geese. Adam allowed himself a moment to appreciate the supple swing of her young hips, before heading to the stables. After leaving his palfrey with a groom, he made his way to the tower in the west corner of the compound, from which flew the scarlet banner with the three lions.

  There were more guards at the tower’s entrance and more questions, but eventually he was led up a spiral of stairs to a small chamber where a smell of incense barely masked the caustic odour of fresh paint. He waited as the page who had escorted him rapped on a door. When it opened, Adam caught sight of another servant as his escort slipped inside. Moving to the chamber’s single window, he peered through the criss-cross panes of glass, which distorted his view of the city, spread out below. The door opened and he turned expectantly, but the page headed off down the stairs without further word or instruction. Adam leaned against the wall, for there was no furniture, just a tapestry showing a group of young knights all bearing scarlet shields, adorned with a symbol that was as familiar to Adam as his own family crest: a rearing golden dragon, wreathed in fire.

  After a time the door opened again and a man beyond motioned Adam to enter. The solar was bright with morning sunlight that flooded in through arched windows. After the gloom, it took Adam a moment to become accustomed to the light. As he did so he saw a man standing behind a table that was laid out with neat stacks of parchment. At well over six feet, the man was still one of the tallest Adam had ever known. His shoulder-length hair, streaked with white, was curled at the ends as was the fashion, but his linen robe, dyed a solemn blue, was simple in design, unlike the flamboyant stripes and silks of his courtiers. It was perfectly tailored around his athletic frame and pulled in by a belt of leather, embossed with silver. His face was austere, an ash-coloured beard clipped close and neat around an unsmiling mouth. Only his intense grey eyes revealed anything of his thoughts, filled as they were with an alert impatience. One of his eyelids drooped a little, the one blemish in an otherwise orderly face. It was more prominent these days, Adam noted, than it had been when they had first met twenty-four years ago, when the man before him had been a fierce young lord in exile. Now, at almost fifty, he was King of England, Duke of Gascony, Lord of Ireland and conqueror of Wales.

  ‘My lord,’ greeted Adam, bowing low.

  The king’s pale eyes moved to the page by the door. ‘Leave me.’

  As the page left the chamber, Adam saw a painted scene on the far wall. It hadn’t been here when he was last in this room. It too showed the knights with the dragon shields, but this time they were crowded around a man seated on a stone throne, wearing a gold circlet. In one hand the man held a sword, the blade of which was broken, in the other a slender gold staff. There was an ornately carved lectern positioned below the fresco. Adam noticed a large, leather-bound book lying on it at an angle. He could see words written in gold leaf on the cover. He hadn’t seen the book before, but he knew what it was.

  ‘I was expecting you sooner, Sir Adam.’

  Adam looked back as Edward’s voice broke his thoughts. ‘The queen’s labour came later than anticipated, my lord.’

  ‘I take it you completed your business?’

  Edward’s tone, usually so poised, was sharp with agitation. Even more unusual was the concern in the king’s gaze. He had leaned forward, planting his veined hands on the table.

  ‘God did the work for us. The child was dead in the womb.’

  Edward straightened. ‘Good,’ he said, after a moment. ‘This is good.’ He seated himself in a high-backed chair, his gaze at once hard, accusatory. ‘This business should have been finished months ago, before the queen even fell pregnant.’

  Anger swelled in Adam, although he was careful not to show it. He deserved Edward’s praise, not his admonishment. True, the queen’s pregnancy had been an unexpected hindrance, but killing the king had been no easy task. Had it been murder at a distance, a crossbow bolt through the throat, then Adam could have accomplished it long before the queen conceived. But Edward had insisted that the death be made to seem like an accident and so Adam had been appointed to travel north to Scotland in the retinue of Alexander’s new bride, one faceless servant among many.

  Poison, his first thought, had been ruled out instantly; he couldn’t get near the kitchens without notice and, besides, the king had tasters. Each role in a royal household was fulfilled by specific servants and each man and woman guarded their duties zealously. It was some weeks before Adam reached a decision, after travelling the treacherous coastal path between Edinburgh and Kinghorn. Even with the location chosen it had taken time to plan the deed itself; ingratiating himself into the queen’s trust and waiting for the right opportunity, which finally presented itself in the form of the feast. The king would have been drinking and easier to overpower if it came to it, and the spring tides meant the cliff path would be the only viable route. The only things he’d had to do were persuade the young queen to have him summon the king to her bedchamber, unwittingly sealing her husband’s fate with a honey trap, and make sure the king’s most competent manservant would be unable to escort him, leaving only that fool, Brice, to contend with. The storm had been a boon Adam couldn’t have predicted, although the poetic symmetry of the proclaimed Day of Judgement had been mostly lost on him.

  ‘Still,’ said Edward, releasing Adam from his stare, ‘it is done.’

  As the king sifted through the documents on the table and pulled one from the pile, Adam saw a large seal fixed to the bottom. He had seen it before. It was from the papal curia in Rome.

  ‘I have the permission of His Holiness,’ said Edward, flattening the letter with a stroke of his palm. ‘I will finalise the matter when I return to England. For now, I have more pressing concerns. King Philippe has been at pains to exercise his control over my dealings here in Gascony. It does not please my young cousin that I wield more power in the duchy than he does. I believe it makes him nervous.’ There was satisfaction in Edward’s eyes as he said this.

  ‘Can you afford to wait that long, my lord? There has been great unrest in Scotland since the king’s death. The Bruce family took up arms against the Balliols, accusing the Lord of Galloway of plotting to take the crown.’

  ‘The Bruces do not concern me. The Earl of Carrick has already sent me a message, pledging his support for any decision I make on the future of the kingdom. He will do as I say. As for the rest of Scotland’s magnates, I will send out missives, ordering them all to abide by the rule of their council of guardians, until such time as the child can be brought from Norway.’

  ‘Do you think the magnates will obey?’

  ‘N
one of them would risk their lands in England by defying me.’

  Adam knew what this man had done in England, Wales and the Holy Land; knew what he had accomplished over the years and how. He nodded, respectful of the flat certainty in Edward’s eyes. ‘What do you wish me to do now, my lord?’

  ‘You may return to your command.’ Picking up the document with the pope’s seal attached, Edward rose and crossed to an iron door embedded in the solar’s inner wall. Adam saw a keyhole on one side. Edward opened it and placed the parchment inside. He pulled out a leather purse, tied with a drawstring. ‘Here,’ he said, offering it to Adam. ‘Your final payment. I apologise for the dust it has gathered.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord,’ murmured Adam. He paused, then asked something he had wondered about since the king first charged him with the dangerous task. ‘Have you told anyone else in the order of my involvement in this matter?’

  Edward’s eyes bored into his. ‘King Alexander’s death was an accident. It stays that way.’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ said Adam, stowing the bulging purse in his belt-pouch. ‘An accident.’

  The door opened behind them and a soft, musical voice drifted in.

  ‘I am sorry. I did not know you had a visitor.’

  Adam turned to see a tall woman, with olive skin and delicate features. Her hair was hidden beneath a headdress that trailed gossamer silks and her floor-sweeping gown was richly embroidered. Adam hadn’t seen her in some years and the lines that creased the queen’s face surprised him.

  ‘I will leave you.’

  ‘There is no need, Eleanor,’ said Edward, moving to her. ‘It is only tidings from England.’

  Eleanor’s face filled with concern. ‘The children?’

  ‘Are fine,’ said Edward, his hard face softening into a rare and surprisingly tender smile. ‘It is politics, nothing more.’ Putting a hand on his wife’s slim shoulder and guiding her into the chamber, Edward glanced at Adam, his smile vanishing. ‘Sir Adam was just leaving.’

  As Adam headed for the door, he glanced at the fresco and the lectern beneath it. The elaborate gold writing on the front of the large book glinted in the light, spelling out words.

  The Last Prophecy of Merlin

  PART 2

  1290 –1292 AD

  They do not wish to wait to get possession of the kingdom lawfully, but seize the crown.

  The Life of Merlin, Geoffrey of Monmouth

  11

  All around the horns were sounding, their strident calls echoing over the baying of the hounds. The pack was running hard, the scent thickening in their throats. For hours they had pursued their quarry, from the cold reaches of dawn to the early morning, the dense mists lightening to a diaphanous haze. Now, death was near and they plunged headlong to meet it, compelled by the horns.

  Robert urged his horse on after the dogs, the woods flashing past. The trees were scattered with young green buds and the verdant smell of new growth filled his lungs as he fought to keep the pace, the courser obeying every twist of the reins in his gloved hands. Ahead was a fallen tree, a victim of the winter storms. He kicked hard at the horse’s sides and rose to meet it. The courser vaulted the rotten trunk and thundered on, kicking up a shower of leaves. The dogs had disappeared over a steep ridge. Robert could hear their howls, louder than the horns, which echoed some distance behind him. Anticipation fierce within him, he drove the horse up the incline. At the top, the ground fell away into a bowl-like clearing, which ended at a high bank of earth, riddled with tree roots. Within this bank was a wide opening. The hounds were gathered outside, baying into the dark.

  Realising the quarry had evaded the trap, Robert dismounted with a curse and made his way down to the dogs. The mists were thicker here, so too the dank odours of moss and earth. He reached for the horn that hung from his belt. As his fingers brushed it, he heard a noise from within the cave. It sounded like low thunder. Robert’s fingers moved past the horn to grasp the hilt of his sword. The older hounds were snarling, ears pressed flat against their heads, hackles high. Some of the younger ones whined, hinds quivering with exertion and fear. With any other quarry, even fully grown harts and ferocious boar, they would not be so apprehensive. Robert drew his sword and went forward through their guarding line, determination forcing back his nerves. He heard his name being called, somewhere distant, off in the fog, but he ignored it.

  As he moved closer, breathing hard, he saw the opening wasn’t deep, really just a hollow overhung with roots. He could see a hunched shape within, darker than the shadows. It was larger than he had expected, although not as large as some of the reports had stated. The face was long and lean, the jaw thrust forward, lips peeled back to reveal hooked incisors. Its fur was thick and black, its winter pelt not yet fully shed. The stink of it was horrendous, a caustic animal reek that was like nothing Robert had ever smelled before. But it was the eyes that were the most startling thing about it, twin pools of molten gold. How many things, he wondered, had died while staring into that burning gaze? He had seen the bloody destruction in the pastures outside the town over the course of the winter, sheep ripped apart, cattle pulled down and gutted. The wolf, his grandfather taught him, killed not just for food, but for the pleasure. His was a hunger that could not be satisfied by blood alone. There was darkness in his heart and poison in his bite.

  The horns had silenced now. Robert could hear the shouts of men and the drum of hooves as the rest of the hunting party converged on the clearing. Gripping his sword, the hilt slick with sweat, he steeled himself to lunge at the shadow in the cave. The wolf was faster. Out it sprang, eyes blazing. Robert jabbed with his blade, but only managed to rake its side as it passed him. The wolf gnashed at one of the dogs, then, finding itself cornered, turned and leapt at Robert. He ducked away, but his foot caught on a coiled tree root and he hit the ground, yelling as the wolf’s jaws clamped down around his ankle. Grabbing his fallen sword, Robert twisted round and stabbed out, striking the creature in the neck. The keen blade punctured the bushy pelt and entered thick tissue beneath. The wolf relinquished its hold, went to spring again, then howled as three hounds fell on it from behind, teeth punching into its hind legs and rump. Rolling away from the thrashing limbs, Robert scrabbled upright as two more dogs leapt in, pinning the animal. As they tore at its flesh it cried in rage and pain. Blood splattered the dusty ground. Moving in, both hands around the hilt, Robert stabbed down into the wolf’s side. Blood erupted, spraying his tunic and face, the hot stink of it catching in his throat. He turned his head, trying not to gag, as the din of men and horses entered the clearing.

  The huntsmen came first, running down the bank, forked sticks in their hands, ready to pin down the quarry. They slowed as they saw Robert hunched over the wolf between the dogs. Two of them unhooked whips from their belts, ready to force the hounds away. Others drew leashes. Robert heard them calling to him, but he was watching the gold fire drain from the wolf’s eyes. Its head had lolled back and it was panting shallowly. Finally, it shuddered to still. Robert pushed himself to his feet and withdrew his sword with a tug. As the huntsmen closed in, whipping away the hounds, he turned to see his grandfather. Behind came his father and his brother, Edward, along with ten local men, summoned to join the hunt. Robert met his grandfather’s steel gaze. Feeling pride swell in him, he went to grin, but the old man strode past to where the huntsmen were rounding up the dogs. The wolf was lying prone in the dust, blood pooling around it. Two hounds had been injured in the fight. The old lord bent down beside one of them, inspecting the gash in the animal’s side. It was Scáthach, his favourite bitch. Robert glanced queasily at the bite-marks in his boot.

  The old lord straightened, turning to him. ‘Why didn’t you use your horn?’

  Robert licked his dry lips. ‘There wasn’t time,’ he lied, feeling victory slipping away.

  His grandfather’s scowl deepened. He motioned to the huntsmen. ‘Make sure those cuts are well cleaned.’

  ‘How badly is she wounded
?’ asked Robert’s father grimly, heading over to inspect the dogs, not even glancing at his son.

  Robert watched as the men crowded around the injured hounds, the excitement of the hunt gone, dead like the wolf, forgotten in their midst. Turning, he headed off through the trees, pushing branches out of his way. Finding a rotten tree stump, he threw his bloodstained sword down and sat. His fingers were shaking as he tugged off his boot. Slowly, he pulled up his hose. There were two livid red lines encircling the white skin of his ankle.

  ‘Did it draw blood?’

  Robert jerked round to see Edward heading towards him. He looked back at the marks. ‘No,’ he told his brother. ‘The skin isn’t broken.’

  ‘You’re lucky. I’ve heard the only cure for a wolf-bite is to bathe naked in the sea nine times.’

  Robert said nothing, but busied himself pulling on his boot. Edward came and leaned against a tree in front of him, unavoidably filling his view. Robert glanced at him, suddenly aware of how tall his brother seemed, lounging nonchalantly against the trunk. His green tunic and brown hose made him one with the woods, and his dark sweep of hair was hidden beneath a feathered cap. At fourteen, his face was full and boyish, still marked with creases in his cheeks when he smiled. It no longer fitted his lengthening body. Although a year apart in age they had always looked alike, everyone said, and Robert wondered now at the changes that must have occurred in him in the two summers since he came to Annandale to serve as his grandfather’s squire. He hadn’t seen his brother, who had barely returned from Ireland before he left, in over a year.