Insurrection by Robyn Young Read Free Book Online

head of this household. He should stay for this.’ The old man nodded to Marjorie. ‘With your permission, my lady.’
    Before the countess could answer, Robert’s father spoke again. ‘Head of the household?’ His voice was a whip. ‘At eleven and unable to stay in the saddle with a lance? I wonder why I sent him to Antrim at all if that is the fruit of my labour.’
    Heat prickled in Robert’s cheeks and he lowered his head, thinking all the men in the hall could see his shame.
    In truth, none of them was looking at him; their attention was divided between the two men at either end of the head table, whose eyes were locked in a silent war, one set black and fierce, filled with steel and arrogance, the other glacial blue, narrowed in contempt.
    ‘I do not mind if Robert stays.’ The countess moved to her husband and placed two calm hands on his shoulders.
    The earl muttered something as his wife eased herself on to the cushioned chair set out for her, but Robert wasn’t listening. He bit his lip to hide his grin as his grandfather gestured to the bench closest to him. The three men seated upon it, one of whom was the high steward himself, moved along to make room. Robert caught a jealous look from his brother, Alexander, which made the victory even sweeter, and then the rest of the children were led away. Glancing round as he sat, Robert realised he was next to the blue-eyed youth who had winked at him. He inclined his head somewhere between a nod and a bow, unsure whether the young man deserved simple politeness or deep respect. The youth smiled in return.
    ‘Lord Steward,’ began Robert’s grandfather, his voice curt with authority, silencing the men around him, ‘would you open our council by sharing with my son and the Lord of Islay the news from the royal court that we now know.’ He nodded to the bear-like man in the furs, who had been in conversation with the earl. ‘My summons informed you, Angus, of the black tidings that are the cause of our gathering this evening, but there are other details I could not risk revealing in a message and—’
    ‘I believe, Father,’ the earl cut across him, ‘that some introductions are in order before we begin. Our comrades here may know one another by name, but not all by sight.’ He didn’t wait for an answer, but rose, his crimson robe settling around him as he extended a hand to a broad-shouldered man with black, oily hair, seated along the head table. ‘Sir Patrick, Earl of Dunbar.’
    Robert tore his gaze from his grandfather’s rigid expression as his father continued.
    ‘Sir Walter Stewart, Earl of Menteith, and his sons, Alexander and John.’ The earl moved his hand to three men who shared the same red hair and ruddy, freckled skin. He then gestured to the aged Lord of Islay seated to his right, wrapped in the furs. ‘Sir Angus Mór MacDonald.’ He nodded down the table to a stocky man with a frank expression and the blue-eyed youth beside Robert. ‘His sons Alexander and Angus Og.’ At last, the earl motioned to the steward. ‘And, of course, Sir James Stewart and his brother, John.’ He seated himself beside the countess, his arms spread expansively. ‘The Lady Marjorie and I are honoured to welcome you to our hall, despite the circumstances.’ He inclined his head to James as the servants entered, bearing tureens of steaming venison stew, laced with fragrant thyme. ‘Now, Lord Steward, do begin. I am anxious to hear your tidings in full.’
    Robert stared around the table, putting names and histories to the faces before him. He knew he was in the company of some of the most powerful men in the kingdom, which was thrilling enough to take the sting out of the fact that his father had ignored him in the introductions.
    The steward rose. ‘You all now know the devastating truth that our noble king and lord, Alexander, died last month while riding to visit his queen at Kinghorn. He was separated from his escort in a storm. It appears his