Insurrection by Robyn Young Read Free Book Online Page B

only two years since the lords of Scotland swore to recognise Alexander’s granddaughter as his heir. Margaret now holds the right to the throne. All of us made that pledge. I have no love for the Comyn men, but to accuse them and John Balliol of Galloway of breaking that oath . . .?’
    ‘Who among us imagined we would have to fulfil it, especially after the king’s marriage to Yolande?’ countered Patrick of Dunbar, running a hand through his oily hair. ‘The recognition of the king’s granddaughter in Norway as his heir was a sensible precaution, not a reality any of us wanted to face. The fealty we swore on that day sits heavily upon all of our shoulders. How many will now sit back, content to be governed from afar by an infant queen in a foreign court?’ He nodded to the steward. ‘I have no doubt that Balliol, led by the ambitions of the Comyns, aims for the throne.’
    ‘We must move swiftly,’ said the Earl of Carrick. ‘We cannot let the Comyns put their kinsman on the Stone of Destiny.’ He banged his fist on the table, rattling dishes and goblets. ‘We cannot let them take what is ours!’ He stopped, glancing at the Lord of Annandale. ‘What is yours, Father,’ he corrected. ‘If any man in this kingdom should take the throne it is you. Your claim is greater than Balliol’s.’
    ‘Not by primogeniture,’ said the Earl of Menteith quietly, his eyes on the lord of Annandale, who had remained silent. ‘By the law of first blood, Balliol’s claim wins.’
    ‘It isn’t simply through blood that my father can claim the throne. He was designated heir presumptive by the father of the king!’
    As the men began speaking at once, Robert stared at his grandfather. The old lord had spoken to him of this once, several years ago. Robert remembered well the look of pride in his grandfather’s face as he had recalled in vivid detail the day King Alexander II had named him as his successor. They had been on a hunt and the king had fallen from his horse. He wasn’t badly hurt, but the event clearly touched a concern, for he made all the lords with him get down on their knees in the dust of that forest track. There, he bade them recognise Sir Robert Bruce, whose veins ran with royal blood, as his heir should he die without issue. His grandfather had been eighteen at the time. Two years later, the king had a son and the royal line was secured, but the promise made remained embedded in the Bruce through all the years after. It had seemed, to Robert, just an incredible story in the telling; true, but relevant only to the distant past, like the stories of the Irish hero Fionn mac Cumhaill his foster-father had told him in Antrim. Now, sitting here in his father’s hall with these great men, the story took on a reality that sent shivers through him.
    His grandfather could be king.
    As the conversation among the men grew louder, threatening to swell into argument, the Lord of Annandale rose, the firelight casting a red glow across his craggy face. ‘Enough.’ His voice cut through their words, silencing them to a man. ‘I loved Alexander not only as a subject loves his king, but as a father loves a son.’
    Robert saw a flush rise in his own father’s cheeks at this.
    ‘I promised to serve him with my last breath,’ continued the lord, staring at each of them in turn. ‘And that means fulfilling the oath that I, that all of us swore – to recognise his granddaughter as our queen. We must keep John Balliol from the throne. We must protect it. But for her. A man who breaks his oath isn’t worth his breath,’ he finished harshly, sitting back down.
    ‘I agree,’ said James Stewart in the quiet that followed. ‘But how do we protect the throne? If the Comyns intend for Balliol to become king they will not listen to anyone’s protests. I fear they wield enough power in the realm to make it come to pass, with or without the support of the guardians.’
    ‘Councils and guardians are not the answer,’