Insurrection: Renegade [02] by Robyn Young Read Free Book Online Page A

king turned, fixing Humphrey with his full attention. ‘On the subject of which, I am aware you have been spending time with my daughter.’
    A faint wash of colour bloomed on the earl’s cheeks.
    Edward laughed, the sound brief and brittle. ‘Do not fear, Humphrey. I am glad. Since the death of Count John, I have been pondering the question of a new suitor for my daughter. When this campaign is won, we will discuss the matter.’
    ‘My lord, I would be honoured . . .’
    Edward, however, wasn’t listening. His gaze had been caught by a company of mounted men making their way through the camp, led by four royal knights. He recognised, with swift-rising hostility, the corpulent man at the head, astride a stocky black horse. It was Robert Winchelsea, Archbishop of Canterbury. With the archbishop was a retinue of black-clad clerics and two foreign-looking men in sumptuous scarlet robes and jewelled hats. Appraising their distinctive appearance, at once pious and wealthy, Edward felt certain he knew where they had come from. They had the look of men from the papal curia in Rome. The king’s hostility shifted to unease.

Chapter 4
    Lough Luioch, Ireland, 1301 AD
     
    Robert sat at the prow, watching the island draw near. Mountains were mirrored in the depths of the lough. Beyond their scarred heights, the sky was stained with a bloody tinge. The air was crisp, but not as cold as it had been when the company set out from Antrim, the February winds dying the further south they travelled. In the still dawn the only sound was the splash of oars. The boat, taken from the beach, was old and smelled of fish. Behind Robert, eyes gleaming in the half-light, were Edward and Niall, along with Murtough and two of his brethren. Christopher and Cormac were at the oars. Robert had left his brother Thomas and Alexander Seton with the squires on the northern shore, guarding their horses and gear. He wasn’t taking any chances.
    On their journey south, hampered by harsh terrain and winter weather, they had encountered bands of lawless men roaming the countryside for plunder. Most had been cautious of their well-armed company, but on two occasions they had been accosted and were only saved from a skirmish by Cormac – whose cúlán marked him as an Irishman – and by the presence of the monks in their habits. At settlements along the way they had heard rumours of pillage and murder, as the Irish grew increasingly confident in attacking areas settled long ago by English colonists.
    ‘I see no one.’
    Robert looked round at the rough voice to see Murtough peering into the gloom. The closer they had come to their destination the more subdued the monk had grown. Robert knew he was wary of what they might find when they reached the island; fearful the staff might already have been taken. But they had seen no sign of Ulster’s men on the road and he couldn’t imagine how anyone could find this place, even with guidance from the abbey’s records. The remote wilderness, hidden by its mountain barrier, seemed as though it stood at the end of the earth. Added to the solitude was the issue of identification, for Ireland’s landscape was crowded with ruins: hill forts and standing stones, cairns and barrow mounds. The crumbling remains on the island ahead were just one of countless monuments to the once living and long dead.
    As they reached land, the boat grazing the shallows, Edward and Niall leapt over the sides to haul in the vessel. Robert jumped down, his mail coat shifting around him as he splashed through pools between the rocks. ‘Keep watch,’ he ordered Christopher and Cormac.
    ‘We’ve not seen a soul in days,’ Cormac responded. When Robert fixed him with a stare, the young Irishman exhaled. ‘Whatever you say, brother.’ He and Christopher shared a look as they stowed the oars.
    Robert ignored them, unable to dispel his rising apprehension. The path to the throne he had set out upon three years ago had followed a