Kingdom by Robyn Young Read Free Book Online

moment it had jolted from his fingers to crack on the jewelled floor of Westminster Abbey, the moment he had seen, through the split in its side, that its black lacquered interior contained no ancient prophecy; empty of anything except its own reflection. He thought of the man who tried to kill him in Ireland, his corpse laid out in the cellar of Dunluce Castle, and James Stewart’s shock when he recognised King Alexander’s squire, the last man to see the king alive, all the disparate threads of a tapestry joining to make a dark, disturbing scene.
    Robert’s hand moved up to his throat, his finger trailing over the leather thong on which was bound the fragment of the crossbow bolt that had been pulled from his shoulder. James, more than anyone, should know he could not falter now, despite what had happened in Dumfries. There was a time when he would have done whatever the high steward commanded, but he was no longer a youth marching to the drums of his elders.
    He was king.
    A moth tilted at the candle, then fluttered away, burned by the heat. Its shadow played huge across the canvas, black wings beating the air. Gradually, Robert’s breaths evened out and his limbs, still stiffly encased in layers of mail and padding, yielded to the heaviness that weighed on them.
    He was almost asleep when the night was filled with screaming.

Chapter 3
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Methven Wood, Scotland, 1306 AD
     
    Robert wrenched his broadsword from its jewelled scabbard. The cries outside had been joined by the clash of swords, tearing undergrowth and the shrill screams of horses: a dense wave of sound that seemed to crash in at him from everywhere at once. Fionn had gone, barking frantically. Robert plunged after him, out into the night.
    It was midsummer and the sky wasn’t fully dark. By the pale twilight that filtered through the canopy, punctuated by the bright flare of campfires, Robert saw men running. Many were shouting, their voices high with panic and fear. Others, who had been asleep on the mossy ground, were staggering up. Robert’s servants were already on their feet, Nes with them, staring through the trees to the east.
    ‘ Attack! ’ came a harsh cry.
    A surge of blood fired Robert’s limbs. Diving back into the tent, he grabbed his leather pack. Emerging, he shouted at Nes. The knight jerked round and caught the pack as Robert tossed it at him.
    ‘Saddle Hunter,’ Robert shouted to one of his grooms, who hastened to obey, as Edward Bruce and Neil Campbell burst into the clearing.
    ‘English!’ Edward yelled, seeing his brother. ‘Valence’s forces!’
    Before Robert could respond, the rapid throb of hooves filled the air and six horsemen plunged into their midst, shields painted with the white and blue stripes of Pembroke.
    Edward threw himself back as one swung a sword at him. Neil Campbell reacted quickly, dropping and hacking his blade, two-handed, into the front legs of one of the horses. The animal pitched forward, its leg buckling beneath it. There was a heavy crunch as it ploughed into the forest floor, hurling its rider over the high pommel of the saddle. Neil swooped as the knight crashed to the ground. Crushing his boot into the man’s throat, he shoved his sword, wet with horse blood, through the eye-slit in the helm. Blood burst from the visor. The knight’s body convulsed as Neil wrenched the blade out of his brain.
    Robert caught all this as a series of brief images, broken by the legs and trappers of the horses as the rest of the knights galloped on through. One horse vaulted the campfire, its hoof clipping a burning log and causing the fire to burst apart in a billow of sparks. Closer, just in front of him, his servants were falling back from the swords of the enemy. There was a flash as a blade reflected the firelight. Robert felt something hot spray across his cheek. Patrick spun towards him, hands rising to his face, which had been split diagonally. The white of bone and teeth