Insurrection

by Robyn Young

  Insurrection

  Robyn Young

  www.hodder.co.uk

  Also by Robyn Young

  Brethren

  Crusade

  Requiem

  First published in Great Britain in 2010 by Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © Robyn Young 2010

  The right of Robyn Young to be identified as the Author of the

  Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored

  in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without

  the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated

  in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published

  and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious or are historical figures whose words and

  actions are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  Epub ISBN 9781444715125

  Book ISBN 9780340963647

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  Acknowledgements

  Writing a novel is a prolonged, unwieldy task, seldom accomplished in its entirety by one single person. This was no exception and I’d like to thank the following people for their help along the way. First, the guides and curators I met across Scotland and Wales, who spoke with such knowledge and passion about the history of the many castles, abbeys and battlegrounds I visited, with added thanks to Clair for the incredible ride through Glen Trool. My gratitude goes to Jane Spooner at the Tower of London for taking the time to show me round and offering invaluable insights into the history of the place. Thank you to John Dudeney for not letting his horses kill me and for the terrifying, but rewarding year in the paddock . . . I have so much more respect for the skill of my knights now. A sincere thank you to Ken Hames for talking to me so frankly and incisively about his combat experiences, which gave me a deeper glimpse into the psyche of war. I owe a great deal to historian Marc Morris, author of A Great and Terrible King, for reading so thoroughly and for the weight of knowledge he brought to bear on the manuscript. Without scholars of his calibre, many of whose works I plundered for treasures, this novel would not exist. Thanks also to Richard Foreman for the valuable introductions. My gratitude to the writers’ group for editorial gems and the pleasure of shared words, with special thanks to Niall Christie for the reading and to dear friend and fellow writer C.J. Sansom for an ear in the dark days. To the rest of my friends and family, but most especially to Lee – thank you, your support and love mean more than you know.

  Much appreciation goes as ever to my fantastic agent, Rupert Heath, also to Dan Conaway at Writers House, the team at the Marsh Agency and indeed all the publishers who work on the international editions. Last, but certainly not least, my gratitude to all at Hodder & Stoughton, whose great commitment to the books continues to overwhelm me. Extra special thanks are due to my wonderful editor, Nick Sayers, to Anne, Laura, Emma, and the fabulous sales and marketing teams and often unsung heroes: copy-editor, proof reader and the art and production teams.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Map of Britain

  PART 1

  PART 2

  PART 3

  PART 4

  PART 5

  PART 6

  Author’s Note

  Character List

  Glossary

  Succession to the Scottish Throne

  Bibliography

  Ah God! how often Merlin said the truth

  In his prophecies, if you read them!

  Now are the two waters united in one

  Which have been separated by great mountains;

  And one realm made of two different kingdoms

  Which used to be governed by two kings.

  Now are the islanders all joined together

  And Albany reunited to the regalities

  Of which king Edward is proclaimed lord.

  Cornwall and Wales are in his power

  And Ireland the great at his will.

  There is neither king nor prince of all the countries

  Except king Edward, who has thus united them . . .

  Peter Langtoft (English chronicler d. c.1307)

  Prologue

  1262 AD

  King Arthur himself was mortally wounded; and being carried thence to the isle of Avallon to be cured of his wounds, he gave up the crown of Britain to his kinsman Constantine, the son of Cador, duke of Cornwall, in the five hundred and forty-second year of our Lord’s incarnation.

  The History of the Kings of Britain, Geoffrey of Monmouth

  Gascony, France

  1262 AD

  The horses were screaming. Blades carved the air, chopping down into shields, battering helms. Men spat threats and panted curses through visors, their arms and shoulders singing with the raw pain of every swing and strike. Dust from the dry soil had been kicked into clouds by their press, turning the air above the vineyard yellow. The smell of grapes, swollen in the heat, was sour in their parched throats and sweat dripped its salt sting into their eyes, blinding them.

  In the thick of battle a man in a red and gold surcoat raised his shield to block another blow. His horse wheeled beneath him. Bringing the beast back round with a prick of his spur, he lunged in retaliation, ramming his sword into his enemy’s side, piercing linen and padding to crunch into the mail shirt beneath. Alongside him a huge man, clad in a blue and white striped cloak, swung his weapon viciously into a knight’s back, snarling spit into his ventail with the effort. The man it struck fell forward, losing grip on his sword. As his horse stumbled, the knight was bucked from the saddle. He hit the ground, black with the juice of burst grapes, and rolled, trying to avoid the hooves of the destriers, punching down around him. One caught him on the side of the head, crushing his helm and leaving his body to be trampled as the men battled on above.

  The man in red and gold thrust his sword into the air with a fierce cry, swiftly taken up by others.

  ‘Arthur!’ they yelled. ‘Arthur!’

  New strength surged in limbs and new breath in lungs. They fought on, ruthless now, giving no quarter. As more opponents were knocked or pulled from horses a banner was hoisted above the mêlée, rippling in the searing wind. It was blood scarlet with a dragon rearing, fire-wreathed, in its centre.

  ‘Arthur! Arthur!’

  The man in the blue and white striped cloak had lost his blade, but he battled on in the crush using his shield as a weapon. Bringing the top edge cracking up under one man’s jaw, he turned to slam it into the visor of another. Frustrated by one knight, who refused to yield, he grabbed the man around the neck and dragged him from the saddle. As his opponent slid down between the horses, flailing for purchase and roaring in fury, there came three long blasts on a horn.

  Those still mounted lowered their swords, one by one, at the sound. Fighting for breath, they struggled to rein in their agitated chargers. Those on the ground were stumbling to their feet, trying to push their way through the mob. They were surrounded by waiting foot soldiers, who wielded falchions. One man, scrabbling free through the vines, was hauled back and kicked into submission. Squires began to round up the stray horses that had scattered during the fight.

  The man in red and gold tugged off his helm, surmounted by silver dragon wings, to reveal a young, sharp-boned face set with inten
se grey eyes, one of which drooped a little at the lid, giving him a rather sly expression. Sucking in lungfuls of gritty air, Edward surveyed the defeated men, the last of whom were having their weapons taken. Several had been wounded in the battle, two seriously. One swayed in the grip of his comrades, groaning through gums, his front teeth shattered. Triumph beat a song inside Edward, in the hot pulse of blood in his veins.

  ‘Another victory, nephew.’

  The gruff statement came from the man in the blue and white striped cloak, embroidered here and there with tiny red birds. William de Valence had taken off his helm and released his mail ventail from his jaw, which hung down over the iron collar that kept the helm in place. His broad face was running with sweat.

  Before Edward could respond, one of the squires called out.

  ‘There’s one dead here, my lord.’

  Edward turned to see the squire bent over a body. The dead man’s surcoat was covered with dust and there was a dent in the side of his helm. Blood had burst up out of one of the eye holes. Other men were looking over, their gazes on the corpse as they wiped the sweat from their faces.

  ‘Take his armour and sword,’ Edward told the squire, after a pause.

  ‘Lord Edward!’ protested one of the men, who had been rounded up and disarmed. He stepped forward, but was blocked from going any further by the surrounding foot soldiers. ‘I demand the rights to my comrade’s body!’

  ‘You will have the body for burial after your ransoms have been agreed and paid, I give you my word. But his gear is mine.’ With that, Edward passed his dragon-winged helm and shield to a squire and, taking up the reins, urged his horse away between the vines.

  ‘Bring the prisoners,’ William de Valence ordered the foot soldiers.

  The rest of Edward’s men fell in behind, the dragon banner raised like a red fist over their heads, dark against the encroaching dusk. Leaving squires to gather broken weapons and injured horses, the company moved out, ignoring the workers who came running, shouting at the sight of the destroyed vineyard. The tournament ground, established last night, had been set between two towns as usual, but the inclusion of crop fields, grazing lands, even villages, was inevitable.

  As he rode his horse at a walk across the fields, Edward pulled off his gauntlets. The skin on the ridges of his palms was blistered, despite the leather padding. Behind him he could hear murmurs coming from some of his men. He guessed they were speaking of the death and his harsh reaction to it – this was, after all, just a game and their opponents mock enemies. But tournaments wouldn’t last for ever. Soon, the battleground and the foes upon it would be real enough. He needed them to be ready.

  Flexing his aching hands, Edward glanced at Valence, riding beside him. The man was sitting at ease, his massive frame resting against the high back of the saddle, the interlinked rings of his hauberk clinking against the wood. Unlike the younger knights, he showed no regret for the accident at all, running a scrap of cloth down the length of his sword, which was notched with use. The blade appeared much keener than the dulled weapons Edward and the rest of the men had used.

  Catching Edward’s look, Valence gave a knowing smile. ‘Needs must when the devil drives, nephew. Needs must.’

  Edward said nothing, but he nodded as he turned back to the road. He wasn’t going to argue about tournament rules, not when his half-uncle had helped him win most of the tourneys his company had entered this season. This had brought him enough horses, weapons and armour to equip an army, not to mention the scores of young bachelors who had been drawn by his growing reputation. At a victory feast, several months earlier, one of them had called him a new Arthur and the name had stuck, more and more flocking to join the company under the dragon banner. Valence might be a truculent man, whose reputation for viciousness had travelled far beyond the borders of the French town of his birth, but his brutal skill on the tournament field, along with the fact that he was one of the few members of Edward’s family who hadn’t deserted him, made him invaluable, and so Edward gave his uncle free rein, ignoring his violent outbursts and many indiscretions.

  As a couple of the older knights struck up a ribald victory song that the others soon joined in with, Edward looked behind him to see rows of grinning, sweat-streaked faces. Most were in their early twenties like him, many of them younger sons of French nobility, drawn by the promise of plunder and glory. After months on the tournament circuit, Edward knew them well. All of them would fight for him now, without question. Just a few more weeks of training and they would be ready. Then, he would return to England at the head of the company, to regain his honour and his lands.

  It was nine months since his father, the king, had sent him into exile. Even his mother had been silent at the judgement: the revoking of his lands in Wales and England that he had been given, aged fifteen, as part of his marriage agreement. King Henry had been grim and silent as his son had ridden out from Westminster Palace, bound for Portsmouth and the ship that would carry him to the only lands left to him in Gascony. Edward recalled looking back, just once, to see that his father had already turned away and was heading through the palace gates. His jaw tightening, he forced out the memory and concentrated on the sight of the elated knights following him on their weary mounts, all chanting the name of Arthur. His father would be forced to apologise when he saw the warrior his son had become, named by his men after the greatest king who ever lived.

  The blush of evening was fading, the first stars pricking the sky as the company rode into the courtyard of the timber-beamed hunting lodge, surrounded by outbuildings and shrouded by trees. Edward dismounted. Handing his horse to a groom and telling William de Valence to hold the prisoners when they arrived, he headed for the main house, wanting to wash the dust from his face and quench his thirst before the other commanders appeared and the ransoms could be agreed. Forced to duck his long body under the lintel, he entered the lodge and made his way past servants to the upper rooms and his private chamber.

  He stepped inside the room, his mail coat and spurs jingling as he moved across the wooden floor. Unfastening his belt, from which his broadsword hung, he tossed the weapon on the bed, feeling the pressure around his waist drop away. The room was in shadow, apart from the shimmer of a single candle on a table by the window. Behind was a looking-glass. As he came closer, entering the pool of candlelight, Edward saw himself appear in the depths. There was a jug of water, basin and cloth set out for him. Pushing away the stool in front of the table, he poured water into the basin and leaned over, cupping his hands. It was like ice against his hot face. He cupped more, felt it running freezing lines down his skin, washing away dirt and blood. When he was done, he reached for the cloth and wiped the water from his eyes. As he lowered it, Edward saw his wife standing before him. Her thick hair fell in waves, flowing over the contours of her shoulders to her waist. So often it was piled up and hidden beneath veils and headdresses. He loved to see it loose, the only man who was allowed.

  Eleanor of Castile’s almond eyes narrowed as she smiled. ‘You won.’

  ‘How do you know?’ he asked, drawing her to him.

  ‘I heard your men singing a mile distant. But even if I hadn’t, I would see it in your face.’ She stroked his stubble-rough cheek.

  Edward reached out, taking her face in his hands and bringing her to kiss him. He smelled honey and herbs from the soap she used, brought from the Holy Land.

  Eleanor pulled back, laughing. ‘You’re wet!’

  Edward grinned and kissed his young wife again, pulling her to him despite her protests, covering her spotless shift in filth from his surcoat and mail. Finally, he let her go, looking around for wine. On tiptoes to grasp his shoulders, Eleanor pushed him down to the stool by the table, bidding him to sit.

  Sitting, rigid in his armour, but too weary to go about the business of removing it, Edward watched Eleanor in the looking-glass, pouring wine from a glazed jug, decorated with peacock feathers. As she set down the jug, running a finger quickly under
the rim to catch a stray drop that she licked away, he felt a stab of affection. It was the kind of sharp love that comes with the realisation of the potential for loss. Other than his uncle, she was the only one who had followed him into exile. She could have stayed in London, in the comfort and safety of Windsor or Westminster, for the judgement didn’t extend to her. But not once had she suggested it.

  When he had boarded the ship at Portsmouth, Edward had sat alone in the hold. There, his head in his hands, he had wept, the first time he’d done so since he was a boy, watching his father sail out from those same docks, bound for France without him. As he swiped at the tears of humiliation and, he admitted it, fear, for he had lost almost everything, Eleanor had come to him. Kneeling before him, taking his hands, she told him they didn’t need the king or the queen, didn’t need his conniving godfather, Simon de Montfort: the cause of his banishment. They needed no one. She had been fierce, her voice stronger, more determined than he’d heard before. Later, they made love in the sour-smelling hold below deck. Married for seven years, their unions until that moment had been mostly gentle, almost polite. Now they were hungry and tearing, pouring their rage and fear into one another until both were consumed, as the timbers creaked around them and the sea carried them from England’s shores.