Insurrection

by Robyn Young

  In the distance, at the foot of the hill, he made out the pale silhouette of Holyrood Abbey, behind which black slabs of rock reared into windswept cliffs that disappeared in cloud. To the north, the land levelled out into grazing pastures and crop fields, then marshes that slipped into the vast expanse of the Firth of Forth, which the English called the Scottish Sea. Over that stretch of water, illuminated by muted after-flickers of lightning, were the wooded hills of Fife and the track he must take. Kinghorn, twenty miles away, seemed further than it ever had before. Thinking of the Bishop of St Andrews doom-laden words that when the Day of Judgement came this would certainly be its temperament, Alexander faltered on the bottom step, the rain pelting him. But, then, seeing Adam sprinting towards him, he forced his feet down into the mud, holding in his mind a vision of his young bride waiting for him in a warm bed. There would be spiced wine and firelight.

  ‘My lord, Tom has taken ill,’ called Adam, raising his voice above the gale. He was carrying the king’s travelling cloak.

  ‘Ill?’ Alexander’s brow furrowed as the squire draped the fur-lined garment around his shoulders. Tom, who had served him for over thirty years, always travelled with him. Adam might be capable, but he was the queen’s favourite, having come to Scotland in her retinue last autumn. ‘Tom was well this afternoon. Has the physician seen him?’

  ‘He says there is no need,’ answered Adam, guiding the king across the waterlogged ground. ‘Watch your step here, Sire.’

  There were lanterns burning ahead, the flames inside like caged birds, fluttering and beating at the glass. The whinnies of horses and the calls of men hung on the wind.

  ‘Who will escort me?’

  ‘Tom sent Master Brice in his place.’

  Alexander’s frown deepened as Adam led the way into the stables. The pungent odour of straw and dung clogged his nostrils.

  ‘My lord king,’ greeted the stable-master. He was leading a handsome grey courser. ‘I saddled Winter for you myself, although I could hardly believe it when Master Brice told me you were leaving in this weather.’

  Alexander’s gaze moved to Brice, a taciturn, rather slow-witted man who had been in his service for less than a month, hired to help out Tom who had been stretched looking after the king with a new bride. Alexander had been meaning to ask the steward to find him someone better, but what with the preparations for today’s council he hadn’t found the time. Brice bowed, but said nothing. Grunting his displeasure and feeling suddenly all too sober, Alexander pulled on the riding gloves the stable-master handed to him. As he climbed on to the block and swung into the saddle, his robe hitched up around his hose, already hemmed black with mud. He would have changed had he not been worried about losing what was left of the day. While the stable-master tightened the girth with a firm tug that caused Winter to stamp impatiently, the two squires mounted the horses that had been led out of the stalls for them. Both were palfreys, smaller and lighter than the king’s beast. Adam was on a fresh horse, his own having been spent on the ride to Edinburgh.

  The stable-master’s voice followed them out into the rain. ‘God speed, my lord.’

  Adam led the way through the castle courtyard, the horses sure on the well-worn ground. It was not yet evening, but already there were torches burning in the windows of the gatehouse, the rough dark pushing against the light. The guards hauled open the gates and the three men made their way down the steep track beyond. The gatehouse was soon looming sheer above them on the black rocks, the torchlight turning the windows into amber eyes. As they passed through a second gate in the lower walls, the guards greeted the king with surprise.

  The main street that led through the town was running with rainwater, but empty of people or carts and the king and his squires quickened their pace. The wild wind tore at their cloaks and hair, and by the time they reached the town limits they were soaked and frozen. From here they sped out across the miles of open country towards the Firth of Forth, leaving Edinburgh far behind them.

  At Dalmeny, buffeted by the gusts coming off the estuary, they dismounted outside the ferry-master’s lodgings. It was fully dark now. While Adam banged on the door, the king stared out across the two-mile stretch of swollen, inky water. Lightning pulsed above the distant hills and thunder came rolling like a wave towards him. The storm was moving north over Fife.

  The ferry-master opened the door, holding a lantern. ‘Yes?’ he said in gruff Scots. ‘Ah, it’s you again.’ Peering past Adam, the ferry-master looked taken aback when he saw the king’s face in the glow from his light. ‘My lord!’ He pulled the door wider. ‘I beg your pardon. Please, come in from the rain.’

  ‘I’m headed for Kinghorn,’ said Alexander, switching briskly from the French he had been speaking all day in council into the blunt Scots-English dialect.

  ‘In this gale?’ The ferry-master looked worriedly down the slip of sand beyond his house to where the broad shadow of the ferry rocked in the black. ‘I wouldn’t say that would be wise.’

  ‘Your king has given you a command,’ responded Adam sharply. ‘He doesn’t need to know what you think of it.’

  Pulling up his hood against the rain, the ferry-master moved past Adam to the king. ‘My lord, I implore you, wait until morning. I can provide lodgings here for you and your men. It won’t be well fit, but it will be dry.’

  ‘You were happy enough to row my man across earlier.’

  ‘That was long before this storm blew in proper. Now – well, my lord, it is simply too perilous.’

  Alexander’s impatience erupted. At every step he seemed to be thwarted in his attempts to reach his wife. ‘If you are afraid then I will have my squires take the oars. But either way, I will cross tonight!’

  The ferry-master bowed his head in consternation. ‘Yes, my lord.’ He went to head into his lodgings, then turned back. ‘Our Lord God knows I could not die better than in the company of your father’s son.’

  Alexander clenched his jaw as the ferry-master disappeared inside.

  He returned shortly with six men, all of them monks from Dunfermline Abbey that had owned the right to run the ferry from the distant days of St Margaret. Their woollen habits and sandals must have afforded little protection from the biting wind, but they didn’t complain as they guided the king down to the water’s edge. Behind came Brice and Adam, who had looped the iron stirrups of the horses through the leather straps to keep them from swinging against the animals on the voyage.

  The crossing was long and uncomfortable, the men bowed beneath the ceaseless pounding of the rain on their hoods, the horses disturbed by the vessel’s erratic motion. Spray skimmed off the choppy surface and coated their lips with salt as the ferry rose and fell. Alexander sat hunched at the stern, wrapped in a sodden fur which the ferry-master had offered to keep him warm. The thunder had faded to distant growls, but the wind showed no sign of decreasing and the monks’ mournful song as they rowed through the darkness was barely audible above its moans. Despite the ferry-master’s concern, however, the vessel made safe landfall at the royal burgh of Inverkeithing.

  ‘We’ll take the path along the shore,’ said Alexander, as Adam led Winter off the ferry and up the wet sand. There was firelight in some of the houses beyond the beach, winking invitingly. ‘It will be more sheltered.’

  ‘Not tonight, my lord,’ warned the ferry-master, taking the wet fur the king handed to him. ‘The spring tides are washing the water right to the cliffs in places. You could find yourself cut off.’

  ‘We’ll take the high track, Sire,’ called Adam, tugging down the king’s stirrups. ‘It will be quicker.’

  Their course set, the king and his squires rode their horses along the track that led up the wooded slopes beyond Inverkeithing to the cliff path. The going was slow in the rushing blackness beneath the canopy of trees, but at least the branches afforded some shelter. Once out of the woods, they were again at the mercy of the gale, which battled constantly against them as they followed the path’s winding asc
ent through the cliffs, which continued above and below them. The ground was boggy, the horses’ hooves sinking deep into the mud, forcing them to a torturous walk. Adam went in front, bidding Brice to ride behind him and shout warnings of the more treacherous places to the king. Alexander was an extremely experienced rider, but his horse, several hands larger than the squires’ palfreys, found the climb through the sticky mud increasingly difficult and, soon, the king was left behind. He could hear the calls of his men on the wind, but couldn’t see them in the howling dark. Gritting his teeth and berating himself for not heeding the advice of the steward, he forced Winter on, kicking him harder and harder, now swearing, now cursing, until the horse was snorting in agitation. In his mind, the king still cradled the image of his young bride in their warm bed, but now the vision had a sense of salvation about it.

  Alexander struggled with his horse on the incline, the beast thrashing its head against his fierce twists on the reins. This was madness. He should have listened to James, waited until morning. He went to call to his squires, thinking to turn back. They could seek shelter in Inverkeithing until the storm had passed. Then, as lightning seared the night, the king saw the cliffs ahead rising sharply above the path. Beyond that swoop of headland lay Kinghorn. It wasn’t far, only a mile or so. Bearing forward in the saddle, the king struck at Winter’s sides, urging the exhausted animal on. The way became even steeper and Alexander caught the cries of gulls, wheeling in the teeth of the storm. He could no longer hear his men. The path narrowed, bare rocks to his left and a precipitous drop to the right, the yawning black of which opened sickeningly beside him. He knew it wasn’t much more than a hundred feet down to the shore, but it might as well have stretched into hell for all he could see. As his horse slipped, he pulled it up sharply. His hands ached with the effort. ‘On!’ he roared, as the courser slipped again, neighed in fear and tried to turn. ‘On!’

  A black shape loomed before him. ‘Sire!’

  Relief flooded Alexander. ‘Take my reins,’ he shouted to Adam, over the gale. ‘I’m going to have to dismount. Winter cannot carry me up here.’

  ‘Wait, my lord, and I’ll come alongside you. The ground is firmer further on. I can lead you.’

  ‘Careful, I’m at the edge here,’ warned the king, feeling the rain trickling inside his cloak, threading an icy line down his back. ‘Where’s Brice?’

  ‘I sent him on ahead.’ Adam manoeuvred his palfrey between the king and the rocks that rose beside the path. A snap of lightning lit his face, revealing an intent expression as he reached across and grasped hold of the king’s reins, steadying his own horse with his knees.

  ‘Right, man,’ said Alexander, readying himself. ‘One last push.’

  ‘One last push, my lord,’ echoed Adam, thrusting towards him.

  The first thing Alexander felt was a jolt as his horse lurched. He guessed in an instant that the beast had been lamed and its sharp cry confirmed it. His own shout vanished in a winded grunt as he fell forward, his stomach striking the wooden pommel. He grabbed at the beast’s neck for purchase and felt another pain, this time in his leg as something crashed into him from the side. He had time to realise that it was Adam’s horse and time to realise that the squire had let go of his reins. Then, he and Winter were falling into darkness.

  Adam strove to get his panicked horse under control as the king’s cry vanished. After a moment, he managed to calm it enough to dismount. Holding the reins in one hand, he bent to clean the blood from the dagger he gripped in the other, wiping it in the wet grass that sprouted from the path. When he was done, he lifted his short hose and pushed the blade inside the leather sheath strapped around his calf. Moving cautiously to the cliff edge, he waited, sniffing rainwater from the end of his nose. After several minutes lightning struck again. Adam’s sharp eyes picked out a large, grey shape on the shore below. He waited. There was supposed to have been a moon tonight, but the storm had obscured it. Still, the wind and rain would have masked the king’s scream from Brice’s ears, although the fool should have been far enough ahead not to have heard it. The lightning came again in three flashes. The horse remained where it had fallen and this time Adam caught sight of a smaller shape lying close by. The king’s scarlet robe was as bright as a flag. Satisfied, the squire dug his foot into his stirrup and swung into the saddle. Even if the king had survived the fall, he would die from the cold before anyone found him, for Adam would make sure to send the search party in the wrong direction. Digging in his spurs, he continued up the cliff path towards Kinghorn, rehearsing the lies he planned to tell the young queen.

  Down on the shore, the dying horse turned its head. Blood pumped from the deep cut in its foreleg, which had severed the tendons and taken its balance, indistinguishable now from the injuries caused by the fall. A few feet away lay its royal charge, arms splayed, neck twisted at an impossible angle. The ragged wind coming off the Forth lifted a corner of the king’s cloak, making it flap against the sand, but other than that there was no movement.

  The dead would not be rising today.

  2

  The boy’s breaths came hard and fast as the beast thundered across the beach, kicking up sand in wet clods and taking him further from the shouts that echoed behind him. One hand gripping the reins, the boy leaned far back in the saddle, almost standing in the stirrups, striving to bring the horse to a stop, until his muscles were throbbing with the effort. The raw wind whipped his hair into his eyes, blinding him, and the lance, couched in his right hand, bounced wildly. Without warning, the horse jerked forward, pulling the reins painfully fast through the boy’s clenched fist. As the animal veered towards the crashing surf in a furious gallop, the boy lost his hold on the lance, which thumped to the sand to be splintered beneath one of the beast’s hooves. Faint in the distance, he heard his name being yelled.

  ‘Robert!’

  Snatching up the reins with both hands now, the boy fought against the animal, shouting in frustration and fear as it continued its crazed path towards the seething water. The sea, dazzling white in the sunlight, was coming up fast, filling his world with its rush and tumble. The roar of it was in his ears. All at once, he felt a violent jolt beneath him. The sky rolled over in his vision and, for a second, he saw clouds and a gull wheeling. Then he was hurtling headlong into the waves.

  The cold slammed him, making him gulp a lungful of salt water as he disappeared beneath the churning surf. He was tossed over, then sucked under, any sense of up or down driven from him by the icy shock and his rising panic. His chest was constricting, closing in on itself. He couldn’t breathe. Suddenly, his foot struck the bottom. He pushed himself up, breaking the surface with a shuddering gasp. The next wave struck him in the back, but although he was brought to his knees and propelled along by it, he managed to keep his head above the water. Eyes fixed on the shore, he struggled out of the breakers, his tunic clinging to him. As he waded on to the sand, coughing up seawater, he realised his shoes had been torn off by the force of the waves. The grit of broken shells on the shoreline stung his bare feet as he bent over, letting water trickle from his nose and ears.

  ‘Robert!’

  The boy straightened at the shout to see a figure striding down the beach towards him. His heart sank as he saw the broken lance, a smaller version of the great lances of men, in his instructor’s hand.

  ‘Why didn’t you shorten your reins?’ The man came to a halt before the soaking boy, brandishing the splintered lance. ‘Ruined! All because you couldn’t follow a basic instruction!’

  Robert, shivering in the wind, met his instructor’s livid gaze. The squat bull of a man was red in the face and sweating from the race to catch him up. That, at least, gave him some measure of satisfaction. ‘I tried, Master Yothre,’ he said tightly, glancing up the beach to where the beast had come to a halt, reins dangling free. It tossed its head and snorted as if laughing. Anger rose in Robert as he recalled being led to the stables four weeks ago, his excitement at his new phase of instru
ction draining when he saw the only animal saddled in his father’s stables was the massive warhorse. He had learned to ride on a sweet-natured hobby and, more recently, had mastered a spirited young palfrey. The black beast was nothing like either of them. It was like riding the devil. Robert’s gaze switched back to Yothre. ‘My father has more than thirty horses in his stables. Why did you choose Ironfoot? Even the grooms won’t go near him. He’s too strong.’

  ‘It isn’t your lack of strength that’s the trouble,’ grunted Yothre, ‘it’s your lack of skill. The horse will respond if you follow my instructions. Anyway,’ he added, his tone losing a little of its acidity, ‘I didn’t choose him for you. Your father did.’

  Robert fell silent. The sunlight glistened on his wet cheeks as he looked out to sea. His face, pale under his fringe of dark hair, was taut. Beyond the crashing breakers, the waters were a deep, lucid green. Further out, by the hump of Ailsa Craig, the Fairy Rock, they darkened to slate grey and, further still, towards the distant Isle of Arran, they turned black. Here on the Carrick coast it was a bright, windy spring day, but over the Arran hills a bank of clouds had built up through the morning trailing veils of rain, a remnant of the violent storms that had ravaged Scotland since the start of the year. Robert’s eyes picked out the smudge on the southern horizon that marked the northern tip of Ireland. Catching sight of that faint line, so often shrouded in mist or haze, he felt a pang of loss.

  His brother was still somewhere on that strip of land in the care of the Irish lord, a vassal of their father’s, to whom they had both been fostered. No doubt Edward would have already finished his training and schooling for the day. He would probably be racing the small wooden boats they had carved down the river outside the manor house in Antrim with their foster-brothers, laughing and chasing through the shallows. Tonight they would eat salmon and, by firelight, drink sweet beer in the lord’s hall and listen to his tales of Irish heroes, thundering battles and quests for treasure. The twelve months Robert had spent in Antrim had been some of the best of his life, his foster-father teaching him all he should know as the eldest son of one of the most powerful families in Scotland. Robert had thought he would return home to take his proper place at his father’s side, no longer a boy, but a youth on the path to knighthood. The reality had been a crushing disappointment.