Insurrection: Renegade [02]
Page 1
RENEGADE
ROBYN YOUNG
www.hodder.co.uk
First published in Great Britain in 2012 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © Robyn Young 2012
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
ISBN 978 1 444 71513 2
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
www.hodder.co.uk
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
As usual I have a host of people to applaud, so please bear with me. First, thanks go to Donal O’Sher and Ann McCarthy in Waterville, County Kerry, for the unforgettable boat trip to Church Island and the wealth of local knowledge they were willing to share. Many thanks also to the helpful steward at St Patrick’s Church of Ireland Cathedral, Armagh, and the Reverend Ted Flemming for information on the building’s history. A general round of appreciation goes to all the knowledgeable curators and guides I spoke to at historic sites across Ireland and Scotland, with special thanks to the usher at Westminster Abbey, who let me into the shrine of Edward the Confessor.
I am, once again, indebted to historian Marc Morris for reading the manuscript so thoroughly and bringing his considerable knowledge to bear upon it. His red pen is very much appreciated. Indeed, I should thank all the historians whose books I have pored over, dog-eared, scrawled on and gleaned so much from while working on this trilogy. Any mistakes that remain are my own.
My sincere gratitude goes to my editor Nick Sayers for all his support, with a huge thank you to the rest of the fantastic team at Hodder & Stoughton, especially Laura Macdougall, Emma Knight, Lucy Hale, James Spackman, Auriol Bishop, Catherine Worsley, Ben Gutcher, Alexandra Percy, Laurence Festal, Abigail Mitchell, Laura del Vescovo and Jamie Hodder-Williams, as well as to my copy-editor, Morag Lyall, proofreader, Barbara Westmore, and Jack Dennison for looking after me on the road. Many thanks to everyone in the art and production teams, marketing, sales and publicity, and foreign rights – too many good people to mention here, but their hard work is very much appreciated.
Many thanks as ever to my agent, Rupert Heath, all at the Marsh Agency, Dan Conaway at Writers House, and to my editors and publishing teams overseas; I continue to be enormously grateful for all your support.
A nod to my fellow committee members on the Historical Writers’ Association, Stella Duffy, Michael Jecks, Ben Kane, Robert Low, Anthony Riches and Manda Scott; it’s been a pleasure to have ‘colleagues’ to share the experience of this mad career with over the past year. With special thanks to Manda and Michael for the pertinent details on corpses. It’s very handy knowing people who you can ask, What would happen if I shaved a dead body? – and they don’t immediately call the police.
Last, my heartfelt thanks go to all my friends and family, most especially Lee, without whom this journey wouldn’t mean much at all.
CONTENTS
Acknowledgements
Map of England, Scotland & Wales
Map of Ireland
Epigraph
Prologue
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Author’s Note
Character List
Glossary
Succession to the Scottish Throne
Bibliography
Also by Robyn Young
Brutus! there lies beyond the Gallic bounds
An island which the western sea surrounds,
By giants once possess’d; now few remain
To bar thy entrance, or obstruct thy reign.
To reach that happy shore thy sails employ;
There fate decrees to raise a second Troy,
And found an empire in thy royal line,
Which time shall ne’er destroy, nor bounds confine.
The History of the Kings of Britain, Geoffrey of Monmouth
PROLOGUE
1135 AD
. . . the reliques of the other saints should be found, which had been hidden on account of the invasion of pagans; and then at last would they recover their lost kingdom.
The History of the Kings of Britain, Geoffrey of Monmouth
Armagh, Ireland
1135 AD
On the brow of Ard Macha, whose ancient slopes bore the name of a goddess of war, a band of men were waiting. They stood close together outside the cathedral’s doors, eyes searching the mist that shrouded the hilltop. A golden light was starting to suffuse the haze, the memorials of the saints in the cemetery just visible, but, beyond, the city of Armagh remained veiled in white.
A crow cast from one of the yew trees that guarded the approach to the cathedral, the beat of wings disturbing the hush. The eyes of the company darted in the direction of the bird to see a figure emerging from the mist. It was a man dressed in a hooded black robe that ill-fitted his gaunt frame. As he walked towards them, their hands tightened around their weapons. Some of the younger men shifted uneasily. One at their centre, as broad as an ox with a hard, craggy face, pushed through their ranks to the front. Niall mac Edan stared past the approaching figure, scanning the amber gloom. After a moment something large appeared, trundling in the man’s wake. It was a cart, drawn by a mule. Two men in black habits were leading the beast. Niall’s eyes narrowed in expectation, but there was no other movement. As ordered, Malachy had come alone.
The men with the cart halted on the edge of the cemetery, leaving Malachy to continue up the slope, the hems of his black habit flapping around bare feet. His head was shaven in a severe tonsure, his bald crown burned livid by the July sun. His face was pinched, the skin stretched over the bones of his cheeks and sinking into the hollows of his eyes. Niall sensed the tension in his men; saw some of them edge back. Last month, when Malachy came to this hillside, attempting to enter the cathedral, he brought an army with him and blood had been spilled. But Niall knew it wasn’t the memory of violence that unnerved his men. They would be calmer facing spears and axes than this solitary, whip-thin man whose feet were callused from years walking the land, preaching the word of God. They had all heard the stories.
It was said that Malachy once cursed a man who defamed him, causing the unfortunate’s tongue to swell and turn putrid, worms gushing from it. After seven days vomiting out the maggots that filled his mouth the wretch had died. A woman who harangued Malachy during a sermon was known to have fallen to the ground after the oration, convulsing so hard she swallowed her tongue. He was said to be able to cure pestilence and create it, cause rivers to rise and burst their banks, and it was believed that the vengeance of the Lord would fall upon any who stood against him.
Despite this, Niall mac Edan held his ground, not bothering to draw his sword. He had denied Malachy entry to Armagh and its cathedral for ten months now and he was still standing. H
is eyes moved to the cart, which, even at this distance, he could see was piled with chests. The sight of it strengthened his confidence. Only a man, as fallible as any born of Adam’s line, would need to resort to a bribe to get what he wanted. He gestured his men to move aside as Malachy, Archbishop of Armagh, approached.
Malachy watched the men before him part. Beyond, the doors of the cathedral were open into shadow. Ard Macha, encircled by mist, was as familiar as a friend. Born in this city almost forty years ago, he had grown to manhood with her green slopes in his view – upon which the blessed St Patrick had founded his church. The stone cathedral had changed in the years since he was a boy. It was only a decade since its ruined roof, struck by lightning in a time no one living could recall, had been replaced by Archbishop Cellach. The shingle still looked new. Malachy was pleased to see that although his friend and mentor had died his labours lived on. The thought of Cellach made him turn his attention to Niall mac Edan, at the head of the waiting company.
For almost two centuries, men of Niall’s clan had held sway over the cathedral, claiming to control the diocese by hereditary right, along with its wealth and the tributes of horses and cows from the people of the province. Few of these men who had stood as bishops had taken holy orders, or been consecrated in Rome. Most were married laymen, whose hands were more accustomed to weapons than scripture; men of avarice, lust and violence, whose control of Ireland’s Holy See was anathema in the eyes of the Church.
This evil had been uprooted by Cellach. A son of the clan, but a true man of God and a staunch reformer, he had elected Malachy to be his successor, but after Cellach’s death, Niall and other members of the family had defied this decree and kept Malachy out of the city. And so he had come to defend his right; first with an army, which resulted in bloodshed, now alone, with ten chests of coin. The payment was large, but the prize invaluable.
Malachy halted before Niall, wondering how such a brute could have sprung from the same womb as a devout man like Cellach. Cain and Abel, came the thought. ‘It is inside?’
‘As soon as I’ve seen my fee you can have it.’ Niall’s Gaelic was abrasive.
‘It is with my brethren.’
Niall motioned sharply to two of his men. ‘Go. Look.’
Moving warily past the archbishop, they headed down to the cart.
Malachy stood waiting while Niall’s men inspected the chests. It was not so many moons ago that the people of Ireland bartered with animals and goods. The plundering Norsemen had changed all that, bringing the tainted silver with them. How often these days it seemed a man’s worth was measured in such things, rather than in the fortune of his faith.
Once they were done, the two men hastened back up the slope. Both were grinning.
‘It’s all there,’ said one to Niall. ‘Ten chests.’
Niall’s eyes flicked back to Malachy. He gestured to the cathedral with a mocking sweep of his hand. ‘Enter then, your grace,’ he said, his voice biting down hard on the title as if it were a piece of gristle in his mouth.
The fires of hell cleanse your soul, Malachy thought as he moved past Niall and walked between the rows of armed men towards the doors of the cathedral. None of them lowered their weapons, but Malachy paid the barbed points and keen blades no heed. He paused at the entrance, his bare feet suddenly reluctant to take him from the dewy grass on to the flagstones beyond. He had not wanted this. Any of it. Now, more than ever, he missed the wild solitude of his beloved monastery, Ibracense. But Cellach had entrusted him with this position. It had been his mentor’s dying wish that he become Archbishop of Armagh. Moreover, the pope had commanded that he take control of his see and oust the men who continued to defy the laws of the Church.
Malachy stepped over the threshold and entered the shadows of the interior. The place had a smell of sweat and men about it. He didn’t look back as footsteps and triumphant voices faded behind him, Niall and his band swarming over their prize. Ahead, at the end of the nave, was the high altar. On the altar, where the flames of candles flickered, was a long object wrapped in white cloth.
Malachy dropped to his knees in front of it, resisting an overwhelming urge to seize the object; to hold in his hands what had once been held by Lord Jesus Christ. When the proper prayers had been said, he rose and carefully unwrapped the cloth. From out of the folds he drew a staff; a crosier, covered in an exquisite sheath of gold, encrusted with gems. All the candlelight and hazy morning sun filtering through the windows seemed caught in its precious length so that it blazed like a flame in his hands.
The staff had belonged to St Patrick who brought the word of God to Ireland seven hundred years ago. It was said that the saint had been given it by a hermit who received it from Jesus, although some heathens proclaimed Patrick stole it from the Druids. It was the holiest relic in Ireland. People would swear their most solemn oaths upon it; oaths that if broken would cause great plagues to sweep the land. It was the staff of the King of Kings, a symbol of righteousness and supreme authority.
It did not matter that Malachy had been chosen as Cellach’s successor, or that he had been consecrated in Rome. Until he was in possession of this relic his appointment would not be accepted by the people of Ireland. This was why he had agreed to Niall mac Edan’s demand for payment; for whosoever had control of the Staff of Jesus could claim to be not only rightful Archbishop of Armagh, but successor to St Patrick and spiritual ruler of all Ireland.
PART 1
1299–1301 AD
He was in suspense for some time, whether he had better continue the war or not, but at last he determined to return to his ships while the greater part of his followers was yet safe, and hitherto victorious, and to go in quest of the island which the goddess had told him of.
The History of the Kings of Britain, Geoffrey of Monmouth
Chapter 1
Armagh, Ireland, 1299 AD
(164 years later)
The frail glow from a single candle danced over the walls of the crypt, throwing monstrous shadows up the sides of the octagonal pillars and across the ribs of the vaulted ceiling. The light’s bearer slowed his footsteps, cupping a hand around the flame as it threatened to flutter out. Around him the voices of the others were breaths in the darkness.
‘Hurry.’
‘There, Brother Murtough. The chest.’
‘I see it. Bring the light, Donnell.’
As Donnell moved closer to the whispers, his flame illuminated a collection of chests and boxes stacked on the floor. There were many such items stored in rows down the length of the sixty-foot crypt: baskets of cloth, sacks of grain and barrels of salted meat. The cathedral and the city it dominated had suffered much violence over the centuries, from destructive raids by neighbouring Irish chieftains and pillaging Norsemen, to the determined, tide-like expansion of the English. Thirty years ago, when Archbishop O’Scanlon ordered a great edifice built in place of the original scarred structure, the underground chamber had formed the base of his new choir, granting the cathedral and the people of Armagh a safe for their treasures.
Donnell halted beside his four companions, the candlelight staining their faces. The chests here were decoratively carved and painted with biblical imagery. It was clear they belonged to the cathedral and no doubt contained its collected wealth: chalices and plates, vestments, jewels and coin. The chest Murtough and the others had spotted was larger than the rest. Inlaid with inscriptions in Latin, barely legible under a layer of dust, it was the only one that could store what they had come for.
Murtough negotiated his way to it. The shadows highlighted the scar that furrowed the left side of his face, cleaving right through his upper lip, in sharp relief to the pale, unblemished skin that surrounded it. He reached out to lift the lid. When the chest failed to open, his brow knotted.
On the stillness came an eerie moaning, drifting towards them as if flowing down a tunnel, rising and falling in pitch.
One of the men crossed himself. ‘Lord, spare us!’ His excla
mation resonated in the vaulted space.
Murtough’s scar creased with his scowl. ‘Matins, brother. The canons are singing the matins!’
The younger man let out a breath, but the fear didn’t leave his gaze.
Murtough rose and scanned the gloom until his eyes fell upon a pair of large silver candlesticks. He crossed to them and hefted one in his hands, testing its weight.
‘They will hear,’ said one of his companions, catching Murtough’s arm as he moved back, the candlestick brandished in his grip. The man’s eyes flicked to the ceiling, where the distant chanting continued.
‘There,’ murmured Donnell, the flame guttering in the rush of air from his lips. He pointed at a basket covered with cloth.
Seeing what he meant, Murtough went to it. Dust swarmed as he wrapped the cloth around the candlestick’s base. Returning to the chest, he rammed it at the lock. The muffled thud echoed like a drum. The chest shuddered, but although the wood was dented by the impact the lock didn’t break. Steeling himself, Murtough tried again, ears attuned for any change in the chanting descending from the cathedral choir. After three blows, the lock buckled. Murtough lifted the lid, sending shards of wood scattering. He stared inside at a neat collection of breviaries and Bibles.
As the others saw what it contained they began speaking in rapid whispers.
‘We cannot search every chest here.’
‘We have lingered too long already.’
‘I will not leave without it,’ replied Murtough grimly. ‘We were told beyond doubt that they are coming for it. I will not let it fall into their hands.’