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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 instruction 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.
    ‘Come, we will start again,’ Yothre was saying, gesturing for Robert to follow as he headed up the beach towards Ironfoot. ‘And this time, if you do as I say, we can avoid any further—’ His words were cut off by a high-pitched shout.
    A small boy was racing across the dunes towards them. Behind him Turnberry Castle perched on its promontory of rock over the surging sea, its battlements crowned by the circling silhouettes of cormorants and gulls.
    Robert smiled as the boy ran faster, his short legs puffing sand into a cloud around him. ‘Niall!’
    His youngest brother came to a breathless halt