Read Insurrection for Free Online Page A

before him, blithely ignoring Yothre who looked infuriated.
    ‘Men have come, and’ – Niall sucked in a breath – ‘and Grandfather!’
    Robert’s face broke into a wide grin of surprise. At once, he set off across the sand with Niall, his tunic flapping wetly around his legs.
    ‘Master Robert,’ barked Yothre behind him, ‘your lesson isn’t over.’ As the boys turned, the man thrust the broken lance towards Ironfoot. ‘You’ll ride him again before we’re finished.’
    ‘I’ll ride him tomorrow.’
    ‘Your father will be told of your disobedience.’
    Robert’s storm-blue eyes narrowed. ‘Tell him then,’ he said, sprinting after his brother.
    Once over the dunes, the two boys passed the little cluster of houses, fishermen’s boats and farmsteads that made up Turnberry village and raced on to the sandy track that led to the castle. Here, Robert picked up speed, his long legs punching into the ground as he left Niall far behind him. The earth beneath his feet was pocked with the fresh prints of many horses. His lungs burned, the exertion driving out the ice in his limbs, driving out too Yothre’s threat.
    As he approached the gates, which had been thrown wide open, one of the guards called to him.
    ‘Master Robert!’ The guard grinned. ‘What did that devil do to you today?’
    Ignoring him, Robert slowed as he entered the castle courtyard. There were many men and horses here being directed by the stable-master. In between the slow-moving animals, Robert caught sight of his family, all of whom had come out to greet the unexpected arrivals. He glanced impatiently over his two brothers, his mother and three sisters, one of whom was bawling in the arms of her wet nurse. His eyes lingered for a moment on his father, the Earl of Carrick, dressed in a crimson cloak trimmed with gold braid, then moved to take in the newcomers. He recognised, with some surprise, James Stewart. The High Steward of Scotland, one of the chief officials in the kingdom whose powerful family had held the stewardship for generations, was standing with a great earl from the east. There were others too, but all of them faded away as Robert’s gaze came to rest on the leonine man in their centre, with that great mane of silver hair and that hard, ancient face. Robert Bruce, Lord of Annandale. The man whose name both he and his father shared.
    Hearing Niall come gasping up behind him, Robert moved towards his grandfather, who was clad in a dust-stained surcoat and mantle, emblazoned with the arms of Annandale. His smile froze on his lips as he saw the old man’s grave expression. It was reflected, he realised, in the faces of the other adults. His mother looked shocked, his father was shaking his head. Then, Robert heard the words. They sounded impossible, but the look of the adults proved their truth. He spoke loudly, without thinking, repeating those words in a question. ‘The king is dead?’
    They turned to look at him, standing there sopping wet, seaweed in his hair and a graze of sand on his cheek. He saw his mother’s concern and his father’s disapproval, before his grandfather’s voice filled the silence.
    ‘Come here and let me see you, boy.’
    And those eyes, dark and fierce as a hawk’s, were on him.

3
    With the unforeseen arrival of the great lords, the castle’s servants were kept busy late into the day, lighting fires in empty chambers, finding fresh linen for beds and clearing space in the stables. Nowhere was more frenetic than the kitchen, the cooks faced with turning a meal for the earl’s already sizeable household into a grand feast for seven noblemen and their army of retainers. This number swelled, late in the afternoon, when another six men rode in through the castle gates. To Robert, watching from the window of the room he shared with his brothers, the day had the feeling of something portentous about it; something hushed and expectant that went beyond the news of the king’s death. He wondered