Free Insurrection by Robyn Young Page A

small garrison. It was clear its chief occupant was no longer here, despite rumours to the contrary. Leaning over, he placed his helm on one of the trestles and boards, and removed his shield from his arm. His mare was champing at the bit, her mouth frothy. Kicking his feet from the stirrups, Bruce dismounted, his mail settling with a shiver of metal. Moving to one of the low-burning torches, he swiped it from its bracket and strode to the dais. Jaw set, he climbed the steps, the flames excited by the air. He paused, his eyes on the white lion, then thrust the torch to the bottom of the banner. The frail silk caught instantly and the earl stepped back, a small smile, malicious and childlike, playing about his mouth.
    He was standing there, watching the flames spread greedily across the banner, when he felt something punch into his back. The earl jolted, dropping the torch, which went rolling across the dais, the flames gusting. He staggered round to see a man, eyes wide, holding a kitchen knife. Realising his armour had done its job and turned the blade, Bruce moved in with a snarl, swinging a mailed fist into the man’s face. The man reeled back off the dais and crashed into a table, which shattered beneath him, sending silver bowls ringing across the floor. The earl stamped down the dais steps, drawing his broadsword. Kicking aside a stool, he loomed over the man, who lay on his back among the wreckage of wood.
    ‘Please!’ groaned the man, holding up his hands. ‘Please, I—’
    The earl stabbed down, forcing the tip of his broadsword into the man’s throat. The man uttered a strangled gurgling sound that ended in a dark eruption of blood. It spewed from his stretched mouth and the wound as the earl ground the blade in until it struck stone and would go no further. The man’s body thrashed for a few moments, then shuddered to still. As the earl bent to wipe his blade on the man’s tunic, the doors opened and a company of men entered.
    At the head was Bruce’s father. The old Lord of Annandale had his helm clasped under one arm, his silver hair almost translucent in the light seeping through the doors. His surcoat bore a blue lion, the ancient arms of the Bruce family from the time of King David I, who granted them the lordship of Annandale. Pinned over his heart was a dried brown leaf: a piece of palm frond from the Holy Land, a pious reminder of their time on crusade. For the earl it sparked a memory of an ochre vista stretching beyond the walls of the crusaders’ capital at Acre beneath a vermilion sky, calls to prayer echoing from minarets to be drowned by church bells. They had fought against the Saracens under Lord Edward’s banner and he had rewarded them for their loyal service, elevating their already considerable status in England. The earl felt suddenly determined that those glorious days would not be confined to a dried and brittle keepsake, pinned to his father’s chest.
    The lord took in Balliol’s banner, curling into flames behind his bloodstained son. ‘The garrison has surrendered. Buittle is ours.’
    A sharp cry rose over his words. It came from a young man, one of several being held by the knights with the lord. He wrenched from his captors, taking them by surprise, and ran to the man sprawled in the ruins of the table. Dropping down, he thrust the cracked boards aside and cradled the man’s head in his hands. The pool of blood seeped into his clothes. His eyes moved to Bruce, whose sword still had a wide smear of red on it. ‘Bastard,’ he breathed, rising. ‘ Bastard! ’
    The earl’s eyes narrowed. ‘Kill this whelp,’ he said, gesturing to two of his vassals, both knights from Carrick.
    The knights started forward, but the Lord of Annandale’s voice cut across them. ‘I said it is over. The garrison are free to leave.’
    The knights looked from the earl to the lord, their weapons lowering.
    ‘You can go,’ said the Lord of Annandale to the youth, oblivious to the fury in his