Free Insurrection: Renegade [02] by Robyn Young Page A

into a bakehouse, releasing smoke fragrant with the cooked loaves inside. Above her, two men laughed and talked as they laid fresh straw on a roof. Farmers greeted one another, their Gaelic brusque over the bleating of their animals.
    Adam remained aloof on his horse as he rode through their midst, an outsider looking in. It was how he spent much of his life, but while in larger towns and cities he was usually invisible, here it was impossible to remain unnoticed. His presence had already generated a great deal of curiosity, some fearful, some hostile. For a start, his charger was much bigger than the native horses, which to him looked like ponies. His navy cloak, although soiled from travel, was well-tailored and, beneath it, the fish-scale shimmer of mail was unmistakable. His dark hair had grown long these past months and his beard was full, but neither could disguise the olive tone of his skin that so distinctly marked him as a foreigner. But by far the most conspicuous thing about him was the great crossbow that hung from his back on a thick leather strap.
    The composite bow was made of horn, sinew and yew, covered with leather and decorated with coloured cord that criss-crossed the stave all the way to the stirrup that was used to load it. It was the weapon of mercenaries; banned by popes, employed by kings. Feared by all. Along with the packs strapped to his saddle swung a basket of quarrels, each iron-tipped head capable of piercing a knight’s armour, his leg and the saddle and horse beneath. Glenarm, under the lordship of Robert Bruce, lay in hostile territory, for much of Antrim’s hinterland was controlled by the English. But even here, in these troubled times, people weren’t accustomed to seeing such a weapon.
    As the goats crowding the thoroughfare were driven into a pen, Adam pricked his horse into an idle trot, leaving the stares behind him. The young man with the basket was heading for the beach, his russet tunic like a flag against the blue sea. Adam hung back, watching as his target approached a fisherman standing by a line of lobster pots. The two men greeted one another, their voices faint on the breeze. When Adam had arrived he had worried that he wouldn’t be able to glean any information from the Gaelic-speaking inhabitants, but after a fortnight watching Lord Donough’s hall he realised that quite a few of them could speak English, no doubt from living so closely with the settlers for generations.
    The youth opened the lid of his basket for the fisherman to deposit four lobsters inside, then, hefting the basket on his hip, made for the river mouth where a track ran alongside the estuary, following the narrowing waters inland. Adam trailed him, keeping his distance until the wattle houses of the town gave way to fields and animal paddocks. Lord Donough’s hall appeared in the foreground, rising from its mound above a loop in the river. Beyond, the hills rose into rocky peaks where buzzards circled. As his target approached a copse of trees, Adam trotted closer. The young man glanced round at the jangle of the bridle and wandered off the track, expecting horse and rider to pass. Adam drew nearer. The youth turned again, a frown furrowing his brow as he took in the great horse and the armed man astride it.
    ‘You’re Lord Donough’s man?’ Adam called.
    The young man halted at the strangely accented English. He looked nervously around, as if seeking assistance, but the track was empty. Only a few horses grazed in the paddock that ran alongside the river. ‘Yes,’ he answered, uncertain.
    Adam dismounted, looping the reins over one of the paddock’s posts. He held up his hands. A gesture of peace. ‘I am looking for Sir Robert Bruce, the Earl of Carrick. I bear a message for him.’
    The youth’s frown relaxed a little. ‘He was here, sir. But no longer.’ The English was thick in his mouth, as though his tongue were wrapped in treacle.
    ‘Where is he now?’
    The man shook his head, too