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

quickly. ‘I know not.’ He began to walk. ‘I must go. My master waits.’
    ‘Please,’ called Adam. ‘The message is urgent.’
    The young man hesitated. After a pause, he nodded towards the distant hall. ‘You must speak to Lord Donough, sir.’
    Adam watched him turn and walk away quickly. The youth knew more than he was saying; that much was clear from his manner, but even if he hadn’t been so furtive Adam would have known he was lying. Servants knew everything. Invisible, they waited at the edges of halls to clear the platters at feasts, ignored by kings who plotted wars and lords who schemed for power. They filled basins in ladies’ bedchambers and emptied bedpans, silent witnesses to affairs of state and love: a horde of listeners, thronging every passageway. Adam could wait and find a more malleable target, but he had neither the time, nor the patience. He had already spent too long chasing a phantom.
    Scotland, ravaged by war and overrun with insurgents, had proven a challenge, even for him. Forced to remain inconspicuous lest he be recognised, unable to get near the rebels – holed up in the hidden base established by William Wallace deep in Selkirk Forest – it had taken far longer than anticipated to discover that Bruce was long gone. Finally, picking up his trail from Carrick, Adam had followed him across the race – the wild stretch of sea between Scotland and Ireland. Arriving in Glenarm a fortnight ago, it had been a blow to discover the earl had moved on again. He wasn’t about to spend another six months kicking his heels in this hovel.
    Adam let the servant go only a few paces before he moved up behind him, drawing a dagger from the sheath on his belt. Grabbing a fistful of the young man’s hair, he brought the blade up to his throat. The servant dropped the basket in shock. The lid fell open as it hit the ground, the lobsters scuttling for the river. The young man cried out a stream of high-pitched Gaelic that could have been surprise or fear, or anger for the loss of his catch, then Adam was dragging him into the copse of trees.
    ‘Tell me,’ he commanded, pushing the servant up against a trunk, one hand on his chest, the other keeping the dagger at his throat. ‘Where has Bruce gone?’
    The young man licked his lips. ‘He left after the Christ Mass. Weeks ago.’
    ‘Where. Not when.’
    ‘South. On the road to Kildare.’ The servant’s eyes pleaded the truth of his words. ‘With Lord Donough’s son and the monks.’
    ‘Monks?’
    ‘From Bangor Abbey. The monks who took the staff from Armagh. The staff the Earl of Ulster burned our hall for. Sir Robert wants it.’
    As the reason Robert had abandoned the war in Scotland and resigned his position as guardian became clear, Adam’s blood was stirred. It was even more imperative that he fulfil the king’s order. Bruce could not be allowed to take possession of the relic, under any circumstance. All the king had worked to achieve would be in jeopardy. ‘Will he return when he has it?’
    The servant shook his head. ‘Please,’ he murmured, glancing down at the dagger and swallowing dryly. ‘It is all I know.’
    ‘I believe you.’
    Adam sliced the dagger swiftly across the young man’s throat, severing his windpipe with one brutal cut. The servant dropped to the ground, where he convulsed for a few moments, then shuddered to still. Bending, Adam wiped the blade on the grass. As he did so, his mind filled with an image of a cliff-top path in stormy darkness, a thunderclap drowning the scream as Alexander sailed over the edge with his horse. Adam sheathed the dagger, musing that metal had no compunction about rank. It killed servant as easily as it murdered king. Returning to his horse, he mounted.
    The hunt was on.

Chapter 7
    Ballymote, Ireland, 1301 AD
     
    Robert stirred as he felt the wagon slow. Outside the thick cloth covering men called to one another, their words obscured by the hollow clopping of the horses’