Authors: Robyn Young
Insurrection
Insurrection
Robyn Young
Also by Robyn Young
Brethren
Crusade
Requiem
First published in Great Britain in 2010 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © Robyn Young 2010
The right of Robyn Young to be identified as the Author of the
Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored
in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without
the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated
in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published
and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious or are historical figures whose words and
actions are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
Epub ISBN 9781444715125
Book ISBN 9780340963647
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
Acknowledgements
Writing a novel is a prolonged, unwieldy task, seldom accomplished in its entirety by one single person. This was no exception and I’d like to thank the following people for their help along the way. First, the guides and curators I met across Scotland and Wales, who spoke with such knowledge and passion about the history of the many castles, abbeys and battlegrounds I visited, with added thanks to Clair for the incredible ride through Glen Trool. My gratitude goes to Jane Spooner at the Tower of London for taking the time to show me round and offering invaluable insights into the history of the place. Thank you to John Dudeney for not letting his horses kill me and for the terrifying, but rewarding year in the paddock . . . I have so much more respect for the skill of my knights now. A sincere thank you to Ken Hames for talking to me so frankly and incisively about his combat experiences, which gave me a deeper glimpse into the psyche of war. I owe a great deal to historian Marc Morris, author of
A Great and Terrible King
, for reading so thoroughly and for the weight of knowledge he brought to bear on the manuscript. Without scholars of his calibre, many of whose works I plundered for treasures, this novel would not exist. Thanks also to Richard Foreman for the valuable introductions. My gratitude to the writers’ group for editorial gems and the pleasure of shared words, with special thanks to Niall Christie for the reading and to dear friend and fellow writer C.J. Sansom for an ear in the dark days. To the rest of my friends and family, but most especially to Lee – thank you, your support and love mean more than you know.
Much appreciation goes as ever to my fantastic agent, Rupert Heath, also to Dan Conaway at Writers House, the team at the Marsh Agency and indeed all the publishers who work on the international editions. Last, but certainly not least, my gratitude to all at Hodder & Stoughton, whose great commitment to the books continues to overwhelm me. Extra special thanks are due to my wonderful editor, Nick Sayers, to Anne, Laura, Emma, and the fabulous sales and marketing teams and often unsung heroes: copy-editor, proof reader and the art and production teams.
Contents
Succession to the Scottish Throne
Ah God! how often Merlin said the truth
In his prophecies, if you read them!
Now are the two waters united in one
Which have been separated by great mountains;
And one realm made of two different kingdoms
Which used to be governed by two kings.
Now are the islanders all joined together
And Albany reunited to the regalities
Of which king Edward is proclaimed lord.
Cornwall and Wales are in his power
And Ireland the great at his will.
There is neither king nor prince of all the countries
Except king Edward, who has thus united them . . .
Peter Langtoft (English chronicler d. c.1307)
Prologue
1262 AD
King Arthur himself was mortally wounded; and being carried thence to the isle of Avallon to be cured of his wounds, he gave up the crown of Britain to his kinsman Constantine, the son of Cador, duke of Cornwall, in the five hundred and forty-second year of our Lord’s incarnation.
The History of the Kings of Britain
,
Geoffrey of Monmouth
Gascony, France
1262 AD
The horses were screaming. Blades carved the air, chopping down into shields, battering helms. Men spat threats and panted curses through visors, their arms and shoulders singing with the raw pain of every swing and strike. Dust from the dry soil had been kicked into clouds by their press, turning the air above the vineyard yellow. The smell of grapes, swollen in the heat, was sour in their parched throats and sweat dripped its salt sting into their eyes, blinding them.
In the thick of battle a man in a red and gold surcoat raised his shield to block another blow. His horse wheeled beneath him. Bringing the beast back round with a prick of his spur, he lunged in retaliation, ramming his sword into his enemy’s side, piercing linen and padding to crunch into the mail shirt beneath. Alongside him a huge man, clad in a blue and white striped cloak, swung his weapon viciously into a knight’s back, snarling spit into his ventail with the effort. The man it struck fell forward, losing grip on his sword. As his horse stumbled, the knight was bucked from the saddle. He hit the ground, black with the juice of burst grapes, and rolled, trying to avoid the hooves of the destriers, punching down around him. One caught him on the side of the head, crushing his helm and leaving his body to be trampled as the men battled on above.
The man in red and gold thrust his sword into the air with a fierce cry, swiftly taken up by others.
‘Arthur!’ they yelled. ‘Arthur!’
New strength surged in limbs and new breath in lungs. They fought on, ruthless now, giving no quarter. As more opponents were knocked or pulled from horses a banner was hoisted above the mêlée, rippling in the searing wind. It was blood scarlet with a dragon rearing, fire-wreathed, in its centre.
‘Arthur! Arthur!’
The man in the blue and white striped cloak had lost his blade, but he battled on in the crush using his shield as a weapon. Bringing the top edge cracking up under one man’s jaw, he turned to slam it into the visor of another. Frustrated by one knight, who refused to yield, he grabbed the man around the neck and dragged him from the saddle. As his opponent slid down between the horses, flailing for purchase and roaring in fury, there came three long blasts on a horn.
Those still mounted lowered their swords, one by one, at the sound. Fighting for breath, they struggled to rein in their agitated chargers. Those on the ground were stumbling to their feet, trying to push their way through the mob. They were surrounded by waiting foot soldiers, who wielded falchions. One man, scrabbling free through the vines, was hauled back and kicked into submission. Squires began to round up the stray horses that had scattered during the fight.
The man in red and gold tugged off his helm, surmounted by silver dragon wings, to reveal a young, sharp-boned face set with intense grey eyes, one of which drooped a little at the lid, giving him a rather sly expression. Sucking in lungfuls of gritty air, Edward surveyed the defeated men, the last of whom were having their weapons taken. Several had been wounded in the battle, two seriously. One swayed in the grip of his comrades, groaning through gums, his front teeth shattered. Triumph beat a song inside Edward, in the hot pulse of blood in his veins.
‘Another victory, nephew.’
The gruff statement came from the man in the blue and white striped cloak, embroidered here and there with tiny red birds. William de Valence had taken off his helm and released his mail ventail from his jaw, which hung down over the iron collar that kept the helm in place. His broad face was running with sweat.
Before Edward could respond, one of the squires called out.
‘There’s one dead here, my lord.’
Edward turned to see the squire bent over a body. The dead man’s surcoat was covered with dust and there was a dent in the side of his helm. Blood had burst up out of one of the eye holes. Other men were looking over, their gazes on the corpse as they wiped the sweat from their faces.
‘Take his armour and sword,’ Edward told the squire, after a pause.
‘Lord Edward!’ protested one of the men, who had been rounded up and disarmed. He stepped forward, but was blocked from going any further by the surrounding foot soldiers. ‘I demand the rights to my comrade’s body!’
‘You will have the body for burial after your ransoms have been agreed and paid, I give you my word. But his gear is mine.’ With that, Edward passed his dragon-winged helm and shield to a squire and, taking up the reins, urged his horse away between the vines.
‘Bring the prisoners,’ William de Valence ordered the foot soldiers.
The rest of Edward’s men fell in behind, the dragon banner raised like a red fist over their heads, dark against the encroaching dusk. Leaving squires to gather broken weapons and injured horses, the company moved out, ignoring the workers who came running, shouting at the sight of the destroyed vineyard. The tournament ground, established last night, had been set between two towns as usual, but the inclusion of crop fields, grazing lands, even villages, was inevitable.