Insurrection by Robyn Young Page B

of anger tighten in him as the two boys walked away down the hillside together. There was a time when Thomas, like Niall, would have done anything he said. He put his head back on the grass, listening to the thrum of bees in the heather and wishing Edward was here. But his brother, who was a year younger than him, had six months of his own fosterage left. Edward was a dervish with a practice sword, could climb trees higher than anyone, knew how to lie effectively and would dare any challenge. Things were dull without him.
    Niall scrabbled over. ‘What shall we do?’
    After a pause, Robert jumped up, determined not to let Alexander ruin his afternoon. ‘I’ll teach you how to fight.’ Sprinting to a clump of wind-blown trees, he snatched at a thin branch and pulled hard until it snapped. Breaking it in two, Robert stripped the leaves and handed the longer stick to his eager-eyed brother. ‘We’ll practise over here.’ He motioned to a flat expanse of grass. In the distance, the tall hills of Carrick marched east. The lower slopes were clad with trees, but the crowns were bare. Robert used to think of them as bald old men, standing in a guarding ring around Turnberry. ‘Like this,’ he said, planting his legs apart and grasping the stick two-handed.
    Niall, his face serious, imitated his brother. The knees of his hose were grass-stained.
    Robert swung the stick slowly through the air, curving down towards the boy’s neck. ‘Now you block my blade.’
    Niall swiped at Robert’s stick.
    ‘Too quick. You have to start slow. Like this.’ Robert brandished the stick again, keeping it central to his body, then swept it round in a slow motion, first one side, then the other, now up and over his head. ‘Then faster,’ he said, the stick picking up speed in his hands, whistling as it carved the air. ‘Pretend you’re fighting someone,’ he shouted over his shoulder.
    ‘Who?’ Niall called, running after him.
    ‘An enemy. A Comyn man!’
    Niall whipped his stick at the grass. ‘Look, Robert! I got two!’
    ‘Two?’ Robert pointed his stick down the hillside. ‘There’s a whole army down there!’ He let out a yell and charged down the steep slope, the stick high above his head. ‘Death to all Comyns!’
    Niall came behind him, his shouts exploding into laughter as Robert tripped and went sprawling. Robert grunted as his brother landed on top of him with a cry of victory. Together, the two of them rolled down the hillside, their makeshift weapons abandoned in the grass behind them. They came to a winded stop near the bottom, oblivious to the figure standing there watching them.
    ‘What are you doing?’
    At the unfamiliar voice, Robert’s eyes opened. He realised he was staring at a girl, upside down. Pushing his brother off him, he faced her. The girl was whip-thin, with long black hair that twisted lankly around her bony shoulders like rat’s tails. She wore a threadbare dress that had perhaps once been white, but was now grey with dirt and in her grubby hand she clutched a small sack. A heady smell of earth and flowers clung to her, but Robert was drawn mostly to her eyes, for they seemed the largest thing about her, overwhelming in her lean face. ‘What business is it of yours?’ he answered in Gaelic, her intense stare making him uncomfortable.
    The girl cocked her head to one side. ‘Who are you?’
    ‘He’s the heir of the Earl of Carrick, lord of these lands.’
    Robert shot Niall a look to silence him, but the girl didn’t seem to notice. Her probing gaze moved from his sweat-soaked tunic to his dirty face. Her lips twitched as her eyes came to rest on his hair. Raising his hand unconsciously, Robert found a sprig of heather lodged in his fringe. It crumbled in his fingers as the girl shrugged her shoulders.
    ‘You do not look like an earl,’ she said, turning and walking away across the grass.
    Robert, watching her go, realised she wasn’t wearing any shoes, not even the wooden clogs that