Insurrection by Robyn Young

pacing now. ‘Will those sons of whores come for me here?’
    Comyn watched Balliol thrust a hand through his hair, chestnut like his sister’s, who Comyn had married eleven years earlier. The similarity ended there. Balliol was possessed of neither his sister’s passion nor her shrewd mind. Comyn had always thought the women of the Balliol family had been endowed with the men’s share of mettle. ‘Do you have word on their position?’
    ‘Yes, I have word,’ responded Balliol bitterly. ‘The Bruces have taken Buittle.’
    Comyn digested the bad news slowly. The Bruces’ attacks on the castles at Wigtown and Dumfries had struck at the roots of Comyn power in south-west Scotland, but although the capture of the two strongholds had wounded the family’s pride, it had done little damage to the Comyns’ long-term plans. Buittle, Balliol’s chief stronghold, was another matter. ‘How do you know the castle has fallen? In your message you said you were leaving for Sweetheart Abbey as a precaution, when the Bruce men entered Galloway.’
    ‘The son of my steward informed me. I left his father at Buittle to safeguard the possessions I could not carry, along with a garrison. My steward was killed in the attack by that bastard the Earl of Carrick.’ Balliol spat the name. ‘Along with eight of my men. Eight!’
    ‘When did this happen?’ pressed Comyn.
    ‘A fortnight ago.’
    ‘And you have heard nothing of the Bruces’ movements since?’
    ‘From what we can gather they have paused at Buittle.’
    Comyn frowned thoughtfully. ‘Your steward’s son, is he still here?’
    ‘Yes. I recruited him for the army of Galloway. His hatred of the Bruces will make him an able fighter in the reckoning that will come.’
    ‘I want to speak to him.’
    Balliol followed as Comyn headed down the nave. ‘Of course, but first let us make arrangements for your men. There is a field beyond the abbey precinct where they can make camp. I will have one of the monks show you.’
    ‘That will not be necessary. I have only my squires with me.’
    Balliol halted. ‘Squires? Then where is your army?’
    Comyn turned to face him. ‘There is no army. I came alone.’
    ‘But in my message I told you I needed men and swords to stop the Bruces’ advance. My vassals are scattered, I have had no chance to muster a resistance. How can I fight alone?’ Balliol’s voice rose in pitch and temper. ‘I was relying on you, both as my brother and as Justiciar of Galloway.’ He threw up his hands. ‘Why in God’s name are you even here?’
    ‘Let me speak to this man and I will tell you.’
    Balliol went to argue, but seeing Comyn’s obdurate expression, he motioned to the church doors. ‘Come then,’ he said tightly, ‘Dungal will be at his father’s grave. He has hardly left it.’
    Blinking in the light, harsh after the gloom of the church, Balliol led the way through the monastery. The midday sun was unkind on his face, highlighting the shadows around his eyes, accentuating the downward curve of his mouth and the pockmarks of a childhood disease that scarred his cheeks. At thirty-seven he was five years younger than Comyn, but he looked older, wearing the years heavily in his blemished skin and thinning hair. ‘Are the other guardians even aware of what is happening in Galloway?’ Balliol sounded sour. ‘Do they not care?’
    ‘Reports coming to Edinburgh have been confused, but everyone at court now knows of the Bruces’ assault.’
    ‘Well, they have made no attempt to hide it,’ responded Balliol. ‘I have heard they have been marching through the countryside, banners flying.’ He balled his hands into fists as he strode through the cloisters. Two of the lay brothers who helped the monks run the monastery were picking herbs in the garden, which was parched by the July sun. ‘Indeed, it seems they want the whole of Scotland to know what they are doing.’
    ‘They want to discredit you,’ said Comyn, after a pause. ‘I