Insurrection by Robyn Young Page B

Balliol at once.
    Comyn forced back his rising ire at the proof the high steward was somehow involved. ‘The time fits,’ he said tightly. ‘My guess is the Bruces learned from this rider what the rest of us in court now know and that is why they paused.’ He pushed from the wall, motioning for Balliol to follow. ‘I believe the battle is over,’ he said quietly, as they walked the uneven ground between the graves. ‘For now.’ Comyn stopped, some distance from Dungal and faced Balliol. ‘It isn’t public knowledge yet, but it soon will be. It is why I came. I wanted to tell you in person.’
    ‘Tell me what?’
    ‘The queen is pregnant, John.’
    Balliol looked as though he had been struck.
    Comyn continued. ‘She must have conceived just weeks before Alexander’s death. The midwife who examined her proclaimed her to be five months into her term. She had apparently shown symptoms before, but it had been presumed she was suffering with grief after the king’s passing.’
    ‘Then it was all for nothing? All the risk. All for nothing?’ Balliol stared at Comyn, his face contorting. ‘I have lost my home, my men. My respect!’
    ‘It isn’t over,’ said Comyn sharply.
    ‘Of course it is. This isn’t some babe in a foreign court. This child will be the king’s true heir!’
    ‘Yes, but this child, boy or girl, will have to be governed by a regency council until they come of age.’ Comyn followed Balliol’s eyes with his own, forcing his brother-in-law to look at him. ‘We still have time.’

7
    Tightening his grip on the reins, Robert pulled Ironfoot’s great head back as the horse fought against his hold. He swore at the animal through gritted teeth, using a word one of his foster-brothers in Ireland had taught him, then eased the lance into position.
    ‘Shorten your reins!’ barked Yothre.
    Murmuring the word again for his instructor, but keeping his eyes fixed on the target, Robert jabbed his heels into the charger’s muscular sides. Ironfoot set off across the beach, moving swiftly into a gallop. The boy crouched forward to match the furious rhythm. Ahead, the shield fixed to one side of the quintain’s pivoting beam was coming up rapidly. The sandbag that hung from the beam’s other side bulged expectantly. With a thrust of his arm, Robert lunged. Pain shot through his fingers and, at the last second, his aim went wide. He swept on past the quintain, the lance striking the air above the shield.
    Robert jerked on the reins as Ironfoot plunged on, swerving towards the sea, today a serene turquoise. Yothre was shouting instructions. Planting his feet in the stirrups, Robert heaved backwards, bringing the horse to an abrupt and ungainly halt that almost pitched him from the saddle.
    ‘Poor,’ shouted Yothre. ‘Again.’
    Robert held the horse steady, recovering his balance. He was breathing hard and the pain in his fingers was biting. Two of them were bound in a splint, making his grip on the lance that much weaker. During a training session the week before he had struck the quintain at a bad angle and with such force that his fingers had been bent back against the shaft, so hard the bones had snapped. He paused there, ignoring for a moment Yothre’s shouts for him to turn, thankful for the cool, salty wind. It was September, but the heat was as fierce as July. The long summer had been burned into his skin and the day he turned twelve had come and gone without word from his father or grandfather. They had been away for three months. He wished he were with them, serving his family, but he knew he wasn’t ready. Not yet. Easing the lance into position, Robert turned the horse and lined up with the target. Determined.
    ‘Concentrate!’ called  Yothre.
    Robert kicked the warhorse’s sides. Turnberry Castle filled his vision, but he saw it only as a hulking shadow crowned by a wedge of sky, all his attention focusing in on that small shield, coming up fast. He lunged with a shout and rammed