Insurrection Read Online Free

surcoat he wore beneath was just visible: a red shield embroidered with three white sheaves of wheat. The king was struck by how like his father the Red Comyn was – the same cold demeanour and joyless expression. Were all Comyn men like this? Was it something in their blood? Alexander’s gaze roved along the table to the Earl of Buchan, head of the Black Comyns, named, as the Red Comyn was, by the colour of his arms: a black shield decorated with the three wheat sheaves. Alexander was rewarded with long, pinched features and a guarded stare. If they weren’t such able officials, he might have excluded all of them from his court years ago. Truth be told, the Comyns made him uneasy. ‘As I said, I will think on it. Thomas of Galloway was imprisoned over fifty years ago. No doubt he will be able to bear another few weeks in his cell.’
    ‘Even a day must seem an eternity to an innocent man.’ John Comyn spoke lightly, but the challenge was unmistakable.
    ‘Innocent?’ Alexander’s blue eyes narrowed. He set down his goblet, his humour spent. ‘The man rebelled against my father.’
    ‘The man was but a boy, my lord. It was the people of Galloway who chose him as their leader.’
    ‘And my father saw that they paid for it in blood.’ Alexander’s tone was vehement, the drink running hot in him, mottling his face. ‘Thomas of Galloway was a bastard. He had no right to be lord and the people knew it.’
    ‘They were faced with an unpalatable choice – to be ruled by a bastard, or else see their land divided between three daughters. Surely you can understand their plight, Lord King?’
    Alexander caught something sly in Comyn’s tone. Was the Lord of Badenoch trying to insinuate that his own situation was in any way comparable to what had happened in Galloway over half a century ago? Before he could decide, a cool voice sounded from further along the table.
    ‘You are keeping our gracious host from his meal with your talk, Sir John. The council is over.’
    John Comyn’s eyes flicked to the speaker. As he met the calm gaze of James Stewart, the high steward, his poised veneer slipped momentarily, unmasking a glint of hostility, but before he could respond, the forceful voice of Robert Wishart, the Bishop of Glasgow, rang out.
    ‘Well spoken, Sir James. Our mouths now are for the eating and for praising the Good Lord for His bounteous gifts.’ Wishart raised his goblet. ‘This wine is remarkable, my lord. From Gascony, is it?’
    The king’s response was lost in an almighty clap of thunder that set the dogs off and caused the Bishop of St Andrews to spill his drink.
    Wishart grinned fiercely. ‘If this is indeed the Day of Judgement then we shall arise with our bellies full!’ He took a deep drink that stained the corners of his mouth. The Bishop of St Andrews, as thin and grave as Wishart was stout and animated, began to protest at these words, but Wishart spoke over him. ‘You know as well as I, your grace, if every day proclaimed to be the Day of Judgement had been we would have risen a dozen times over by now!’
    The king went to speak, but stopped, seeing a familiar face moving through the crowd below. It was one of the squires from the queen’s household, a capable Frenchman named Adam. His travelling cloak glistened in the torchlight and his hair was plastered dark against his head with rain. As Adam passed one of the hearths, the king could see the cold curling off him as mist. The squire hastened up the dais steps.
    ‘My lord.’ Adam paused before the king to bow and catch his breath. ‘I bring a message from Kinghorn.’
    ‘In this tempest?’ questioned Wishart, as the squire leaned in and began to speak quietly to the king.
    As Adam finished, a smile played at the corners of Alexander’s mouth and the flush of wine on his cheeks spread down his throat. ‘Adam, go and fetch Tom from his lodgings. Tell him to bring my cloak and have my horse saddled. We leave for Kinghorn at