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Insurrection: Renegade [02] Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Robyn Young
Donough, to see you were able to repair the damage his men caused here.’
Donough’s smile vanished at the name of the man whose knights had been responsible for the destruction of his home. ‘I wasn’t going to let the dogs think they had won.’ He turned to Robert. ‘And I had a great deal of help from my foster-son, Sir Robert, Earl of Carrick and lord of these estates.’
The scarred monk’s attention shifted to Robert. ‘Your name and pedigree precede you, Sir Robert. Your grandfather was a great man, God rest his soul. My brethren and I honour him still.’
Robert frowned in surprise. As far as he knew, his grandfather had never visited Ireland. The Bruce family’s lands in Antrim, from Glenarm to Olderfleet, had not been part of the old man’s legacy. Like the earldom of Carrick, they were part of the inheritance of Robert’s mother, acquired by his father on their marriage and granted to him eight years ago. Having taken his father’s place, Robert had found it strange, returning to Antrim as lord, to have his foster-father kneel before him to pay homage. ‘I didn’t know you knew my grandfather.’
‘Not personally,’ the younger monk clarified. ‘But we benefited from his generosity. He sent money to our abbey for years to pay for candles to burn at the shrine of our blessed founder, St Malachy.’
Donough nodded when Robert looked at him. ‘Your grandfather had the donations sent to me through your mother.’ He gestured to the long table that dominated the hall, where a jug of wine and goblets had been placed. ‘Let us sit.’
As they moved to the trestle and benches, Robert thought of the abbey at Clairvaux in France and other holy sites where his grandfather had paid for candles to be lit in honour of the saint. How many wicks still smouldered in chapels and abbeys, kept alight by the old man’s will, all in an effort to atone for the sins of their ancestor?
When travelling through Scotland, so the story went, Malachy, Archbishop of Armagh, once stayed at the Bruce family’s castle in Annan. Hearing of a robber who was sentenced to hang, he requested the man be spared, a plea the Lord of Annandale granted. When, the following day, Malachy saw the man hanging from a gallows, he brought his wrath down upon the lord and his line. The curse he laid upon them was said to have caused the river to rise and wash away their stronghold, forcing the Bruce family to build a new castle at Lochmaben.
Robert’s father had always mocked the legend, citing a winter storm as the cause of the damage to the castle, but his grandfather had blamed it not only for past misfortunes, but for all the events following the tragic death of King Alexander III that led to the crowning of Edward’s puppet king, John Balliol, and the loss of the Bruce family’s claim to the throne.
‘Last year, my brothers sought me out to tell me of the destruction of Donough’s hall at the Earl of Ulster’s hands,’ explained Robert, as he sat. ‘They said Ulster’s men were looking for a relic King Edward desired – a relic known by some as the Staff of Jesus and by others as the Staff of Malachy.’ He studied Murtough while he spoke, but the monk’s scarred features revealed nothing. ‘I resigned from the guardianship of Scotland in the hope that I might find this staff and prevent the king from seizing it. Lord Donough sent messages to your abbey in the belief that your order may know of its whereabouts.’
When the two men remained silent, Donough sighed roughly. ‘Come, Murtough, you may have kept your distance these past months, but word travels even if you do not.’ He poured a goblet of wine and passed it to the monk. ‘We know Ulster’s men searched your abbey after the staff disappeared from Armagh. Why else would they do this if they did not suspect you of having taken it?’
‘And why would he destroy your home, Donough?’ countered Murtough. ‘Are you believed to have stolen it?’
‘Our
Donough’s smile vanished at the name of the man whose knights had been responsible for the destruction of his home. ‘I wasn’t going to let the dogs think they had won.’ He turned to Robert. ‘And I had a great deal of help from my foster-son, Sir Robert, Earl of Carrick and lord of these estates.’
The scarred monk’s attention shifted to Robert. ‘Your name and pedigree precede you, Sir Robert. Your grandfather was a great man, God rest his soul. My brethren and I honour him still.’
Robert frowned in surprise. As far as he knew, his grandfather had never visited Ireland. The Bruce family’s lands in Antrim, from Glenarm to Olderfleet, had not been part of the old man’s legacy. Like the earldom of Carrick, they were part of the inheritance of Robert’s mother, acquired by his father on their marriage and granted to him eight years ago. Having taken his father’s place, Robert had found it strange, returning to Antrim as lord, to have his foster-father kneel before him to pay homage. ‘I didn’t know you knew my grandfather.’
‘Not personally,’ the younger monk clarified. ‘But we benefited from his generosity. He sent money to our abbey for years to pay for candles to burn at the shrine of our blessed founder, St Malachy.’
Donough nodded when Robert looked at him. ‘Your grandfather had the donations sent to me through your mother.’ He gestured to the long table that dominated the hall, where a jug of wine and goblets had been placed. ‘Let us sit.’
As they moved to the trestle and benches, Robert thought of the abbey at Clairvaux in France and other holy sites where his grandfather had paid for candles to be lit in honour of the saint. How many wicks still smouldered in chapels and abbeys, kept alight by the old man’s will, all in an effort to atone for the sins of their ancestor?
When travelling through Scotland, so the story went, Malachy, Archbishop of Armagh, once stayed at the Bruce family’s castle in Annan. Hearing of a robber who was sentenced to hang, he requested the man be spared, a plea the Lord of Annandale granted. When, the following day, Malachy saw the man hanging from a gallows, he brought his wrath down upon the lord and his line. The curse he laid upon them was said to have caused the river to rise and wash away their stronghold, forcing the Bruce family to build a new castle at Lochmaben.
Robert’s father had always mocked the legend, citing a winter storm as the cause of the damage to the castle, but his grandfather had blamed it not only for past misfortunes, but for all the events following the tragic death of King Alexander III that led to the crowning of Edward’s puppet king, John Balliol, and the loss of the Bruce family’s claim to the throne.
‘Last year, my brothers sought me out to tell me of the destruction of Donough’s hall at the Earl of Ulster’s hands,’ explained Robert, as he sat. ‘They said Ulster’s men were looking for a relic King Edward desired – a relic known by some as the Staff of Jesus and by others as the Staff of Malachy.’ He studied Murtough while he spoke, but the monk’s scarred features revealed nothing. ‘I resigned from the guardianship of Scotland in the hope that I might find this staff and prevent the king from seizing it. Lord Donough sent messages to your abbey in the belief that your order may know of its whereabouts.’
When the two men remained silent, Donough sighed roughly. ‘Come, Murtough, you may have kept your distance these past months, but word travels even if you do not.’ He poured a goblet of wine and passed it to the monk. ‘We know Ulster’s men searched your abbey after the staff disappeared from Armagh. Why else would they do this if they did not suspect you of having taken it?’
‘And why would he destroy your home, Donough?’ countered Murtough. ‘Are you believed to have stolen it?’
‘Our