The Spider and the Stone: A Novel of Scotland's Black Douglas

by Glen Craney

  The Competitor was not accustomed to being called out, particularly by a man of such inconsequential rank. He clenched his pocked jaw defiantly and glared at his grandson, as if to inoculate Robert against such high-sounding harangues. “If sermons won battles,” he muttered, “Christ would never have been nailed to the Cross.”

  Wallace and the other clansmen waited for an answer from Red Comyn, who controlled the most castles and troops.

  Red allowed the tense silence extend, savoring his position as linchpin for bringing the majority of the clansmen to the rebellion. At last, he said, “I will draw my sword. … But only if Bruce recognizes my right to the kingship.”

  “You have no right!” the Competitor shouted.

  Lamberton tried to render stillborn the argument that they all had endured a thousand times. “I pray you! At least give Wallace a hearing!”

  In the midst of these hurled recriminations, the Competitor clutched his chest and lurched backwards. Robert broke his frail grandfather’s fall and eased him back to the bench. The Competitor finally mustered enough strength to answer Wallace in a barely audible rasp. “Edward will put down this insurrection and turn Stirling into another Berwick.”

  “Bruce should know,” Red quipped loud enough for even the Competitor to hear. “His pups have been weaned on the Plantagenet teats.”

  The clansmen erupted again with shouts and accusations.

  Wallace slammed the flat of his broadsword against the table, silencing them. “If this be the example of your stewardship, then English rule can be no worse!” He slid the sword down the table toward Wil. “My brother served in your ranks at Berwick, Douglas. This blade was all that came back from him. You saw firsthand what permanent English dominion would mean for us.”

  James saw his father steal a nettled glance at him, as if unsure what to do.

  Wallace circled the table, glaring at each chieftain as he passed. “Yet here you sit, quarreling over whose wrinkled ass best fits the throne. You’ll be kings, for certain. The lot of you. Kings of gutted castles and scorched moorlands, if you persist in this bickering.”

  Red dipped his dagger’s point in the candle grease and drew a line through the bishop’s map toward Annandale, the disputed land fought over with the Bruces for decades. He aimed the dagger at the Competitor. “If this snake remains on my borders, I’ll not move my forces.”

  Wallace turned to the Competitor. “Bruce, will you take up the cause? If not for me, for the legacy of your grandson here?”

  The men hung on the Competitor’s reply. If he joined the rebellion, they would all be forced to follow to avoid losing face.

  “I’ll not send my flesh and blood to die for your folly,” old Bruce said.

  Denied, Wallace looked to Wil Douglas, his last hope. “Hardi, you once fought to the very walls of Jerusalem. Will you not stand aside me in this crusade against the Devil?”

  A loud report cracked in the hearth, and Wil stared at the embers, as if questioning whether the heavens had just sent him a warning. Troubled, he turned back with deadened eyes toward Wallace … and shook his head.

  Wallace burned into memory the faces of those who had abandoned him. He tried to dredge up another indictment of their cowardice, but then waved it off as not worth the effort. Seeing the ax in James’s grasp, he dropped to a knee and ran his fingers across its lacquered handle. “Why did you run that race, lad?”

  James proudly displayed his prize. “For this.”

  Wallace tested the weight of the ax, a mere kitchen cleaver in his massive hands. “Nay, you ran it because your old man ran it forty years ago. Just as his old man ran it before him. I remember that day, by Christ, a cold morning it was. The winds were howling down Ben Nevis louder than the ghosts of the damned. Your father thrashed me sound, he did, and Red there, too.” He paused, allowing the ideals of youth to return to these failed memories, and then stared at Wil Douglas while continuing to address James, “You ran the race, lad, like all of us did, because you’re a Scotsman.” He slammed down the ax and split the boards. “And if Edward Longshanks has his way, you’ll be the last of us to run it!”

  Wil Douglas erupted to his feet at the insult.

  Wallace leaned to James’s ear, intimating that his young admirer was the only person present worthy of his confidence. “Remember this night, lad. Remember to rise above the pettiness of greedy old fools.” He pushed the table over in a fury, sending several of the men tumbling. Before the chieftains could draw their daggers in retaliation, he slung his broadsword over his shoulder and walked toward the door.

  “Wallace!” Wil Douglas shouted.

  The rebel leader turned with his gnarled fists balled for a fight.

  Wil Douglas extracted the ax from the trestle boards and marched toward the man who had just called him out. Bishop Lamberton tried to intercede, but the elder Douglas, eyes afire, pushed the cleric aside.

  Wallace stood before his old comrade, bracing for a blow.

  Wil Douglas quivered with raw emotion as he raised the ax—and tossed it to James. He reached for Wallace’s hand, changing his mind, and said with little enthusiasm, “I am with you.”

  A gasp of dismay filled the room.

  James saw Robert look to his grandfather, silently begging him to join Wallace and avenge their clan’s good name. But the Competitor answered his grandson with a contemptuous hiss.

  THE NEXT MORNING, THE CLANGING of a hammer against an anvil roused James from a fitful sleep. He found Robert, already dressed, sitting on his cot and staring into the pre-dawn darkness. Neither had managed to gain much rest. After the exhilaration of the night’s meeting had faded, James remembered the oath that his father had given to the English as a condition for his release from Berwick dungeon. If captured again, his father would face imprisonment or execution. Robert, however, had lain awake for a different reason. Although his grandfather had repeatedly explained to him the necessity of pitting clan against clan, he felt humiliated by the decision to put their personal interests before those of Scotland.

  The boys descended the stairs to the armory and found James’s father honing his weapons and his servant Dickson testing the straps on the livery.

  “You leave this morning?” James asked.

  “Wallace intends to reach Selkirk by nightfall.”

  James’s voice cracked with emotion. “I want to go with you.”

  “Heed me on this! I’ll not have you disobey me again as you did at …” Wil cut himself short, regretting the outburst.

  James choked up. His father had never spoken to him of Gibbie’s death, for the tragedy at Berwick was still too painful for them both.

  Robert made a move to leave them alone.

  “Rob, lad, stay.” Wil ran an oilcloth down the broadsword that he had carried for decades. “Sit you both down here, aside me.”

  Handed the hallowed weapon that had drawn infidel blood, Robert marveled at its workmanship. James nodded for him to test it, but Robert, eyes downcast, returned the blade, considering himself unworthy.

  Wil braced Robert with an arm to his shoulder. “Your grandfather is a great man, Rob.” Seeing the boy tear up with doubt, the elder Douglas asked him, “Has he told you of our campaigns in the Holy Land?” When Robert shook his head, Wil leaned against the blackened stones that he had mortared with his own hands. His gaze turned distant as Dickson came to his side; the elderly servant’s role in confirming the details of his master’s stories was time-honored. He primed Dickson for the setting. “Was it not the siege of Acre, Tom?”

  Dickson stiffened his creaking bones to attention, as if they were back again in Palestine facing the Moorish ramparts. “A sweltering day it was, my lord. Fit not for any loch-loving Scotsman.”

  Wil swept his hand across an imaginary range of parapets. “We weren’t much older than you, Rob. Walls thrice the height of this tower. And mangonels. Christ as my witness, heinous machines with devious workings the likes I hope never to see again. But on we came. Th
e infidels heaved cauldrons of boiling pitch on us and launched arrows so thick that the sun was blotted.”

  James and Robert, enthralled, held their breaths.

  “Your grandfather and the Earl of Carrick led our advance,” Wil said. “And on our flank stood the knights of the Red Cross.”

  James dropped to his knees in anticipation. “Templars?”

  Wil’s eyes blazed upon the ladders thrown against the walls of Acre. “God-fearing monks trained to kill the Devil himself. But none fought with more courage than Bruce the Competitor. Aye, Scotland carried itself proud that day.” Flinching from the memory of a blow, Wil clenched Robert’s wrist, as if to insist what next he would reveal must be felt in the flesh. “Carrick died a hero’s death, Rob. With his last breath, he bade your grandfather sail for Ireland to assure Dame Carrick that he had gained the Lord’s salvation.”

  “Grandpa fulfilled the oath?” Robert asked hopefully.

  Wil nodded wistfully. “And your grandfather fell in love with Carrick’s widow the moment he laid eyes on her. There was grief, to be sure, but the Almighty had a greater purpose in mind.” He smiled as he looked into Robert’s liquid eyes. “Carrick’s widow became your grandmother. You and Jamie both run with the maternal blood of those who first walked this Isle. Your grandfather is no coward. You must never think it so.” Pulled back to the present by a neighing in the stables, Wil looked up to see his servant slumped with nostalgia. “Tom, tell them what we learned in those days bygone.”

  Old Dickson had to clear a lump in his throat. “There be nothing stronger than a man’s bond with his comrade in battle.”

  Wil grasped Dickson’s forearm to honor again their unshakable brotherhood, forged under fire. “Aye, nothing. Forget it not, lads. Nothing stronger.”

  The tale had accomplished the intended effect of raising Robert’s spirits, but it had also saddened James, who was now even more convinced that he had let down Gibbie, his only true friend.

  Seeing his son so distressed, Wil finally summoned the courage to discuss the subject that he had avoided for too long. “Jamie, you were given no choice at Berwick. Gibbie died for Scotland. Many have suffered the same fate. Many others will. You mustn’t let this fester in you.”

  At the door, William Wallace, listening in the shadows, revealed his presence. “Wil, we’d best cross before first light.”

  The half-blind Dickson left his master’s side and returned from the stables with two saddled mounts. “I’ve packed enough meal for a fortnight.”

  Wil Douglas grasped his servant’s shoulders to soften the news. “Thomas, you have been with me in every battle since my father gained his heavenly reward. But this time, I need you here.” He broke away with difficulty and walked out with Wallace. Near the door, he saw the Dun Eadainn ax hanging on its tenders. He took the relic down from its display and smiled sadly, as if recounting the many memories it had brought him through the years.

  “Take it with you,” James begged.

  Wil smiled and replaced the ax on its hooks. “It’s yours now. Keep watch on your stepmother. I’ll be home when the troubles are over.”

  In the bailey, Wallace mounted and, with one foot in the stirrup, stared down at James and Robert, as if attempting to divine their future. Whatever he saw in them, he chose not to share it, but instead slung his massive broadsword over his shoulder and rode off with the elder Douglas.

  Until that moment, James had held in check all the shame and pain that had welled up in his heart since Gibbie’s death. Now, as his father departed for battle yet again without him, he fell to his knees, inconsolable and ashamed that Robert was witnessing his unmanly display.

  Yet Robert was weighed down by his own humiliation. Watching his grandfather in the bailey prepare the horses for their return north to Turnberry, he lifted James from his knees. “I intend to take the Cross one day. I’d be honored to have you by my side when I do.”

  “You’ll not want me,” James protested.

  Refusing to be denied, Robert offered his hand to seal the promise, just as James’s father had done with Wallace during the meeting that night. Going off on crusade to the Holy Land would now become the driving purpose of their lives. If they couldn’t go fight for Scotland, at least they would one day gain glory on the sands walked by Christ. “To the Tomb of our Lord together,” Robert vowed. “No Moor will ever stop a Bruce and a Douglas.”

  James firmed his clench. “An oath it is.”

  AFTER A WEEK HAD PASSED with no word from his father, James was torn between his duty to guard the tower and his promise to meet Belle. All had been quiet, and the English were reported more than a two-days march away. He was confident that he could make it back before dusk.

  When midnight came, he cracked the door to his stepmother’s bedchamber. Finding her asleep, he slithered out the tower and tiptoed past the slumbering Dickson. He pocketed his homemade flute, threw the Dun Eaddain ax over his shoulder, and rappelled down the wall on the rope he had hidden in a barrel.

  He ran as fast as his sore ribs allowed. After several hours, he reached Kilbride just as the sun broke over the tawny Lanarkshire horizon and revealed the tips of the Comyn towers. Eager for another kiss, he rushed breathless into the thicket near the river.

  Belle wasn’t there.

  Caressing the heart-stone hanging from his neck, he asked the sprites for a sign. Why hadn’t she come? If he went near the castle, he would risk an arrest for trespassing. … He saw no smoke rising from the turrets.

  Alarmed, he raced along the riverbank. As he neared the moors north of Kilbride, he heard the faint braying of horses. He scampered up to the brow of the next hill and gazed down at the trail.

  The Comyns were riding north—and Belle was with them.

  The path doubled back for nearly a league to avoid the high ground. If he hurried, he might catch them at the bend. He kept out of sight as he dashed along the ridge that ran parallel to the route on the far side of the valley. Maneuvering in this blind swire prevented him from gauging the speed of their advance, so he would have to guess when to make his move.

  After several more lengths, he clambered up a rocky upthrow where two scrub-covered humps funneled the path into a defile. He pressed his ear to the ground and heard the distant thumps of hooves. Belle was on the sixth horse, he remembered, with Red in the lead. If he timed his jump, he could be away with her before the bastards knew she was gone.

  He counted off ten seconds—two for each horse—and scaled the hillock. He had guessed right. Belle was riding a few paces ahead, with Cam on her far side. He ran for her.

  She turned, hearing footsteps, and shook her head for him to go back.

  He ignored her and, reaching the horse at last, knocked Cam from the saddle. Mounting behind her, he lashed the garron into a tight turn, and when they reached a clearing, he kicked the garron in gallop toward Douglasdale. She tried to look back, but he kept her head facing forward. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Red still riding north, unaware of the ambush. Cam lay on the ground, stunned. He laughed and congratulated himself on outsmarting the fools.

  Belle finally regained her breath. “Jamie, no!”

  He covered her face with her shawl to muffle her shouts. Headstrong lass! He had saved her from the clutches of the Comyns, and here she was criticizing his horsemanship.

  She struggled against his restraint. “Go back!”

  A sharp blow hammered the back of his head, driving it into her shoulder.

  He regained consciousness on the ground—with Tabhann, on a horse, circling him. He cursed himself for failing to anticipate that Red would station a rider far in the column’s rear. Several paces away, he saw Belle struggling to regain control of her spooked pony. He shouted at her, “Run!”

  Tabhann whipped his mount to and fro, debating whether to ride him down or prevent Belle from escaping.

  Belle circled her garron and came rushing back toward them.

  James reached behind his back for the
ax, but it was gone. He must have lost it on the run. He shouted at Belle again, “Go back!”

  Tabhann thundered down the ridge and careened into James. Rolling from the painful blow, James struggled to his knees and looked up to see the Comyns galloping back toward him. Tabhann dismounted and found the ax in the high grass. He raised the weapon over James’s head for the finishing blow.

  “Tabhann!” Belle screamed. “Leave him! There may be more!”

  James froze in confusion. She is warning Tabhann?

  Grinning at Belle’s altered allegiance, Tabhann leapt on the pony behind her and rode north to catch up with his kinsmen.

  James rushed after them—until Red came storming back over the ridge.

  The chieftain drove him across the heather on his hands and knees. “You’re on my ground now, Douglas!” Red pulled Cam to his saddle and rode north to catch up with Tabhann. “Come near that lass again and I’ll show you Comyn justice!”

  On the horizon, Tabhann circled back and waved the stolen ax over Belle’s head in a taunt.

  JAMES LIMPED HOME, TRYING TO make sense of Belle’s betrayal. Why hadn’t she escaped with him when she had the chance? Had she pitted him against the Comyns all along just to curry their favor? He clutched at the heart-stone pounding at his chest, wondering if its message had just a figment of his imagination. Before he could come up with an answer to those questions, an acrid rush of smoke attacked his nostrils. He rushed toward the spine of a braeside that descended into Douglasdale. An orange glow flickered through the leafless birches above the night’s horizon.

  Castle Douglas was engulfed in flames.

  With his vantage obscured by the billowing smoke, he dived into the Douglas Water and swam furiously for the far side. When he surfaced, twenty English troopers on horse surrounded him. He tried to retreat to the far bank, but the soldiers flushed him out, lashing him with whips and laughing as he bobbed and dived to avoid drowning. He fought and kicked at the hooves of an English mosstrooper’s horse, trying to stave off its thumps.