by Glen Craney
Robert Bruce rushed to her with an arm for support. She saw from Robert’s ashen expression that he shared her distress. She had refused to believe her father’s insistence that the relic held no special powers, but here the Stone sat before her, a silent witness to Scotland’s humiliation, impotent as the craven men who stood around her.
Longshanks enjoyed her torment. “Tell me, Lady Buchan. Is it true the Stone must scream before one can be accepted as your king?” When she did not answer him, he slammed his heel into the block and sent a chip flying from its corner. “Did you hear it scream?”
Belle rushed forward to salvage the shard, but the guards drove her back.
Longshanks jumped to his feet, ricocheting his chair. “I asked if you heard it scream!” He drove his heel into the Stone’s soft limestone again.
Many of the Scots turned away, unable to watch the sacrilege. Finally, Robert Bruce put a stop to the abuse. “We heard it, Sire.”
Satisfied with that concession, Longshanks strode with loping steps to the table that held the Ragman Rolls, the derisive title given to the shameful oath documents. “Afford me obedience, and you will live in peace. Deny me, and you will suffer the same fate as this city that chose defiance nine years ago.”
Rousing from his whispers with Gaveston, Caernervon pointed out two hooded men who stood at the entrance. “Father, not all the dogs have yelped.”
The Scots parted to make a path for two unidentified arrivals.
One of the newcomers lowered his cowl. “In accord with your command, my lord, I present myself, along with my clerk.”
There was a rumble of surprise, and then an explosion of excitement. The Scots, who had long prayed for the return of their beloved Bishop Lamberton, rushed up to be the first to gain the cleric’s hand and welcome him home.
In the scramble, Belle was shoved aside, denied a clear view.
Longshanks motioned up the Scot cleric. “We feared you’d fallen prisoner to the French.” He scrutinized the young man accompanying Lamberton and turned to Clifford for some indication, but the officer could only shrug to indicate his own lack of recognition.
With a hesitation, Lamberton revealed, “James Douglas, Sire, of—”
“Castle Douglas!” James yanked down his hood in defiance. “Your shireman stole my home and abducted my father.”
Belle gasped. She jumped repeatedly, but she could not see over the shoulders of the men in front of her. His lisping voice sounded different. Had he picked up a hint of a French accent?
His memory revived, Clifford told the king, “My lord remembers the felon William Douglas.” He checked James for weapons. “Give oath to His Excellency, and the crimes of your father will not be held against you.”
James repulsed the officer’s hands. “I will first speak with my father.”
“That may prove bit difficult.” Clifford said, sharing a grin with Longshanks. “Unless you can commune with the dead.”
James’s legs threatened to give way. He turned in disbelief to the bishop, begging for a denial that it could be possible, but the cleric’s stricken look confirmed the worst.
The guards took a step toward him, expecting violence. Faint with grief, James only then saw Princess Isabella sitting at the end of the dais, secluded in the flickering shadows. In these few weeks she had been in England on her visit, she had so aged and altered in appearance that he was required to take a second glance. Her cheeks were hollow and her once-sparkling blue eyes, swollen from nights of weeping, pleaded for him to remain strong.
Detecting the exchange, Caernervon glared at his future wife in accusation. Isabella looked toward Gaveston in a stinging reminder that the prince held no standing to levy a charge of indiscretion at her.
The Scots in the receiving line stood stunned at the news of Wil Douglas’s death. None held any illusions about the grisly manner in which he had been dealt with in the Tower. Propelled by a great wave of indignation, they erupted in a maelstrom of angry shouts and promises of vengeance.
Caught up in the jostling, Belle became separated from the Comyns. She was shoved from the chamber by the guards as they maneuvered with pikes flashing to abort the uprising. She screamed for James, but her calls were drowned out.
Bishop Lamberton removed his riding cloak to reveal his clerical garb in a reminder to the king that he still wielded divine authority. “William Douglas was to be held under the protection of Christian law.”
“He succumbed of natural causes,” Clifford said.
James rushed at the officer. “Murderer!”
Clifford met him with the point of his dagger. “Swear.”
“I’ll swear nothing but vengeance!”
The Scots mouthed threats as they moved toward the guards.
Denied a full sweep of his weapon, Clifford wrestled James toward a side portal to use him as a shield.
“Release him!” Longshanks ordered.
The privy councilors were shocked by the command.
But Longshanks moved to abort the growing mutiny that was about to forfeit all that he had accomplished in breaking the spirit of the Scots. “The lad grieves for his father, as would any son. My justice is tempered by mercy.”
The Scots broke into quarrels, some demanding retribution for the murder, others whispering their preferences for the surety of Plantagenet governance over the anarchy of more clan bickering over the throne in Dunfermline. Offered this unexpected reprieve, Lamberton hurried James toward the doors before Longshanks could change his mind.
James shook off the bishop’s restraint long enough to accost Robert Bruce with a glare of accusation for giving the traitor’s oath. Robert turned away to deflect his old friend’s silent indictment. Lamberton was about to shove James outside when—
“Bishop!” Longshanks called out from the dais. “I hold a feast this eve to celebrate our union. I hope to see you in attendance.”
James felt the bishop’s grip on his arm tighten. With his back still turned, Lamberton silently mouthed a curse.
PRINCESS ISABELLA ESCAPED THE AFTERNOON'S tedious oath ceremony with her usual excuse of feeling feverish. Despondent and homesick, she walked aimlessly through the dark halls of the tower until she found an abandoned storage room. Sneaking inside, she slumped into a corner and began sobbing, distraught over her bleak future. She heard a voice and, crawling closer, discovered that the door to an adjacent room had been left ajar.
She peeked through the crack and saw her husband sitting on his bed with a board on his lap that supported a balsawood model of a miniature waterfall on the steps of Westminster Abbey. He had designed this engineering feature to cool the summer breeze for pilgrims who would offer up prayers on his behalf in gratitude. Although the prince had reached the age of majority, he dreamed not of kingdoms, riches, or crusades, but, strangely, of rushing water. Since childhood, he had been fascinated by canals, aqueducts, moats, fountains, sewers, and, in particular, the new toilet devices that flushed offal away with only a pull of a cord. Many in the court even suspected him of drinking enormous quantities of liquids merely to prolong the enjoyment of urination.
As the prince poured a rippling stream of red Claret from a goblet down the tiny steps of his model Abbey, a drop of rain plopped against his head. He looked up to inspect the ceiling, but he found no leak.
Seconds later, another droplet plunked him.
Exasperated, he threw the goblet at the timbers. “Damn these Scots! Can they not construct a simple roof?”
He shoved the bed closer to the hearth and returned to his fantasy world, meticulously fastening a belfry to his tiny Abbey tower.
Swish! Splat!
That was not a drop, by God, but a gush of cold water!
Before the prince could recover, a flagon from behind the headboard poured its remnants down the bridge of his nose. Piers Gaveston appeared above him, unleashing a howl of roguish delight at having fooled his gullible lover.
“Miscreant!” the prince cried, spewing water.
“I should have you hung!”
Gaveston leapt over the headboard and straddled Caernervon’s chest. “I am already hung quite admirably. Admit it, or I shall have to prove it again.”
Caernervon nervously regarded the door. “Not here.”
Gaveston feigned hurt. “You no longer love me?”
Through the cracked door, Isabella looked on as Caernervon brought Gaveston into his arms. The prince could not resist this flamboyant Gascon who, even by Longshanks’s grudging admission, was the most promising knight in the royal service. Still, the English barons made no secret of their concern over her future husband’s deepening bond with this favourite, for Gaveston’s greatest talent had proven not to be his skill in battle, but his uncanny ability to infiltrate the highest echelons of the royal court.
She had been told in confidence by prince’s former nursemaid that Edward had never fully recovered from the death of his doting mother, Joan of Aquitane, who had raised him while the king was off campaigning in Wales and Scotland. The prince had early on shown a promise of maturation, even donning custom-made armor at Berwick while mimicking his father’s orders. But by his fifteenth year, he had turned inward, suffering debilitating spells of lost resolve and unfounded suspicions against others. The only reason that the king endured Gaveston’s presence was his hope that the Gascon’s superb fighting skills and preening confidence would take root in his son.
Gaveston pecked at the prince’s lips. “It has been hours since you’ve shown me affection. Don’t I deserve a reward for enduring those foul-smelling savages out there?” His whimsy merely served to provoke Caernervon’s insecurities.
The prince firmed their embrace. “I would go insane without you.”
Gaveston puffed his chest in mockery. “Did you see old Gloucester strutting out there like a constipated rooster? And that gasbag Clifford must soon take a wife. I’d challenge him to swordplay, but he is wound so tight in the tethers that one prick might explode him like a dropped melon.”
Edward retreated to a distant glare of revenge. “They’ll all be gone when I am king! They treat me as if I am a leper!”
Gaveston whimpered into Caernervon’s ear. “And what shall become of me, Poppy? Will I be an earl? Of Gloucester, perhaps. But then I would have to take in that old fart’s leggings.”
“They will pay! The Tower’s not large enough to hold—”
The front doors flew open—Longshanks strode into the room.
Gaveston scrambled half-naked from the bed and fell to his knees. “My lord, the prince and I were debating the advantages of the mace in close quarters.”
The king kicked Gaveston aside and came towering over his son. “Where is that French kitten who will be given the dubious duty of producing your heir?”
The prince puffed up his pillows behind him and returned to the task of arranging his Westminster toy model. “How should I know?”
Longshanks cleaved the toy board in half with his fist.
Horrified, young Edward howled and rushed from the bed to retrieve the pieces of his destroyed craftwork. “You allow that upstart Scot to spit in your face! And now you abuse me?”
In the next room, Isabella snuggled closer to the side door to better hear. She accidentally nudged the rusty hinge.
Longshanks glanced toward the noise, but fortunately, for Isabella, his son’s rant distracted him again. The king turned on Gaveston and slammed his boot toe into the Gascon’s buttocks. “Get out!”
Gaveston tried to incite the prince with a glare to stand up to the old man, but Caernervon was too distraught with salvaging his balsawood fragments. Denied a confrontation, the Gascon could only rush from the room in a huff.
The door recoiled against Isabella. Curled in the corner, she hurriedly rolled away, opened a book, and feigned reading.
Gaveston stared down at the French princess, debating whether to reveal her lurking. He settled for throttling her neck and whispering with a hiss, “Speak a word of what you just heard, you conniving Paris whore, and I’ll make a bookmark out of that wagging tongue of yours.”
Isabella squirmed and fought against his digging fingers until Gaveston, glancing back to make certain the king had not followed him, finally released her with a flick of his wrist and marched from the room through another door. She rolled to her stomach and stifled coughs, trying desperately not to alert the king and her husband of her eavesdropping. At last, recovering her breath, she risked crawling toward the cracked door again.
The king was so angry that, thankfully, he had not heard the commotion of the Gascon stumbling over her. Longshanks paced in a tightening spiral of frustration, his white mane whipping around his head like cat-o-nine tails. “Watch my actions, not my words. Do you think I place a whit of faith in their groveling?”
Caernervon slowly lowered his arms to test the easing of his father’s rage. “Why then must we waste time with such nonsense?”
Longshanks gazed through the window at the bridge over the Tweed, where the Scots were being dispatched after their oath signing. “I wanted to look into their eyes, mark their manner. That sprig Douglas was the only one foolish enough to speak what the others were thinking.”
“If I were you, I’d throw him in a pit before he causes more trouble.”
Longshanks turned slowly. “What did you say?”
“I said if I were you—”
“You are not me. You’ve made that evident enough.”
“Hang him, father. Make an example of him.”
“Nay, I’ve cuffed enough Scot ears for one day. I have other plans for the Douglas cub. The Bruce litter is the one we must keep closely surveilled. Did you notice young Robert?”
“I don’t fancy him.”
Through the door crack, Isabella saw Longshanks lift his son by the collar and pin him against the wall.
“I swear your mother was inseminated by a head-shorn incubus from the dregs of Limbus!” the king shouted. “Witless dolt! Listen to me! When Douglas refused the oath! Bruce had a wan look about him.”
Toes dangling, Caernervon pipped, “A wan look?”
“Of treason. … Never forget what I am about to tell you, Eddie. We must at all cost keep these Scots clawing at their own throats. Else they will come at ours.” Longshanks dropped the prince like a sack of coal and marched out—but not before glancing at the cracked door to the anteroom.
THE DISCOVERY THAT HE HAD been responsible for his father’s death was too much for James to endure. That afternoon, after the humiliating oath ceremony, he had vowed to regain Douglasdale, or die trying. With his few coins saved up from Paris, he had purchased a half-lame horse in the Berwick market and had headed north.
Now, as he lashed the nag west across the hills of Lanark, he turned to find another rider galloping for him, hard in chase.
Clifford had wasted no time in coming after him.
He drove the old horse to its breaking point, but Englishman was gaining ground. He drew his dagger, and when Clifford came neck to neck, he jumped the officer. He dragged him to the ground and raised his weapon for the kill—
His attacker threw off his helmet.
Not Clifford, but Robert Bruce lay under him.
Stunned, James tossed aside the dagger and ripped open his own shirt for a target. “Longshanks sends you to do his butchering? Have at it, then!”
Robert climbed to his feet. “You left before—”
“Before what? Before I could sell out my country, like you did?”
Robert jerked as if slapped. “That oath means nothing.”
“I know well enough what your word means.”
“I am sorry for your father. And for your lady.” Robert was perplexed by James’s look of confusion. “Did you not see her?”
“Belle … was in Berwick?”
“Aye, she was close enough to touch you.”
He racked his memory of the faces in the hall that morning. “What was she doing there?”
Robert retreated a step, u
nprepared to be the deliverer of this news. “I thought word had been sent to you. She was married last spring to Tabhann Comyn.”
His throat seized. In one disastrous day, he had learned his father was dead, the girl he loved had spurned him, and the man he thought was his friend had handed over Scotland to the English. Now, he was even more desolated, if that were possible. “You rode all this way to tell me that? It must give you great pleasure.”
“I came to convince you to return to Berwick.”
James whistled for his horse. “I’ve suffered enough English insults.”
Robert captured his arm. “We bide our time.”
He shook off Robert’s hand and climbed to his stirrups. “Until what? Until Longshanks has garrisons posted in every town? You are destined to be our next king, God help us! Instead of acting the part, you stand idle.”
“My position is not that simple.”
“You took a wife from Longshanks’s court. And Belle is a traitor as well.”
“A traitor to what?”
“To my heart. But she was right about one thing. A leg on each side of the border will always be your position.”
Robert yanked the reins so violently that James’s horse reared. “Run, then! Isn’t that what the great runner always does when the heat is on? You ran from Berwick! You ran from Douglasdale! You ran from your woman! You ran from Scotland! Now you run from me! I wouldn’t have you at my side!” He slapped the steed’s nostrils and caused it to snort and buck.
When James had finally regained control of his horse, he turned and found Robert galloping back south.
XI
THAT EVENING, THE SCOT NOBLES returned to Berwick’s great hall to find its rafters decked with the finest banners of yellow and blue silk that the English quartermaster could requisition on short notice so far north of York. Thick weaves of ivy and rhododendrons filled the chamber with soothing fragrances reminiscent of a Yuletide feast, and minstrels danced around white-bloused scullions balancing wine casks on their shoulders. At the royal table, Longshanks, showing off a new burgundy tabard gifted him by his English subjects resettled in Berwick, seemed bent on eradicating all enmity between the two kingdoms with an assault of color and music alone.
