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

by Glen Craney

  Yet Belle and her fellow Scots were not deceived by this enforced hospitality. They mingled cautiously, monitoring their own countrymen with as much suspicion as their hosts. She found the scene surreal: Hard-bitten men who had clashed on the battlefield now exchanged pleasantries as if the Berwick massacre had never occurred. Studying the cagey English monarch, she was reminded of an old Fife adage: Invite your enemies to dinner, and by the manner of their eating shall you discover the temper of their sword.

  She looked toward the far corner of the hall and saw Robert Bruce, resplendently attired a blue-green shirt dyed from the snails found only on the coast of his Turnberry birthplace. He stood apart from the others, brooding and shifting restlessly. After concocting an excuse to escape from Tabhann, she approached the oldest Bruce brother with no small trepidation. “Sir, we have never been introduced. I am Isabelle Comyn.”

  Grateful as he seemed for a respite from his private burdens, Robert could not fully divert his attention from his enemies around him. His face grew increasingly drawn as he watched the Comyns strut across the chamber like a bevy of peacocks. Finding him preoccupied with thoughts of revenge, she made an effort to retreat, but he roused from his distractions and apologized for his rudeness by kissing her hand. “I prefer to think of you as a MacDuff still.”

  She blushed. “I was warned of your charming ways. It is said that you know the straightest path to a lady’s heart.” After a hesitation, she observed, “It may not be my place, but you seem troubled.”

  Robert’s smile vanished. “I wager the same man troubles the both of us.”

  “I cannot believe my husband costs you sleepless nights.”

  He stared at her with mouth agape, aghast that anyone would think him remotely discomfited by Tabhann Comyn. “I meant Jamie Douglas.”

  Stunned, she drew him away from the crowd. “You know about us?”

  Robert nodded with a taut jaw. “He told me of you years ago. A pig-headed fool he is! Plagued by a temper so foul that the Devil himself could light Hell with its sparks!” He found her suppressing a chuckle. “Do I amuse you?”

  “I’m sorry.” She lowered her eyes in feigned penance and stole a sheepish glance up at him. “It’s just … I have heard the same said of you.”

  Robert was about to defend himself, but in a rare moment of self-reflection, nodded ruefully, accepting the charge as justified.

  She searched the chamber again. “Do you know if Jamie will be here?”

  He shook his head. “He’ll not step foot in Berwick again, at least not unarmed.” Seeing that his prediction had saddened her, he placed her hand between his palms as if to bring warmth to her distressed heart. “We must dismiss him from our thoughts this night.”

  The music stopped.

  Longshanks had finished his repast and was stretching his limbs like a bear coming out of hibernation. “A Pas de Deux! At once!” Invigorated by the wine, he leapt from the dais and stalked the floor to snare a partner. Finding no ladies bold enough to risk his judgment, he drafted his future daughter-in-law, who had adjusted her veil, too late, in an attempt to avoid his eyes.

  Caernervon gladly shoved Isabella toward the floor, eager to turn his full attention to Gaveston.

  The king led the princess to the middle of two columns of English dancers that had faced off with their partners in preparation for the opening sequence.

  The minstrels struck up a restrained tune that sounded shrill and lifeless to Belle’s ear. Several of the Scots reluctantly joined in, seeing that political expediency required yet another debasement. While the English dancers twirled gracefully and halted at the appropriate breaks, the Scots lurched and staggered, unsure of the steps. On the sidelines, Clifford and the royal retainers made no attempt to hide their amusement at the ineptitude of their conscripted guests.

  Not to be outdone in this ritual of rank, Tabhann insisted that Belle accompany him into the dance. She had no choice but to acquiesce, even though her unadorned green gown with its frayed hems made her stand out sorely aside the rich appointments of the English ladies. As the Pas progressed, the women of both realms were segregated to one side, and she found herself shuffled next to Isabella of France.

  Isabella whispered to her, “I am told we share something.”

  Belle turned abruptly, stunned that the French princess would deign to speak to her. “I’m sorry, my lady?”

  Maintaining a straightforward gaze—an admonition that Belle should do the same—the princess nodded slightly with the beat, a sophisticated court trick to camouflage the object of one’s attention. With the tight-lipped skill of a ventriloquist, she explained, “A name. I am Isabella. I suppose that might be called Isabelle in your land?”

  “I know not.”

  The princess spun on the high note and bowed with the gracefulness of a swan. “I was intrigued this afternoon by one of your countrymen. … Douglas, I believe was his name.”

  Thrown off her count, Belle discovered that she was the only dancer still upright. Embarrassed by the misstep, she became even more disconcerted at finding Tabhann five partners down the line and fast approaching.

  “Do you know this man Douglas?”

  Belle tried to follow the princess’s lead while fixing her eyes straight ahead. “I have met him, aye.”

  Isabella demonstrated the perfected art of keeping time to the music while carrying on a conversation. She pirouetted and returned to the precise angle at which she had started. “Does he always insult kings?”

  Blindsided by that barb, Belle abandoned all effort to remain inconspicuous. “Does your newly adopted king always insult Scots?” She turned and saw several of the ladies glancing over at her. Be damned with them all! And be damned with this meddlesome French coquette!

  The French princess seemed not the least unnerved. Having gleaned the confirmation of Belle’s true feelings, Isabella captured the countess’s wrist and, for the first time during the dance, looked directly at her. “I should pity the lady who wins the heart of such an unruly man.”

  Belle put on an unconvincing nonchalance. Lost in these nonsensical steps, she curtsied awkwardly and excused herself from the dance before she broke down completely. She dashed from the floor—and ran headfirst into James. She gasped—had he been standing there watching their exchange?

  The dancing stopped in mid-pass as the participants stirred with whispers of surprise. James walked past her without even a nod of recognition and, bowing to Princess Isabella, petitioned the Frenchwoman’s hand.

  The princess shot an alarmed glance at Longshanks, who, preoccupied with Elizabeth Bruce’s well-buttressed bosom, remained unaware of James’s return.

  Before Clifford could intervene, James took the startled princess into the line—just as she had done to him in Paris—and signaled for the musicians to resume. The dancers, uncertain how to respond, slowly returned to their positions and found their beats again. Both the English and Scots watched in disbelief as James moved the princess deftly across the floor, excelling every man present in dexterity and grace. When the unlikely twosome passed Longshanks, Elizabeth Bruce distracted her wine-addled partner by whispering a salacious bit of gossip into his ear.

  The princess, relieved that the threat of immediate danger had passed, surrendered to James’s lead. Not since Paris had she felt such strength. She closed her eyes and whispered, “You have become a man.”

  He spun her to face Caernervon, who was nudging Piers Gaveston in playful banter. “And you are in practice to become an ornament.”

  Insulted, the princess struggled to escape his accusatory grasp, but he tamed her into submission. Try as she might, she could not remain angry at him. “That was foolish of you today,” she whispered. “I would not have you lose your head, even if there is debate whether anything resides in it.”

  “But you would have me lose my country.”

  She saw the Countess of Buchan standing alone in the corner, humiliated by being forced to watch their dance. She lo
oked for Robert Bruce and, finding him on the far side of the Pas line, nodded him to the task. Taking her intent, Robert captured Belle’s hand and brought her into the swirling columns.

  James retaliated by pulling Isabella closer to his side.

  Seeing that she had become a pawn in this escalating encounter, Isabella whispered to his ear, “The lady still loves you.”

  “How would you know?”

  She squeezed his hand to calm him. “Do you remember what I told you about vows and empty words? It is her heart that matters.”

  “In my country, men die for words.”

  She stomped on his arch, making it appear to be an accident. “I’ve yet to decide whether you are even worthy of her. Dance with her this night, or you shall regret it the rest of your life.”

  The music paused to signal the change of partners, and James took the opportunity to bend down and examine the damage to his foot. Feeling the princess tug his arm, he came upright to discover that Isabella had schemed to position him next to Belle and Robert.

  The princess captured Belle’s hand before she could escape. “You cannot guess whom I have found. Did you not tell me you once knew this gentleman?”

  Flustered, Belle could not bring herself to look at James. “I should think he does not remember me.”

  The princess tapped her toe dangerously near James’s aching arch. “A man who could forget such beauty would have to be blind or severely damaged in the head.” She glared at Robert in a silent petition for him to join her matchmaking. “Would you not agree, Lord Bruce?”

  Robert was about to unleash a torrent of invective at James when the princess flitted him off to the floor with her. Left together, James and Belle were swept into the vortex of dancers.

  Several moments passed before Tabhann became aware of the gossip being directed at his wife. Enraged, he threaded his way toward Belle. From across the room, the princess gained Elizabeth Bruce’s attention again and nodded her to the rescue. Taking the cue, Robert’s wife extricated herself from Longshanks’s groping in time to intercept Tabhann. She reroute the Scotsman to the floor before he could come within shouting distance of Belle and James.

  James’s angry lead unsettled Belle. He gave her not even a glance, but moved so expertly that she questioned whether he could be the same rough-hewn boy who had clumsily wooed her that day at the river. Soon she was floating in his firm embrace. “You put me to shame,” she whispered, breathless.

  He executed a harsh turn. “You do well enough at that on your own.”

  “I tried to send word.”

  “Word of what? That you preferred a Comyn to a disinherited beggar?”

  “I don’t love Tabhann.”

  “Of course you don’t. That’s why you married him.”

  “You must believe me—”

  “Believe you? It matters nothing now.”

  She clutched his hand in pleading. “Jamie, don’t say that.”

  “Damn these London manners!” He glared at the other dancers in the hall. “Don’t you see what Longshanks is doing? He’s trying to turn us into English sycophants with these pacifying, blood-thinning chorales meant for children!”

  The Pas ended and the dancers began to disperse, but Belle clung to James’s arm, begging for a chance to finish her explanation.

  He brushed off her hold. Marching to the center of the floor, he stole a lute from an astonished musician and began churning out a rousing reel. High-stepping to the Gaelic tune, he confronted his fellow Scots, challenging them to turn back the English ploy to destroy their traditions. One by one, the clansmen became caught up in the emotion of this veiled martial call. They entered the circle, arm in arm, pounding the floor as if marching to battle.

  Playing each stanza faster until the timbers shook from the attack of boots, James strutted toward Robert and taunted him to join in.

  Angered by the reckless bluster, Robert shoved him away.

  Clifford moved to quash the blatant act of defiance—until Princess Isabella rushed in to join the reel. She laughed and clapped, defusing the tension, and the king, monitoring the movements as if the floor were a field of battle, motioned Clifford to back off.

  Belle could only stand by and watch as James danced toward Clifford in a challenge. The necklace holding the elf-stone flew from the crease of his shirt and hung at his breastbone. She was stunned. He still wears it.

  A horn’s blast brought the reel to a jolting halt, and before she could speak to James again, Longshanks came loping across the floor. The Scots fell silent, retreating to the reality of their plight.

  Satisfied that the brief defiance had been aborted, Longshanks downplayed the veiled act of insurrection. “Well done! An entertaining example of your quaint customs. It is heartening to see how far we have come from the cave and the hut.” He smiled with more than just a hint of threat at James, who was still heaving from his exertion. “This competition of feet has given me an idea. Shall we continue with the theme? On the morrow after next, I will hold a joust! A most agreeable benefice shall be awarded to the victor.”

  The English barons traded alarmed glances at the prospect of allowing the Scots access to arms, if only tourney lances. Clifford tried to convince the king to change his mind, but Longshanks dismissed the counsel and refilled his goblet in preparation to retire to his quarters. Reaching the door, the king turned back and shot a quick grin at Robert, then announced to all in the hall: “To make it interesting, let’s have it Scots against my English knights, shall we?”

  Robert nearly ran James over as he stormed out of the hall.

  THE MORNING OF THE TOURNEY brought clouds as dark as the faces of the hundreds of Scots who had gathered along the rails below the royal pavilion. News of the tournament had reached Stirling and Newcastle during the night, and commoners from both sides of the border had rushed to Berwick to witness the rare contest. Yet none could have dreamed of what now appeared over the horizon from the south.

  A column of ten knights rode up in tight formation under the Beausant emblem of the Knights Templar. The standard, a solid black square set atop a solid white square, symbolized the eternal battle between God and Satan and was kept perpetually unfurled with tethered rods to be seen as a rallying point in battle. Having long ago abandoned the austere practice of riding double, the Templars came trotting haughtily into the lists on large destriers wrapped in lustrous caparisons of white and blood red.

  Lamberton rushed forward to confront the monk leading the mounted column. “This contest does not involve the Almighty.”

  The Templar removed his helmet. “Then why are you here, Bishop?”

  Lamberton was shocked to discover that he was speaking to an old comrade. William Sinclair of Roslin was a descendant of crusaders rumored to have discovered the Holy Grail on their sojourns in the East. The clan Sinclair, whose nomen meant Holy Light, had built the only Temple preceptory in Scotland at Ballentradoch, a forested glen south of Edinburgh. “Wil, by Christ! You cannot mean to take up arms against your own?”

  “I was ordered to come.”

  “By the Master of London Temple. Your allegiance lies with Scotland.”

  “Out of our way, priest!” warned one of the Templars riding behind Sinclair.

  Lamberton had thought the day could not turn more foreboding, but he was proven wrong when the surly knight who had just shouted at him removed his helmet and revealed himself to be Peter d’Aumont, the Auvergne preceptor who had hurled threats of retaliation at him during their covert Paris rendezvous. Had d’Aumont crossed the Channel to expose their clandestine meeting to Longshanks? Why else would the king have sent for these Templars if not to force a public demonstration of their loyalty? The bishop was forced to give way as d’Aumont led his arrogant monks toward the royal viewing box.

  Longshanks licked his teeth, eagerly anticipating the competition. “Poor Knights of Christ! You must be famished from your journey! We know how dutifully you fast in imitation of Our Lord!” His dripping
sarcasm drew derisive laughter, for all knew that these despised monks were never ill fed, let alone poor. In fact, jokes and curses were often aimed at the holier-than-thou Templars, who insisted on remaining secluded behind their commandery walls, except to come out and harass the local inhabitants for tithes or to show off their swordplay. He winked at his councilors as he waved the monks up. “I laid wager that you would join us. Templars always choose the winning side, eh?”

  Torn by conflicting allegiances, Sinclair shifted restlessly in his saddle. But d’Aumont suffered no such qualms as he cantered across the lists and scowled at the Scots who had killed his brethren at Falkirk. The crowds jeered and pushed against the railings to gain a better view of the overbearing monks.

  Longshanks surveyed the reluctant northern nobles who stood arrayed below his stand. “Who contests for Scotland?”

  The Scots murmured among themselves. They had not counted on confronting these ruthless crusaders. After a hesitation, Red Comyn stepped forward with Tabhann and Cam. Neil Campbell, who was married to one of the Bruce sisters, also took up the challenge. Edward Bruce itched to join the team, but Robert forced his hothead brother to remain uncommitted.

  “Only four?” Longshanks asked in reproach.

  Seeing no other volunteers come forward, Lamberton signaled for James to step up and fill the final slot.

  “Five a side, then.” Longshanks’s eyes twinkled with mischief as he motioned forward Sinclair. “Who from the Temple shall represent us?”

  “Brother d’Aumont and I accept.” Sinclair spoke with no enthusiasm, making clear that the king’s order to participate was not voluntary.

  “Even with Clifford and Gloucester, we are still one short.” Longshanks turned to the Bruce clan. “Rob, I’ve never known you to pass up a tourney.”

  Robert saw now that the king had concocted this challenge of lances to force his hand, testing his allegiance in full view of his fellow countrymen. He glanced at his feeble grandfather, desperate for his guidance, but the old Competitor was too befuddled by the bustle around him. Tarrying while trying to think of a way to avoid the call, Robert tried to find refuge in false modesty. “My lord, there are others here more worthy. Lord Gaveston is accomplished.”