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

by Glen Craney

  From behind the trees, James jumped out and flogged the abandoned horses up the path toward their Scot camp while the Trinity lads hacked away at the rear echelon of the trapped foot levies. Satisfied at last that enough carnage had been inflicted, he blew his horn to signal the retreat. After his men disappeared up the ridge, he captured a horse and rode headlong toward Clifford, who was thrashing the water in a frantic effort to discard his slogged armour.

  On the far side of the loch, Pembroke and his two thousand infantry could only stand by and watch as Clifford’s mangled force retreated in a panic. Suddenly, sounds of thunder shook the wooded scarp above Pembroke.

  “Get out!” Clifford shouted at him from across the loch.

  The English earl looked up and saw boulders hurling down the ridge. Edward Bruce and his men rushed from their hiding behind the high trees and came charging down the embankment at Pembroke’s troops.

  On the near side of the loch, James drove his stolen horse into the water and fought off the English infantry who came swimming into his path. He reared the animal in an effort to stomp on Clifford. “Where is she?”

  Clifford stole a sword from one of his drowning knights and slashed at the attacking horse’s forelegs. James leapt from the saddle to finish his old rival, but the survivors of the decimated English infantry turned from their retreat and closed in on him, itching to claim their bounty.

  “Come on!” Clifford taunted him. “I’ll take you to her!”

  James pulled his ax from behind his back. He heaved the death stroke—but his collar was captured from the rear, causing his swipe to miss Clifford’s jaw.

  The Unholy Ghost was dragging James to the safety of the woods.

  A MONTH AFTER THEIR AMBUSH of the English army at Glen Troon, James stood with Robert atop Loudon Hill and surveyed the pog that had been used as a fort by the ancient Dalradian kings many centuries ago. Around them lay hundreds of dead English conscripts, cut down during their second improbable victory over Clifford and Pembroke.

  Amid the stench of second-day blood, spring rhododendrons had exploded in purple all over the Galloway valley, auguring a new season in Robert’s fortunes. In the eleven months since their invasion from Arran, his destitute band of refugees had driven the English back across the border to Carlisle. The Culdee monks in the North were now spreading news of the miracle and reminding the clans of Merlin’s ancient prophesy: Upon the death of Le Roy Coveytous, a new king of the Celts would unite Wales and Scotland and win a peace that would last until the end of the world. As a result, nearly two thousand more volunteers had poured south to join the insurrection.

  Despite these remarkable successes, Robert remained sullen and down in the mouth. Stirling, Berwick, Edinburgh, and Inverness were still in English hands, and Clifford continued to prosecute his reign of terror in the Borders. Their small invasion force had merely turned back the vanguard of the English onslaught. “We’ve gained success too soon,” he warned James. “We should have waited until Longshanks was dead. Now he’ll come at us again with everything, and soon.”

  James never failed to be amazed by his insistence on seeing good fortune as a dire portent. “Then let’s go at him first.”

  “Still you clutch to that fantasy of invading England?”

  “It would gain us time to bring in a harvest. Lanark and Annandale are burned out. Why not let the burghers of Carlisle and York suffer the privations for a season?”

  Robert gazed south toward the Solway Firth coast, where St. Ninian had first stepped foot on Scotland to live as a hermit in a seaside cave. “I can’t win this war with the Comyns biting at my rear from Mar and Fife. So long as they persist in their claim for the throne, half the country will refuse to join me. I must bring the Comyns to heel before I challenge Longshanks.”

  “You mean to abandon all we’ve gained down here?”

  “I cannot fathom going north without you, but you’ve given me more than any friend could ask. Take as many men as you need and go save your lady. Her return would do more for the morale of our people than a dozen victories. Perhaps if you cause enough mischief in the Borders, Longshanks will be less inclined to send reinforcements to the Comyns.”

  James brightened at the prospect of finally attempting Belle’s long-delayed rescue. “Give me Sweenie and the Trinity lads. I’ll recruit the rest in Lanarkshire. But you must promise me one thing.”

  “Name it.”

  “You’ll not let Tabhann Comyn meet his end until I return to join you. He’s mine for the gutting.”

  Robert grasped James’s hand to seal the vow. “Be careful, Jamie. Clifford will have his spies out.”

  “And soon enough, I’ll have mine.”

  James hurried down the crag, eager to return to Douglasdale and see what remained of his home. Stopping, he clambered back up the hill and held out his palm at Robert in a demand.

  With a guilty shrug that was becoming all too familiar, Robert reached under his hauberk and tossed over the purloined Chanson of Fierabras.

  XXIV

  SUMMONED BACK TO CARLISLE TO answer charges of incompetence for their defeat in the Galloway campaign, Clifford and Pembroke stood with what remained of their army on the tourney field below the castle and watched as a crane lowered a set of armour onto a white Arabian whose livery had been rigged with four wooden flanges. Loaded with its burden, the steed was led by a squire toward the waiting troops. Walking behind it came a procession that included Caernervon, Gloucester, the Dominican Lagny, and a host of physicians and court minions. Every few paces, the saddled armour wavered and threatened to fall, requiring attendants to rush forward and set it aright. When this faltering entourage at last reached the field, Gloucester removed the helmet from the stooped torso that sat astride the horse.

  A gasp swept across the waiting ranks.

  Longshanks, completely bald and so pale that he appeared embalmed, accepted a vial from the royal surgeon. He struggled to bring its greenish liquid to his lips and managed to swallow a third of the contents before spilling the rest down his chest. He spat out the medicinal, convulsing with painful coughs, and gagged, “What is this wretched poison?”

  “Amber and jacinth, liege,” his physician said. “Marinated in silver.”

  Unsteady on the skittish mount, Longshanks bent over and lifted his bony buttocks, fouling the air with a loud fart. “If I have to drink all the silver in my treasury, I may as well shit out what remains of it!” He glared at Clifford and Pembroke. “That is what my officers do!”

  The king thrashed and cursed, struggling but unable to raise his forehead from the pommel. At Gloucester’s command, the royal retainers attached cords to the back of the king’s breastplate and levered him aloft like a tent pole. When upright again, Longshanks became transfixed on the barren Cumberland horizon spread out before him to the north. He slapped at his thigh in a frenetic attempt to find his absent sword. “Hold the cavalry! Gloucester! Where are my archers?”

  Alarmed by the king’s worsening dementia, Gloucester signaled for the standard bearers to raise their heralds, hoping the sight would revive the old man’s memory. “My lord, these are our troops. You called them back for an inquest.”

  “Bring the Scot traitor to me! Where is Bruce?”

  Clifford saw Pembroke glaring at him from across the ranks, refusing to make the first move. Being inferior to the earl in rank, he knew that delay would only bring more ire down upon him, so he reluctantly stepped forward. “Sire, we don’t have the Bruce.”

  “Where is he?”

  “We do not know, Majesty.”

  That admission jolted the king to a chilling lucidity. “He always seems to know where you are!”

  Clifford bowed, hoping to deflect the king’s glare of recrimination. “Bruce and Douglas now fight like common bandits. They crawl upon us at night and burn all that stands in their wake, even their own castles and fields.”

  Restricted by his armour, Longshanks turned to and fro in a frantic effort to l
ocate Gloucester, who was standing only a few paces away. The king kicked at his horse to make the angling maneuver for him, and finally he found the target of his wrath. “Gloucester! Cursed traitor! This is your knavery! You protect your kinsman!”

  Gloucester seethed, burned by the haughty smirks of Caernervon and the other court lackeys. “More than once I have placed my life in harm’s way for the sake of the Realm. And still Your Majesty questions my loyalty?”

  Caernervon seized the opportunity to stir his father’s bile against the baron who had supported Gaveston’s banishment from England. “Is it not odd, father, that Lord Gloucester has not once requested permission to take the field against his cousin? As I recall, he also advised leniency for that Scot woman at Berwick.”

  Longshanks growled and drooled as he punished the flanks of his faithful mount with his mailed fist. The aged warhorse, which had survived campaigns from Wales to France, fell into a hesitant trot. The attendants tried to halt the confused animal, but the king, convinced that he was being rushed upon in battle, drove them back with blows to their heads.

  Gloucester captured the king's reins. “Sire, where are you going?”

  “If these fools cannot defeat Bruce, I will do it myself!” Longshanks cudgeled the earl from his path and rode roughshod through the flustered soldiers, who did not know whether to fall out or risk being trampled.

  As the king trotted past them, the men cast their gazes down, saddened by the pitiful deterioration of their once-feared warlord. He had launched his impromptu invasion not on the main route that skirted east of the Solway Firth toward Dumfries, but down a sheep trail that snaked through the rolling gorse fields and led to the Irish Sea. Of those present, only Caernervon was of sufficient stature to countermand his father’s confusion, but he chose to let the spectacle proceed for his own amusement.

  After several minutes of this idle riding across the moorland, Longshanks halted and slumped over his saddle. He tried to speak, but his quivering lips could only dribble saliva.

  Gloucester hurried to him. “Sire, you must rest.”

  “Camp,” Longshanks managed to mutter.

  Gloucester could not be certain if he had heard the king correctly. These marshlands around him were so slogged from the recent rains that the horses were in danger of sinking to their forelegs. There was not a dry patch to set grappling irons for the tents. Fatigued, the troops crumpled to their haunches in the muck, some even falling asleep. The baron looked to Caernervon for assistance in the matter, but when the prince refused to dissuade his father from the decision to set camp, Gloucester could only shrug with disgust and motion the wagon masters to unload the provisions and luggage.

  While the royal shelter was being raised, Longshanks sat in the saddle gazing at the dunes with a bewildered look. The recession of the afternoon’s tides had revealed a broad beach crowned by scruffy bluffs and pimpled with a few abandoned huts. “What is the name of this place?”

  “Burgh On The Sand, Sire,” Gloucester said.

  Longshanks stared at the village as if it should hold a place in his failing memory. Suddenly, his eyes bulged and he stiffened in terror. Burgh upon the sand. Hadn’t that Scot witch prophesied he would die at such a place? He tried to rein to a retreat, but his legs cramped with spasms and his feet slid through his stirrups. “No! No! Jerusalem! It must be Jerusalem!”

  Spooked by his shout, the horse shot off into a wild run.

  The soldiers finally corralled the charger and released the jangled monarch from his saddle’s restraints. Six attendants were required to carry him to a litter that had been raised off the wet ground by poles. Gloucester and the physicians surrounded him and tried to make sense of his incoherent screams.

  The Dominican Lagny ordered all but Caernervon from the king’s presence. “I must take his confession and perform the last rites.”

  Informed that his death was imminent, Longshanks lapsed into a spell of shaking so violent that his joints locked in an agonizing rigor. “My son!”

  The friar daubed penance oil on the king’s forehead and leaned to his ear, whispering, “Majesty, we must insure your soul’s salvation.”

  “Eternal peace!” Longshanks cried. “The sacrament!”

  Out of earshot of Gloucester, the inquisitor glanced with anticipation at Caernervon as he placed a quill in the king’s unsteady hand and whispered, “The Holy Father has issued an edict calling for the trial of all Templars. The last rites cannot be given until you sign the warrant for the arrest of those who hide in England.”

  Longshanks slapped away the quill. “Scheming Frenchman! You’ll not steal my kingdom for Philip!”

  The inquisitor held back the unction oil in an act of extortion. “Those who aid the Temple are condemned to Hell’s fires.”

  Longshanks thrashed the monk aside and motioned his son closer. “Promise me, damn you! Promise me you’ll not squander all I’ve gained!”

  Caernervon grinned at him in a taunt. “I can’t hear you, Father.”

  “I’ll plague you from the grave if you fail me on this! Boil my bones! Take them with the army to Scotland. I want to be there when Bruce and Douglas are captured.” Swarms of flies attacked the king’s striated face under the broiling midday sun, but he could not raise his arm to chase them. He begged his son, “Give me shade.”

  Caernervon waved his hand back and forth across his father’s eyes, merely increasing the heat’s torture. “Are you burning, Father? Where you now go, it will be a thousand times hotter.”

  Longshanks bolted up and captured the prince’s throat. “That Scot woman tricked me! Give her no—” He arched in convulsions and fell back.

  Caernervon fought to escape the sharp-nailed fingers twisting his collar. Even in death, his father was proving stronger than him.

  At last, the prince peeled the rigored hand from his neck and staggered to his feet. He calmed his nerves and composed his disheveled hair while standing over the corpse and, for propriety’s sake, acting as if he were whispering a prayer over it. Then, he turned and strode toward the waiting royal entourage with the postured authority that he had practiced for so many years. Arriving in their fretful midst, he nodded with a firm chin and offered his hand to the councilors and barons for the requisite bows of homage.

  Gloucester rushed to the king’s litter, unable to believe that the old man was truly dead. He lifted Longshanks’s limp head, feeling its neck for a pulse. Finding no sign of life, he pressed the king’s eyelids closed.

  Caernervon came hovering over the earl with a vengeful sneer. “Send word for Lord Gaveston to return from France at once.”

  Gloucester looked up in protest. “The king had the Gascon banished.”

  “I am your king now!” Caernervon shouted. Just as abruptly, he turned ominously cold, imitating what he had witnessed his father do on many occasions with great effect. “Lord Gaveston will be joining my court and taking a wife. I should think your daughter might offer a suitable match.”

  Gloucester signed his breast. “I pray for England.”

  The Dominican bent to a knee before Caernervon and pawed for his hand to kiss the ring of King Edward II. “Sire, shall I attend to the funeral?”

  Caernervon paused to enjoy the first time he had heard himself addressed in the royal manner. Preening in the moment, he repulsed the monk’s fawning hand and walked away. “Throw his bones in the nearest hole, for all I care.”

  AWAKENED BY THE DAWN CRIES of the Berwick fishermen on the Tweed, Belle crawled onto her scabbed knees to offer up her morning prayer to St. Bride. The days were growing longer now, which was both a blessing and a curse. There would be more warmth from the sun, but also more stares and taunts from the curiosity seekers who came from as far away as London and Salisbury to gaze at her like a festival freak. She pulled herself up by the prongs of the cage, which hung from a high beam and overlooked the river’s bend to the west. Her only refuge from the harsh sea wind was an open-sided privy, built in a corner and diaboli
cally designed with a headboard so low that she could not remain inside it long without great discomfort.

  She saw the washerwomen and scullions coming down the path from the town to use the pounding stones on the banks. Having vowed never to let them find her in despair, she gathered strength and prepared for the same ritual that she had performed every morning during the eight months of her imprisonment. She coughed to loosen the phlegm from the cold in her lungs and, looking toward Scotland, imagined James galloping across the Lothian meadows to come for her. With the sea gulls cawing in accompaniment, she sang the ballad she had learned as a child:

  “Oh the summer time is coming

  And the trees are sweetly blooming

  And wild mountain thyme

  Grows around the purple heather.

  Will you go, lassie, go?”

  The scrub hags tried to silence her with a volley of rocks, but their attacks only inspired her to sing louder:

  “And we’ll all go together

  To pull wild mountain thyme

  All around the purple heather.

  Will you go, lassie, go?”

  She sank to her knees, faint from even that slight exertion. This time, however, her tormentors did not dissipate as they usually did after her defiant serenades. Instead, the cage rattled and lurched from the impact of another round of missiles. She curled up in the corner, turning her back against the assault. She risked peering over her forearm and saw a black spider on a thread descending toward her nose. She tried to warn it away. “You best go back where you came from, if you know what’s good for you.” When the spider refused to heed her advice, she smiled. “Aye, you must be a cussed Scot like me. Crossed the river, did you? No English spinner would be caught in here.”

  Remembering that Idonea Comyn once told her that all of God’s creatures carried messages from the spirits, she reached up and ran her finger across the ridged back of the spider. “What are you trying to tell me?”

  At that moment, a ray of sun broke through the clouds and illumined three tiny dots of robin-blue on its spine.