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

by Glen Craney

  Belle silently cursed the meddling matron for reporting the request that they be left alone. Isabella had already tested the court’s forbearance by ordering her to be temporarily removed from the cage. She could not risk a report of her unpopular leniency to a Scot prisoner being sent north to her husband.

  “A minute more,” Isabella begged the official. “I must help the lady walk a bit to regain the strength in her legs.”

  The chancellor would not relent. “Your chambermaid can attend to that.”

  Belle’s spirit sank. Her delay had cost them the opportunity.

  As the queen reluctantly prepared to leave with the court official, the infant wailed in protest and fought to return to Belle’s arms. Isabella looked quizzically at the infant, then at Belle, unnerved by their sudden bonding.

  Belle knew this might be her last chance to ask the question that had burned in her heart for years. Risking the suspicion of the chancellor, she turned aside and whispered to Isabella’s ear, “Do you love him?”

  Unnerved, Isabella acted as if she had forgotten something near the bed. She told the chancellor, “The lady has womanly needs I must attend.”

  He glared at her, but finally acquiesced to the delay in her departure. He handed the infant to the matron and followed her out.

  When the door finally closed, Isabella walked to the window and stared across the Tweed meadows. “He is my child. Of course I love him.”

  “No, do you love Jamie?” She heard Isabella fussing at her gown in an attempt to avoid the subject. Try as she had, she could not shake the doubts that she had harbored since the night of Ragman signing, after she saw how Isabella had looked into James’s eyes while dancing with him. He had always refused to talk of his time in Paris, and that, she feared, was telling. She could just make out the lines of Isabella’s firm figure. “You are more beautiful than me. Any man would have chosen you.”

  Isabella stifled a cough of raw emotion. “It is true. I was drawn to your James. He was rough-hewn, but I could see the sculpture that would emerge.”

  “You shared his bed?”

  The queen took Belle’s hand to reassure her. “He was always faithful to you. I still remember how he described you. The most bonnie lass in all of Scotland.”

  Belle, fighting tears, nearly collapsed.

  Isabella caught her and, leading her back to the bed, tucked the covers against her neck. “But he neglected to mention how stubborn you were. You must sleep while you can. I fear I will not be allowed to keep you here long.” She had nearly reached the door when she turned back and asked, “That day at Lanercost?”

  Belle reopened her heavy eyes. “Aye?”

  “Longshanks would have sent you to a nunnery. Yet you taunted him into a rage. I have never understood why.”

  Belle looked up at the dark blurs above the rafters, reliving that horrid moment when her ordeal began. “My people have clawed at one another for centuries. We will never be free until we put aside our bickering and become united.”

  “How can your suffering change that?”

  “My queen would have felt the full brunt of Longshanks’s wrath. He was bent on setting an example with one of us. I knew Elizabeth Bruce could not survive a stark confinement.”

  “But even had that been so, Robert Bruce would still rule Scotland.”

  “Scotland’s future depends as much on Lady Bruce as on my king,” Belle explained. “If she fails to give birth to a son, there will be another clan war for the throne. And the Comyns will conspire to barter away our freedom.”

  A raven flew into the chamber and perched on the ledge.

  Isabella tried to chase the intruder with a flap of her sleeve, but the harbinger insisted on sitting in vigil and cawing loudly.

  Belle shivered from a chill—she began coughing and hacking.

  Isabella looked down in horror at the sheets—they were stained with globs of blackened blood. Fearful that consumption was eating into Belle’s lungs, the queen turned for the door. “I must call the physicians.”

  Belle heaved for breath to call her back. “No, please.” Fighting off an encircling darkness, she begged, “Could I have a quill and parchment?”

  Isabella nodded to indicate that she understood Belle’s reluctance to trust the English doctors. She retrieved the writing instruments from a table and brought them to the bed with a small lap desk. She sat aside Belle and, placing the inked quill in her hand, brought its tip to the parchment laid out across the slant board.

  Too blind to form the letters, Belle could only manage a few scratches. After several unsuccessful attempts to write the note, she fell back to the pillow in frustration.

  Isabella took the quill from her failing hand. Glancing at the door, she whispered, “Speak the words to me.”

  XXXII

  AS THE CLEAR DAWN OF Midsummer Day broke over the soggy fields below Stirling Castle, three slashes of the royal standard atop Coxet Hill launched the Scot advance.

  Led by James on horse, the Lanark men, with their pikes shouldered and their bowl-shaped helmets glistening in the low sun, emerged from their tree-covered encampment in the New Park. During the night, many had sewn white St. Andrew’s crosses onto their bright yellow tunics and cowhide jerkins to distinguish comrade from foe. They marched in determined silence toward their assigned battle position just south of St. Ninian’s kirk, where they would stand as the last barrier between the English army and Stirling Bridge. The passing of the rain clouds had tinctured the eastern horizon with a crimson haze; veterans of the Wallace campaigns whispered of having witnessed the same omen of drenching blood before the calamity at Falkirk.

  James rode ahead to scout the dense copse that obstructed his vantage of the English encampment. He knew from memory that this carse descended gradually toward bogs veined with hundreds of sluggish rivulets. He had ordered the banners kept furled and the battle horns lowered, for if the English spied their approach too soon, Clifford might rush his knights to the Dryfield and destroy any chance they had of slowing the heavy destriers in the wetlands.

  Moving swiftly, he and his men cleared the brush harls of Balquihidderoch Wood and came to a halt at the crest of a ridge. Below them, on the near side of the burn, hundreds of caparisoned chargers were forming up under heralds from Gascony, Holland, Brittany, Poitou, Aquitane, Bayonne, and Germany. Behind these knights in the service of England streamed an unbroken column of infantry reinforcements from the south.

  On his flanks, the divisions commanded by Randolph and Edward Bruce stopped and descended to their knees. The Dewar of the Culdees, his white beard flowing in the wind, walked out of St. Ninian’s kirk and, with the aid of his staff, limped across the bowed ranks. The patriarch of the old Celtic Church had rushed here from Glen Dochart during the night to bless Robert’s army with Caledonia’s most hallowed relics. Following him came a procession of friars from the northern abbeys, including the sallow-faced Abbot of Arbroath, who held aloft the venerated Breacbannoch, the silver reliquary that held the bones of St. Columba.

  Sweenie had not seen his spiritual father since the day he had left the Culdee hermitage in the Highlands to lead Robert’s survivors across Loch Lomond. The squat little monk ran to a tearful reunion with the old abbot. The Dewar gifted his former acolyte with a long pole crowned by a wooden box that contained St. Fillan’s shriveled arm. All Scots knew the story: When Fillan had prayed for light by which to read Scripture in his cave, his arm had miraculously glowed with the effluence of the Holy Spirit.

  From the ranks, a shout rang out: “How many fingers on Fillan’s hand?”

  Sweenie turned with a grin toward that familiar call.

  Angus Og MacDonald had arrived with the Culdees to take his assigned position on the right flank, an honor granted to his clan in perpetuity for rescuing the king and his ragged band on their run from the ambush at Methven.

  Spurred by Isles chieftain’s mischievous nod, Sweenie opened the reliquary to solve the riddle of the giant Islesman�
�s favorite password. The saint’s desiccated hand—with all five fingers still intact—had curled into a fist. Inspired by the portent, Sweenie ran in front of the ranks and shouted, “The blessed Fillan clenches to hammer the Anglish swine!”

  The men nearly trampled the little monk to witness the miracle.

  The Dewar thrust his gnarled staff to the sky and shook the heavens with a cry. “The saints fight with ye to drive the papish devils back to Rome!”

  James’s throat seized with emotion. How he wished Lamberton were here to witness this battle that would be fought not by men alone, but alongside the gods of ancient Alba. The bishop had once told him the story of how Caesar’s legions had butchered the Druids on the Isle of Anglesey. Centuries later, the papal missionaries had treated these descendants of the old religion no better. Now, the Dewar and his long-suffering Culdees had come to inflict their own spiritual revenge on the pope’s English pawns.

  Word of Fillan’s clenched fist spread down the battle line, and the Scots began weeping and shouting names of murdered kinsmen. A quarter-mile to the south, Edward Bruce lashed his black pony across his ranks while reciting the English atrocities inflicted on his dead brothers. On the left, Randolph remained calm and cheerful, thumping the helmets of his men for good fortune. Behind the king’s nephew, atop Coxet Hill, Keith the Marishal and his paltry cavalry of five hundred waited, their scrawny hobbins champing and pawing at the tumult.

  Cull and Chullan, drawn by the cheering, came running from the New Park camp. Sensing the onset of battle, the old mastiffs had gnawed through their tethers to join their master.

  “Back, you hounds!”

  James shook his head in wonder at how the two grizzled dogs had survived for eighteen years under such affliction and deprivation. They came from hardy stock, bred from a father that had lived past the usual age of twelve; they seemed determined to hang on until vengeance was gained against England.

  Sim Ledhouse laughed at how the frothing mastiffs would not retreat. He bared his teeth at them and smacked their noses, admiring their stubbornness. “Aye, Douglas, you’re not the only one who has a score to settle.”

  Suddenly, amid this tumult of preparation, the field fell silent.

  Robert, wearing the circlet of gold forged for his battle crown, galloped down from his signal station and dismounted in front of the Lanark division. With a set jaw, he drew his blade and strode toward James. “Douglas! On your knees!”

  Surrounded by glares of suspicion, James descended as ordered. Had Robert learned of the secret meeting in Melrose Abbey? He lowered his head, fearing that rough justice was about to be meted out for treason. Robert came up with sword twitching and took aim at his neck. James braced for the blow—but the blade merely tapped his shoulders. He opened his eyes in confusion.

  “James of Douglas,” Robert shouted. “For brave service to Scotland and thy king, I knight thee banneret!”

  The divisions on his flanks turned to witness the honor that could only be given in battle. Shouts of “Douglas! Douglas!” cascaded down their lines.

  Edward Bruce muttered curses and refused to acknowledge the honor, but Randolph circled his horse to salute his friendly rival.

  Sweenie rubbed away a tear. “He’s going to be insufferable now. Come on, Douglas. Up with you. No time to rest on your laurels.”

  That jest drew laughter from the men. James had tried for years to break the monk’s habit of referring to him as a lord. Now that he was due the deference, Sweenie, ever the true Scot, refused on principle to grant him the lofty title.

  Robert mounted again and cantered before his infantry, who rested against their pikes, bracing for the inevitable speech recounting their travails and injustices over the decades, a litany they had heard a thousand times from their fathers and grandfathers. All had been issued the usual pardons and abeyances of debts, but such enticements meant little to men facing death. He stared at their expectant faces, trying to find the words sufficient to express his gratitude for their trust. Finally, he shouted, “My hope is constant in each of you! I leave airy speeches to the English! Few from their lips have ever been worthy of trust! I am told their king brings a chronicler paid gold to record his victory! I would send that wordsmith to his scrivener’s bench to recount a tale of how we Scots won back a nation this day!”

  Not one cheer met his call to arms.

  James feared that Robert had lost them before the first blow was struck.

  The mutinous Islesman who had threatened to desert during the cattle drill stepped forward. Making known his intent without words, he spat a black wad of oatcake onto the heather and thrust the butt end of his spear into his belt mount.

  Seven thousand Scots followed his example and fixed their weapons.

  UNACCUSTOMED TO RISING SO EARLY, Caernervon yawned and rubbed the sleep from the dark circles under his eyes. His head pounded from a hangover. He had tossed and turned all night, kept awake by the infernal din in the camp. Leaving Hugh Despenser still asleep inside, he arose and staggered through the flaps of the pavilion in his nightshirt to search for the nearest wine casket.

  For the first time, he confronted the logistical chaos spawned by his order to wheel the army east of the Scot encampment. Thousands of hooves and boots had churned the muddy ground around him into a morass of manure and piss, requiring the engineers to dismantle every shack in the nearby village to lay planks for footing. Weighed down by their soaked gambesons, his conscripts, forced to choose between sleeping in the muck and standing all night in their battle gear, stared up at him with the deadened eyes of cadavers. The victual wagons remained halted on the far side of the river to allow the baggage trains carrying the livery of his knights to cross first. The few sacks of oats ferried across to feed the infantry had become drenched, and those who had risked eating the rancid meal were now doubled over with the scours. The entire army stank from rot and the runs.

  He slogged through the camp until he found his officers.

  Slumped with fatigue, Clifford, Gloucester, Cam Comyn, and D’Argentin sat at the ready on their loam-spackled steeds.

  “In God’s name! Why have you not taken Stirling?”

  “Our rear echelons have not yet come up,” Gloucester told the king.

  “And pray tell, why not?”

  “Only one ford is passable.”

  Caernervon slung the remnants of his wine at the earl, spooking the horses and setting off a chain reaction of curses and jostling through the crowded ranks. “You don’t need the entire army! The castle is right over there!”

  Clifford managed to calm his skittish mount. “Bruce waits on the high ground, Majesty.”

  “He waits! And he will continue to wait!” Caernervon turned to Cam Comyn for his opinion. “What say you on this, Scot?”

  Cam shrugged, confident. “Bruce is no Wallace. When he sees our knights on the move, he’ll run for the Isles.”

  Gloucester had become alarmed by the king’s recent transformation. As a young man, Caernervon had shown no interest in military affairs, leaving tactical decisions to his father’s officers. But on this campaign, he had fallen under the grandiose delusion that his father’s genius had spontaneously blossomed in him. The unexpected—and in some quarters, unexplained—birth of a son seemed to have filled him with a sense of invincibility. “The men and horses are fatigued, Sire. If we rest a day and gather strength, the ground will firm.”

  “Look!” Caernervon pointed to Dryfield, where the Scots had descended to their knees. “Did I not tell you? They beg for mercy!”

  “Mercy from God,” Gloucester said. “Not you, my lord.”

  “If you are too craven to fight, I will order Clifford to lead the advance!”

  His honor besmirched, Gloucester unbuckled his breastplate and threw it to the ground. Caernervon smiled with the presumption that the troublesome earl had just relinquished his command, but Gloucester slammed down his visor and spurred to the fore of the waiting knights. The monarch was about to
wave off the baron’s bluffing theatrics when he heard a distant roar. He turned to his French mercenary and inquired, “What is that commotion at their center?”

  D’Argentin nodded with pride. “Douglas has been knighted.”

  The king laughed. “Then both he and Bruce will retreat in grand style.”

  “I have never met this Robert Bruce. But I assure you, Sire, Douglas will not run.”

  “What makes you so certain?”

  D’Argentin tightened the bindings on his breastplate. “I trained him.”

  As the French knight rode off to join Gloucester, Caernervon saw Despenser sauntering out of the tent to take a piss. “Hah! Instructed by a Parisian, Hugh! All the more reason we have nothing to fear from that rabble. Where is my cook? I cannot ride without breaking my fast.” From the corner of his eye, he saw James Douglas on the far ridge being mobbed with congratulations. With a scheming gleam, he retrieved a sword and approached Clifford. “You and this Douglas have been like Cain and Abel, no?”

  Clifford kept his steely gaze fixed on the Scot army in the distance. “I am no brother to that man, my lord.”

  “Still, Douglas should not enjoy all the glory this day.” The king flippantly buffeted the officer on each shoulder. “Sir Robert Clifford.” He tossed the sword to the mud and renewed his search for a repast.

  Clifford smoldered at the bitter irony. The knighthood unjustly denied him all of these years had been granted as an afterthought, not in recognition for his accomplishments, but as a meaningless parry to Douglas. Empty accolades from this frivolous monarch meant nothing to him. He should have received the honor from Longshanks years ago. Now, too old to prosper under the rank, he lived only to gain revenge against that Scotsman who had ruined his career.

  He pulled out the order for Belle’s execution and took grim solace in its contents, having convinced the king to sign it as a precaution should one of the rebellious barons back in Yorkshire attempt to abduct her. He handed the order to Cam Comyn. “On my signal, deliver it to Berwick.”