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

by Glen Craney

  James slammed a fist into his palm to drive home the point. “And if I capture Isabella before Edward returns to York, the English barons will have their cause to remove the knave from the throne for incompetence.”

  Robert turned aside and stared down at the ants, admiring the loyalty they showed to the greater cause of protecting their queen. The warrior members of their colony had already reunited their displaced army and were fast at work rebuilding their defensive hill. He looked up again and studied James intently. “Do you know the worst kind of counselor a king can have at his side?”

  “Pray tell.”

  “A man who has nothing to lose.”

  He came within an inch of Robert’s pocked face. “I once shared a cave with such a man.”

  Robert turned aside, stung by the implication that he had gone soft. He looked across the Sidlaw Hills and calculated the distance that James would have to cover to accomplish the improbable feat. No Scot army had ever made it south of the River Tees, and York was another three days of hard riding beyond that vale. Since his ignominious return from Ireland, even the commoners whispered that he had lost his nerve. Perhaps he had grown too predictable and cautious since Bannockburn. He could not allow the English to sniff even a whiff of weakness, particularly after his failure in Ireland. With a slap to his thigh, he nodded his agreement. “Take Randolph with you.”

  Thrilled to see the old gambler returned to form, James punched Robert on the shoulder, a bit too hard. “I don’t need another jester. I have Sweenie.”

  “Take Randolph,” Robert insisted, rubbing his bruised arm. “I’ll not have you and the Queen of England traipsing across Yorkshire without a chaperone.”

  ISABELLA STROLLED ALONG THE River Swale, filling her lungs with the crisp Yorkshire air. The unusually cool summer of that year, 1319, had caused the leaves to turn early, and she had not enjoyed such a pleasant outing since her days in Paris, when she would listen to the minstrels rowing on the Seine. How long had it been? Eleven years. It seemed like a hundred. She leaned over the water and saw more age lines in her reflection. Accursed isle! This slither of frozen rock and its horrid clime had taken a frightful toll on her features. Even those randy cads in court no longer stared at her as they once—

  A pebble bounced off her back.

  She turned to find her seven-year-old son scooping another handful of stones. “Put those down, Edward! At once!”

  The prince stood his ground with a defying smirk. Even at such a young age, the boy was forever testing her, having developed a cunning sense of the balance of power that compromised her position with his father. There had been scurrilous rumors about his paternity, but she had put to rest that gossip by proudly trumpeting how the boy had inherited his aggression from his grandfather. Nor did it hurt her cause that she had given birth to three more children, who were still too young to bring on this journey. So fervent was England’s hope that another Longshanks would follow her husband as king that the barons had gladly accepted her firstborn’s legitimacy.

  The boy sailed the stone over her head. “I killed the Black Douglas!”

  Aghast, Isabella stopped her advance. “Where did you hear that name?”

  “I’m going to kill the Black Douglas.”

  “It is not Christian to speak of murder.”

  The boy pointed an accusing finger at her. “You fancy the Black Douglas.”

  Isabella glanced with alarm at the Myton Bridge, where her escort, the Archbishop of York, knelt in prayer with his retinue of monks and acolytes. She captured the boy by the hand and marched him down the bank, safely out of earshot of the monks. “Who told you such nonsense?”

  “If you don’t want to kill him, that means you fancy him.”

  She released a sigh, relieved that the boy had just made up the accusation from his overheated imagination. “I forbid you to speak that name. The man is your father’s enemy. The king would be very upset to hear you talk like this.”

  “Why hasn’t Papa killed him?”

  “He has tried, but—”

  “Am I French or English?”

  She could not fathom how the child managed to form such astonishing questions. “You are both.”

  “Then where will I be king?”

  “It is complicated. Your grandfather has a son in Paris. He will be king of France if—”

  “I’m going to kill the Black Douglas! Then I will become king of England and France!”

  She huffed in exasperation. “Did you not hear me just tell you—”

  A commotion near the bridge cut short her admonition.

  “My lady!” The archbishop was waving his meaty arms and running toward her. “We must leave at once!”

  “But we only just arrived.”

  The portly cleric arrived at last and bent to catch his breath. “The sheriff’s scouting party has captured a Scot spy not ten furlongs from here. We must remove you to safety.”

  Isabella feigned shock to hide her elation. Had James deciphered her plan? She returned to her picnic spread and tried to ignore the archbishop’s fervent entreaties. “A Scot this far south? That is nothing but a foolish rumor!”

  “The Black Douglas!” young Edward shouted. “I’m going to gut the Black Douglas like a mackerel and skin him alive!”

  The archbishop wiped sweat from his brow. “I assure you, my lady—”

  “I wish to speak to the prisoner,” she insisted.

  The archbishop’s pasty mouth fell open, as if he could not decide which was more outlandish: the boy’s screams or the queen’s demand. “That would not be prudent, my lady.”

  Horsemen galloped up dragging their captive across the bridge.

  Isabella marched toward them, praying that the cleric would back down to her boldness. “I must know what is happening in my husband’s absence.”

  The archbishop waddled after her, discomposed by her insistence on interrogating the prisoner. “That is no proper sight for your ladyship!”

  Isabella knelt over the bloodied prisoner. “Your name?”

  After suffering several kicks to the ribs, the man mumbled, “McCraig.”

  “In whose service?” she asked.

  Flogged to answer, the prisoner muttered, “Jamie Douglas.”

  Young Prince Edward bastinadoed the bound Scot prisoner with his stick. “The Black Douglas! The Black Douglas is here!”

  The archbishop turned whiter than his frock. “Douglas comes for York?”

  The captive turned his pained eyes on the queen again. “And for you.”

  Exhilarated, Isabella quickly retreated into an affectation of disbelief. She had convinced Caernervon to allow her to bring the prince to York with the excuse that the boy should witness his father’s victory over the Scots. Her scheme had succeeded in all but one aspect; she had not counted on one of James’s spies getting captured. She tried to glare the prisoner to silence, and then forced a laugh of derision at him. “James Douglas in Yorkshire? That is preposterous!”

  “Nevertheless,” the archbishop said, “I must insist that your ladyship return to York at once.”

  Isabella waved off the demand. “The Scots have allowed this man to fallen into your hands to stir up fear among the populace. Douglas has never raided this far south. He knows my husband would cut him off. If I am seen driven away by such a wild fantasy, I will appear craven. Now, I have packed a basket of delicacies, and my son and I are going to continue with our outing.”

  “I cannot allow it!” the cleric cried.

  “Who has been placed in command of York’s garrison?”

  “There is no garrison. The king has taken the royal troops stationed in the city with him to Berwick.”

  Isabella suppressed a smile of triumph. Ah, Edward, you fool. You have played right into my hands. She told the cleric forcefully, “There is your answer, then. The king would certainly have left defenders in York had he considered such a raid even a remote—”

  “Maman's sweet on the Black Douglas!” Yo
ung Edward tugged at the archbishop’s sleeve. “She wants to kiss him! But I’m going to hang him!”

  Until that moment, both the archbishop and sheriff had paid little attention to the prince’s ranting. Now, turning on Isabella with suspicion, they found her scowling at Edward in rattled anger. Intrigued by the boy’s claim, the cleric signaled for the queen’s horse to be brought up.

  She fought to prevent the soldiers from taking him. “My son stays with me!”

  “Orders from the king, my lady,” the archbishop said coldly. “Should any danger arise, I have been instructed to send the prince to Nottingham.”

  “Unhand me, or by God I will see you sent to the Tower!”

  But the archbishop would not relent, and Isabella, resigned to the infernal cleric’s insistence, finally calmed and said, “At least allow me to send correspondence to the king. I shall raise this offense with my father if you deny me that right.”

  The archbishop granted the innocuous request with a dismissive wave to the sheriff. “One of my acolytes may transcribe the letter for her.”

  The prince threw rocks at his mother while she was escorted away. Ecstatic with her removal from his oversight, the boy swung his stick as a sword at an imaginary foe. “Is the Black Douglas going to capture us?”

  The archbishop patted the prince’s head. “Rest assured, my son. We have nothing to fear from that mortal sinner. The Holy Father has excommunicated the Douglas felon and all who follow his evil path. His name is damned thrice daily in all our churches. Look above you. What do you see?”

  Edward gazed at the sky. “Clouds.”

  “Nay, those are St. George’s angels forming his angelic ranks for battle.”

  “Will my father come to save us?”

  The cleric smiled with confidence. “We need not burden the king about this heathen Scot. I have sent an order to York for the local burgher militia to muster on this field. If the fiend is foolish enough to attack, we will send him back to his pagan hole with his tail severed.”

  “I want to watch,” Edward said with a frisson of excitement.

  “You are still a bit wet behind the ears,” the archbishop cautioned. “But soon your day will come. Has your mother told you of the brave exploits performed by your grandfather?” When the boy shook his head, the cleric glared at Isabella as she was led away. “A lesson must be learned from that malfeasance. Never trust one’s education to the French. Edward Longshanks was a fearsome warrior. He captured the criminal Wallace and sent him to Hell, limb by limb. You must strive to be like him in all ways.”

  “If he was so fearsome,” Edward asked, “why did he not capture the Black Douglas?”

  Astonished by such precocious impudence, the archbishop signed his breast to bless the memory of the deceased monarch. “The Lord left that task to us, so that we might more fully bask in His glory.”

  JAMES TROTTED ALONG THE BANKS of the Ouse River, searching the purple Yorkshire moors to the south for some sign of John McCraig, his spy in England. His old shoulder wound ached, an unerring portent that danger lurked ahead. The morning fog obscured his vantage, and what little of the bleak landscape he could see looked so alien that his tacking instincts had been thrown askew. McCraig had never failed him, but the man was a half a day late for their assigned meeting.

  “Give him another hour,” Randolph advised.

  “We don’t have an hour.” James nervously stroked his pony’s mane as he glanced over his shoulder at his exhausted men. They had become accustomed to living in the saddle without sleep, but he had never driven them so hard. After reaching the outskirts of York in only eight days, they had left behind a swath of burned villages and ransacked abbeys. Although he had gained the jump on Caernervon, he knew that word of the invasion would have made it to Berwick by now. Every minute of delay decreased their chances of making it home before being encircled. He had even heard some of the men grousing behind his back that he was risking their lives to settle an old score, or perhaps revive an old romance. Jangled by the lack of good surveillance, he turned to Sweenie and, cursing the fog, ordered, “Up with you, monk!”

  Rousted from his attempt to steal a few winks of sleep, Sweenie, startled and nearly fell from his pony.

  “Make your pilgrimage,” James ordered. “And be quick about it.”

  SWEENIE GRUMBLED AS HE PULLED a white robe from his saddlebag and donned his usual disguise of a Cistercian friar. Staff in hand, he waddled into the mists and broke an occasional branch to avoid becoming lost. He had performed this ritual of espionage hundreds of times; he would go find the local kirk and beg a meal from the priest, all the while gathering information about the defenses of the nearest city.

  After half an hour of this blind searching, he came to a wooden bridge that crossed a small river. The sun broke through and burned away enough fog to reveal the clover fields on the far side of the banks. He rubbed his eyes in disbelief: the valley beyond the bridge was filled with hundred of white-robed canons and priests, all armed with pitchforks. Behind them stood a second line of burghers and farmers, disorganized and dispirited as the canons were disciplined. Clad in an archbishop’s raiment, the leader of this strange host waved a towering silver crucifix for a battle standard as he strode confidently toward the bridge.

  Sweenie ducked into the grass to avoid being seen, but he was too late.

  “You there!” the Archbishop of York commanded him. “Back in line!”

  Sweenie slowly stood from the weeds, thankful at least that the cleric thought him to be a stray from his own motley militia. He didn’t know whether to retreat or obey the command, so he decided to play the fool, his most accomplished role. “Preachers take up arms?”

  “A Scot felon lurks not far from here!” the archbishop shouted.

  “I’ve just come from the north! I saw no such knave!”

  “Then we’ll have to smoke the Black Douglas from his den!”

  “I’ve heard of this Douglas!” Sweenie said. “God’s curse he is! You mean to fight him with churchmen and farmers?”

  “Of course not!”

  Sweenie forced down the lump in his throat, now certain that English reinforcements were on the way. After all, priests only hurried to a battlefield to share the booty and proclaim the Almighty’s hand in—

  “Our Lord and his angels are with us!” The archbishop waved his staffed crucifix like a wizard’s wand. “The Scots will fall just as the pagan Goliath fell before David!”

  Sweenie questioned his own hearing. Could this English Moses and his Yorkshire Israelites truly intend to fight a battle? He stole a glance behind him. The fog was lifting, and he might regain the protection of the receding mists if he got the jump. He pointed his finger toward the low sun rising behind the priests and shouted, “A sign! The sun reverses its course!”

  When the archbishop and his canonicals turned to witness the miracle, the little monk took off in a dash for the bridge.

  Crimson patches of rage flamed across the archbishop’s forehead as he slowly realized that he had been duped. He spun to his canons behind him and ordered, “Take that Devil’s gremlin!”

  Hundreds of his white-robed clerics charged after the Scot monk.

  Sweenie pumped his stumpish legs and threw off his robe to gain speed. He reached the swirling mist just in the nick of time and curled into a ball behind a clump of gorse. There he remained hidden until the voices around him receded. Moments later, an arm reached through the fog and captured his chin.

  “What in Satan’s name?”

  James had come looking for him. Sweenie brought a finger to his lips to beg his silence.

  “Are you stealing a nap?” James demanded.

  Sweenie dropped an ear to the gorse and listened. The pounding of feet across the timbered bridge had receded. God be praised, the canons had given up their search and had crossed back over the river. He leapt up and led James on a run back to other Scots while whispering the result of his reconnaissance: “Two thousand, maybe mor
e.”

  James kicked the ground in frustration. “We can’t take on that many.”

  Sweenie halted his retreat to tug at James’s sleeve. “You promised that one day you would allow me to lead a charge into battle.”

  James dropped his hands to his knees, catching his breath. “Stop talking nonsense. We have to run north, and fast.”

  “Give me thirty men,” Sweenie pleaded. “I’ll put up a feint, hold them off until you and the others get away.”

  “That would be suicide.”

  Sweenie lowered his eyes and assumed a pious pose. “I have lived a bonnie life, and now it’s time for me to pay back my king. I ask only one favor.” He stole a glance up at James to determine if his act had cast its spell.

  “And what would that be?”

  “Compose a song lauding my sacrifice and sing it to King Robert in my memory.”

  James was ashamed for having wrongly judged the selfless monk. There would be detachments from Berwick heading north to cut them off, he knew, and his only chance of saving most of the men would be to leave a small contingent to fight a rear-guard action. If any of the volunteers survived, they would have to find their way back to Scotland on their own.

  McKie and McClurg stepped up. “We’ll stay with the Wee-Kneed.”

  Thirty more men also came forward and stood with Sweenie.

  James pressed the little monk’s head to his breast. “I’ll not forget this.”

  Sweenie snickered under his breath, “Aye, you won’t.”

  BEFORE JAMES COULD CHANGES HIS mind, Sweenie led his band of volunteers into the thick fog toward the direction of the oncoming legion of clerics. When the escaping Scots finally rode out of sight, the monk stopped his small troop halfway to the river and traced a line through the grass with his staff. “Gather up all the hay and brush you can find and set them afire here.”

  His volunteers traded skeptical glances, but finally they obeyed him.

  Sweenie trusted the smoke from the burning brush would give them more cover. He stripped off his shirt, dug his hand into a crock of pitch, and painted his face with pagan emblems. Satisfied with his artwork, he threw the crock to McKie. “Pretty yourself up, lads. When you hear Heaven shout St. Finian’s name, run toward the river and don’t stop until you’ve been baptized in its bloody waters.”