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

by Glen Craney

  Sweenie had sacrificed himself to warn of the guard’s approach.

  Still concussed, James didn’t have the strength to drag both Sweenie and Edward away. He glared a promise of revenge at the boy as he threw Sweenie over his good shoulder. He kicked the supports and rushed out, letting the tent fall on Edward with a crash. Caught under the canvass, the boy screamed and thrashed, thinking he was being smothered to death.

  Staggering for the river with Sweenie on his shoulder, James shouted at his men in the darkness, “To Douglas!”

  THE NEXT MORNING, EDWARD MARCHED through his camp surveying the damage inflicted by the Scot ambush. Two hundred of his soldiers had been killed and his cannon spiked with packed mud. But even in this wretched panorama of butchery, he found hope. “Douglas is desperate.”

  “They lost only three men,” Hainault said. “I fear we are more desperate.”

  “I stared him down!” Edward screamed. “He would not take me on! He is not the demigod you make him out to be. He is old and tired. Assemble the ranks.”

  “Our troops have not slept nor eaten for days.”

  “At once!” Edward demanded.

  Hainault did as ordered, and when the weary troops were finally loaded on the rafts, the young king rode before them and shouted the speech that he had rehearsed for weeks. “Men of England!” he screeched in his high-pitched voice. “This is your hour of glory! The Scots have no crafts to cross the river! We outnumber them! God is on our side! To victory!”

  Hainault reluctantly signaled for the assault.

  Fueled only by the hope that their torment would soon be over, the forlorn English soldiers silently rowed the rafts across the river while keeping their eyes trained on the smoke wafting above the Scot encampment.

  When the last of his army had crossed, Edward listened for the sounds of battle on the ridge above. Minutes later, he saw his infantry coming back down from the rocks with their pikes on their shoulders. He screamed at them, “What in God’s name are you doing?”

  “They are gone, my lord,” an officer reported.

  “That is impossible!” Edward ordered himself and Hainault ferried over to the Scot side, and together they clambered up the slope. Reaching the heights, they looked down below the ridge and found the Scot fires still burning. Yet all that remained in Douglas’s camp was a pyramid of stones hung with a placard:

  Brother Ned Sween of the True Culdee Church of Christ

  Friar, Patriot, Comrade

  The Best of Scotland Shall Forever Here Stand Watch

  Edward followed a trail of hoof prints in the mud to a second ridge, where the river angled back. The few trees that had stood behind that rise had been hacked away, out of view from his English encampment. The Scots had bundled the logs and laid them across the shallowest part of the river, then had ferried their horses across the water tethered to the flotsam. He slowly realized that the Scots had used their incessant raids and horn blowing to drown out the sounds of the timbering, which must have taken more than a week. The hardness of the horse chips confirmed that the Scots had gained a half-day’s head start north. He fell to his knees and burst into tears. “No! No!”

  Hainault shook his head as he stood over the sobbing king. This expedition had cost him five hundred men and had nearly drained England’s treasury. Convinced now that he would never be paid, the continental officer began walking toward the river, forced to find another way to get his survivors back across the Channel.

  “You cannot leave me!” Edward shouted.

  Hainault turned back with a look of empathy. “Take heart, my lord. You have been outfoxed by the most cunning warrior alive. Learn from this experience. Perhaps it will one day serve you.”

  “But what am I to do now?”

  “Sue for peace. So long as James Douglas commands Scotland’s borders, you will never subdue that kingdom.”

  XXXIX

  JAMES SQUEEZED DAVID BRUCE'S SHAKING hand to reassure the frightened lad as they climbed the rampart steps leading to the great hall of Berwick Castle. Following instructions from Cardross, he had not revealed to the king’s four-year-old heir the momentous nature of the ceremony that they were about to attend. Ten months after his Weardale campaign, another peace proposal arrived from London, this one accompanied by a marital agreement that would conjoin the royal families of the two warring realms.

  He felt certain that had Elizabeth Bruce been alive, the wedding preparations would have been handled with more tact. But Robert, embittered by his wife’s death from the fall and the ravages of his disease, had become so withdrawn that he had never gotten to know his son. Despite the continued rift in their personal relations, he had received orders from Robert tasking him with the delicate mission of bonding this perilous union between Scotland and England. The king’s paramount concern, his councilors had advised, was that the boy not be allowed to mar this long-awaited day with a display of childish weakness.

  During their weeklong journey south, he had grown fond of the precocious David, who was small of stature, sensitive, and keenly observant, as he had been at that age. The lad had inherited Robert’s dark hair and chiseled features, but his puckish Irish grin and natural optimism clearly came from his mother. He wondered if the boy would thrive or suffer under the burden of the crown. No doubt a little of both, as had been the experience of his father.

  Halfway up their ascent, David stopped to search the column of Scot nobles that stood in procession behind them. “Why is Papa not with us?”

  Uncertain how to address that question, James finally explained, “Your father is still not feeling well.”

  “Is he going away like Mama?”

  James lowered to a knee. “Let’s hope he’ll be better when we go home.”

  “But why must I be married now?”

  Impressed by the lad’s perceptiveness, he decided it was time to put an end to the cruel policy of isolating him from the truth. “To make certain the English stay at peace with us, your father has arranged for you to wed the sister of their king.”

  “What if I don’t fancy her?”

  He had no good answer for that valid question. This condition of the new Treaty of Edinburgh troubled him, too, but he took some consolation in knowing that both children would be allowed to live in their respective domiciles until they attained the age of majority. Before he could explain the situation further, the tower’s iron-framed doors screeched open. He shuddered with a start, just as he had thirty-one years ago when he had climbed these same steps for the signing of the ignominious Ragman Rolls. Few of the Scots present on that shameful day were alive now to witness this triumphant return.

  A gruff chamberlain marched out, driving David into James’s arms. James looked up at the impatient Englishman and gestured for a moment’s delay. The chamberlain slammed the doors, sneering a silent threat at the boy. James brought David, trembling, out of earshot of their countrymen who were watching with concern from the balustrade. “I once knew a lass in Paris who was not much older than you. To gain peace for her country, her father asked her to cross the Channel and marry the son of the King of England.”

  “Did she go?”

  “Aye, she did. And you will meet her this afternoon. Perhaps she will tell you how she managed to be so brave. She will be watching to see if you have the mettle to be a king.”

  When David, blinking tears, nodded his readiness, James pounded on the door again. This time, it was his legs that nearly buckled. Here he was lecturing the boy on duty while his own nerves were threatening to betray him. He gazed across the river toward the spot where Gibbie had leapt to his death. And over there, beyond the bailey, stood the dungeon that once held his father. Every sorrow in his life seemed to have traveled through this city. He prayed this day would not add to that litany of grief. David tugged at his hand to indicate that the chamberlain was waiting, and he roused from the dark memories. “Aye, lad, let’s go do Scotland proud.”

  They entered the hall hand-in-hand and fo
und the rafters decked with ivy and rhododendrons, just as they had been on the night of the Ragman fete. The tapers cast dancing shadows—or were those the ghosts of comrades past?

  On their approach, the English barons fell silent. Most were too young to have fought at Bannockburn; this was their first glimpse of England’s legendary nemesis. He straightened to hide the slump from the shoulder wound he had suffered at Weardale. His eyesight had weakened in recent years, but he could just make out two gowned figures on a dais at the far end of the hall.

  Isabella stood from her chair with a soft smile of anticipation lightening her still-slender face. She wore no powder to ease the lines of age, and her once-blonde hair was streaked with grey. Yet in this, their moment of mutual recognition, time seemed to turn retrograde; her cheeks filled with color and the old bounce came back to her step as she escorted her seven-year-old daughter to the floor with too much eagerness for propriety. Only the swish of her glittering russet gown broke the hush of astonishment that descended upon the English nobles, who had no choice but to stand aside and watch their queen mother meet their most hated enemy halfway.

  James heard murmurs of protest, followed by the rustling of scabbards. He turned to survey the chamber. Where was Isabella’s son? This treaty, he now saw, was her doing alone. Young Edward had no doubt insisted on staying in London, still pouting over his spanking at Weardale.

  Isabella offered him her hand to receive homage.

  He stifled a smile at her brazenness. You were forced to petition for the peace, Isabella, but you are still the clever negotiator. He bowed and kissed her wrist, refusing to rub her nose in the defeat. Arising, he was met by the same seductive eyes that had accosted him years ago in Paris. His glance fell for a fleeting moment on her breasts, still lifted in a fashion that only the French could perfect. He had never chased from memory those persuasive agents of high diplomacy whose credentials she had first presented when he was still a sixteen-year-old virgin.

  Finding him at a rare loss for words, Isabella turned to the boy at his side and inquired: “Your scribe here. Is he mute, or merely rude?”

  James could not suppress a grin, remembering the question that she had asked of Bishop Lamberton during their first encounter in Paris years ago.

  Robert’s son, not understanding their private jest, tried to explain, “He is the Good Sir James, ma’am.”

  Smirking at that lofty moniker, Isabella pressed the boy’s small hand in welcome. “You must be David.”

  The boy straightened to meet her inspection. “Aye.”

  Isabella shot a conspiratorial look at his chaperone. “Yes, I have heard about this hero of yours. In our kingdom, he is called the Black Douglas. He has demonstrated a nasty habit of launching costly intrusions across our borders. Did you know he twice nearly captured me?” Her pointed glance was clearly meant to remind James of his failure in holding up his end of her plan in the Myton raid. She gave a barely perceptible sigh of regret and, with little conviction, added, “Fortunately, he was too slow.”

  David came to James’s defense. “He tells everyone that was Lord Randolph’s fault.”

  The lad’s unintended jest broke the tension in the hall, and the Scot nobles smiled and eased their rigid stances.

  Isabella brought forward her shy daughter, who curtsied awkwardly, unable to look directly at David. “This is Joan,” the queen mother said. “She is learning the Pas. Do you know it?”

  David cast his gaze down in shame. “No, ma’am.”

  “That’s a pity, for our custom is to dance at a betrothal.” Isabella glanced across the chamber at every Scotsman except James. “Is there none in your court who might demonstrate the steps for you?”

  Melted by David’s pleading puppy eyes, James surrendered to Isabella’s ploy. He signaled for the musicians to start a tune, and amid muffled gasps, led her to the center of the floor, just as he had done here so many years ago.

  “If I stumble,” he whispered to her, “I intend to reveal my teacher.”

  Isabella’s eyes welled up. While waiting for the noble men and ladies of both countries to pair off, she intertwined her fingers with his under the cover of her long sleeve.

  At the first note, James led her through the gauntlet of lifted arms. He had wrested many a trophy from these English-—cities, bounties of gold, caches of weapons—but none was more prized than this marvelous creature. None present missed the irony of the moment: A Scotsman and a Frenchwoman had joined hands to decide the fate of England.

  After a false start, he eventually remembered the steps that she had long ago taught him. He felt her drawing nearer, and if he closed his eyes, he could swear that Belle was now at his side. He sank into the soothing notes. Was this not the composition the minstrels played during his first dance with her in Paris? After all of these years, she still remembered.

  With the swirling Pas providing cover, she whispered to his ear, “It seems, Lord Douglas, that we have returned to the place from which we started.”

  He pulsed her hand with affection. “Quite a dance it’s been.”

  “You were worthy.”

  He gave her a quizzical look.

  “You don’t remember the question I once posed to you on this very floor?”

  “At my age, I tend to forget more than I remember.”

  “That night, you had just treated the Countess of Buchan in a most unchivalrous manner. At the time, I thought you were quite unworthy of her. You have since redeemed yourself.”

  He turned away, nearly undone.

  “You still grieve for her?”

  “The years should have healed me, but … “

  “She loved you dearly.”

  “And how would you know that?”

  “She once told me—”

  The musical arrangement finished abruptly, interrupting her revelation. Isabella clung to his arm, desperate to say more. But the hall had become dangerously silent, with all eyes fixed on them. Damn them to Hell! She had bowed all her life to the demands of these sniveling English. No more would she suffer their insolent gossip. If she wished to speak of private matters, what could they do to her now? She stopped him and searched his eyes.

  “That look I do remember,” he whispered.

  The dancers fled the floor, and Isabella had no choice but to allow him to escort her to the dais. Both knew that this would be the last time they would ever speak. When out of earshot of the others, he slowed their return to her chair and asked under his breath, “Will your son deal with you in good faith?”

  She shook her head, too choked up to answer him directly.

  He took her up the three steps to the platform and held his bow to hide a whisper, “Should you ever find yourself in harm’s way, send word.”

  Isabella drew a shallow breath near his ear that died with a sigh.

  He looked one last time into her eyes, and then turned away. The wedding and the festivities to follow would extend through the week, but he had no wish to celebrate with those he had fought for thirty years. He had fulfilled his duty to Robert. Never had he so longed to return home.

  He descended the dais and passed the parting dancers. On his way out, he stopped aside young David and patted him on the head. “You did well, lad. I’ll be proud to serve you when you are king.”

  As he limped across the hall toward the doors, his thoughts returned to that night his father had been forced to surrender this city. At last, he had avenged that humiliation. But there was little satisfaction in it. These Englishmen on either side of him followed his halting progress with smirks and judging glares. Did they think him too old to box their ears again?

  The ceremonial English guards, grizzled veterans of the old wars, frowned at the disrespect being shown him. They clashed the butts of their pikes to the stones in a grudging recognition of his deeds.

  He acknowledged the gesture with a slight nod. At the portal, he paused, silently vowing never again to step foot in this godforsaken place.

  �
�Douglas!”

  He turned at the shout.

  A knight with a brooding face marred by hooked nose had uttered that demand. The man’s harsh features stung James’s memory. Was his mind playing tricks, or had a ghost just risen from the grave? He stole a glance at Isabella. She shook her head at him in warning.

  “You murdered my father.”

  James blinked hard, at a loss.

  “Robert Clifford.”

  He felt the old blood lust rushing back through his veins. “We have that in common, then. Your father murdered mine.”

  “I demand justice. On the field.”

  Nothing would have given him more pleasure than to cut this branch of that wicked family’s lineage.

  Clifford tried to move a step closer in threat, but he staggered, his breath reeking of ale.

  James looked beyond the man’s shoulders and saw the English lords sniggering with anticipation. They had evidently plied him with drink to incite a confrontation. He debated his next move. If he allowed himself to be drawn into this duel, the English enemies of Isabella would have their pretext to declare her treaty breached.

  Clifford swung at his jaw but he missed wildly. James pushed him aside and, staring down the English barons, walked toward the doors.

  “We still have your bloody Stone!” Clifford shouted from his knees.

  James marched back across the floor and grasped the drunken Englishman by the collar. Pulling him to his feet, he replied to the taunt in a voice loud enough for all in the hall to hear: “You may keep the block that sits in under your king’s diapered ass in Westminster. It is the only speck of Scotland you English have managed to hold still under my watch.”

  The English lords lost their haughty smirks.

  On the dais, Isabella sat stunned, only then divining from James’s indifference that the stone stolen by Longshanks was not genuine.

  James released the inebriated man and strode through the arched entry, slamming the heavy doors behind him.