by Glen Craney
James took up the sword and followed him through the gate.
Outside the walls, Robert retrieved his mount and ordered Clifford, “Bring up two horses.”
“Horses?” Clifford protested. “What in Hell’s name do you intend?”
Levering to his saddle, Robert announced to the soldiers and townsfolk, “This tower presents no danger to England. It is apparent to me that the king has been misinformed.”
Clifford captured Robert’s reins to restrain him. “This is treason!”
Robert drew his blade. “Slander me again, Clifford, and one of those stones will mark your grave.”
Clifford tried to stare him down, to no avail. Finally, he chose not to press the confrontation and angrily signaled for his sergeant to deliver the horses.
Robert fixed a pleading glare on James while he finished declaring his judicial decision on the matter. “I will take the inhabitants of this castle into my custody until the king sends more instructions.” He knew he was testing the limits of James’s trust; if cast into the same predicament, he would never surrender Lochmaben. And even if James submitted, the odds were long that he could keep him out of an English prison. But one thing was certain: If James resisted, all hope of a Bruce ascending to the throne would be forever dashed.
James retreated into the tower and slammed the gate. Amused by James’s refusal to heed Bruce’s request, Clifford signaled for his mosstroopers to surround the walls and commence pulling down the topmost stones.
Robert dropped his head in defeat. As the grappling hooks flew over the ramparts, he turned away, unwilling to witness the tower’s destruction.
The gates swung open again.
James walked out with his stepmother on his arm. He lifted Eleanor onto one of the horses and whispered orders to his two mastiffs to remain at the tower until he returned. He mounted, refusing to look at Robert, and waited to be led away, just as his father had been arrested and taken into exile by Englishmen under the shadows of this same tower.
XIII
A THUDDING OF HOOVES ENTERING entering the bailey of Dalswinton Castle woke Belle in the middle of the night. She hurried from her bed in the upper reach of the tower and peeked down through the crack between the window coverings at a gathering of shadows near the stable.
Was that Robert Clifford with an unmarked escort?
Why had the Marcher officer traveled here under the cover of darkness on the eve of Whitsun Sunday? This cold keep in the southwestern reaches of Scotland, one of several defensive posts held by her husband and Red Comyn for Longshanks, possessed no military significance for the English occupation forces, at least none that she knew about. She hurried to the offal chute in the privy closet adjacent to her bedchamber, which sat directly above the great hall. Placing her ear to the floor, she heard Red Comyn and her husband greet Clifford warmly and lead him into the hall below, as if having expected his arrival.
Red’s voice shrilled in disappointment. “The tower still stands? What about Douglas?”
“Taken prisoner.”
“Fill the man’s flagon!” Tabhann cried, apparently to Cam. “At least we’ll drink to that whoreson rotting away in Berwick’s dungeon.”
“He’s not in Berwick,” Clifford said. “Bruce placed him under the watch of your bishop in St. Andrews.”
“That is clear artifice!” Red protested. “Bruce must be arrested for treason!”
“Gloucester convinced the king to give Bruce a hearing first.”
Tabhann sounded agitated. “Gloucester plays both sides!”
Clifford lowered his voice, forcing her to strain to hear his next words. “All the more reason our plan must not fail.”
“We are to meet Bruce at Stirling in a week hence,” Red said. “But what if Gloucester—”
“Gloucester knows nothing of this,” Clifford assured them. “It must be in writing. Send it to London by a courier you trust.”
“Even if Bruce agrees,” Tabhann warned, “you’ll not draw him south of the Borders. He’ll be wary after eluding our first trap.”
“His ambition will bring him,” Clifford promised. “As would yours.”
After a long silence, Red and Tabhann laughed crudely and clanged flagons.
AN HOUR BEFORE DAWN, BELLE heard Tabhann, drunken and singing incoherently, stagger up the stairwell. When the door flew open, she sat up in the bed, hopeful he might inadvertently divulge more details about the mysterious discussion she had overheard earlier that night.
Tabhann floundered in the dark toward the closets. He flung armfuls of clothes across the floor in search of his riding cloak.
“You are leaving?” she asked him from the shadows.
Startled, Tabhann rammed his forehead into the closet door. “Damn you, woman! Since when did you become so interested in my goings?”
She climbed from the bed and rubbed the bump above his brow. “If it is to be long, I would have you miss me.”
Tabhann studied her with a wobbly glare, unaccustomed to such advances. He dragged her to the window to scrutinize her smiling face in the light of the moon. When she untied her chemise, he attacked her nipple, drawing a wince from the burn of his beard. Stoked, he clumsily began loosening his leggings. “I’ll be king soon enough. Maybe I should seed my heir.”
She tried to marshal her thoughts while he tore off her gown. Both Red and Cam preceded him in the succession. What had Clifford revealed to make Tabhann believe he would inherit the throne? Crushed under his weight, she grunted, “You mean … after your cousin.”
He pried her legs apart. “What say you?”
“Cam … he is in line.”
Tabhann was inside her, thrusting hard. “I’ll take care of Cam in good time.”
“But the Bruce—” She heard the swish of his hand, too late. Her face burned from the blow. Before she could regain her breath, he began riding her so violently that she feared she might vomit. Blessedly, his heaves slowed and his glazed eyes fluttered closed. His chin fell to the pillow, narrowly missing her chin. With difficulty, she rolled him over and cupped his groin to revive him. “When will I be queen?”
Rousing, he mumbled, “Bruce signs. Scotland is ours.”
She stroked him harder, trying to pry more details. "He relinquishes his claim?”
“And his head from his shoulders, soon enough! Aye, woman, don’t stop!”
She tensed with alarm. Robert was in danger—that much she suspected, for Clifford had intimated something earlier that night about baiting the Lord of Annandale to London.
A neighing came from the stables. The horses were being saddled. Was Clifford leaving before dawn? If Jamie was under guard in St. Andrews, she had to find a way warn Robert directly. She escaped the bed and covered herself with the sheet. “I nearly forgot.”
Tabhann tumbled to the floor. Thrashing to find her in the darkness, he growled, “Damn you! Come back here!”
At the window, she saw Clifford bridling his horse near the gate. She turned to Tabhann, who still was on his hands and knees, bobbing with the prospects of retching. “The English princess gave me a set of brass candle holders when we were in Berwick last. I must reciprocate the gift. It would not do for the future king of Scotland to be gossiped an ingrate.”
“What in God’s name are you bleating about?”
She searched the closet blindly for anything to write a message on, but then decided that would be too risky. Clifford might inspect it. Defeated, she reached to the top shelf for another chemise to wear back to bed and pricked her finger. Her hand was bleeding from a cut. In a fit of anger, she reached for the offending object and pulled out a pair of rusted spurs that Tabhann had left under her linens. She turned to heave the damnable things out the window—
She stopped, and stared at the spurs.
Tabhann crawled toward her in the darkness. “Where the Hell are you?”
She hid the spurs behind her back. “I will ask the Englishman to deliver our gift. Does he leave this hour?”
“Clifford? Aye, but how do you know of …”
“I won’t be long. Will you stay awake for me?” Her question went unanswered. He was now snoring, spread-eagled on the floor.
Releasing a breath in relief, she wrapped the spurs in a lambskin cloth, drew two coins from her purse, and inserted them into the package.
ROBERT TRIED TO HIDE HIS disappointment as Longshanks arose from a table in Westminster Palace and welcomed him with a bear hug. The reports of the king’s impending death were clearly unfounded. Inexplicably, the old man’s grip felt stronger than when they had last been together.
“Rob, lad! I trust the journey was uneventful?”
Nervous, Robert looked around the chamber. A week had passed since Whitsun Sunday, but the beams were still strung with the trappings of the recent feast. His cousin Gloucester and Isabella of France nodded to him from the far end of the dining table. Their presence, and Longshanks’s jovial mood, eased his worries. After much agonized debate, and despite Elizabeth’s fear that something was amiss, he had decided to answer the royal summons. His wife often rattled on about her Irish intuitions, but she little understood the demands of his situation. As the newly appointed sheriff of Lanark, he could not refuse to explain his decision to leave Castle Douglas standing. The best method for taming a lion, he had assured her, was to place one’s head firmly within its jaws.
He also needed to buy time. Earlier that week, fortune had smiled on him from an unexpected source: Red Comyn had come to him with an offer to heal the divisions that prevented Scotland from throwing off the English yoke. If he agreed to transfer title to all lands disputed between them, Red promised to give up his claim to the throne. The bargain was costly and fraught with risk, but he was determined to avenge his grandfather’s failure to gain the crown. He had accepted the arrangement with the caveat that Red would not publicly announce it until his return to Scotland. If he could allay Longshanks’s suspicions a few more months, he would be able to muster his forces, consolidate the support of the Comyn vassals, and prepare the country’s defenses.
Longshanks led him to a table spread with slices of roast lamb and candied yams. “Come, Rob, it’s been too long. How is my Liz?”
“I fear she misses the gaiety of your court.”
“You must bring her to us more often.”
“My liege, the Douglas tower …”
Longshanks waved off that subject and commanded more wine. “No business this night, Rob. Slake your thirst. I’ve just received a new shipment of claret from Brittany. I think you’ll find it to your liking. Don’t you agree, Gloucester?”
Gloucester appeared lost in sullen thought. “I’ve not sampled it.”
Longshanks harrumphed in disgust. “Ah yes, the Earl of Sobriety. I could find a more entertaining dinner companion in a monastery of deaf-mutes.”
Despite the king’s apparent lack of interest in the Douglasdale affair, Robert was determined to resolve the issue without further delay. “I’d not have you think that I disregarded your wishes.”
Longshanks dug his teeth into a leg of lamb and spat out a chaw of gristle. “You took the Douglas rebel prisoner, I am told.”
Robert was relieved to find the monarch amenable to his decision. “I placed him under the bond of the Bishop of St. Andrews until I received further instructions from you. I have a grievance to lodge against Robert Clifford. The man abused me with slanders and threats.”
Longshanks did not miss a bite. “Clifford is long on action, short on brains. Good thinking on the tower. We may need it as a staging base. I was too vague in my orders. If only I had more men like you who could take the initiative. Well, eat up, Rob. You don’t think we’d poison you, do you?” Nearly choking from laughter at his own jibe, he turned to Gloucester for confirmation of its wit, but the earl did not share in the merriment.
Isabella came to Robert’s assistance. “Majesty, Lord Bruce has endured a long journey. Perhaps he wishes to retire for the night.”
Robert nodded to her in gratitude for the excuse to depart before the king’s temper could turn sour.
Longshanks waved him off to the door. “By Christ, Rob, you’re becoming an old man! What was it? Seven days ride from Lochmaben? Hah! I’ve made that route in half the time. Off to bed with you, then! I’d not send a sapped husband back to Liz!”
Robert bowed and quickly took his leave.
“Sleep well,” the king said. “We have much to discuss in the morn.”
AFTER ROBERT RETIRED, CLIFFORD ENTERED the dining hall from a side door and whispered to Longshanks, who nodded grimly and impaled his carving knife into the table.
Dismissed, Clifford turned to depart. Then, remembering another task, he opened his courier bag and presented a small bundle to Isabella. “I was asked to deliver this to you. Something about candle holders.”
Perplexed, Isabella began to open the parcel. “From whom?”
“The Countess of Buchan.”
Too abruptly for discretion, Isabella stopped untying the package. When Clifford tarried to observe its contents, she feigned disgust and flung the bundle aside. “Do these Highland peasants really think I’d have their crude ornaments cluttering my compartments?”
Clifford mulled her indignation, then shrugged and took his leave.
Isabella bowed to the departing king who, enervated from the artful performance of good health that he had staged for Robert’s benefit, required the assistance of two servants to carry him to his bedchamber. When Longshanks was near the door, she lowered the package to her lap and unwrapped the lambskin below linen covering on the table. Two coins and a pair of spurs fell out and clanged to the floor. She kicked them under the folds of her kirtle.
The king turned back toward the noise, and the princess displayed a fork as evidence of her clumsiness. He shook his head in disgust and ordered the servants to continue escorting him from the room, muttering something under his breath about how the French cow was more trouble than she was worth.
Isabella watched as Gloucester, burdened by troubled thought, lingered a few steps behind the king. She could not fathom why the Scotswoman had sent these items to her. And why had Clifford been at the castle of the Comyns? She noticed a smudge near a folded corner of the lambskin. The word “Bruce” had been scrawled in a harried script.
Spurs … Coins … the king of England … Bruce.
There was only one person she dared consult. “Lord Gloucester, a word?”
The earl, annoyed by the delay to his night of rest, threaded back through the scullions who were cleaning the tables. “Yes, my lady.”
Isabella waited until the servants returned to the kitchen. Then, she lifted the hem of her kirtle to reveal the spurs and coins. “These were sent to me by the Countess of Buchan. I know not why.”
Gloucester’s eyes widened. “Where is my cousin lodged?”
“On the third floor of the north tower.”
He slipped the contents of the package under his cloak. “Say nothing of this to anyone.”
HOURS LATER, A KNOCK AT THE door woke Robert. Groggy and in his nightshirt, he rose from the bed and found the royal keeper of the wardrobe holding a silver platter crowned by a large warming bowl. “From Lord Gloucester, sir. He was concerned that you did not partake of dinner.”
Robert rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “What hour is it?”
“Half past matins.”
Robert moved to slam the door. “Advise the earl that I do not appreciate his nocturnal pranks.”
“He said I should tell you it was cooked by the French princess.”
“Cooked by the princess my ass! Give me the damn thing, then. By the Rood, he will pay for this horseplay!” Robert lifted the cover from the platter. “What in God’s name …” He stared at the dish under the warming bowl.
While the court official waited to be dismissed, Robert stood with his back to the door, examining the spurs and the coins imprinted with Longshanks’s profile. He kept the platter
hidden from the Keeper’s view as he tried to make sense of this delivery. Spurs were a common Highland symbol for flight, often sent when written messages were too dangerous. But how could the French princess have known their meaning? And what was he to make of the pennies? Were they meant as Judas gold, the Biblical symbols of betrayal? He was so tired from the journey and strained by the events in Douglasdale that he feared his mind was playing tricks with his judgment.
Did Longshanks intend to murder him this night?
Pale with alarm, he told Gloucester’s messenger, “Send my thanks to the earl and the princess.” The tremor in his voice threatened to betray his fear, but he asked anyway, “Are the guards still posted on the steps below?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Robert gave the man more coins. “Bring them a small cask of your best wine. And one for yourself.”
The functionary bowed and departed, and Robert locked the door. Praying the wine would keep the guards distracted, he pulled a torch from its moorings, extinguished its flame, and thrust its handle through the slots. He threw off his nightshirt and dressed quickly, pulling on his boots as he searched the room.
One window.
Finding no other means of escape, he crawled onto a ledge that hovered several stories above the moat. With difficulty, he reached a crenellation and pulled himself over the wall. After the constables passed by on their rounds, he scampered to the roof and rushed down the stairs to the stables.
DURING HIS FOUR DAYS OF hard riding north, Robert had avoided displaying his herald for fear of alerting the local sheriffs who would have been alerted of his escape from London. Now, as he approached the hills of Northumbria and the old Roman wall that ran from the east coast to Carlisle, he wondered again if he had misconstrued the spurs and coins that Gloucester had delivered to him. Could Longshanks truly have conspired an attempt on his life? If so, why had the king not confronted him that night, when he’d had the chance? Perhaps Gloucester had simply overreacted to some harmless jest.