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

by Glen Craney

  James reined up reluctantly, suspecting Randolph of instigating the recall so that he could gain all the glory. “Another night and I will have him.”

  “His orders were for you to come at once.”

  James cursed his failure to capture Caernervon. “How many men did we lose in the battle?”

  “Less than three hundred. Fillan’s miracle, for certain.”

  “And the English?”

  “Four thousand, maybe more,” Randolph said. “Half of those sank in the pols or drowned in the burn. Caernervon abandoned his baggage train with two hundred thousand pounds of gold and silver.”

  James could hardly believe his ears. “That’s more than our entire treasury.”

  “Aye, and weapons enough to arm us ten times over.” Randolph led him several lengths from the others to finish his report. “The king has fall into one of his black moods. He refuses to break his vigil over Gloucester’s body.”

  “Your uncle has never been able to abide good fortune. He’ll not be content until he reaches the fires of Hell to confirm the low opinion he holds of his own soul. Did he say why he required me so urgently?”

  Randolph’s eyes flashed a mischievous twinkle. “A prisoner exchange has been arranged. The English have agreed to hand over our queen for Hereford and Thweng.”

  “You came all this way to tell me that? Why in heaven’s name must I—”

  Randolph’s smirk spread into a wide grin, leaving James speechless. “I also recall him mentioning something about another lady being part of the agreement. What was her name? Oh yes, I think he called her the Lass of Scone.”

  James repeated those last words silently. Then, he lashed his horse off into a gallop, cursing, “Damn you, Randolph! Why didn’t you say so right off?”

  As his old rival rushed north in a heat, Randolph winked at Jeanne. “Jamie Douglas would never make a Templar, eh? No vows of chastity for him.”

  His cruel withholding of the news did not amuse Jeanne. She sidled her horse next to him and offered her opinion on the matter. “One thing is certain. No lady would ever wait seven years for you.”

  For once, the wisecracking Randolph was cast mute as a stone. Before he could protest that indictment as undeserved, the French Cistercienne spurred off to catch up with James.

  JAMES AND JEANNE CROSSED THE battlefield below Stirling and made haste for Cambuskenneth Abbey, an Augustinian monastery ensconced in a loop of the River Forth. On the lowlands between the Pelstream and the Bannock burn, the sun had combined with the macabre effects of rigor mortis to disgorge hundreds of submerged corpses and horse carcasses. Many of the dead soldiers had been pushed upright from shallow graves, some to their waists, others to their necks, all serving as carrion for the crows.

  James rushed ahead along the Forth’s banks and found the abbey grounds piled with English shields and abandoned armour.

  Robert, haggard and bleary-eyed, walked out from Cambuskenneth’s doors. His physical deterioration was alarming; his skin had broken out in the red splotches, and he clawed nervously at an open sore on his forearm.

  Despite these misgivings, James leapt from the saddle before his horse had even halted and captured Robert by the forearms. “Is it true?”

  Robert led him out of earshot of the men-at-arms mingling along the riverbank. Agitated, he brushed his wild black hair in an attempt to affect nonchalance, but he could not hide the fact that he was as flustered as a schoolboy. “We must prepare ourselves. They have no doubt altered greatly in appearance.”

  “Where are they?”

  Gesturing with a turn of his head toward the Abbot’s quarters, Robert held James back from running to its entrance. “We must give the English no cause to think us too eager to negotiate.”

  James closed his eyes, trying to calm his nerves. His heart was beating so fiercely that he found it difficult to breathe. At the well, he drew water to wash the grime from his face and saw his reflection in the bucket. He had been in his mid-twenties when Belle had last seen him. Deep lines now creased his face, and he slumped slightly from the aches in his back and knees. He conjured up for the thousandth time the image of her dark, penetrating eyes and soft lips. The memory of her radiance that day in Glen Dochart was the only thing that had kept him from despair.

  I wish the book returned, James Douglas.

  Reminded of Belle’s last words to him, he felt for the small volume under his shirt. He sighed with relief. The Chanson of Fierabras had survived the battle.

  He pulled the book out and dried its pages in the breeze. This day, he would fulfill that promise. Through all the years, he and Robert had read the tale over and again in the saddle and during long nights. He had heard every word of it in Belle’s voice, and had saved the last chapter to read with her. All of that was now past. The Comyns were dead and the English repulsed. He had already picked out their wedding oak, near the chapel on Stirling Crag. They would finish their vows before this day was done. Nothing would keep them apart again.

  Edward Bruce, escorted by Keith’s cavalry and the Templars, came trodding on horse across the bridge. Envious of the accolades that James was receiving for the successful battle strategy, Edward refused his rival even a nod of acknowledgment as he prodded up ten English prisoners tied to a cart that carried three large wine casks. Then, remembering his place, Edward stopped and waited for his brother to take the lead.

  Robert paused at the top step of the abbey to fix his grandfather’s gold brooch on his cloak. In a gesture of celebration, he firmed his hold on James’s forearm to share the moment they had both so fervently awaited. Then, with a deep breath, he nodded for Edward to open the doors.

  Their boots echoed off the flagstones as they strode down the nave’s central aisle. Robert stopped several paces from the altar, indignant at not finding the English emissaries waiting for him. He had won the battle, not Caernervon. He would not cool his heels for a defeated opponent. He turned to leave.

  The Abbot of Lagny, surrounded by a guard of English knights, walked forth from the sacristy. The inquisitor appeared so disgusted with his assigned diplomatic task that he refused the Scots a direct look.

  Robert ordered forward the Earl of Hereford and Sir Marmaluke Thweng, the two ranking prisoners. He also called up a plump Carmelite friar named Baston, the English scribe who had been found wandering aimlessly along the burn after the battle.

  Lagny glared disgust at the cowering chronicler. “This man is not part of the arrangement.”

  “He is now,” Robert said dryly. “The friar intends to give a different account of the battle than the one commissioned by your king.”

  For the first time, the Dominican saw the Templars in the Scot entourage. The inquisitor made a threatening move toward the monks who had ruined his plans for dominance over the rebellious Church of Scotland. “Traitorous heretics! I watched your sodomite De Molay burn on the pyre!”

  Jeanne came face to face with the man who had helped conspire the arrests and executions of her spiritual brethren in France. “Oui, and as he suffered in the flames, our grand master called the pope and the French king to God’s tribunal within the year to stand for their crimes. Clement has already answered his summons in Hell. Phillip will follow soon enough. As will you.”

  When the Dominican raised his hand in threat, James drew his blade and brought it to the monk’s throat. “Your reign of terror holds no office here.”

  “I have authority to call off this exchange,” the Dominican warned.

  James nodded for Keith’s men to bring up the English privy seal and royal shield, priceless accoutrements that Caernervon had abandoned in his haste to leave the field. “The shield appears unused,” he said pointedly. “I wonder how your king will react when told that they hang it on display in Dunfermline because of your impertinence.”

  The Dominican suddenly lost his bluster.

  Robert signaled up the large wine casks that held the bodies of Gloucester, d’Argentin, and Clifford, all pickled in b
rine. “My cousin and the Frenchman are to be buried with honors. You can throw Clifford’s bones into the Thames for all I care.”

  “Lord Gloucester’s family has asked his armour be returned,” Lagny said.

  “He wore none. He preferred an honorable death to serving a dishonorable monarch.” James allowed Hereford and Thweng to pass into the hands of the English. “We have complied with our terms. Now, you will fulfill yours.”

  Shaken by the report of Gloucester’s martyrdom, the Dominican reluctantly signaled for his guards to enter the sacristy. They brought out Elizabeth Bruce, Mary Campbell, Christian Seton, and Robert’s daughter, Marjorie.

  Gaunt and pale, Elizabeth rushed to Robert’s arms. But Marjorie, eyes crazed with fear, held back.

  Robert reached for his daughter, now eighteen, and tried to coax her to him, “Come, child. It is over.”

  Marjorie screamed and slapped away his hands.

  Elizabeth brought the shaking girl to her side and shielded her eyes from the stares of strangers. She whispered to Robert, “She’s not in her right mind.”

  From the shadows of the choir stall, an old man shuffled into the dim light. He limped toward James with bated steps, as if his ankles were shackled. “By God’s grace,” he muttered as he reached for James. “By God’s grace.”

  Lagny turned with a huff to leave, revolted at being forced to give up the one man he deemed most responsible for this unthinkable calamity.

  Fighting tears, James rushed to embrace Bishop Lamberton. He looked over the old cleric’s shoulder and counted the faces of the women who had been delivered. Grinning, he pulled away and searched the recesses behind the choir and altar. He knew Belle’s tricks. She was hiding to surprise him. After all this time, she still played with him as if they were youngsters. He would find her out and lift her to the rafters. He shoved open the sacristy door and waited for her to spring upon him.

  The anteroom was empty.

  Suddenly cold with dread, James rushed back into the nave and captured the inquisitor’s arm in a demand. “The Countess of Buchan?”

  Savoring a smile, the Dominican brushed off his imploring grasp.

  Lamberton braced James at the shoulders, and shook his head.

  “But Randolph told me … Is she not well enough to endure the journey?” James turned to Robert. “I’ll leave at once for Berwick to bring her back.”

  The frail bishop firmed his grip. “Jamie … she is dead.”

  A raven’s shriek shuddered the nave.

  James staggered and nearly fell, until Lamberton caught him.

  When the Dominican lingered to enjoy James’s grief-stricken prostration, Robert charged at him in a fury. “Out! Out of my sight!”

  The inquisitor quickly herded his ransomed lords from the abbey before the exchange could be renegotiated.

  Robert turned back to find James on his knees. He tried to bring his friend to standing, but James repulsed the effort. Robert stood over him in anguished silence, at a loss what to say. When James refused even to look up at him, Robert could only nod for the others to depart with him. As the Scots walked from the abbey in silence, they pressed a hand to James’s shoulder to acknowledge his loss.

  Jeanne lingered behind in the shadows of the narthex, determined to make certain that he did no harm to himself.

  PART THREE

  The Heart Returns

  1315—1330 A.D.

  If a stone falls down the glen,

  it’s in the cairn it will rest.

  — an ancient Scottish proverb

  XXXIII

  AS JEANNE DE ROUEN LED THE king’s daughter, Marjorie, on horse into the Lintalee defile, she reached for her dagger, a reflex from that day six years ago when she and the Templars had been ambushed by James and his raiders in this shadowy archway of hanging firs. The path was still littered with carts and helmets abandoned by the English army on its retreat from Stirling. Overhead, magpies chirred frantically above the broom thickets. Were they warning her away?

  Just then, the new Douglas manor came into her view, rising beyond the leafy tunnel and shimmering under the golden summer sun on a half-moon curve of high ground. Two rows of concentric walls surrounded the round tower of whitewashed logs; its steep roof rose to a point like a wimpled cornet, giving the place more the appearance of a small Loire chateau than a Highland keep. This new fortified headquarters was perfectly situated to serve as a bolthole for raids into Northumbria. Below the manor, Sweenie and the men lazed along the stream trading stories and arm-wrestling while James, stripped to the waist and alone in the vale, attacked a tall pine with a notch ax.

  Apprehensive, she slowed their approach. Two years had passed since she had last seen him. The Almighty, it seemed, never gave without taking, for although the English had been bloodied at Bannockburn and the queen restored to Robert, the victory had come at a heavy price. News of the battle’s outcome had not yet reached Berwick when the Countess of Buchan was found dead. To calm the Yorkshire populace until he could sail to London, Caernervon had sent couriers ahead to spread word across northern England that both Robert and James had been killed. Many Scots believed that Belle had given up her spirit in despair after hearing the scurrilous report.

  Despite his crushing defeat, Caernervon continued to press his illegal claim on the Scottish throne. As a result, James had been required to renew his war of attrition here in the Borders, and there were rumors that he had fallen into such a debilitating despond that he now broke his seclusion only to vent his rage by pillaging the English marches.

  The men finally spotted the two women and rushed up from the clearing to pepper them with questions about news from the North. Sweenie applauded their arrival. “Now we can hold the housewarming.”

  From afar, Jeanne kept watching James, who remained in the vale, refusing to acknowledge her. She made a move to ride over to him, but Sweenie captured her bridle to insist that she not grovel. She thought he looked gaunt. Had he not been eating? Why would he not come to her? When the tree he was attacking finally fell, he seemed to take satisfaction that another of God’s creations shared his pain. He threw the ax over his shoulder and walked toward the lodge without offering her even a nod in welcome.

  While the men helped Marjorie from her pony, Jeanne dismounted and took off her gloves. Brushing back her hair, she whispered to Sweenie, “Do I need to go in there armed?”

  The little monk, seeing her determined to speed the confrontation, reluctantly escorted her to the gate of the manor. He offered some counsel before allowing her to enter alone. “Pay him no mind. He’s not been his old self.”

  Inside the hall, she found James slumped on a stool, aimlessly stirring the logs in the hearth. When he refused to turn and greet her, she risked a step closer. “The king has appointed you Warden of the Marches.”

  He erupted to his feet and kicked the stool against the wall. “I suppose he thought that one up in the queen’s embrace!”

  She was disappointed to find that his brooding anger had not dissipated with the passage of months. Randolph had been sent south several times to negotiate a reconciliation with Robert, but the king’s nephew had only inflamed James’s bitterness with reports of how Elizabeth had turned Dunfermline into a jovial home. She suspected that Robert had dispatched her here, too, for a purpose other than delivering orders and escorting his daughter on a diversion in the countryside. But now she saw from this cold welcome that she was the last person suited for such a diplomatic task. During those black days after the battle, she had remained at James’s side, secretly falling in love with him. Yet the more she attempted to break through his pain, the deeper he seemed to resent her for not being Belle. He had fled Stirling without even offering a goodbye to her. She had hoped to find his heart healed, but she saw that her arrival had merely reopened the wound. With regret, she retreated to the door. “I’ll not impose upon you further.”

  “Why did you bring Marjorie here?”

  She turned back, grateful
, at least, for those few words. “The physicians have given up on her. The king hoped you might raise her spirits.”

  James angled toward the window and watched the men entertain Marjorie with a game of cards outside. He had always held a warm place in his heart for the star-crossed lass. Although she was now twenty years old, her maturation had been stunted by the years spent in English confinement. A child still in both temperament and intelligence, she had become withdrawn, frightened by the most harmless of noises, and was a constant irritant to Robert, who cared about her well being only because she was now seven months with child. All Scotland watched the progress of her pregnancy with great concern, for Elizabeth had not produced a male heir and Robert now suffered more frequently from his mysterious illness. The commoners constantly pestered the poor lass to touch her womb, and the nobles whispered fears about the mental condition of the infant she would bring to term. It was an unbearable burden for the painfully shy girl, who found it difficult enough to make it through each day without breaking down.

  Earlier that year, fearing another struggle for the crown should Marjorie’s infant not come to term, Bishop Lamberton had reconvened the Parliament to establish a line of succession. Edward Bruce had been chosen first for the throne, but he was so reckless that few expected him to outlive his older brother. At long last giving up hope of siring a male, Robert had betrothed Marjorie to the son of one of his oldest allies, Walter Stewart, the High Steward of Scotland. Young Stewart had performed his marital duties with admirable swiftness. Everyone—except the Comyn expatriates—prayed for a boy.

  Jeanne scanned the mud-spackled walls and considered how she might make the place more hospitable. A good soap rubbing would chase the harsh aroma of cut wood, and she would replace the floor straw with sprinkled lavender and sweet fennel. The rafters begged for tapestries, the creaking floorboards for the warmth of rugs. She had seen an elmwood armoire in Stirling that would fit perfectly in the alcove. “Did Castle Douglas look like this?”