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

by Glen Craney

  He shook his head. “That is a memory I wish forever banished.”

  She spied two swords propped in the corner. Perhaps there was another way to rouse him from his self-pity. “Did I not once promise you a rematch?”

  He waved her off, in no mood for such nonsense—until she retrieved one of the swords and prodded him in the ribs. He tried to steal the weapon from her, but she demonstrated the same quickness he remembered when they fought under the shadows of Notre Dame. He took the other blade and squared off with her. “What do I get if I win?”

  “From the smell of things around here, you could use some laundering.”

  He kicked aside the soiled clothing—and lunged at her with a quick wrist snap, severing a couple buttons on her blouse.

  She looked down at her partially exposed chest. “That is base chivalry!”

  “What would a French hussy know of chivalry?”

  When she dropped her chin with hurt, he lowered his sword and came closer to beg her forgiveness. She spun and drove the weapon from his grasp. Disarmed, he backed away and felt for the blade on the floor with his boot. If he bent to reclaim it, she would have the advantage.

  “What are you waiting for?” she taunted. “At your advanced age, if you tarry much longer, you’ll not be able to reach the floor.”

  “And you? Your reward in the unlikely event you prevail?”

  “I’ve not been on a picnic since Paris. Cheese, wine, and pastries.”

  He toed his blade closer. “Where would I get pastries around here?”

  She poked him in the gut. “Are there not bakeries in York? Or is that city beyond your reach?” When he made a move for his weapon, she kicked it across the floor and backed him into a corner. He raised his hands in concession. With a smirk of conquest, she lowered her blade. “And don’t think you can slip that cheap Lanark cider—” The sword was knocked from her grasp.

  He captured her wrists and pinned her against the wall. The more she struggled, the tighter he restrained her. Pressed under his weight, she was about to bite his arm when she found his gaze transfixed on her heaving chest revealed by the ripped blouse. She tried to cover her breasts, but he kept her arms splayed to enjoy the delightful view.

  He whispered hotly to her ear, “A surrender must be accompanied by word of mouth.” His rising breath traveled down her neck. “A lass too clever by half once taught me that.”

  “I surrender.”

  She moaned as he kissed her hard, giving vent to all the rage that had festered inside him. He tore the shredded blouse from her shoulders. She closed her eyes and became lost in the rising passion, but then cold tears streaked down her breasts, startling her. She looked down and saw that he had dropped sobbing to his knees, the grief pouring out in waves. She removed what remained of her blouse and, raising him, pressed another kiss to his lips to draw out his pain. She whispered heavily, “I don’t want you to stop loving her.”

  “I cannot give what you deserve,” he said, still heaving.

  Taking his hand, she led him into the bedchamber. “I will never ask for your heart.” She closed the door behind them, praying for the strength to honor that vow.

  ROBERT NEVILLE, KNOWN IN EVERY tavern and whorehouse from Dover to York as the Peacock of the North, disembarked from an English galley at Berwick port. Accompanied by his two younger brothers, the knight strutted up the tower steps with his flaxen curls bouncing to the lead of his famous blue helmet plume. On the ramparts, he looked down and laughed at the Scots who were scurrying to mount an assault from their siege trenches below the fastness. The pomp of his arrival had apparently deluded the attackers into believing that Caernervon himself had arrived to take command of the only city north of the border that still remained in English hands.

  The Nevilles entered the main hall of the tower and found a wretched tableau of crumbled walls, hacked furniture, and torn tapestries. John of Richmond, the commander of the beleaguered English garrison, sat slumped at a table with his officers, who refused to stand and offer the traditional greeting demanded in a nobleman’s presence. The Peacock inquired of them in a tone of mock confusion, “Might you direct me to the quarters of the gentleman in charge of this enterprise? I seem to have taken a wrong turn into the coal bin.”

  Richmond sneered at this latest addition to the long list of fools who had been banished to his corner of Hell. During the two years of the siege, the king had used Berwick as a refuse pit for exiling malcontents, paroled criminals, and barons in disrepute. The officer kicked a rickety chair toward the eldest Neville and growled, “Dine on dog meat for eight months and we’ll see how rosy your cheeks turn. When will I be reinforced?”

  Robert Neville gingerly navigated across the debris, careful to avoid scratching his spit-polished boots. “Not soon. Edward has levied more taxes to pay for the losses at Stirling. The earls are marshalling their forces in the South. There is civil war afoot.”

  “You must have offended someone of high stature to merit this assignment,” Richmond said. “We usually get the Tower rejects.”

  The Peacock rocked the dusty wine kegs in a search for anything suitable to imbibe, choosing not to reveal the true offense that had given rise to this present punishment: He had killed one of the king’s sycophants, Sir Richard Marmeduke, in a squabble over who was the more ranking lord at the royal dinner table. Instead, he lied: “Caernervon’s newest bed doll, Hugh Despenser, could not abide my good looks so near the royal pillow.”

  Affronted, the officers reached for weapons, but Richmond held them at bay and warned Neville, “Mind your tongue here.”

  “I don’t intend to be here long enough to mind it.”

  “You have some ingenious plan to get us out, do you?”

  The Peacock lingered at the arrow slit, inspecting the defensive cordon that the Scots had thrown up around the city. The besieged tower could only be provisioned by sea, a dangerous enterprise that required running the gauntlet of archers on the beaches at night. “I never thought I’d see Englishmen cornered by Highland rats.” He searched the Scot pennons beyond the Tweed. “Where does Robert Bruce make his headquarters?”

  Richmond snorted at Neville’s ignorance of this war. “Bruce is not here.”

  Neville turned in astonishment. “Who commands the savages?”

  “The Black Douglas.”

  Neville loosed a sibilant puff of hilarity. “The Black Douglas? Why not the Lavender Douglas? Who is this brigand with such a ridiculous name?”

  Richmond had endured that same question from dozens of hotspurs who had dashed north to try their hand against the infamous rebel leader. “The man has never been defeated.”

  Neville peered beyond the walls. “Point this black phantom out to me.”

  Richmond hesitated before admitting, “He’s not in their camp.”

  “Does he command from a galley?”

  “His new manor is thirty leagues west of here.”

  Neville held a contemptuous glare of disbelief. “Manor? Have you built a cathedral to him as well? Mayhaps I should make a pilgrimage and light a votive candle in his honor. It seems the brigand has performed the miracle of besieging the king’s forces without even being present. St. George himself could not have accomplished such a feat.”

  “You have never met him on the field.”

  The Peacock flipped an upturned hand toward his brothers, beckoning a bottle of wine from their own transported stock. After enjoying a long draught, he licked his lips and declared, “I am going to do you a favor, Richmond. Not that you merit it, but you and this rabble of yours are in dire need of an exorcism. Where is this Black Devil’s manor, as you call it?”

  Richmond brightened at prospects of getting the braggart out of his hair. “At a place called Lintalee, south of Jedburgh. I’ll even mount a counterattack to give you cover.”

  The Peacock took another long drink and, belching, tossed the empty bottle through the window. “I managed to get into this piss hole without your aid. I sha
n’t require it to get out.”

  JAMES LED JEANNE AND MARJORIE on horse into the low vales of Lanark and spurred into a playful dash. After entertaining them for a week, he had agreed to accompany the women back to the Stewart castle at Renfrew. He wouldn’t admit it, but he was enjoying this respite from the campaigns.

  Jeanne caught up and prodded him to open up. “You needn’t have come all the way with us,” she said, clearly not meaning it. For the first time since Bannockburn, she felt a lightness of heart in him. Marjorie’s spirit had also lifted; the lass’s cheeks were flushed and, though she still rarely spoke, an occasional smile now crossed her face. Robert had been prescient in sending his daughter to James for a visit, and James had benefited from her company. Despite his initial brusqueness, he had warmed up and had even regained some of his old bounce. She asked him with a flirting glance, “You are certain Murdoch can handle the Borders without you?”

  “The English haven’t rustled from their fouled nest in Berwick in months. Besides, there’s something I want to show you.”

  They turned off the road toward Glasgow and entered a blue vale split by a meandering stream and guarded by an abandoned tower.

  An inhuman shriek cut the air.

  James drew his sword, signaling for the women to remain behind as he rode ahead. In a lek clearing near the river, he found a gaggle of black grouse strutting and booming in a spring mating ritual. The males puffed their chest sacs and fanned their white tail feathers to chase their rivals and to attract the females, who danced away in feigned outrage. He stole a sheepish glance at Jeanne and wondered if she too saw in this encounter a mockery of their lovemaking, which had been anything but genteel.

  She shooed the aggressive grouse bull with a loud clap.

  “What is this pile of rock?” Marjorie asked him.

  He sat staring at the ruins. “My childhood home.”

  Marjorie reddened. “I’m sorry. I did not mean … How long has it been since you last saw it?”

  “Fifteen years.” He rode past the crag that he had climbed as a boy to win the Dun Eadainn ax and led them west toward the Douglas Water, until they came to the boulder where he and Belle had held their childhood trysts. After staring at the spot for several moments in silence, he asked Jeanne, “Would you allow me a moment with Marjorie?”

  Thrown by the odd request, Jeanne interrogated him with a look of suspicion. But finally she rode up the hill toward the ruins to prepare the picnic that they had brought.

  Alone with the king’s daughter, James bridled her pony closer to the river and assisted the pregnant lass from the saddle. He walked with her to the boulder and stood there in silence, aimlessly throwing stones into the currents. The water was low, even for summer. He never could have hidden from Belle under its surface on a day like this. He stole a quick glance at Marjorie and saw that she had closed her eyes to bask in the sun’s warmth. Her belly had grown in the two weeks that she had been with him, and he was now more hopeful that she would survive the coming ordeal. She had eaten heartily, even fishing and hunting with the men in the bracing outdoor air.

  The pangs of childbirth could be no worse than the English prison she survived, he told himself. Still, Marjorie was so slender, a mere sparrow of a girl with spindly legs and the melancholic Bruce temperament. And what if there were complications? This might be his last chance to find out about those last days in the Highlands when Belle and the Bruce women had been on the run. Had Belle blamed him for abandoning her? Why had Longshanks imprisoned her in the cage and not Elizabeth? In his darkest moments, he even questioned if Robert had secretly bribed Longshanks to show leniency to Elizabeth, to the detriment of Belle. After a deep breath, he risked, “Marjie, there’s something I have long meant to ask you.” When she turned away, as if divining what was on his mind, he apologized. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have, but—”

  “Do you love her?”

  He hesitated. “I’ll always love Belle.”

  “No! I mean, do you love Jeanne?”

  James scooped another handful of pebbles and skipped them across the stream to avoid answering her. Each throw carried more anger.

  “She loves you. Can you not see that?”

  He flung the last rock so hard that several low-flying razorbills dived in retaliation. “There are things you don’t understand.”

  Marjorie lurched to her feet, nearly losing her balance. “You have no right to say that! Seven years I spent in that English hole! There are things you don’t understand! You and my father!” When he gently lowered her back to sitting, she began weeping. “Belle had a choice. I did not.”

  “Choice? What do you mean?”

  Marjorie reacted as if wishing to retract that last utterance, but his fierce glare demanded an explanation. Finally, she revealed, “The English king was going to make an example of me and Liz. … But Belle took our place.”

  James captured her arms to speed the revelation. “Why?”

  “I don’t know why! Why does anything happen? Why didn’t I die instead of her? No one loves me! There’s not a night I don’t pray to wake up dead!”

  “Don’t say that! You carry Scotland’s hope.”

  She struggled to escape his grip. “I don’t want to carry anything! I hate this miserable world!”

  “You must remember your father—”

  “My father cares nothing for me! He uses me only for his designs! All of you use us! You used Belle! And now you use Jeanne!”

  She shoved him away and ran up the hill. Before he could catch her, she pulled herself atop the mare and galloped north, spooking off his horse.

  JEANNE HAD SHARED ONLY A few words with James during their frantic gallop north to find Marjorie. Her banishment at the river could only mean one thing: He had asked the lass about Belle. She wasn’t certain what incensed her more—that James had recklessly brought up the subject despite Marjorie’s fragile state, or that she had deluded herself into believing that, by sleeping with him, she could help him forget the dead countess. At this moment, she had more pressing concerns than bruised feelings; the king would hold her dearly responsible for allowing his daughter to run off.

  Chilled by a gale brewing in the east, James drew his cloak tighter around his neck as he scanned the moors along Knock Hill on the road between Paisley and Renfrew. Finding no sight of Marjorie, he stole a glance at Jeanne, trying to divine the reason for her enforced silence. “The day has turned cold enough without you frosting it.”

  Jeanne reined to a sharp halt. “I was warm enough in your bed!”

  “I didn’t ask you to come to me! I was doing well enough without you!”

  “You are a pig-headed man!”

  “And you are a conniving French changeling of a—” A loud cawing cut him short. He saw a bevy of sparrow hawks circling just beyond the hill.

  Jeanne watched as the birds hovered and tightened their formation. She had seen that same chilling pattern of flight on battlefields. Before she could ask what was wrong, James galloped across Knock Hill. He found Marjorie’s horse, with its saddle slipped, watering at the river. Several feet away, Marjorie lay bloodied and unconscious. He leapt down and hurried to the girl, feeling for a pulse. Jeanne came riding up and, dismounting, knelt at his side. She took one look at Marjorie and turned aside, shaking her head.

  James pressed his ear to Marjorie’s breast and slapped her bloodless face, trying to revive her. “She’s not dead!”

  Jeanne restrained his hand. “It’s the child.”

  “How long … can it live?”

  Jeanne made the sign of the Cross to speed mother and infant to Heaven. “There is nothing we can do.” She tried to stop him from tearing at Marjorie’s chemise to expose her stomach. “What in God’s name are you doing?”

  He pulled a dagger. “Damn it, woman! Tell me where to cut!”

  Driven by his crazed eyes, Jeanne traced the path where the incision should be made. He sliced open Marjorie’s womb and retracted the cavity walls. Sh
e removed the fetus and exposed the umbilical cord for him to sever. She wrapped the infant in the shreds of the chemise.

  “Is it alive?” he asked.

  Jeanne cradled the child and felt a tremor. She nodded, overcome with hope and grief. It was a boy—a future king.

  He kissed Marjorie’s cold cheek. For the first time in the lass’s short but discontented life, she held a look of blessed repose. Her existence had been filled with more horror and suffering than most men could have endured. Yet Fate had chosen to withhold its cruelest indignity until the end. She had been taken from this cold-hearted world without even the comfort of knowing that she had delivered Scotland’s salvation.

  JEANNE HAD INSISTED ON STAYING with the Stewarts at Renfrew to help care for the premature infant, so James made the journey back to Lintalee alone. Robert had yet to be informed of the birth of his heir, named David after Robert’s maternal grandfather; he was still in the west near Loch Ryan, preparing to lead an army across the sea to Ireland to go to the aid of his brother. Edward had captured Carrickfergus and, with characteristic bluster, had declared himself High Monarch of Ireland. His power grab had miraculously united the squabbling Irish earls, spurring them to side with an English monarch they’d never seen rather than submit to a Scottish invader on their doorsteps. Hard-pressed, Edward had sent a desperate plea to Robert for aid.

  He muttered another curse at that nonsense. Before leaving for Ulster, Robert had issued an order appointing him as Lieutenant of the Realm during his absence. He had always counseled Robert against such dangerous diversions, but the king suffered a blind spot when it came to Ireland. His Celtic mother had weaned him on stories about Culchullan and the Stone of Destiny, and Robert had come to see himself as a resurrected Arthur who would reunite Ireland, Scotland, and Wales, as Merlin had prophesied.

  Now, as he approached the Lintalee defile, the acrid sting of black smoke attacked his nostrils. He rushed through the pass and saw a billowing cloud churning over the ridge. His manor was charred and ransacked. Galloping up, he leapt off his saddle and ran through the smoldering doors. Seven Scot corpses lay burnt on the smoking floor. Murdoch’s mutilated body hung from the rafters with a placard tied to its neck: