The Spider and the Stone: A Novel of Scotland's Black Douglas (18 page)

In the scramble, Belle was shoved aside, denied a clear
view.

Longshanks motioned up the Scot cleric. “We feared you’d
fallen prisoner to the French.” He scrutinized the young man accompanying
Lamberton and turned to Clifford for some indication, but the officer could
only shrug to indicate his own lack of recognition.

With a hesitation, Lamberton revealed, “James Douglas, Sire,
of—”

“Castle Douglas!” James yanked down his hood in defiance.
“Your shireman stole my home and abducted my father.”

Belle gasped. She jumped repeatedly, but she could not see
over the shoulders of the men in front of her. His lisping voice sounded
different. Had he picked up a hint of a French accent?

His memory revived,
Clifford told the king, “My lord remembers the felon William Douglas.” He
checked James for weapons. “Give oath to His Excellency, and the crimes of your
father will not be held against you.”

James repulsed the officer’s hands. “I will first speak with
my father.”

“That may prove bit difficult.” Clifford said, sharing a
grin with Longshanks. “Unless you can commune with the dead.”

James’s legs threatened to give way. He turned in disbelief to the bishop, begging for a denial
that it could be possible, but the cleric’s stricken look confirmed the worst.

The guards took a step toward him, expecting violence. Faint with grief, James only then saw Princess Isabella
sitting at the end of the dais, secluded in the flickering shadows. In these
few weeks she had been in England on her visit, she had so aged and altered in
appearance that he was required to take a second glance. Her cheeks were hollow
and her once-sparkling blue eyes, swollen from nights of weeping, pleaded for
him to remain strong.

Detecting the exchange, Caernervon glared at his future wife
in accusation. Isabella looked toward Gaveston in a stinging reminder that the
prince held no standing to levy a charge of indiscretion at her.

The Scots in the receiving line stood stunned at the news of
Wil Douglas’s death. None held any illusions about the grisly manner in which
he had been dealt with in the Tower. Propelled by a great wave of indignation,
they erupted in a maelstrom of angry shouts and promises of vengeance.

Caught up in the jostling, Belle became separated from the
Comyns. She was shoved from the chamber by the guards as they maneuvered with
pikes flashing to abort the uprising. She screamed for James, but her calls
were drowned out.

Bishop Lamberton removed
his riding cloak to reveal his clerical garb in a reminder to the king that he
still wielded divine authority. “William Douglas was to be held under the
protection of Christian law.”

“He succumbed of natural causes,” Clifford said.

James rushed at the officer. “Murderer!”

Clifford met him with the point of his dagger. “Swear.”

“I’ll swear nothing but vengeance!”

The Scots mouthed threats as they moved toward the guards.

Denied a full sweep of his weapon, Clifford wrestled James
toward a side portal to use him as a shield.

“Release him!” Longshanks ordered.

The privy councilors were shocked by the command.

But Longshanks moved to abort the growing mutiny that was about to forfeit all that he had accomplished in breaking the spirit of the Scots. “The lad grieves for his father, as would any son. My justice is tempered by mercy.”

The Scots broke into quarrels, some demanding retribution
for the murder, others whispering their preferences for the surety of
Plantagenet governance over the anarchy of more clan bickering over the throne
in Dunfermline. Offered this unexpected reprieve, Lamberton hurried James
toward the doors before Longshanks could change his mind.

James shook off the bishop’s restraint long enough to accost
Robert Bruce with a glare of accusation for giving the traitor’s oath. Robert
turned away to deflect his old friend’s silent indictment. Lamberton was about to shove James outside when—

“Bishop!” Longshanks called out from the dais. “I hold a
feast this eve to celebrate our union. I hope to see you in attendance.”

James felt the bishop’s grip on his arm tighten. With his back still turned, Lamberton silently mouthed a
curse.

P
RINCESS
I
SABELLA ESCAPED THE AFTERNOON'S
tedious oath
ceremony with her usual excuse of feeling feverish. Despondent and homesick, she walked aimlessly through the dark halls of the tower until she found an abandoned storage room. Sneaking inside, she slumped into a corner and began sobbing, distraught over her bleak future. She heard a voice and, crawling closer, discovered that the door to an adjacent room had been left ajar.

She peeked through the
crack and saw her husband sitting on his bed with a board on his lap that
supported a balsawood model of a miniature waterfall on the steps of
Westminster Abbey. He had designed this engineering feature to cool the summer
breeze for pilgrims who would offer up prayers on his behalf in gratitude.
Although the prince had reached the age of majority, he dreamed not of
kingdoms, riches, or crusades, but, strangely, of rushing water. Since
childhood, he had been fascinated by canals, aqueducts, moats, fountains,
sewers, and, in particular, the new toilet devices that flushed offal away with
only a pull of a cord. Many in the court even suspected him of drinking
enormous quantities of liquids merely to prolong the enjoyment of urination.

As the prince poured a rippling stream of red Claret from a
goblet down the tiny steps of his model Abbey, a drop of rain plopped against
his head. He looked up to inspect the ceiling, but he found no leak.

Seconds later, another droplet plunked him.

Exasperated, he threw the goblet at the timbers. “Damn these
Scots! Can they not construct a simple roof?”

He shoved the bed closer to the hearth and returned to his
fantasy world, meticulously fastening a belfry to his tiny Abbey tower.

Swish! Splat!

That was not a drop, by
God, but a gush of cold water!

Before the prince could
recover, a flagon from behind the headboard poured its remnants down the bridge
of his nose. Piers Gaveston appeared above him, unleashing a howl of
roguish delight at having fooled his gullible lover.

“Miscreant!” the prince
cried, spewing water. “I should have you hung!”

Gaveston leapt over the headboard and straddled Caernervon’s
chest. “I am already hung quite admirably. Admit it, or I shall have to prove
it again.”

Caernervon nervously regarded the door. “Not here.”

Gaveston feigned hurt. “You no longer love me?”

Through the cracked door, Isabella looked on as Caernervon
brought Gaveston into his arms. The prince could not resist this flamboyant
Gascon who, even by Longshanks’s grudging admission, was the most promising
knight in the royal service. Still, the English barons made no secret of their
concern over her future husband’s deepening bond with this favourite, for
Gaveston’s greatest talent had proven not to be his skill in battle, but his
uncanny ability to infiltrate the highest echelons of the royal court.

She had been told in confidence by prince’s former nursemaid that Edward had never fully recovered from the death of his doting mother, Joan of Aquitane, who had raised him while the king was off campaigning in Wales and Scotland. The prince had early on shown a promise of maturation, even donning custom-made armor at Berwick while mimicking his father’s orders. But by his fifteenth year, he had turned inward, suffering debilitating spells of lost resolve and unfounded suspicions against others. The only reason that the king endured Gaveston’s presence was his hope that the Gascon’s superb fighting skills and preening confidence would take root in his son.

Gaveston pecked at the
prince’s lips. “It has been hours since you’ve shown me affection. Don’t I
deserve a reward for enduring those foul-smelling savages out there?” His whimsy
merely served to provoke Caernervon’s insecurities.

The prince firmed their embrace. “I would go insane without
you.”

Gaveston puffed his chest in mockery. “Did you see old
Gloucester strutting out there like a constipated rooster? And that gasbag
Clifford must soon take a wife. I’d challenge him to swordplay, but he is wound
so tight in the tethers that one prick might explode him like a dropped melon.”

Edward retreated to a distant glare of revenge. “They’ll all be gone when I am king! They treat me as if I am a leper!”

Gaveston whimpered into Caernervon’s ear. “And what shall
become of me, Poppy? Will I be an earl? Of Gloucester, perhaps. But then I
would have to take in that old fart’s leggings.”

“They will pay! The Tower’s not large enough to hold—”

The front doors flew open—Longshanks strode into the room.

Gaveston scrambled
half-naked from the bed and fell to his knees. “My lord, the prince and I were
debating the advantages of the mace in close quarters.”

The king kicked Gaveston aside and came towering over his
son. “Where is that French kitten who will be given the dubious duty of
producing your heir?”

The prince puffed up his pillows behind him and returned to
the task of arranging his Westminster toy model. “How should I know?”

Longshanks cleaved the toy board in half with his fist.

Horrified, young Edward howled and rushed from the bed to
retrieve the pieces of his destroyed craftwork. “You allow that upstart Scot to
spit in your face! And now you abuse
me
?”

In the next room, Isabella snuggled closer to the side door
to better hear. She accidentally nudged the rusty hinge.

Longshanks glanced
toward the noise, but fortunately, for Isabella, his son’s rant distracted him
again. The king turned on Gaveston and slammed his boot toe into the Gascon’s
buttocks. “Get out!”

Gaveston tried to incite the prince with a glare to stand up to the old man, but Caernervon was too distraught with salvaging his balsawood fragments. Denied a confrontation, the Gascon could only rush from the room in a huff.

The door recoiled
against Isabella. Curled in the corner, she hurriedly rolled away, opened a
book, and feigned reading.

Gaveston stared down at the French princess, debating
whether to reveal her lurking. He settled for throttling her neck and
whispering with a hiss, “Speak a word of what you just heard, you conniving
Paris whore, and I’ll make a bookmark out of that wagging tongue of yours.”

Isabella squirmed and fought against his digging fingers until Gaveston, glancing back to make certain the king had not followed him, finally released her with a flick of his wrist and marched from the room through another door. She rolled to her stomach and stifled coughs, trying desperately not to alert the king and her husband of her eavesdropping. At last, recovering her breath, she risked crawling toward the cracked door again.

The king was so angry that, thankfully, he had not heard the
commotion of the Gascon stumbling over her. Longshanks paced in a tightening spiral of frustration, his
white mane whipping around his head like cat-o-nine tails. “Watch my actions,
not my words. Do you think I place a whit of faith in their groveling?”

Caernervon slowly lowered his arms to test the easing of his
father’s rage. “Why then must we waste time with such nonsense?”

Longshanks gazed through
the window at the bridge over the Tweed, where the Scots were being dispatched
after their oath signing. “I wanted to look into their eyes, mark their manner.
That sprig Douglas was the only one foolish enough to speak what the others
were thinking.”

“If I were you, I’d throw him in a pit before he causes more
trouble.”

Longshanks turned slowly. “What did you say?”

“I said if I were you—”

“You are
not
me. You’ve made that evident enough.”

“Hang him, father. Make an example of him.”

“Nay, I’ve cuffed enough Scot ears for one day. I have other
plans for the Douglas cub. The Bruce litter is the one we must keep closely
surveilled. Did you notice young Robert?”

“I don’t fancy him.”

Through the door crack,
Isabella saw Longshanks lift his son by the collar and pin him against the
wall.

“I swear your mother was inseminated by a head-shorn incubus from the dregs of Limbus!” the king shouted. “Witless dolt! Listen to me! When Douglas refused the oath! Bruce had a wan look about him.”

Toes dangling, Caernervon pipped, “A wan look?”

“Of treason. … Never forget what I am about to tell you, Eddie. We must at all cost keep these Scots clawing at their own throats. Else they will come at ours.” Longshanks dropped the prince like a sack of coal and
marched out—but not before glancing at the cracked door to the anteroom.

T
HE DISCOVERY THAT HE HAD
been responsible for his father’s death was too much for James to endure. That
afternoon, after the humiliating oath ceremony, he had vowed to regain
Douglasdale, or die trying. With his few coins saved up from Paris, he had
purchased a half-lame horse in the Berwick market and had headed north.

Now, as he lashed the
nag west across the hills of Lanark, he turned to find another rider galloping
for him, hard in chase.

Clifford had wasted no time in coming after him.

He drove the old horse
to its breaking point, but Englishman was gaining ground. He drew his dagger,
and when Clifford came neck to neck, he jumped the officer. He dragged him to
the ground and raised his weapon for the kill—

His attacker threw off his helmet.

Not Clifford, but Robert Bruce lay under him.

Stunned, James tossed aside the dagger and ripped open his
own shirt for a target. “Longshanks sends you to do his butchering? Have at
it, then!”

Robert climbed to his feet. “You left before—”

“Before what? Before I could sell out my country, like you
did?”