The Spider and the Stone: A Novel of Scotland's Black Douglas (45 page)

T
HE SURLY STARES OF FORMER
comrades accosted Thomas
Randolph as he galloped into the northern Bruce encampment below Inverurie.
After being captured during the Methven ambush two years ago, he had been
forced by the English to choose between execution and swearing allegiance to
the Plantagenet. Yet none of these Scots now surrounding him were moved by his
plight, for most still mourned kinsmen who had accepted death rather than break
fealty to the cause of independence. Despite this hostile greeting, he held his
head high and insisted, “I must speak with the king.”

Edward Bruce dragged his nephew from the horse. “Say your
piece to me.”

“I gave an oath. I must present myself to your brother.”

“An oath to whom?”

“Jamie Douglas. He captured me in Lanarkshire. As a
condition for my release, he ordered me to come north and accept the king’s
judgment.”

The men gathered around Randolph, heartened to hear that
James was not only alive but thriving well enough to take prisoners.

Neil Campbell asked him, “How goes it for Douglas?”

“By the looks of it, better than it goes for you,” Randolph
said. “He harries Lanark at will. He even burned down his own home rather than
let Clifford to use it for raids.”

Campbell was shocked. “He left Castle Douglas in ruins?”

“Aye, and that’s the
least of his mischief. He fed Clifford the flesh of his own guards. Cooked it
up himself in his own stepmother’s kitchen.”

The men whistled at the first good news heard from the South in months.

Lennox shouted over them, “I hope he sent a tasty sampling
from the Douglas Larder to Caernervon! By God, our Jamie’s making a name for
himself!”

“A name cursed on every crossroads from Yorkshire to
Bristol,” Randolph added. “The English are now calling him the Black Douglas.”

Boyd slammed a fist into his palm in delight. “Did you hear
that, lads? The Black Douglas! We could use some of Jamie’s black art up here,
eh!”

In the midst of this
celebration that seemed fueled by desperation, Randolph saw that Edward Bruce,
alone of all the men, was not buoyed by the report of Douglas’s success. The
hotheaded Edward had never hid his suspicion that Douglas was scheming to carve
out his own kingdom in the South.

Pulled away from the
others, Randolph listened with growing alarm as Edward described the calamity
that had just befallen this army. At the height of their assault on the Comyn
stronghold of Invurerie, Robert had been struck down by a mysterious illness
that locked his limbs in a catatonic trembling. The sight of him being carried
frothing and unconscious from the field had so unnerved the volunteers that
Edward had been forced to lift the two-week siege. The Comyns, whose defenses
were only hours from collapse, had been gifted with a miraculous reprieve.

Yet what Randolph heard
next stunned him even more. Many of the men, Edward admitted, blamed this
reversal on divine retribution for Robert’s failure to honor his promise to
hold off on the Comyns until Douglas could come north and join the attack. All
Scots knew that Douglas had a score to settle with Tabhann. The Bruces had been
freed to cut a swath of vengeance through the western Highlands only because
Douglas had kept Clifford pinned down in the Borders. During these past months,
Robert had marched his army over the snow-capped peaks of the Great Glen and
had captured John of Lorne, the MacDougall chieftain who had handed over their
brothers for execution, and the Earl of Ross, the traitor who had sold out the
women at Tain to the English. The last obstacle to Robert’s consolidation of
Fife and Buchan now stood behind those walls in the distance. If the Bruces
could take Inverurie, they would at last be free to march south and confront
the English.

Randolph challenged Edward to explain his actions. “You
convinced the king to attack? Without first sending word to the Borders?”

Edward glanced worriedly
at Robert, who lay writhing near a fire, blind and paralyzed and with
pus-weeping blotches inflaming his skin. “I feared delay would allow the Comyns
to escape. Those whoresons sent David Brechin into our camp this morning to
offer terms for our surrender. I agreed to the meeting only in the hope that it
would quash the rumors of my brother’s death.”

“And?”

“Rob could not form a coherent word.”

“Then the Comyns will attack on the morrow, for certain.”

Edward shrugged like a man resigned to the gallows. “We will
fight to the death rather than relinquish the crown.”

Randolph shook his head, dismayed at discovering that he had
ridden hundreds of miles north to escape execution, only to be penned in with a
disgruntled army whose demise appeared imminent.

“Jamie!” came a cry from the far side of the encampment.

The men turned toward Robert, who lay shivering under a
cloak near a fire.

“Bring Jamie to me!”

They were stunned to hear the first words from his mouth in
three days.

Relieved to see his brother conscious, Edward prodded
Randolph forward, determined to disabuse Robert of the mistaken identity and
have him mete out severe punishment for their nephew’s treason.

Soaked in fever sweat, Robert looked up at Randolph with
tears of delirious joy. “I knew you’d come!” He crawled closer and reached out.
“Forgive me, Jamie! I had to attack! There was no time to lose!”

Randolph was shocked by the king’s ghastly appearance. “My
lord …”

Robert clawed for Randolph’s hand. “God has answered my
prayers. Tell me of the Marches, Jamie! No, you must sleep first! On the morrow
we renew the siege.”

Edward had never noticed
the striking resemblance between Randolph and Douglas. Indeed, they were the
same height, and could even pass for brothers. Signaling to the other men for
silence, he whisked Randolph away before Robert could come to his senses. “Rob,
get your rest,” he told his brother as he hurried off. “Douglas and I will make
plans for the assault.”

Levering to his elbows, Robert searched the camp to count
how many were still with him. “Jamie, you’ll lead the left flank! We’ll give
them Loudon Hill again! To see the look on Comyn’s face when he finds you at my
side!” He fell back to a fitful sleep as his voice trailed off.

Edward summoned a monk warming his hands over a fire and
told him to bring his needle and thread. He led the two men to the edge of the
camp, out of earshot of the others. Sizing up his prisoner’s face, he smeared a
dollop of boot black on his palms and whispered to Randolph, “Do as I say, and
you may yet save your neck from the block.”

I
NSIDE THE DEFENDED CITY OF
Inverurie, David Brechin
returned from his parlay with the Bruces and found the Comyn cousins pacing the
allures while studying the distant fires of the royal encampment. “Bruce has
one foot in the grave,” Brechin assured them. “A fever has curdled his mind to
mush. I give him no more than a day.”

Tabhann tempered his elation. He had seen Robert falter on
the field with his own eyes, but his old nemesis had overcome so many legendary
hardships and near deaths that he found it difficult to believe that fate could
turn so capriciously. “You are certain of this?”

“I could smell the death rot on his breath.”

Cam was hot to attack. “We should strike before Douglas
arrives.”

“Edward Bruce leads in the king’s stead,” Tabhann reminded
them.

Cam grinned. “And he’ll come bulling right into our
slaughter pen.”

A
T DAWN'S FIRST LIGHT,
T
ABHANN
and Cam led their three
thousand men from Inverurie and into the open pastures below Meldrum. Certain
of victory, they took their time forming up ranks and parading across the lines,
promising booty and titles when the throne was filled with a Comyn. Their
troops fell silent on seeing the Bruce ranks emerge from the far grove.

Tabhann rode into the gap between the two armies to confront
Edward Bruce. “Give up the crown, Bruce, and your men will be spared!”

“The crown lies where it belongs.”

Tabhann laughed. “You didn’t bury it with your brother’s
corpse, I hope. Are we going to have to dig him up?”

A helmeted knight wearing a gold band and brandishing the
royal herald rode forth from behind the Bruce line. He called out through the
air slits of his faceplate to Tabhann, “Come take it!”

Tabhann cantered closer, determined to expose the trickery.
“If that’s the Bruce, then I am the queen of England!”

The approaching knight halted and removed his helmet. “I am
certain Caernervon will gladly make room for you in his bed.”

Robert sat in the saddle.

Tabhann stared gape-jawed at his old nemesis; then, he
turned a punishing scowl on Brechin for the erroneous report about Robert’s
health. Still, he was confident. Edward had managed to hoist his brother onto a
horse, but clearly Robert, swaying and groggy, could do no more than watch his
ragged army be annihilated. He decided to call their bluff on this desperate
ploy to make the royal troops believe that their king was in fighting
condition. “Why should we force Scots to kill Scots, Bruce? Let us settle this
between us in single combat!”

Robert fought against
his debilitating vertigo to remain upright. “As Brechin no doubt advised you, I
am recovering from the ague. I shall offer you my second, as the code allows.”

Another knight on a black stallion split the tree line. In
full armor, this second, unidentified rider carried on his lance a pennon
featuring a blue field and three silver stars. A gasp of disbelief cascaded
across the Comyn ranks—
that
was the Douglas herald.

Tabhann looked back at Cam and Brechin, demanding an
explanation for the apparition.

“They are so desperate,” Cam scoffed, “they resort to
blatant fakery!”

From a hundred yards away, Tabhann saw the knight briefly
remove his helmet to adjust his flowing hair. A familiar dark face glared back
at him in the faint light before the helmet was returned to its head. His
mannerisms were those of Douglas, for certain: The askew way he sat in the
saddle, the high grip on the reins, the haughty arch of the head. But how could
Douglas have made it this far north so quickly? When the knight cantered across
the lines and motioned for a challenger, Tabhann ordered up his most
accomplished mercenary, Robert Bingham, a brutish malcontent from Northumbria.
“Kill that man,” Tabhann told the English cutthroat, “and this land you now
ride on is yours.”

Both armies backed off to allow a clear field for the single
combat.

Without the usual ceremony and mutual signal of attack, Bingham lashed his steed toward his opponent, who sat waiting without a flicker of motion. Nearing the collision, the Bruce champion spun his horse in a deft maneuver to avoid being impaled. He whipped an ax from behind his back and hammered Bingham with a stroke to the crease between his shoulders and neck. The Northumbrian mercenary hurled to the ground and thudded in a cloud of dust.

Blood oozed from the vents of Bingham’s writhing helmet.

Tabhann reined back—he had witnessed
that
death
stroke before.

The ax-wielding champion came riding up aside Robert, and
together they led their ranks forward. A hundred paces from their lines giving
battle, Tabhann and Cam turned tail and galloped south.

Abandoned, the Comyn troops broke into a disorganized
retreat.

F
IVE HOURS LATER, THE VICTORIOUS
royal army escorted Robert
through the deserted streets of Inverurie. Reaching the tower, the king slumped
over his saddle in exhaustion. Edward Bruce and his officers untied the tethers
that had been used to strap Robert upright to the hidden flange and lifted him
from the restraints. They carried the king into the hall and placed him on a
blanket that had been set out near a warming fire.

“Jamie!” Robert muttered, half-conscious. “Bring Jamie to
me!”

The men were uncertain how to respond. Reluctantly, Edward
motioned his brother’s champion that day to the bed. The knight who wore the
Douglas insignia on his breastplate removed his helmet.

Randolph, not James, knelt at Robert’s side.

This time, Robert was not fooled. He burned his nephew with
a wrathful glare. “Traitor! You fought with Comyn this day?”

“No, my lord,” Randolph said. “With you.”

Robert searched the faces around him, fearing that the
illness was still twisting his mind.

Edward finally admitted, “Douglas remains in the South. He
sent Randolph north to you as a prisoner. Our kinsman agreed to disguise
himself as Douglas during the battle.”

Robert took a closer look at Randolph, and sank in sharp
disappointment. The victory established his dominion over the northern shires,
but his betrayal of James had taken a heavy a toll on him in guilt. He had
miraculously recovered his strength only because he thought all had been made
right between them. Now he dreaded even more the hour he would have to explain
his shameful action to his wronged friend. He stared at Randolph for several
tense moments. Perhaps, he prayed, forgiveness would beget forgiveness. “I have
wronged Jamie, as you have wronged me. Join me, nephew, and all is forgotten.”

The men cheered the
offer of leniency.

Yet Randolph remained unrepentant. “I performed this service
to repay Douglas’s kindness. I made a grave error in judgment by submitting to
the English. For that, I will live forever with the shame. But I shall not do
penance for one malfeasance by committing another.”

Edward spun Randolph by the shoulders to confront him. “Have
you lost your senses? The king has just offered you your life.”

Randolph rebuffed the crass bargain with a contemptuous jaw.
“The English are duplicitous, but you Bruces have refined the vice to a fine
art. You refuse to fight honorably, and you speak oaths too easily. Douglas and his
lady put the crown on your head, my lord. You chose personal glory over the
duty of
aman
friendship.”