The Spider and the Stone: A Novel of Scotland's Black Douglas (55 page)

When the door finally closed, Isabella walked to the window
and stared across the Tweed meadows. “He is my child. Of course I love him.”

“No, do you love
Jamie
?” She heard Isabella fussing at her gown in an attempt to avoid the subject. Try as she had, she
could not shake the doubts that she had harbored since the night of Ragman
signing, after she saw how Isabella had looked into James’s eyes while dancing
with him. He had always refused to talk of his time in Paris, and that, she
feared, was telling. She could just make out the lines of Isabella’s firm
figure. “You are more beautiful than me. Any man would have chosen you.”

Isabella stifled a cough of
raw emotion. “It is true. I was drawn to your James. He was rough-hewn, but I
could see the sculpture that would emerge.”

“You shared his bed?”

The queen took Belle’s hand to reassure her. “He was always
faithful to you. I still remember how he described you. The most bonnie lass in
all of Scotland.”

Belle, fighting tears, nearly collapsed.

Isabella caught her and, leading her back to the bed, tucked
the covers against her neck. “But he neglected to mention how stubborn you
were. You must sleep while you can. I fear I will not be allowed to keep you
here long.” She had nearly reached the door when she turned back and asked,
“That day at Lanercost?”

Belle reopened her heavy eyes. “Aye?”

“Longshanks would have sent you to a nunnery. Yet you
taunted him into a rage. I have never understood why.”

Belle looked up at the dark blurs above the rafters,
reliving that horrid moment when her ordeal began. “My people have clawed at
one another for centuries. We will never be free until we put aside our
bickering and become united.”

“How can your suffering change that?”

“My queen would have felt the full brunt of Longshanks’s
wrath. He was bent on setting an example with one of us. I knew Elizabeth Bruce
could not survive a stark confinement.”

“But even had that been so, Robert Bruce would still rule
Scotland.”

“Scotland’s future depends as much on Lady Bruce as on my
king,” Belle explained. “If she fails to give birth to a son, there will be
another clan war for the throne. And the Comyns will conspire to barter away
our freedom.”

A raven flew into the chamber and perched on the ledge.

Isabella tried to chase the intruder with a flap of her
sleeve, but the harbinger insisted on sitting in vigil and cawing loudly.

Belle shivered from a chill—she began coughing and hacking.

Isabella looked down in horror at the sheets—they were
stained with globs of blackened blood. Fearful that consumption was eating into
Belle’s lungs, the queen turned for the door. “I must call the physicians.”

Belle heaved for breath to call her back. “No, please.”
Fighting off an encircling darkness, she begged, “Could I have a quill and
parchment?”

Isabella nodded to indicate that she understood Belle’s
reluctance to trust the English doctors. She retrieved the writing instruments
from a table and brought them to the bed with a small lap desk. She sat aside
Belle and, placing the inked quill in her hand, brought its tip to the
parchment laid out across the slant board.

Too blind to form the letters, Belle could only manage a few
scratches. After several unsuccessful attempts to write the note, she fell back
to the pillow in frustration.

Isabella took the quill from her failing hand. Glancing at
the door, she whispered, “Speak the words to me.”

A
S THE CLEAR DAWN OF
Midsummer Day broke over the soggy
fields below Stirling Castle, three slashes of the royal standard atop Coxet
Hill launched the Scot advance.

Led
by James on horse, the Lanark men, with their pikes shouldered and their
bowl-shaped helmets glistening in the low sun, emerged from their tree-covered
encampment in the New Park. During the night, many had sewn white St. Andrew’s
crosses onto their bright yellow tunics and cowhide jerkins to distinguish
comrade from foe. They marched in determined silence toward their assigned
battle position just south of St. Ninian’s kirk, where they would stand as the
last barrier between the English army and Stirling Bridge. The passing of the
rain clouds had tinctured the eastern horizon with a crimson haze; veterans of
the Wallace campaigns whispered of having witnessed the same omen of drenching
blood before the calamity at Falkirk.

James rode ahead to scout the dense copse that obstructed
his vantage of the English encampment. He knew from memory that this carse
descended gradually toward bogs veined with hundreds of sluggish rivulets. He
had ordered the banners kept furled and the battle horns lowered, for if the
English spied their approach too soon, Clifford might rush his knights to the
Dryfield and destroy any chance they had of slowing the heavy destriers in the
wetlands.

Moving swiftly, he and his men cleared the brush harls of
Balquihidderoch Wood and came to a halt at the crest of a ridge. Below them, on
the near side of the burn, hundreds of caparisoned chargers were forming up
under heralds from Gascony, Holland, Brittany, Poitou, Aquitane, Bayonne, and
Germany. Behind these knights in the service of England streamed an unbroken
column of infantry reinforcements from the south.

On his flanks, the divisions commanded by Randolph and
Edward Bruce stopped and descended to their knees. The Dewar of the Culdees,
his white beard flowing in the wind, walked out of St. Ninian’s kirk and, with
the aid of his staff, limped across the bowed ranks. The patriarch of the old
Celtic Church had rushed here from Glen Dochart during the night to bless
Robert’s army with Caledonia’s most hallowed relics. Following him came a
procession of friars from the northern abbeys, including the sallow-faced Abbot
of Arbroath, who held aloft the venerated Breacbannoch, the silver reliquary
that held the bones of St. Columba.

Sweenie had not seen his
spiritual father since the day he had left the Culdee hermitage in the
Highlands to lead Robert’s survivors across Loch Lomond. The squat little monk
ran to a tearful reunion with the old abbot. The Dewar gifted his former
acolyte with a long pole crowned by a wooden box that contained St. Fillan’s
shriveled arm. All Scots knew the story: When Fillan had prayed for light by
which to read Scripture in his cave, his arm had miraculously glowed with the
effluence of the Holy Spirit.

From the ranks, a shout rang out: “How many fingers on
Fillan’s hand?”

Sweenie turned with a grin toward that familiar call.

Angus Og MacDonald had arrived with the Culdees to take his
assigned position on the right flank, an honor granted to his clan in
perpetuity for rescuing the king and his ragged band on their run from the
ambush at Methven.

Spurred by Isles chieftain’s mischievous nod, Sweenie opened
the reliquary to solve the riddle of the giant Islesman’s favorite password.
The saint’s desiccated hand—with all five fingers still intact—had curled into
a fist. Inspired by the portent, Sweenie ran in front of the ranks and shouted,
“The blessed Fillan clenches to hammer the Anglish swine!”

The men nearly trampled the little monk to witness the
miracle.

The Dewar thrust his gnarled staff to the sky and shook the
heavens with a cry. “The saints fight with ye to drive the papish devils back
to Rome!”

James’s throat seized with emotion. How he wished Lamberton
were here to witness this battle that would be fought not by men alone, but
alongside the gods of ancient Alba. The bishop had once told him the story of
how Caesar’s legions had butchered the Druids on the Isle of Anglesey.
Centuries later, the papal missionaries had treated these descendants of the
old religion no better. Now, the Dewar and his long-suffering Culdees had come
to inflict their own spiritual revenge on the pope’s English pawns.

Word of Fillan’s clenched fist spread down the battle line,
and the Scots began weeping and shouting names of murdered kinsmen. A
quarter-mile to the south, Edward Bruce lashed his black pony across his ranks
while reciting the English atrocities inflicted on his dead brothers. On the
left, Randolph remained calm and cheerful, thumping the helmets of his men for
good fortune. Behind the king’s nephew, atop Coxet Hill, Keith the Marishal and
his paltry cavalry of five hundred waited, their scrawny hobbins champing and
pawing at the tumult.

Cull and Chullan, drawn by the cheering, came running from
the New Park camp. Sensing the onset of battle, the old mastiffs had gnawed
through their tethers to join their master.

“Back, you hounds!”

James shook his head in wonder at how the two grizzled dogs
had survived for eighteen years under such affliction and deprivation. They
came from hardy stock, bred from a father that had lived past the usual age of twelve;
they seemed determined to hang on until vengeance was gained against England.

Sim Ledhouse laughed at
how the frothing mastiffs would not retreat. He bared his teeth at them and
smacked their noses, admiring their stubbornness. “Aye, Douglas, you’re not the
only one who has a score to settle.”

Suddenly, amid this
tumult of preparation, the field fell silent.

Robert, wearing the circlet of gold forged for his battle
crown, galloped down from his signal station and dismounted in front of the
Lanark division. With a set jaw, he drew his blade and strode toward James.
“Douglas! On your knees!”

Surrounded by glares of suspicion, James descended as
ordered. Had Robert learned of the secret meeting in Melrose Abbey? He lowered
his head, fearing that rough justice was about to be meted out for treason.
Robert came up with sword twitching and took aim at his neck. James braced for
the blow—but the blade merely tapped his shoulders. He opened his eyes in
confusion.

“James of Douglas,” Robert shouted. “For brave service to
Scotland and thy king, I knight thee banneret!”

The divisions on his flanks turned to witness the honor that
could only be given in battle. Shouts of “Douglas! Douglas!” cascaded down
their lines.

Edward Bruce muttered curses and refused to acknowledge the
honor, but Randolph circled his horse to salute his friendly rival.

Sweenie rubbed away a tear. “He’s going to be insufferable
now. Come on, Douglas. Up with you. No time to rest on your laurels.”

That jest drew laughter from the men. James had tried for
years to break the monk’s habit of referring to him as a lord. Now that he was
due the deference, Sweenie, ever the true Scot, refused on principle to grant
him the lofty title.

Robert mounted again and cantered before his infantry, who
rested against their pikes, bracing for the inevitable speech recounting their
travails and injustices over the decades, a litany they had heard a thousand
times from their fathers and grandfathers. All had been issued the usual
pardons and abeyances of debts, but such enticements meant little to men facing
death. He stared at their expectant faces, trying to find the words sufficient
to express his gratitude for their trust. Finally, he shouted, “My hope is
constant in each of you! I leave airy speeches to the English! Few from their
lips have ever been worthy of trust! I am told their king brings a chronicler
paid gold to record his victory! I would send that wordsmith to his scrivener’s
bench to recount a tale of how we Scots won back a nation this day!”

Not one cheer met his call to arms.

James feared that Robert had lost them before the first blow was
struck.

The mutinous Islesman who had threatened to desert during
the cattle drill stepped forward. Making known his intent without words, he
spat a black wad of oatcake onto the heather and thrust the butt end of his
spear into his belt mount.

Seven thousand Scots followed his example and fixed their
weapons.

U
NACCUSTOMED TO RISING SO EARLY,
Caernervon yawned and
rubbed the sleep from the dark circles under his eyes. His head pounded from a
hangover. He had tossed and turned all night, kept awake by the infernal din in
the camp. Leaving Hugh Despenser still asleep inside, he arose and staggered
through the flaps of the pavilion in his nightshirt to search for the nearest
wine casket.