The Spider and the Stone: A Novel of Scotland's Black Douglas (16 page)

D’Aumont snorted. “You have a few monasteries worth
plundering.”

Lamberton waited for the derisive laughter to fade, then nodded and surrendered an enigmatic concession. “It is true that we Scots possess little of material value. And yet, we hold a priceless treasure.”

Intrigued, de Villiers drew closer, waiting for the
revelation.

Lamberton smiled knowingly at James to confirm how easily
his trap had snared its prey. “You see, lad, these Poor Monks of Christ are not
content to await Heaven. They hoard earthly lucre, but what they truly lust for
is secret knowledge of God’s power. An odd vice for holy men sworn to obey the
Holy Father and reject all things of this world.”

“Our Lord admonished us to seek!” d’Aumont shouted.

Lamberton met the Auvergne monk’s loud indignation with calm assurance. “Aye, and no doubt you have found.”

James took the bishop’s
oblique answer as a barbed reference to rumors of clandestine Templar diggings
in the Holy Land, excavations that had revealed certain practices and travels
of Our Lord that might prove embarrassing for Rome—or wherever the French pope
was resting his head these nights.

Having just demonstrated that he was not some guileless
Highland priest, Lamberton drew de Villiers aside and lowered his voice in an
attempt at conciliation. “You and I, Gerard, are pilgrims set upon the same
quest. I now require your aid. One day you may seek mine.”

Overhearing the prediction, d’Aumont hissed contempt. “A
soothsayer in Christian garb! What say you, prophet? Shall I dine on venison or
pheasant this night?” He closed on Lamberton with threat. “I will offer
you
a prophecy, you Druid bag of wind. The Channel will turn to wine before the
Temple looks to Scotland for salvation.”

The monks laughed coarsely—until de Villiers glared them to
silence.

Lamberton nodded at James to indicate that they had suffered
enough insults for one night. The bishop made a move to leave, but the Templar
master delayed him with a hand to his arm.

“This Stone that holds such fame in your country. You have
seen it?”

Lamberton affected surprise at the grand master’s interest.
“Many times, before it was stolen by … what was it you call him? Your
benefactor?
”

De Villiers weighed his next inquiry carefully. “Do you believe it to be the pillar on which Jacob rested his head while dreaming of the ladder to Heaven?”

Lamberton probed for the real reason why the grand master was so interested in the Stone. “Is that what you have been told?”

Before answering him, de Villiers dismissed his monks from the
chamber. D’Aumont hung back, but finally he too was chased by his
superior’s glare.

Alone with the two Scots, the grand master retreated to the
hearth and ran his finger across the joints of its arch. “In Palestine, I heard
Arab prisoners speak of a legendary basalt stone that held the Ark of the
Covenant in Solomon’s Temple. They claimed the stone became suffused with
miraculous powers from its proximity to the Ark.” With a calculated casualness,
he turned to the bishop and inquired, “Of what shade and texture is this
Destiny Stone of yours?”

“My memory fails me on that point.”

“No doubt your memory could be revived.”

“I grow more forgetful each day,” Lamberton said in a veiled
warning. “My feeble mind may soon fail me completely unless my country finds
assistance in its cause for freedom.”

The Templar master was vexed by the bishop's refusal to be more
forthcoming. “Perhaps I should go to Westminster and see this Stone for
myself.”

Ushering James to his side, Lamberton drew his hood over his
head and reached for the door ring. “I’ve no doubt you already have.”

T
HE NEXT DAY,
J
AMES FOLLOWED
Lamberton across the tourney
fields north of Notre Dame, where they came upon a bizarre scene: A knight
stood waist-deep in a pit, dug just wide enough to allow him to swivel while a
dozen opponents took turns attacking him. After dispensing with the last of his
challengers, the half-buried showman threw off his helmet, revealing flowing
blonde hair, a trimmed beard, and a narrow face creased with scars. James bit
off a mumbled curse of recognition. This French courtier planted in the ground
like a cranebill was none other than the knave in whose arms Isabella had
escaped during the dance at the royal palace. Broad-shouldered and impressive
for a knight in his early forties, he could have stepped out of a Grail legend.
Yet there was a sad wisdom in his soft sapphire eyes that transfused him with
an emanation of timelessness.

The knight twirled his sword to taunt his demoralized
attackers. “Shall I burrow to my chin and fight you with my teeth? Saints of
Christ! This is what passes for the king’s champions? I’ve met blinded Moors
with more skill! Come on! I’m twice the age of you sucklings!”

Finding none of his students willing to risk a second foray,
the Frenchman spotted the two Scots watching the lesson. He flung his sword at
James’s feet and shouted, “I have heard of your brave Wallace,
jeune homme!
Show these
cockerels
the purpose of a blade!”

James waited for Lamberton to explain this insanity, but the
bishop merely nodded for him to pick up the sword.

“I haven’t all day! Give me a run!”

Disgusted by this charade, James threw the weapon aside.

The knight kept taunting him. “That’s a Scottie for you! They
showed the cracks of their
derrieres
at Falkirk
, aussi!
”

James lunged for the sword and charged at the slandering Frenchman.

The knight, though restricted to moving his upper torso only, ducked
deftly and whipped his mailed forearm into James’s shin, collapsing him. Before
James could make sense of what had happened, the knight captured the end of the
blade, snagged his collar with its hand guard, and dragged him to his smirking
face. “So what they say is
véritable.
A Scottie
always leaps before he thinks.”

Lamberton pulled James to his feet just in time to cause his
punch to land short. “Jamie, meet Sir Giles d’Argentin. He’s the only knight to
have unhorsed Longshanks in a tournament.”

The grinning Frenchman climbed from his hole and offered his
hand.

James, still smarting from the clap to his shin, refused it.

“I meant no insult,
monsieur
. Fight with your eyes,
not your ears. The bishop tells me you hail from fine warrior stock.”

James spun on the bishop. “You planned this?”

Lamberton shared a conspiratorial smile with the French
knight as he dusted off James’s shirt. “Lord D’Argentin has agreed to take you
into his training.”

James rubbed his bruise. “I can do well enough on my own.”

“Aye,” Lamberton said. “Well enough to get your head lopped
off.”

“Let’s see what you
can
do, shall we?” The
instructor scanned his students and called out, “Rouen!”

A helmeted student, shorter than the others, stepped
forward.

D’Argentin ordered up a helmet, padded gambeson vest, and
broadsword for James. “There you are, Scottie.
Alors
, show us your
dextérité
with the blade.”

James reluctantly put on
the gear and tested the weapon; it was lighter and had more torque than those
forged in Scotland. The student confronting him held his sword vertical to
protect his torso. He accepted that he was shorter than most Parisian men his
age, but he was a head taller than this opponent, and he was confident he’d
have no problem thumping the pipsqueak.

They circled each other, neither willing to make the first
move.

D’Argentin cried, “This hole will be my grave before you
strike!”

Fed up with the ridicule, James rushed at his opponent’s
exposed leg, but the student whipsawed his blade and pinned his sword hand
against his thigh.

“Unclench!” the instructor shouted.

Shoved away, James stumbled to the ground. He erupted to his
feet again and lunged wildly, but was sent sprawling from his own momentum.
He looked up to find his opponent offering his sword in surrender. He laughed
at seeing the pampered Parisian already worn down. Typical Frank—all
élan
, no stamina. He dropped his weapon and swaggered up to accept the concession. When the extended handle was nearly in his reach, the student
retracted the blade and buffeted him on the head with its knob.

He came back to mindfulness convinced that he was suffering
from a concussion hallucination: Above him hovered the vision of a comely
female face, framed by short auburn hair cut like a man’s shocks. He heard
d’Argentin’s distant voice echoing in his head.
Are you still with us,
Scottie?
He managed to stand, only to be sent to his knees again—this time
by confusion—as his opponent removed his helmet.

Not a man, but a lass stared down at him with the same long-lashed
eyes and pert red lips that he had just banished from his bollixed brain.

Lamberton and the students cackled at his gawk of surprise.

D’Argentin consoled him with a hand to his shoulder. “Head
high, Scottie. She has bested most of them here.”

The armoured maiden offered to assist him to his feet. “My
name is Jeanne. You are not injured, I hope.”

James repulsed her reach and, angrily yanking off his helmet, searched for cuts. Did the scheming wench deem herself immune from all rules of chivalry? He protested, “You presented your sword in surrender!”

D’Argentin stole James’s sword by its cutting end and jabbed
him with the hilt knob to demonstrate the famous Murder Stroke. “Count yourself fortunate that she did not
separate your hollow skull from your shoulders,
monsieur
. A spoken confirmation must accompany a
concession.”

“Sharp practice!” James cried. “You Franks are full of
deceit!”

D’Argentin kept poking him. “And the charnel fields are
fertilized with the rot of dupes like you. Tell us, what is the purpose of
combat?”

“To gain the field with honor.”

“
Cela est
absurde!
Do you think the Moors
and Flemish care about our honor? Two hundred of our chevaliers drowned in
their precious honor at Coutrai.” D’Argentin circled him, lecturing and prodding.
“First maxim. Know your weapon. What is the most dangerous part of the
broadsword?”

“The blade,” James muttered. “Any idiot would know that.”

D’Argentin wailed him with the knob and sent him curling
into a ball. “The hilt, you Highland
bouffon!
The hilt! Why?”

When James shrugged, clueless, Jeanne volunteered an answer
for him, rubbing in his humiliation. “The forging is strongest at the grip.”

After being dragged through the mud, James recovered to his
feet and checked his scalp for blood. Glaring at the duplicitous Amazon, he
retrieved his blade and retreated a step, watching for her next underhanded
ploy.

“Cross guard!” the instructor ordered.

Jeanne raised her hands to her face and turned the blade’s
point down. James saw an opening and attacked, but the lass rotated the
blade and spun his sword from his grasp.

D’Argentin flew into a prancing fit. “Keep low, Scottie! And
spread your hands!” He pushed James aside and took the position confronting
Jeanne. With a series of quick maneuvers, the instructor sent his female student backtracking.
“Offense and defense at the same time! Every stroke sets up three thrusts
hence! Advance with the foot on the same side as your sword hand! Four
openings!” He punctuated each shout with a sharp blow. “Shoulder
droite
!” Thump! “Shoulder
sinistral
!” Thwack! “Leg
droite
!” Thump! “Leg
sinistral
!” The knight’s final smote alighted Jeanne on her backside.

James thoroughly enjoyed
that
dénouement
—until he found
d’Argentin’s blade aimed at the space between his brows.

“Does he show promise?”

That sweet voice drove the French students and instructor to
their knees.

James escaped from the blade’s threat to find Princess
Isabella standing on the bluff above the dueling field, a few steps away. How
long had she been watching his embarrassing comeuppance at the hands of this
sword-wielding girl? Accompanying her was the same retinue of ladies
who had been at the palace during the dance. They batted their eyelashes at him
and flapped their fans like geese wings.

D’Argentin arose from bent knee and straightened his spine,
trying to make his aging frame appear taller. “My lady, you honor us with your
unexpected presence.”

“I wished to take one last stroll along the river.”

Lamberton came forward and, kissing her hand, led her down
the bluff. “Surely you will have many more.”

That expressed hope chased Isabella’s smile. “I leave for
England on the morrow to meet my future husband.” She stole a furtive glance at
James to emphasize that this encounter was no coincidence. “I know not when I
shall return.”

Lamberton searched for words of solace. “You will be dearly
missed. We can only pray that France’s temporary loss will be England’s
education.”

Isabella came nearer to James and feigned an attempt at
recognition. “Your scribe, if I recall, Bishop? Odd training for one meant for
the monastery.”

The students stifled smirks and chuckles—all but Jeanne, who
held a nettled frown, as if detecting more than just a passing interest from
the princess in that observation.

James shot a lording
glare at the jealous French girl who was gripping and regripping her sword,
apparently pining for a rematch. Now
she
knew what it felt like to be on
her
heels. Prodded to courtesy by the bishop, he
turned from his irked opponent and offered a kiss to Isabella’s wrist. While
bent, he stole another brandish, sideways glance at Jeanne, but quickly lost
his smirk, remembering that this might be his last opportunity to speak to
Isabella, perhaps forever. He could never reveal their unlikely friendship.
During their many secret but platonic trysts, the princess had made great
strides in educating him in the ways of a gentleman, including giving him
instruction in the French language and the lute.