The Spider and the Stone: A Novel of Scotland's Black Douglas (53 page)

There
was their
soft underbelly.

“We should renew the attack before they mass,” Gloucester
advised.

Clifford mounted. “Wait here for the king to arrive.”

Gloucester tried to capture Clifford’s reins to delay him
for an explanation. “Where in Hell’s name are you off to now?”

Clifford brushed the baron aside and disappeared into the
Torwood.

A
FTER POSITIONING HIS TROOPS ATOP
the high ground
overlooking the Carse, James hurried toward a brae below Coxet Hill, where the royal standard had been planted on a borestone. In the three hours since the morning fight, a disturbing calm had descended on the vales. Roiling clouds were now gathering in the west, making it look more promising that his prayer for rain might yet be answered. If he and his men held off the English until dusk, they could move back off the ridge during the night and find shelter in the New Park. Yet it was that turn of season when the light lingered well after midnight, affording Clifford time yet to launch another frontal assault.

At the borestone, he found Robert
pacing the summit, guarded by Keith’s light horse of five hundred, the only
cavalry in their army. He reported to Robert, “The English still won’t make a
move.”

“Where is my brother? I ordered him up here an hour
ago!”

“No doubt parlaying with
Caernervon for another truce. Perhaps this time he’ll hand over Edinburgh.” He
knew how to light Robert’s fuse; Edward was loyal to be sure, but the hotheaded
Bruce brother had become increasingly jealous of Robert’s stature. Denied the
Scottish throne because of his birth order, Edward was now so obsessed with
invading Ireland and declaring himself that isle’s monarch that James
suspecting him of agreeing to suspend the Stirling siege to hasten the decisive
battle that would free him to pursue his Irish fantasies.

“Leave off him, Jamie,” Robert ordered. “I have enough to
worry about without the two of you constantly wrangling.”

“If he crowds my division,” James warned, “I’ll kick him
back to Ireland.”

Robert fixed his worried gaze on the old Roman road that
disappeared into the Torwood. “Why does Clifford wait?”

Before James could offer a guess, screams came from their
rear. He and Robert turned toward the sounds of battle and saw five hundred
English knights making fast for Stirling below the brow of the Carse, east of
St. Ninian’s kirk.

Clifford was attempting to outflank them.

Stationed there to prevent such a ruse, Randolph had failed
in his duty. He spurred up Coxet Hill in a sweat and cried, “They stole on us
under cover!”

Stunned, Randolph spurred up Coxet Hill in a sweat. “They
stole upon us under cover!”

Robert made no attempt to hide his anger at his nephew for
failing to protect their left flank by keeping the far bank of the burn
scouted. “A rose has fallen from your garland, Thomas!”

Randolph came to a ragged halt, crushed by the king’s
condemnation.

“We’re all to blame,” James said. “We had equal vantage.”

Robert had no time to soothe Randolph’s injured pride.
“Jamie, hurry to Tom’s aid before the lads break!”

As James rushed his fifteen hundred men toward St. Ninian’s kirk, Randolph
galloped back to his division and led his Northern men into the low ground in a
last-ditch attempt to intercept Clifford’s knights. Despite Robert’s orders,
James held his troops back while he watched Clifford form his cavalry into a
broad line for an assault against Randolph’s schiltron. Now dismounted,
Randolph steeled his men to remain steadfast in their square. The first ranks
dropped to their knees and lowered their pikes just seconds before Clifford’s
knights crashed into them. Randolph’s schiltron wavered but held, repulsing the
first onslaught.

Robert cantered with rising agitation across the brow of
Coxet Hill. He shouted at the Lanark men, “To him now, Jamie!”

Yet James stood back, monitoring the grinding shifts of
momentum between Randolph’s schiltron and the English knights. If Randolph could
turn back Clifford without his assistance, it would do more for their army’s
morale than a thousand new recruits. Fixed to his stance inside the hollowed
square, Randolph saluted him in gratitude for the show of confidence.

Despite his repeated
assaults, Clifford could not break the Scot square, and his knights, growing
frustrated, began throwing their maces into the schiltron in wild attempts to
pick off Randolph. James and his Lanark men shouted encouragement to their
northern comrades as Clifford and the knights regrouped for one last assault.
Randolph’s men buckled under the impact, but they regrouped and threw off the
skittish English chargers yet again.

Exhausted, Clifford and his
surviving knights finally retreated down the muddy banks of the Carse and
headed back toward the Torwood.

James led his men into the valley to embrace Randolph’s lads and offer
water skins to slake their thirst. Arm in arm, James and Randolph looked toward
St. Ninian’s kirk, hoping for some gesture of commendation, but Robert had
disappeared behind Coxet Hill.

F
OUR HOURS LATER, BLESSED DARKNESS
finally fell over the
village of Bannock.

In the Torwood to the
south, Clifford’s camp was chaotic and tense. The fresh English troops marching
up the old Roman road from Falkirk had expected to find a comfortable bivouac.
Instead, they now stumbled into an infernal mash of wounded and exhausted men
who lay amid the stinking dead bodies of their comrades killed in the day’s
disastrous charges. Scuffles broke out as a cold rain began to fall and turn
the ground into a muck of manure and urine.

A commotion of horns and heralds drove the slumbering soldiers off the
road to make room for a squealing caravan of baggage wagons. Caernervon climbed out of the lead carriage.
Accompanied by Amery Valence, D’Argentin, Richard de Burgh, and Hugh Despenser,
the king marched toward a litter that had been hoisted on poles.

The soldiers lowered the canvas sheet to display Bohun’s bloodied
corpse.

Staggered by the grisly sight, Caernervon flung his hands to
his head. “How did this happen?”

“He gave battle against orders,” Gloucester said.

Caernervon took a slobbering swallow from a wine skin to
steel his jangled nerves. “He charged to avenge my honor! And where were you?”

“After the initial assault, I deemed it prudent to wait for
the full army.”

Caernervon flung aside his new helmet, which was crowned
with a sculpture of a coiling leopard. “All you have ever been is prudent! You
allowed Bohun to be ambushed by your own kinsman! And you walk away without a
scratch?”

“I will not be slandered—”

“You will speak only when ordered!” Kicking at anything
within his reach, the king grabbed at Clifford’s breastplate and ranted, “Why
am I not sleeping this night in Stirling?”

“The Scots have contested the entry, Majesty.”

Caernervon angrily stripped his soaked cloak and threw it to
the ground. His servants rushed to shield him with a canopy, causing the runoff
to fall on his officers. The king turned on Clifford again and demanded an
explanation. “You have not flanked them?”

“The river blocks our approach,”

“River? You call that offal trench a
river
?”

Cam spoke up to warn the king against any attempt to cross
the ground that lay between them and Stirling. “Those vales are impassable.”

Caernervon slogged a raging circle around his drenched
officers. “Am I to understand that all that stands between me and the capture
of Bruce and Douglas is
mud
? My
treasury spent on the largest army ever assembled this side of the Channel!
Months of suffering this miserable hellhole to be denied by
mud
?” He kicked up globs of muck onto
Gloucester’s breeches.

Gloucester was forced to suffer the smirks of Hugh
Despenser, who was clever enough to remain in the shadows when the king was in
one of his black moods. The earl tried to reason with Caernervon. “Sire, the
heavy armor—”

“You
will
take our horse across that stream!”
Caernervon shouted at the earl. “By dawn, we
will
stand between the Scots and Stirling Bridge!”

Gloucester looked to the other lords for support in his
protest, but none in the royal council were willing to come to his defense. He
knew that his standing with this incompetent monarch could never be repaired;
it was England he now hoped to save. “Such a position will expose us
needlessly. The river would be to our backs. Should we need to retreat—”

“Do as I command! Or I will have you arrested!”

While the king ranted on, Clifford pulled Cam aside and
whispered, “You’re familiar with this ground?” Receiving a nod, Clifford looked
out across the dark carse and ordered the turncoat Scot, “Meet me at the picket
line in an hour.”

U
NABLE TO SLEEP,
J
AMES LAY
on his bedroll and rehearsed in
his mind the order in which the next morning’s battle might unfold. The day’s
unlikely victory had bonded their men into an army, but he was under no
illusion that the morrow would offer up another Bohun to lay waste to
Clifford’s cautious tactics. Assured that his division had been fed and given
its orders, he arose and walked the ridges along the New Park, where hundreds
of desultory fires flickered through the swirling shrouds of rain and mist. He
was not a praying man, but on this night he felt the need.

He came up the hill to St. Ninian’s kirk, and entered the
sanctuary. Inside, he found Robert, still in his muddied battle gear, bent over
the kneeler under an icon of the kingdom’s patron saint. “You should get some
rest.”

“Do you ever think about Hell, Jamie?”

Alarmed by that tone of flagging resolve, James offered him
his cloak for warmth. “I think about what Belle endures. And I know God could
not surpass the English in devising torments.”

Robert dropped his head in weariness as he draped his
shoulders with the cloak. “I’m not as strong as your lass.”

“You’re strong enough.”

Robert lifted himself from the kneeler, wincing from the
ache in his joints, and walked to a crude crucifix above the altar to study the
mutilated image of Christ. “The churchmen say if we die denied the grace of
God, we will burn for eternity.”

James had seen that same tortured look of doubt in Robert’s
eyes on the night of their Turnberry invasion. He backed against the wall and
slid to his haunches. “Do they not also promise that every man is to be given
his Day of Judgment? I’ll take eternal damnation, provided I can confront the
Almighty and ask Him why a good woman is caused to suffer so. If you go to the
fires, Rob, you’ll go surrounded by the best men God ever fashioned. And Satan
will have an army that will make the archangels tremble.”

Robert’s pugnacious jaw still led, but his shoulders had
become rounded from the burdens of the war, and a slight paunch now hung above
his belt. On this night, he had a soulful urgency that verged on desperation, a
crisis of resolve that surpassed even their darkest days on Arran. They both
knew that, if captured, they would face the same fate dealt to Wallace.

“We could still make for the Isles. Cross Stirling Bridge
and burn it.” Ashamed of his weakening resolve, Robert could not bring himself
to look up.

James stood to leave him to his prayers. He had dealt with
Robert’s low moods too many times to count, but the irony of this night did not
escape him. He had shaped the very strategy that Robert was now proposing—the
slash and burn, the patience to fight another day. All that had been fine when
they were young. But he could no longer endure the thought of running across
the Isles again, lurking from cave to cave and surviving on hope alone. “Aye,
we could fight from the mountains, come out at night like we have since we were
lads. And our sons and grandsons could do the same. And it would never end.”

Robert returned the loaned cloak. “Jamie …”

James saw a hesitant look in his eyes. “Rob, what is wrong?”

Robert turned away, as if
thinking better of uttering what he had nearly revealed. “Be careful tomorrow.”

J
AMES LEFT THE KIRK TROUBLED
by a frisson of foreboding. Had
there been a hint of clairvoyance in Robert’s voice? Or was his own gut warning
him of something more ominous? He crossed the crown of the Dryfield in the
drizzle, memorizing every swale and copse for the coming battle. When he neared
one of the burn’s offshoots, an arrow landed near his feet. A spooked sentry,
most likely.

He walked guardedly toward the direction of the arrow’s
firing.

“We can avoid this,” a voice called out through the fog.

He risked a few steps closer. As the shrouds of mist slowly
cleared, he saw Clifford and Cam standing across the Pelstream. He reached for
his dagger, but they were too far for an accurate throw. He tried to coax them
closer. “Come over here. I can barely hear you.”

Clifford laughed. “After all these years, you think we’d
fall for that?”

“Join us, Douglas,” Cam said, “and all is forgiven.”

He suspected a trap. “Your bribes are nothing to me. Ask
Caernervon.”

“The Bruces intend to abandon you,” Clifford warned. “My
scouts say their baggage wagons are loaded for a retreat to the Campsies. They
will leave you to fight while they escape to the Isles.”

He couldn’t help but wonder if that distant look in Robert’s
eyes had indeed been betrayal. Why had Robert placed the royal standard on Coxet
Hill, which sat near the only escape route to the West? In battles past, Robert
had always been in the middle of the fray. Determined not to let Clifford and
Cam detect his doubt, he picked up a stone and hurled it across the burn, then
retraced his steps back into the fog.