The Spider and the Stone: A Novel of Scotland's Black Douglas (58 page)

I wish the book returned, James Douglas.

Reminded of Belle’s last words to him, he felt for the small
volume under his shirt. He sighed with relief. The
Chanson of Fierabras
had survived the battle.

He pulled the book out and dried its pages in the breeze.
This day, he would fulfill that promise. Through all the years, he and Robert
had read the tale over and again in the saddle and during long nights. He had
heard every word of it in Belle’s voice, and had saved the last chapter to read
with her. All of that was now past. The Comyns were dead and the English
repulsed. He had already picked out their wedding oak, near the chapel on
Stirling Crag. They would finish their vows before this day was done. Nothing
would keep them apart again.

Edward Bruce, escorted by Keith’s cavalry and the Templars,
came trodding on horse across the bridge. Envious of the accolades that James
was receiving for the successful battle strategy, Edward refused his rival even
a nod of acknowledgment as he prodded up ten English prisoners tied to a cart
that carried three large wine casks. Then, remembering his place, Edward
stopped and waited for his brother to take the lead.

Robert paused at the top step of the abbey to fix his grandfather’s
gold brooch on his cloak. In a gesture of celebration, he firmed his hold on
James’s forearm to share the moment they had both so fervently awaited. Then,
with a deep breath, he nodded for Edward to open the doors.

Their boots echoed off the flagstones as they strode down
the nave’s central aisle. Robert stopped several paces from the altar,
indignant at not finding the English emissaries waiting for him. He had won the
battle, not Caernervon. He would not cool his heels for a defeated opponent. He
turned to leave.

The Abbot of Lagny, surrounded by a guard of English
knights, walked forth from the sacristy. The inquisitor appeared so disgusted
with his assigned diplomatic task that he refused the Scots a direct look.

Robert ordered forward the Earl of Hereford and Sir
Marmaluke Thweng, the two ranking prisoners. He also called up a plump
Carmelite friar named Baston, the English scribe who had been found wandering
aimlessly along the burn after the battle.

Lagny glared disgust at the cowering chronicler. “This man
is not part of the arrangement.”

“He is now,” Robert said dryly. “The friar intends to give a
different account of the battle than the one commissioned by your king.”

For the first time, the Dominican saw the Templars in the
Scot entourage. The inquisitor made a threatening move toward the monks who had
ruined his plans for dominance over the rebellious Church of Scotland.
“Traitorous heretics! I watched your sodomite De Molay burn on the pyre!”

Jeanne came face to face with the man who had helped
conspire the arrests and executions of her spiritual brethren in France. “
Oui
,
and as he suffered in the flames, our grand master called the pope and the
French king to God’s tribunal within the year to stand for their crimes.
Clement has already answered his summons in Hell. Phillip will follow soon
enough. As will you.”

When the Dominican raised his hand in threat, James drew his
blade and brought it to the monk’s throat. “Your reign of terror holds no
office here.”

“I have authority to call off this exchange,” the Dominican
warned.

James nodded for Keith’s men to bring up the English privy
seal and royal shield, priceless accoutrements that Caernervon had abandoned in
his haste to leave the field. “The shield appears unused,” he said pointedly.
“I wonder how your king will react when told that they hang it on display in
Dunfermline because of your impertinence.”

The Dominican suddenly lost his bluster.

Robert signaled up the large wine casks that held the bodies
of Gloucester, d’Argentin, and Clifford, all pickled in brine. “My cousin and
the Frenchman are to be buried with honors. You can throw Clifford’s bones into
the Thames for all I care.”

“Lord Gloucester’s family
has asked his armour be returned,” Lagny said.

“He wore none. He preferred
an honorable death to serving a dishonorable monarch.” James allowed Hereford
and Thweng to pass into the hands of the English. “We have complied with our
terms. Now, you will fulfill yours.”

Shaken by the report of Gloucester’s martyrdom, the
Dominican reluctantly signaled for his guards to enter the sacristy. They
brought out Elizabeth Bruce, Mary Campbell, Christian Seton, and Robert’s
daughter, Marjorie.

Gaunt and pale, Elizabeth rushed to Robert’s arms. But
Marjorie, eyes crazed with fear, held back.

Robert reached for his daughter, now eighteen, and tried to
coax her to him, “Come, child. It is over.”

Marjorie screamed and slapped away his hands.

Elizabeth brought the shaking girl to her side and shielded
her eyes from the stares of strangers. She whispered to Robert, “She’s not in
her right mind.”

From the shadows of the choir stall, an old man shuffled
into the dim light. He limped toward James with bated steps, as if his ankles
were shackled. “By God’s grace,” he muttered as he reached for James. “By God’s
grace.”

Lagny turned with a huff to leave, revolted at being forced
to give up the one man he deemed most responsible for this unthinkable
calamity.

Fighting tears, James rushed to embrace Bishop Lamberton. He
looked over the old cleric’s shoulder and counted the faces of the women who
had been delivered. Grinning, he pulled away and searched the recesses behind
the choir and altar. He knew Belle’s tricks. She was hiding to surprise him.
After all this time, she still played with him as if they were youngsters. He
would find her out and lift her to the rafters. He shoved open the sacristy
door and waited for her to spring upon him.

The anteroom was empty.

Suddenly cold with dread, James rushed back into the nave
and captured the inquisitor’s arm in a demand. “The Countess of Buchan?”

Savoring a smile, the Dominican brushed off his imploring
grasp.

Lamberton braced James at the shoulders, and shook his head.

“But Randolph told me … Is she not well enough to endure the
journey?” James turned to Robert. “I’ll leave at once for Berwick to bring her
back.”

The frail bishop firmed his grip. “Jamie … she is dead.”

A raven’s shriek shuddered the nave.

James staggered and nearly fell, until Lamberton caught him.

When the Dominican lingered to enjoy James’s grief-stricken
prostration, Robert charged at him in a fury. “Out! Out of my sight!”

The inquisitor quickly herded his ransomed lords from the
abbey before the exchange could be renegotiated.

Robert turned back to find James on his knees. He tried to
bring his friend to standing, but James repulsed the effort. Robert stood over
him in anguished silence, at a loss what to say. When James refused even to
look up at him, Robert could only nod for the others to depart with him. As the Scots walked from the abbey in silence, they pressed
a hand to James’s shoulder to acknowledge his loss.

Jeanne lingered behind in the shadows of the narthex,
determined to make certain that he did no harm to himself.

If a stone falls down the glen,
it’s in the cairn it will rest.

— an ancient Scottish proverb

A
S
J
EANNE DE
R
OUEN LED THE
king’s daughter, Marjorie, on horse into the Lintalee defile, she reached for her dagger, a reflex from that day six years ago when she and the Templars had been ambushed by James and his raiders in this shadowy archway of hanging firs. The path was still littered with carts and helmets abandoned by the English army on its retreat from Stirling. Overhead, magpies chirred frantically above the broom thickets. Were they warning her away?

Just
then, the new Douglas manor came into her view, rising beyond the leafy tunnel
and shimmering under the golden summer sun on a half-moon curve of high ground.
Two rows of concentric walls surrounded the round tower of whitewashed logs; its steep roof rose to a point like a wimpled cornet, giving the place more
the appearance of a small Loire chateau than a Highland keep. This new
fortified headquarters was perfectly situated to serve as a bolthole for raids
into Northumbria. Below the manor, Sweenie and the men lazed along the stream
trading stories and arm-wrestling while James, stripped to the waist and alone
in the vale, attacked a tall pine with a notch ax.

Apprehensive,
she slowed their approach. Two years had passed since she had last seen him.
The Almighty, it seemed, never gave without taking, for although the English
had been bloodied at Bannockburn and the queen restored to Robert, the victory
had come at a heavy price. News of the battle’s outcome had not yet reached
Berwick when the Countess of Buchan was found dead. To calm the Yorkshire
populace until he could sail to London, Caernervon had sent couriers ahead to
spread word across northern England that both Robert and James had been killed.
Many Scots believed that Belle had given up her spirit in despair after hearing
the scurrilous report.

Despite
his crushing defeat, Caernervon continued to press his illegal claim on the
Scottish throne. As a result, James had been required to renew his war of
attrition here in the Borders, and there were rumors that he had fallen into
such a debilitating despond that he now broke his seclusion only to vent his
rage by pillaging the English marches.

The men finally spotted the two women and rushed up from the clearing to
pepper them with questions about news from the North. Sweenie
applauded their arrival. “Now we can hold the housewarming.”

From
afar, Jeanne kept watching James, who remained in the vale, refusing to
acknowledge her. She made a move to ride over to him, but Sweenie captured her
bridle to insist that she not grovel. She thought he looked gaunt. Had he not
been eating? Why would he not come to her? When the tree he was attacking
finally fell, he seemed to take satisfaction that another of God’s creations
shared his pain. He threw the ax over his shoulder and walked toward the lodge
without offering her even a nod in welcome.

While
the men helped Marjorie from her pony, Jeanne dismounted and took off her
gloves. Brushing back her hair, she whispered to Sweenie, “Do I need to go in
there armed?”

The
little monk, seeing her determined to speed the confrontation, reluctantly
escorted her to the gate of the manor. He offered some counsel before allowing
her to enter alone. “Pay him no mind. He’s not been his old self.”

Inside
the hall, she found James slumped on a stool, aimlessly stirring the logs in
the hearth. When he refused to turn and greet her, she risked a step closer.
“The king has appointed you Warden of the Marches.”

He
erupted to his feet and kicked the stool against the wall. “I suppose he
thought that one up in the queen’s embrace!”

She
was disappointed to find that his brooding anger had not dissipated with the passage
of months. Randolph had been sent south several times to negotiate a
reconciliation with Robert, but the king’s nephew had only inflamed James’s
bitterness with reports of how Elizabeth had turned Dunfermline into a jovial
home. She suspected that Robert had dispatched her here, too, for a purpose
other than delivering orders and escorting his daughter on a diversion in the
countryside. But now she saw from this cold welcome that she was the last
person suited for such a diplomatic task. During those black days after the
battle, she had remained at James’s side, secretly falling in love with him.
Yet the more she attempted to break through his pain, the deeper he seemed to
resent her for not being Belle. He had fled Stirling without even offering a goodbye
to her. She had hoped to find his heart healed, but she saw that her arrival
had merely reopened the wound. With
regret, she retreated to the door. “I’ll not impose upon you further.”