The Spider and the Stone: A Novel of Scotland's Black Douglas (75 page)

He walked with Jeanne to the water’s edge, and whispered to
her, “Take care of Lintalee. When I am back in two years, I’ll make things
right between us.” He kissed her and pushed the currach into the sea.

As he was rowed away, the haze cleared, and he looked toward
the sky. His heart ached with an inexplicable dread.

He could not find Columba’s star.

A
RUSH OF ALIEN SENSATIONS
assaulted James as he led his
nine men up the marble steps of Sevilla’s palace. Castilian tongues clattered
around him while pungent aromas from the
murakkaba
breads leavening in
the market kilns flared his nostrils. He began to feel light-headed, blinded by
the glare of the harsh Spanish sun that refracted off a towering minaret left
by the Moors who had once governed here.

The
Templar d’Aumont did not hide his disgust at being subjected to such insidious
infidel influences. “We should have continued on to Majorca.”

“The galley requires provisioning,” James reminded the monk. “And Keith’s
broken arm must be tended. What harm can come of enjoying the Castilian king’s
hospitality for a few days?”

D’Aumont and his two
Templar brothers, including William Sinclair, hid their necklaces with the
outlawed Beausant insignia. The court of Alfonso XI would be thick with
Dominican inquisitors, they knew, and if their affiliation were to be discovered,
these rabidly devout Castilians would not hesitate to enforce the papacy’s call
for their arrests, given the Temple’s history in this country. Decades ago, the
French grand master had abandoned Castile to the Moors, a betrayal that gave
rise to the formation of rival Spanish order, the Knights of Calatrava, whose
monks were still embroiled in a crusade to wrest the borderland of Al Andalus
from Muslim Granada.

A turbaned functionary
led the Scots into the royal hall, and the swarthy Calatravans turned and
greeted them with cold silence.

King Alfonso, alone of
all the Castilians present, appeared delighted by their arrival. The
twenty-year-old monarch with sparkling black eyes and aquiline nose leapt from
his chair to great his famous guest. There was an excessive gracefulness in his
manner, the flowing sleeves of his white silk robe tumbling with each flourish
of his slender hands. James had expected to
find an ascetic warrior-king in the mold of the heroic Cid, but this boy
resembled more an Arab caliph or a Greek potentate. Was that a hint of eye
lining, or were his lashes naturally prominent?

At Alfonso’s signal, a
troubadour knelt before James and sang:

“Two hearts, noble, stout;
One beating, one mute;
Two realms, fierce, redoubt;
One free, one resolute;
The great Alfonso remembers Bruce
And welcomes Douglas, warrior yet
Who on the English did fiercely loose
A sharp defeat they shan’t forget.”

Cupping the heart cask that hung from James’s neck, Alfonso
studied it as if he were touching a holy relic. “Is it true, Lord Douglas, that
you and your king were once hunted by dogs?”

James was surprised that the reports of his Loch Lomond
escape had made it all the way to Espagna. He shrugged off the feat, quipping
with self-deprecation, “Even starving hounds would not have bothered with our
fleshless bones.”

Alfonso smiled at his humility. “Do you not believe that the
Almighty has a purpose for all events, even those seemingly random?”

“I am a man of arms, Sire. I leave theology to the clerics.”

“What about your famous spider? Was it not sent at the
moment of your direst need?”

“Aye, I believe it was.”

“And your biblical Stone. Miraculously unearthed for King Bruce.”

“God’s hand was upon us then, as well.”

“So you
do
delve into theology.” Alfonso retreated
into prayer as he walked before the ranks of his Calatravans. He stopped under
a high balustrade that held a life-sized Christ on a cross twice the size of
any crucifix extant in Scotland. He glanced up, leading his guest’s attention
toward the icon.

James marveled at the realistic carving of Our Lord in His
travails. He could not shake the feeling that Christ’s bleeding face and
liquiscent glass eyes were focused directly on him alone.

Alfonso waited for the crucifix to work its power. “I too am
a pious servant of God. And I believe the Almighty’s grace has been visited on
me this day. He has brought me the greatest warrior alive. At the moment of my
darkest peril.”

D’Aumont checked James with a forearm to his chest. “Lord
Douglas is sworn to an oath.”

Alfonso ignored that remonstrance and closed in on his
famous guest. “Your King Bruce fervently desired to take the Cross, no?”

“How did you learn of this?” James asked.

Alfonso’s eyes shaded with sadness. “A pity the Bruce did
not see his dream fulfilled.” The king delayed as if wishing to say something
more, but then thought better of it. “My seneschal will see to it that you are
well supplied. I will commission our Cistercians at San Clemente to pray for
your safe journey on to Palestine.” He folded his hands in preparation to take
his leave.

James glared at d’Aumont for having insulted their royal
host. Clearly, the Castilian monarch had sought only the honor of their
companionship.

Walking from the hall, Alfonso stopped below the crucifix.
Visited with a revelation, he turned back to James. “Perhaps it can yet be
accomplished.”

“My lord?”

“Your King Bruce’s wish. The Holy Land is now open only to pilgrims, so you will see no battle there. But here, on the plains of Al Andalus, the great Douglas could win eternal salvation for the valiant Bruce. And you and your knights could be off to the Holy Sepulcher before winter sets in.”

“The Bruce asked for Jerusalem only,” d’Aumont insisted.

James stood mesmerized by the possibility. For thirty years
he had prayed for the chance to take up the Cross and fulfill the boyhood vow
he had made with Robert. Yet the Templar spoke true; he was compelled to
decline the invitation to join the Iberian crusade, for it would require
contravening the dictates of Parliament. “You do me great honor, Majesty. But I
am constrained by the mission set upon me by my country.”

A ravishing lady with dark Egyptian features appeared from
the shadowed periphery and came slithering to Alfonso’s side. She had ringlets
of chestnut hair and enchanting green eyes; a wide gold belt hung low on her
jewel-studded gown of crimson velvet and fell in a chevron to the valley below
her waist, allowing her comely hips to lead each step. Announced by the
ambrosial scent of cassia perfume, she stood before James and studied his dark
features. “You have the look of an Iberian. Pray tell, why is this?”

“I can answer only to my deeds,” James said. “Not to the
color of my skin.”

The lady’s alluring smile
suddenly gave way to a glare of disdain. She turned from him dismissively and
announced to the Calatravans, “This man cannot be the Douglas of Scotland.”

Alfonso admonished her harshly in Castilian. Then, the king
begged forgiveness from James. “Our women speak too freely. I pray you take no
offense.”

James saw that his stunning accuser seemed unfazed by the
scolding. In truth, she utterly entranced him. “It is I who owes the apology. I
seem to have disappointed the lady.”

“Allow me to introduce Dona Leonor de Guzman,” the king
said.

James nodded knowingly, having heard the bards in La
Rochelle sing of the beautiful mistress who had scandalously replaced the older
Queen Dona Maria of Portugal in Alfonso’s bed. Yet their flattering
descriptions had not done her justice. Why was he quivering like a schoolboy? He
had not felt such stirrings since … He bowed and kissed the back of her wrist.

She abruptly withdrew her hand, grazing his upper lip with
the bevel of her garnet ring. She paraded before the celibate Calatravans,
whose marred cheeks and jagged noses gave evidence of their past wounds. With a
half-lidded look of derision, she turned back and found James’s eyes still
watering from the sting of her ring’s scrape. “Your face bears no scars. No
warrior who fought as many battles as the Douglas would be so unscathed.”

Sinclair bristled at the slander. “You see no marks because
he was too quick for any Englishman.”

Dona Leonor drew a kerchief from her sleeve and staunched a
thin seep of blood on James’s lip. “I fear I have given him his first.” She
lowered her eyes to his hands, as if expecting a demonstration of their
prowess. She slid her fingers down his forearm to test its strength.

His hand was quivering.

Greeting that discovery with a seductive smile, the lady
called for a goblet of wine from an attendant. She brought the cup to James’s
lips, coupling her fingers over his.

He tried to pull away, fearful that Alfonso would take
offense to such a bold display of intimacy.

Amused by his modesty, the Dona savored another sip under
his admiring yet disconcerted gaze—and dropped the goblet.

James lunged to catch it, too late. The goblet clanged to the floor, spilling the wine and
coming to rest near the boots of the smirking Calatravans.

The Dona released his wrist with a flick of contempt and
shot a haughty sneer at Sinclair. “Perhaps it is for the best that Scotland’s
champion does not challenge the Moors. The infidels are much quicker than
Englishmen with the sword.” With a sweep of her flared sleeve, she turned away
and lamented, “Alas, there are no Roland and Oliver for our time.”

James had bent to one knee to retrieve the goblet. Hearing
her muttered aside, he looked up at her with a start. “What did you just say,
my lady?”

She turned back, appearing surprised by his interest. “Roland and Oliver. You would never have heard of them. They were gallant knights who came to our land years ago to defend God’s cause. The story is a mere fable, I fear. I see now that such chivalry is practiced only by Castilians.” She whipped her train to the crease of her elbow, lashing his face lightly in a taunt, and continued her exit. As she passed, the men watched her ravishing form, revealed and hidden with each flow of her clinging gown.

At the portal, she glanced at Alfonso and shared a private smile with him before disappearing into the darkness of the stairwell.

S
HIELDING HIS DRY EYES FROM
the brutal Andalusian sun, James
searched the mountain range behind him to the north. Nearly ten leagues, away
on the barren horizon, stood the besieged Castillo della Estrella—the Castle of the Stars—a formidable keep
that reached so high on its rocky outcropping that the Moors believed it had
once touched Heaven.

“The Calatravans should have come up by now,” d’Aumont
warned him. “We had best turn back for Sevilla.”

James ignored the Templar’s advice and drove his contingent
of nine knights deeper into another arid
barranco
whose burnt scape
was broken only by a few patches of olive trees. Convinced that Dona Leonor’s
invocation of Roland and Oliver was a divine sign, he had agreed to command a
wing of Alfonso’s army. But the Castilians maneuvered so methodically that,
after a week of campaigning, he had decided to press ahead, intent upon
seducing the Moors and their leader Osmin into a trap, just as he had done to
Clifford at Glen Trool.

If only the infidel coward would stop and fight.

The Saracen scouting party they had been chasing for two
days had disappeared again into the blazing Spanish haze.

His throat was so parched that he could barely swallow.
Their water skins were dry and the heat was so unrelenting that steam rose from
the buckles of their hauberks. Through all of the hardships in the English
campaigns, he had never experienced sunstroke. He felt as if his soul was being
flayed. He prayed the frothing horses would make it to the next plateau, and
reaching the thistle-plagued crest, he looked down into a hull-shaped vale
rimmed by rows of dying pomegranate striplings. At its lowest point, three
Moslem women stood shading themselves under a smattering of palm trees. Draped
in black robes and hoods, they drew a bucket from an oasis well.

Black ravens circled above them—a certain sign of water.

He licked his cracked lips. Muttering a prayer of thanks to
God, he led his men on their staggering mounts down the ridge toward the
blessed discovery.

Seeing their approach, the women hurried away—all but one,
the tallest. She peered through her gossamer veil, and held her jar aloft in an
offer.

He removed his helmet in anticipation of wetting his swollen
tongue.

The woman walked toward him with her black robes whipping in
the hot wind. A few steps away, she dropped her veil and hood.

My God! Can it truly be?

He thought there could be
no fluid left in his body, but tears streamed down his cheeks. Had the Almighty
granted him the miracle he had long petitioned? Many of the returned crusaders
had said their most fervent prayers were answered in reward for the torments
they endured for Christ.