The Spider and the Stone: A Novel of Scotland's Black Douglas (8 page)

He rested her head on his chest and stroked her long hair.
“They already showed they can’t run fast enough to catch me.”

She leapt to her feet, nearly head-butting his chin. “You’re as crouse as a new washed louse! What woman would marry
you?”

He tickled her sides until she relented by sliding into his
embrace again. “So, you’ve been thinking about marrying me?”

Angered by his presumption and her own reckless
indiscretion, she fought to escape his grasp. “You need some sisters to show
you how to court.”

“You were pulling for me yesterday.”

“I certainly was
not
!”

“Aye, you were.”

“What if I was?” She turned serious, fending off his
tickles. “There’s something you should know. … My father intends me to marry
Tabhann Comyn.”

His flirting grin turned upside down. “They’ll have me to deal with first!”

“Red Comyn says I’ll be a queen.”

“That’s a fool’s hope! The Bruces hold the
true right to the throne.”

Peeved by his curt dismissal of her possible royal ascent,
she said, “I’m told the Bruces would sell us out to the English.”

“The Comyns have already addled your head with their lies.”

“And what do you know about it?” she demanded.

“My father is loyal to the Bruces. If Scotland is to be
saved, it will be by the Bruces, not those Comyn traitors.”

She set her teeth; here was another man, just like her father and brothers, lecturing her on matters deemed too complicated for her to understand. “If you’re so clever, then tell me why Robert Bruce is held in such fondness by Edward Longshanks?” She waited for a rebuttal to that troubling point, but he could offer her none. The Bruce clan’s service to the English king, and young Robert’s schooling in London in particular, caused all Scots consternation, she knew. Yet this Douglas lad apparently labored under the delusion that his father would never become allied to a clan that might betray Scotland. She had witnessed enough treachery in her own family to question such guilelessness. She was about to tell him so when she heard distant shouts. She quickly gathered up her basket. “I have to go.”

“I’ll make you queen of Castle Douglas.”

“I don’t want to be queen of anything!”

“We’ll jump a galley to Dublin.”

“And do what? Starve? A man can make his own destiny. A
woman is bound by the dictates of others.”

“I can provide for you. I’m to inherit all of this land.”

“As a Scot? Or as an English vassal of the Bruces?”

“A lassie’s head shouldn’t be filled with concerns about
statecraft.” He stole another kiss. “You’re meant for other things.”

This time, she shoved him away, incensed that he had
dismissed her views so flippantly. “You’re no different than the Comyns!”
Unable to find the words sufficient to vent all the rage that had built up
inside her these past days, she retreated up the path toward the castle, crying
and yanking down the laundry from the branches as she ran.

“A week from this night!” he yelled at her. “Meet me
here!”

W
HEN OUT OF HIS SIGHT,
Belle stopped running and crumpled
to the ground, torn with confused emotions. This Douglas boy was infuriating,
but he possessed a strange hold on her. She looked down and saw a smooth rock
in the shape of a heart, with a tiny hole eroded by water through its center.
The old folk called such sculpted rocks elf cups, for fairies left them as
omens of fated love.
Rely upon shrouded
images that are not direct
—wasn’t that what the crone had told her?

She picked up the heart-stone and heaved it through the
mists.
That
would be his
answer. If his feelings for her were true, the Little People would help him
find it.

J
AMES HEARD A MUFFLED WHISTLING
through the fog. He
dived just in time to avoid being brained by a stone that splashed the water.
He looked down at the ripples and saw a heart-shaped stone floating back toward
him with the current.

Had the heavens dropped it on him?

He fished the stone from the stream and studied it.
Gathering his clothes on the bank, he quickly dressed and, pulling a leather
cord from his leggings, threaded the stone and hung it around his neck. He
scampered to a nearby oak and retrieved the crude flute that he had hidden with
his prized ax. He played a few notes and sang an old ballad that his stepmother
had taught him:

“On Raglan Road on an August day
I saw her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare
That I might one day rue.
I saw the danger yet I walked
Along the enchanted way
And I said, ‘Let grief be a fallen leaf
At the dawning of the day.”

Falling leaves showered him with a warning that the season
would soon turn cold and dark. He waited, hoping for Belle’s response, but the
glen remained silent. “A week hence, we meet here again!” he called out through
the mists. “If you say nothing, it’s a promise!”

Only the cackaws in the treetops answered him.

R
ACING THE SUN IN A
dash for home, he slowed his approach
as he came upon a dark tunnel called Ninian’s Faint. This winding shepherd’s
path bordered by steep limestone scarps was the last difficult stretch before
the Lanark hills opened up into the wide vales of Douglasdale. Above him, a
precarious ridge of cracked rocks crowned the notorious ravine.

His father had once told him how the Druids of old believed that
malignant spirits congregated in these swires. Legend had it that St.
Ninian proved Christ’s superiority over the tree-hung god of the ancients by
walking the scree alone at night. The saint never revealed the trials he had
suffered here, but it was said he always marked the anniversary of his feat
with a resounding sermon on Our Lord’s temptations in the Judean desert.

The light was fading fast, and to go around the cranny would
delay him an hour. Cull and Chullan held back, but he whistled them up and
walked into the defile, turning sideways to avoid the jagged corners. After
several minutes, the ravine splayed open toward the low sun. He shielded his
eyes and turned toward a fleeting sweep of shadows.

The pups yelped a warning—seconds before a rock hammered his forehead.

“I thought I told you to stay away from her.”

Hearing that voice distantly, he reached to his scalp and
felt blood oozing down his brow. Dazed, he lifted to his knees and forced his
eyes to focus.

Tabhann, twirling Belle’s nightgown, stood over him.

Cam and the MacDuff brothers were with Tabhann, seven in all.

He cursed his carelessness. He had fallen for the oldest
Highland trick, the ambush in an enclosed pass. He glanced over his shoulder
and saw one of the MacDuffs, armed with a rod, blocking the defile to his rear.
Firming his grip on the ax, he vowed to take a couple of them down with him,
and Tabhann would be the first. He charged at the oldest Comyn, but his blow
was glancing and the ax slid from his hand. Tabhann and his mates took turns
pummeling him. He slowly slipped into blackness—until a rustling shook the
brush above him. Bloodied, he revived and rolled to his knees.

Tabhann and his gang were staring up at the bluff, where an
older boy sat mounted on white steed as sleek and fine as a racehorse. The
rider was attired in the saffron regalia of noble birth and had a square jaw
and a broad, noble forehead.

“Keep moving,” Tabhann warned the traveler. “This is none of
your concern.”

The rider ignored the order and edged his horse down into
the ravine. His dark blue eyes, lustrous but sensitive to light, swam with an
aqueous film that gave him a pained expression. He looked around the swale in
mock confusion. “Am I not in Scotland?”

Cam balled his fists. “Are you brain addled?”

“Maybe he can’t hear,” Tabhann suggested, “with all those
baubles jangling from his shirt.”

The traveler dismounted and sniffed the air. “I can certainly smell
Comyn dung, so this must be Scotland.” He came nose to nose with Tabhann.
“And that makes it my concern. … Because I’m your future king.”

Tabhann darkened, suddenly recognizing the stranger. “Robert Bruce.” He
spat, as if to void his mouth of a foul taste. “English scum. I’ll go to the
grave before I see you crowned.”

Bruce leaned down to wipe Tabhann’s spittle from his boots.
“Let’s get a start on it, then.” He came back up with a cross hook that sent
Tabhann airborne.

Cam rushed to his cousin’s aid, but Bruce buckled him with a
forearm. The MacDuff brothers dove into the fray, and Bruce parried their
charges like a trained swordsman, but the force of their numbers soon
overwhelmed him.

Forgotten in the melee, James climbed from his knees and leapt on
Tabhann’s back, riding him face first into the prickly gorse. Recovering to his
feet, James fought his way out of the scrum and came back to back with Bruce.
Surrounded, he whispered to his new comrade, “They got us in fists.”

Bruce wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth.
“Aye, but we got them in wits. Two to none, by my count.”

The Comyns and MacDuffs puffed like bulls as they closed ranks for
another charge. James saw his ax and dived for its handle, but Tabhann denied
him with an elbow. Pinned, James slung the ax inches from Tabhann’s reach.

Chullan pounced on the weapon and dragged it to Bruce.

Rewarding the pup with a pat, Bruce whipped the weapon
around his head so deftly that the Comyns and MacDuffs were momentarily stunned
into inaction. “This has a fine heft.”

Still under Tabhann’s weight, James grunted, “Don’t get too
attached!”

Tabhann kicked James aside to charge at Bruce.

Bruce hurled the ax at Tabhann’s jaw. Stunned with a gash from
the glancing blow, Tabhann staggered back. One by one, the Comyns and MacDuffs
scampered off. Tabhann, the last to retreat, shouted promises of revenge.

Wincing from his bruises, James leveraged gingerly to a knee
and offered his hand to his rescuer in gratitude. “I owe you one.”

Bruce picked up the ax again and held its handle toward the
fading sun to examine the name on the last inscription. “You’re Wil Douglas’s
son?”

“Aye.”

Bruce firmed their handshake. “Good timing. You can show me
the way to Castle Douglas. I’m to meet my grandfather there this night.” He had
a quick, expressive mouth and a sonorous voice that betrayed a dissonant hint
of self-doubt. His smile was never fully committed, but remained in conflict
with some inner sentinel against hubris. “So, was it over a lass or an insult?”

James stretched his bruised limbs to check for damage. “How
did you know?”

Bruce retrieved his skittish horse and palmed its nostrils
to soothe its nerves. “Do we Scots fight over anything else?” He winced from a
thigh bruise as he tried to mount.

James helped him to the stirrups. “The lass I love holds
you
to be no Scotsman at all.”

Offended by the questioning of his loyalty, Bruce repulsed the assistance. “My father’s ancestors came to this isle with the Conqueror, as did yours, Douglas. You and I are half-bred from Norman stock.”

“So, does she speak true?”

Sighing, Bruce hung his head with a sadness that seemed
passing strange for one so blessed in fortune and features. He muttered to
himself, “What is a Scot? A Norman? A Dane? A Pict? An Irishman who swims?”

James had always assumed that the cut of a Scotsman was readily evident. Now, he wasn’t so sure. As he led Bruce’s horse up the ravine, he pondered the question at length, and finally he offered, “Any man who fights the English. There’s a bloodline good enough for me.”

Bruce smiled ruefully, amused to find that James had been wrestling with what had been offered as a mere rhetorical comment. “The French may take issue with you. … Perhaps a Scotsman must be made, not born.”

James enjoyed a laugh at his own expense. Despite Belle’s doubts about the Bruce clan, he liked this Robert Bruce. She might dismiss the Bruces as Longshanks’s lackeys, but no true Englishman would have risked his life here in the Lanarkshire wilds to help a foreigner. Perhaps the Almighty had intended the future Lord of Annandale to spend his youth in England for some greater purpose. After all, as James’s father had once told him, the wolf must first sleep with the lamb to gain its trust.

T
HAT NIGHT,
J
AMES AND
R
OBERT
Bruce slipped unnoticed into
the shadowed periphery of Castle Douglas’s great hall, where the chieftains of
the realm, meeting in secret to decide how best to confront the English
occupation, were arguing over the latest dire news: Longshanks had thrown John
Balliol into London Tower on charges of financial malfeasance.

Months earlier, the English king had appointed the incompetent Balliol as puppet ruler of Scotland, but that cynical act was now exposed as a clever ploy to force the Holy See and the royal courts across the Channel to concede that the clans were incapable of governing themselves. Each man present had cast his lot with the Comyns or the Bruces in the ruinous struggle for the throne, and now none could travel across their ravaged shires without suffering accusations of greed and betrayal.