The Spider and the Stone: A Novel of Scotland's Black Douglas (59 page)

“Why
did you bring Marjorie here?”

She
turned back, grateful, at least, for those few words. “The physicians have
given up on her. The king hoped you might raise her spirits.”

James angled toward the
window and watched the men entertain Marjorie with a game of cards outside. He
had always held a warm place in his heart for the star-crossed lass. Although
she was now twenty years old, her maturation had been stunted by the years
spent in English confinement. A child still in both temperament and
intelligence, she had become withdrawn, frightened by the most harmless of
noises, and was a constant irritant to Robert, who cared about her well being
only because she was now seven months with child. All Scotland watched the
progress of her pregnancy with great concern, for Elizabeth had not produced a
male heir and Robert now suffered more frequently from his mysterious illness.
The commoners constantly pestered the poor lass to touch her womb, and the
nobles whispered fears about the mental condition of the infant she would bring
to term. It was an unbearable burden for the painfully shy girl, who found it
difficult enough to make it through each day without breaking down.

Earlier that year,
fearing another struggle for the crown should Marjorie’s infant not come to
term, Bishop Lamberton had reconvened the Parliament to establish a line of
succession. Edward Bruce had been chosen first for the throne, but he was so
reckless that few expected him to outlive his older brother. At long last
giving up hope of siring a male, Robert had betrothed Marjorie to the son of
one of his oldest allies, Walter Stewart, the High Steward of Scotland. Young
Stewart had performed his marital duties with admirable swiftness.
Everyone—except the Comyn expatriates—prayed for a boy.

Jeanne scanned the mud-spackled walls and considered how she
might make the place more hospitable. A good soap rubbing would chase the harsh
aroma of cut wood, and she would replace the floor straw with sprinkled
lavender and sweet fennel. The rafters begged for tapestries, the creaking
floorboards for the warmth of rugs. She had seen an elmwood armoire in Stirling
that would fit perfectly in the alcove. “Did Castle Douglas look like this?”

He shook his head. “That is a memory I wish forever
banished.”

She spied two swords propped in the corner. Perhaps there
was another way to rouse him from his self-pity. “Did I not once promise you a
rematch?”

He waved her off, in no mood for such nonsense—until she
retrieved one of the swords and prodded him in the ribs. He tried to steal the
weapon from her, but she demonstrated the same quickness he remembered when
they fought under the shadows of Notre Dame. He took the other blade and
squared off with her. “What do I get if I win?”

“From the smell of things around here, you could use some
laundering.”

He kicked aside the soiled clothing—and lunged at her with a
quick wrist snap, severing a couple buttons on her blouse.

She looked down at her
partially exposed chest. “That is base chivalry!”

“What would a French hussy know of chivalry?”

When she dropped her chin with hurt, he lowered his sword
and came closer to beg her forgiveness. She spun and drove the weapon from his
grasp. Disarmed, he backed away and felt for the blade on the floor with his
boot. If he bent to reclaim it, she would have the advantage.

“What are you waiting for?” she taunted. “At your advanced
age, if you tarry much longer, you’ll not be able to reach the floor.”

“And you? Your reward in the unlikely event you prevail?”

“I’ve not been on a picnic since Paris. Cheese, wine, and
pastries.”

He toed his blade closer. “Where would I get pastries around
here?”

She poked him in the gut. “Are there not bakeries in York?
Or is that city beyond your reach?” When he made a move for his weapon, she
kicked it across the floor and backed him into a corner. He raised his hands in
concession. With a smirk of conquest, she lowered her blade. “And don’t think
you can slip that cheap Lanark cider—” The sword was knocked from her grasp.

He captured her wrists and pinned her against the wall. The more she struggled, the tighter he restrained her. Pressed under his weight, she was about to bite his arm when she found his gaze transfixed on her heaving chest revealed by the ripped blouse. She tried to cover her breasts, but he kept her arms splayed to enjoy the delightful view.

He whispered hotly to her ear, “A surrender must be
accompanied by word of mouth.” His rising breath traveled down her neck. “A
lass too clever by half once taught me that.”

“I surrender.”

She moaned as he kissed her hard, giving vent to all the
rage that had festered inside him. He tore the shredded blouse from her
shoulders. She closed her eyes and became lost in the rising passion, but then
cold tears streaked down her breasts, startling her. She looked down and saw
that he had dropped sobbing to his knees, the grief pouring out in waves. She
removed what remained of her blouse and, raising him, pressed another kiss to
his lips to draw out his pain. She whispered heavily, “I don’t want you to stop
loving her.”

“I cannot give what you deserve,” he said, still heaving.

Taking his hand, she led him into the bedchamber. “I will
never ask for your heart.” She closed the door behind them, praying for the
strength to honor that vow.

R
OBERT
N
EVILLE, KNOWN IN EVERY
tavern and whorehouse from
Dover to York as the Peacock of the North, disembarked from an English galley
at Berwick port. Accompanied by his two younger brothers, the knight strutted
up the tower steps with his flaxen curls bouncing to the lead of his famous
blue helmet plume. On the ramparts, he looked down and laughed at the Scots who
were scurrying to mount an assault from their siege trenches below the
fastness. The pomp of his arrival had apparently deluded the attackers into
believing that Caernervon himself had arrived to take command of the only city
north of the border that still remained in English hands.

The Nevilles entered the
main hall of the tower and found a wretched tableau of crumbled walls, hacked
furniture, and torn tapestries. John of Richmond, the commander of the
beleaguered English garrison, sat slumped at a table with his officers, who refused to
stand and offer the traditional greeting demanded in a nobleman’s presence. The
Peacock inquired of them in a tone of mock confusion, “Might you direct me to
the quarters of the gentleman in charge of this enterprise? I seem to have
taken a wrong turn into the coal bin.”

Richmond sneered at this latest addition to the long list of
fools who had been banished to his corner of Hell. During the two years of the
siege, the king had used Berwick as a refuse pit for exiling malcontents,
paroled criminals, and barons in disrepute. The officer kicked a rickety chair
toward the eldest Neville and growled, “Dine on dog meat for eight months and
we’ll see how rosy your cheeks turn. When will I be reinforced?”

Robert Neville gingerly navigated across the debris, careful
to avoid scratching his spit-polished boots. “Not soon. Edward has levied more
taxes to pay for the losses at Stirling. The earls are marshalling their forces
in the South. There is civil war afoot.”

“You must have offended someone of high stature to merit
this assignment,” Richmond said. “We usually get the Tower rejects.”

The Peacock rocked the dusty wine kegs in a search for
anything suitable to imbibe, choosing not to reveal the true offense that had
given rise to this present punishment: He had killed one of the king’s
sycophants, Sir Richard Marmeduke, in a squabble over who was the more ranking
lord at the royal dinner table. Instead, he lied: “Caernervon’s newest bed
doll, Hugh Despenser, could not abide my good looks so near the royal pillow.”

Affronted, the officers reached for weapons, but Richmond held them at bay and warned Neville, “Mind your tongue here.”

“I don’t intend to be here long enough to mind it.”

“You have some ingenious
plan to get us out, do you?”

The Peacock lingered at the arrow slit, inspecting the
defensive cordon that the Scots had thrown up around the city. The besieged
tower could only be provisioned by sea, a dangerous enterprise that required
running the gauntlet of archers on the beaches at night. “I never thought I’d
see Englishmen cornered by Highland rats.” He searched the Scot pennons beyond
the Tweed. “Where does Robert Bruce make his headquarters?”

Richmond snorted at
Neville’s ignorance of this war. “Bruce is not here.”

Neville turned in astonishment. “Who commands the savages?”

“The Black Douglas.”

Neville loosed a sibilant puff of hilarity. “The
Black
Douglas? Why not the Lavender Douglas? Who is this brigand with such a
ridiculous name?”

Richmond had endured that same question from dozens of
hotspurs who had dashed north to try their hand against the infamous rebel
leader. “The man has never been defeated.”

Neville peered beyond the walls. “Point this black phantom
out to me.”

Richmond hesitated before admitting, “He’s not in their camp.”

“Does he command from a galley?”

“His new manor is thirty leagues west of here.”

Neville held a contemptuous glare of disbelief. “Manor? Have
you built a cathedral to him as well? Mayhaps I should make a pilgrimage and
light a votive candle in his honor. It seems the brigand has performed the
miracle of besieging the king’s forces without even being present. St. George
himself could not have accomplished such a feat.”

“You have never met him on the field.”

The Peacock flipped an upturned hand toward his brothers,
beckoning a bottle of wine from their own transported stock. After enjoying a
long draught, he licked his lips and declared, “I am going to do you a favor,
Richmond. Not that you merit it, but you and this rabble of yours are in dire
need of an exorcism. Where is this Black Devil’s manor, as you call it?”

Richmond brightened at prospects of getting the braggart out
of his hair. “At a place called Lintalee, south of Jedburgh. I’ll even mount a
counterattack to give you cover.”

The Peacock took another long drink and, belching, tossed
the empty bottle through the window. “I managed to get into this piss hole
without your aid. I shan’t require it to get out.”

J
AMES LED
J
EANNE AND
M
ARJORIE
on horse into the low vales of
Lanark and spurred into a playful dash. After entertaining them for a week, he
had agreed to accompany the women back to the Stewart castle at Renfrew. He
wouldn’t admit it, but he was enjoying this respite from the campaigns.

Jeanne caught up and
prodded him to open up. “You needn’t have come all the way with us,” she said,
clearly not meaning it. For the first time since Bannockburn, she felt a
lightness of heart in him. Marjorie’s spirit had also lifted; the lass’s cheeks
were flushed and, though she still rarely spoke, an occasional smile now
crossed her face. Robert had been prescient in sending his daughter to James
for a visit, and James had benefited from her company. Despite his initial
brusqueness, he had warmed up and had even regained some of his old bounce. She
asked him with a flirting glance, “You are certain Murdoch can handle the
Borders without you?”

“The English haven’t rustled from their fouled nest in
Berwick in months. Besides, there’s something I want to show you.”

They turned off the road toward Glasgow and entered a blue
vale split by a meandering stream and guarded by an abandoned tower.

An inhuman shriek cut the air.

James drew his sword, signaling for the women to remain
behind as he rode ahead. In a lek clearing near the river, he found a gaggle of
black grouse strutting and booming in a spring mating ritual. The males puffed
their chest sacs and fanned their white tail feathers to chase their rivals and
to attract the females, who danced away in feigned outrage. He stole a sheepish
glance at Jeanne and wondered if she too saw in this encounter a mockery of
their lovemaking, which had been anything but genteel.

She shooed the aggressive grouse bull with a loud clap.

“What is this pile of rock?” Marjorie asked him.

He sat staring at the ruins. “My childhood home.”

Marjorie reddened. “I’m sorry. I did not mean … How long has
it been since you last saw it?”

“Fifteen years.” He rode past the crag that he had climbed
as a boy to win the Dun Eadainn ax and led them west toward the Douglas Water,
until they came to the boulder where he and Belle had held their childhood
trysts. After staring at the spot for several moments in silence, he asked
Jeanne, “Would you allow me a moment with Marjorie?”

Thrown by the odd request, Jeanne interrogated him with a
look of suspicion. But finally she rode up the hill toward the ruins to prepare
the picnic that they had brought.

Alone with the king’s daughter, James bridled her pony
closer to the river and assisted the pregnant lass from the saddle. He walked
with her to the boulder and stood there in silence, aimlessly throwing stones
into the currents. The water was low, even for summer. He never could have
hidden from Belle under its surface on a day like this. He stole a quick glance
at Marjorie and saw that she had closed her eyes to bask in the sun’s warmth.
Her belly had grown in the two weeks that she had been with him, and he was now
more hopeful that she would survive the coming ordeal. She had eaten heartily,
even fishing and hunting with the men in the bracing outdoor air.

The pangs of childbirth
could be no worse than the English prison she survived, he told himself. Still,
Marjorie was so slender, a mere sparrow of a girl with spindly legs and the
melancholic Bruce temperament. And what if there were complications? This might
be his last chance to find out about those last days in the Highlands when
Belle and the Bruce women had been on the run. Had Belle blamed him for
abandoning her? Why had Longshanks imprisoned her in the cage and not
Elizabeth? In his darkest moments, he even questioned if Robert had secretly
bribed Longshanks to show leniency to Elizabeth, to the detriment of Belle.
After a deep breath, he risked, “Marjie, there’s something I have long meant to
ask you.” When she turned away, as if divining what was on his mind, he
apologized. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have, but—”