The Spider and the Stone: A Novel of Scotland's Black Douglas (62 page)

A pebble bounced off her back.

She turned to find her seven-year-old son scooping another
handful of stones. “Put those down, Edward! At once!”

The prince stood his ground with a defying smirk. Even at
such a young age, the boy was forever testing her, having developed a cunning
sense of the balance of power that compromised her position with his father.
There had been scurrilous rumors about his paternity, but she had put to rest
that gossip by proudly trumpeting how the boy had inherited his aggression from
his grandfather. Nor did it hurt her cause that she had given birth to three
more children, who were still too young to bring on this journey. So fervent
was England’s hope that another Longshanks would follow her husband as king
that the barons had gladly accepted her firstborn’s legitimacy.

The boy sailed the stone over her head. “I killed the Black
Douglas!”

Aghast, Isabella stopped her advance. “Where did you hear
that name?”

“I’m going to kill the Black Douglas.”

“It is not Christian to speak of murder.”

The boy pointed an accusing finger at her. “You fancy the
Black Douglas.”

Isabella glanced with alarm at the Myton Bridge, where her
escort, the Archbishop of York, knelt in prayer with his retinue of monks and
acolytes. She captured the boy by the hand and marched him down the bank,
safely out of earshot of the monks. “Who told you such nonsense?”

“If you don’t want to kill him, that means you fancy him.”

She released a sigh, relieved that the boy had just made up
the accusation from his overheated imagination. “I forbid you to speak that
name. The man is your father’s enemy. The king would be very upset to hear you
talk like this.”

“Why hasn’t Papa killed him?”

“He has tried, but—”

“Am I French or English?”

She could not fathom how the child managed to form such
astonishing questions. “You are both.”

“Then where will I be king?”

“It is complicated. Your grandfather has a son in Paris. He will
be king of France if—”

“I’m going to kill the Black Douglas! Then I will become
king of England and France!”

She huffed in exasperation. “Did you not hear me just tell
you—”

A commotion near the bridge cut short her admonition.

“My lady!” The archbishop was waving his meaty arms and
running toward her. “We must leave at once!”

“But we only just arrived.”

The portly cleric arrived at last and bent to catch his
breath. “The sheriff’s scouting party has captured a Scot spy not ten furlongs
from here. We must remove you to safety.”

Isabella feigned shock to hide her elation. Had James
deciphered her plan? She returned to her picnic spread and tried to ignore the
archbishop’s fervent entreaties. “A Scot this far south? That is nothing but a
foolish rumor!”

“The Black Douglas!” young Edward shouted. “I’m going to gut
the Black Douglas like a mackerel and skin him alive!”

The archbishop wiped sweat from his brow. “I assure you, my
lady—”

“I wish to speak to the prisoner,” she insisted.

The archbishop’s pasty mouth fell open, as if he could not
decide which was more outlandish: the boy’s screams or the queen’s demand.
“That would not be prudent, my lady.”

Horsemen galloped up dragging their captive across the
bridge.

Isabella marched toward them, praying that the cleric would
back down to her boldness. “I must know what is happening in my husband’s
absence.”

The archbishop waddled after her, discomposed by her
insistence on interrogating the prisoner. “That is no proper sight for your
ladyship!”

Isabella knelt over the bloodied prisoner. “Your name?”

After suffering several kicks to the ribs, the man mumbled,
“McCraig.”

“In whose service?” she asked.

Flogged to answer, the prisoner muttered, “Jamie Douglas.”

Young Prince Edward bastinadoed the bound Scot prisoner with
his stick. “The Black Douglas! The Black Douglas is here!”

The archbishop turned whiter than his frock. “Douglas comes
for York?”

The captive turned his pained eyes on the queen again. “And
for you.”

Exhilarated, Isabella quickly retreated into an affectation
of disbelief. She had convinced Caernervon to allow her to bring the prince to
York with the excuse that the boy should witness his father’s victory over the
Scots. Her scheme had succeeded in all but one aspect; she had not counted on
one of James’s spies getting captured. She tried to glare the prisoner to
silence, and then forced a laugh of derision at him. “James Douglas in
Yorkshire? That is preposterous!”

“Nevertheless,” the
archbishop said, “I must insist that your ladyship return to York at once.”

Isabella waved off the demand. “The Scots have allowed this
man to fallen into your hands to stir up fear among the populace. Douglas has
never raided this far south. He knows my husband would cut him off. If I am
seen driven away by such a wild fantasy, I will appear craven. Now, I have
packed a basket of delicacies, and my son and I are going to continue with our
outing.”

“I cannot allow it!” the cleric cried.

“Who has been placed in command of York’s garrison?”

“There is no garrison. The
king has taken the royal troops stationed in the city with him to Berwick.”

Isabella suppressed a smile of triumph.
Ah, Edward, you
fool. You have played right into my hands.
She told the cleric forcefully,
“There is your answer, then. The king would certainly have left defenders in
York had he considered such a raid even a remote—”

“Maman's sweet on the Black Douglas!” Young Edward tugged at
the archbishop’s sleeve. “She wants to kiss him! But I’m going to hang him!”

Until that moment, both the archbishop and sheriff had paid
little attention to the prince’s ranting. Now, turning on Isabella with
suspicion, they found her scowling at Edward in rattled anger. Intrigued by the
boy’s claim, the cleric signaled for the queen’s horse to be brought up.

She fought to prevent the soldiers from taking him. “My
son stays with me!”

“Orders from the king, my lady,” the archbishop said coldly.
“Should any danger arise, I have been instructed to send the prince to
Nottingham.”

“Unhand me, or by God I will see you sent to the Tower!”

But the archbishop would not relent, and Isabella, resigned
to the infernal cleric’s insistence, finally calmed and said, “At least allow
me to send correspondence to the king. I shall raise this offense with my
father if you deny me that
right.”

The archbishop granted the innocuous request with a
dismissive wave to the sheriff. “One of my acolytes may transcribe the letter
for her.”

The prince threw rocks at his mother while she was escorted away. Ecstatic with her removal from his oversight, the boy swung his stick as a sword at an imaginary foe. “Is the Black Douglas going to capture us?”

The archbishop patted the prince’s head. “Rest assured, my son. We have
nothing to fear from that mortal sinner. The Holy Father has excommunicated the
Douglas felon and all who follow his evil path. His name is damned thrice daily
in all our churches. Look above you. What do you see?”

Edward gazed at the sky. “Clouds.”

“Nay, those are St. George’s angels forming his angelic
ranks for battle.”

“Will my father come to save us?”

The cleric smiled with confidence. “We need not burden the king
about this heathen Scot. I have sent an order to York for the local burgher
militia to muster on this field. If the fiend is foolish enough to attack, we
will send him back to his pagan hole with his tail severed.”

“I want to watch,” Edward said with a frisson of excitement.

“You are still a bit wet behind the ears,” the archbishop
cautioned. “But soon your day will come. Has your mother told you of the brave
exploits performed by your grandfather?” When the boy shook his head, the
cleric glared at Isabella as she was led away. “A lesson must be learned from
that malfeasance. Never trust one’s education to the French. Edward Longshanks
was a fearsome warrior. He captured the criminal Wallace and sent him to Hell,
limb by limb. You must strive to be like him in all ways.”

“If he
was
so fearsome,” Edward asked, “why did he
not capture the Black Douglas?”

Astonished by such precocious impudence, the archbishop
signed his breast to bless the memory of the deceased monarch. “The Lord left
that task to us, so that we might more fully bask in His glory.”

J
AMES TROTTED ALONG THE BANKS
of the Ouse River, searching
the purple Yorkshire moors to the south for some sign of John McCraig, his spy
in England. His old shoulder wound ached, an unerring portent that danger
lurked ahead. The morning fog obscured his vantage, and what little of the
bleak landscape he could see looked so alien that his tacking instincts had
been thrown askew. McCraig had never failed him, but the man was a half a day
late for their assigned meeting.

“Give him another hour,” Randolph advised.

“We don’t have an hour.” James nervously stroked his pony’s mane as he glanced over his shoulder at his exhausted men. They had become accustomed to living in the saddle without sleep, but he had never driven them so hard. After reaching the outskirts of York in only eight days, they had left behind a swath of burned villages and ransacked abbeys. Although he had gained the jump on Caernervon, he knew that word of the invasion would have made it to Berwick by now. Every minute of delay decreased their chances of making it home before being encircled. He had even heard some of the men grousing behind his back that he was risking their lives to settle an old score, or perhaps revive an old romance. Jangled by the lack of good surveillance, he turned to Sweenie and, cursing the fog, ordered, “Up with you, monk!”

Rousted from his attempt to steal a few winks of sleep, Sweenie, startled and nearly fell from his pony.

“Make your pilgrimage,” James ordered. “And be quick about
it.”

S
WEENIE GRUMBLED AS HE PULLED
a white robe from his
saddlebag and donned his usual disguise of a Cistercian friar. Staff in hand,
he waddled into the mists and broke an occasional branch to avoid becoming
lost. He had performed this ritual of espionage hundreds of times; he would go
find the local kirk and beg a meal from the priest, all the while gathering
information about the defenses of the nearest city.

After half an hour of this blind searching, he came to a wooden
bridge that crossed a small river. The sun broke through and burned away enough
fog to reveal the clover fields on the far side of the banks. He rubbed his
eyes in disbelief: the valley beyond the bridge was filled with hundred of
white-robed canons and priests, all armed with pitchforks. Behind them stood a
second line of burghers and farmers, disorganized and dispirited as the canons
were disciplined. Clad in an archbishop’s raiment, the leader of this strange
host waved a towering silver crucifix for a battle standard as he strode
confidently toward the bridge.

Sweenie ducked into the grass to avoid being seen, but he
was too late.

“You there!” the Archbishop of York commanded him. “Back in
line!”

Sweenie slowly stood from the weeds, thankful at least that
the cleric thought him to be a stray from his own motley militia. He didn’t
know whether to retreat or obey the command, so he decided to play the fool,
his most accomplished role. “Preachers take up arms?”

“A Scot felon lurks not far from here!” the archbishop
shouted.

“I’ve just come from the north! I saw no such knave!”

“Then we’ll have to smoke the Black Douglas from his den!”

“I’ve heard of this Douglas!” Sweenie said. “God’s curse he
is! You mean to fight him with churchmen and farmers?”

“Of course not!”

Sweenie forced down the lump in his throat, now certain that
English reinforcements were on the way. After all, priests only hurried to a
battlefield to share the booty and proclaim the Almighty’s hand in—

“Our Lord and his angels are with us!” The archbishop waved
his staffed crucifix like a wizard’s wand. “The Scots will fall just as the
pagan Goliath fell before David!”

Sweenie questioned his own hearing. Could this English Moses
and his Yorkshire Israelites truly intend to fight a battle? He stole a glance behind him. The fog was lifting, and
he might regain the protection of the receding mists if he got the jump. He
pointed his finger toward the low sun rising behind the priests and shouted, “A
sign! The sun reverses its course!”

When the archbishop and his canonicals turned to witness the miracle,
the little monk took off in a dash for the bridge.

Crimson patches of rage flamed across the archbishop’s forehead as he
slowly realized that he had been duped. He spun to his canons behind him and
ordered, “Take that Devil’s gremlin!”

Hundreds of his white-robed clerics charged after the Scot
monk.

Sweenie pumped his stumpish legs and threw off his robe to
gain speed. He reached the swirling mist just in the nick of time and curled
into a ball behind a clump of gorse. There he remained hidden until the voices
around him receded. Moments later, an arm reached through the fog and captured
his chin.

“What in Satan’s name?”

James had come looking for him. Sweenie brought a finger to his lips to beg his silence.

“Are you stealing a nap?” James demanded.

Sweenie dropped an ear to the gorse and listened. The
pounding of feet across the timbered bridge had receded. God be praised, the
canons had given up their search and had crossed back over the river. He leapt
up and led James on a run back to other Scots while whispering the result of
his reconnaissance: “Two thousand, maybe more.”

James kicked the ground in frustration. “We can’t take on
that many.”