The Spider and the Stone: A Novel of Scotland's Black Douglas (72 page)

They entered the hall hand-in-hand and found the rafters
decked with ivy and rhododendrons, just as they had been on the night of the
Ragman fete. The tapers cast dancing shadows—or were those the ghosts of
comrades past?

On their approach, the English barons fell silent. Most were
too young to have fought at Bannockburn; this was their first glimpse of
England’s legendary nemesis. He straightened to hide the slump from the
shoulder wound he had suffered at Weardale. His eyesight had weakened in recent
years, but he could just make out two gowned figures on a dais at the far end
of the hall.

Isabella stood from her chair with a soft smile of
anticipation lightening her still-slender face. She wore no powder to ease the
lines of age, and her once-blonde hair was streaked with grey. Yet in this,
their moment of mutual recognition, time seemed to turn retrograde; her cheeks
filled with color and the old bounce came back to her step as she escorted her
seven-year-old daughter to the floor with too much eagerness for propriety. Only the swish of her glittering russet gown broke the hush
of astonishment that descended upon the English nobles, who had no choice but
to stand aside and watch their queen mother meet their most hated enemy
halfway.

James heard murmurs of protest, followed by the rustling of
scabbards. He turned to survey the chamber. Where was Isabella’s son? This treaty,
he now saw, was her doing alone. Young Edward had no doubt insisted on staying
in London, still pouting over his spanking at Weardale.

Isabella offered him her hand to receive homage.

He stifled a smile at her brazenness.
You were forced to petition for the peace,
Isabella, but you are still the clever negotiator.
He bowed and
kissed her wrist, refusing to rub her nose in the defeat. Arising, he was met
by the same seductive eyes that had accosted him years ago in Paris. His glance
fell for a fleeting moment on her breasts, still lifted in a fashion that only
the French could perfect. He had never chased from memory those persuasive
agents of high diplomacy whose credentials she had first presented when he was
still a sixteen-year-old virgin.

Finding him at a rare loss for words, Isabella turned to the
boy at his side and inquired: “Your scribe here. Is he mute, or merely rude?”

James could not suppress a grin, remembering the question
that she had asked of Bishop Lamberton during their first encounter in Paris
years ago.

Robert’s son, not understanding their private jest, tried to
explain, “He is the Good Sir James, ma’am.”

Smirking at that lofty moniker, Isabella pressed the boy’s
small hand in welcome. “You must be David.”

The boy straightened to meet her inspection. “Aye.”

Isabella shot a conspiratorial look at his chaperone. “Yes,
I have heard about this hero of yours. In our kingdom, he is called the Black
Douglas. He has demonstrated a nasty habit of launching costly intrusions
across our borders. Did you know he twice nearly captured me?” Her pointed
glance was clearly meant to remind James of his failure in holding up his end
of her plan in the Myton raid. She gave a barely perceptible sigh of regret
and, with little conviction, added, “Fortunately, he was too slow.”

David came to James’s defense. “He tells everyone that was
Lord Randolph’s fault.”

The lad’s unintended jest broke the tension in the hall, and
the Scot nobles smiled and eased their rigid stances.

Isabella brought forward her shy daughter, who curtsied
awkwardly, unable to look directly at David. “This is Joan,” the queen mother
said. “She is learning the
Pas.
Do you know it?”

David cast his gaze down in shame. “No, ma’am.”

“That’s a pity, for our custom is to dance at a betrothal.”
Isabella glanced across the chamber at every Scotsman except James. “Is there
none in your court who might demonstrate the steps for you?”

Melted by David’s pleading puppy eyes, James surrendered to
Isabella’s ploy. He signaled for the musicians to start a tune, and amid
muffled gasps, led her to the center of the floor, just as he had done here so
many years ago.

“If I stumble,” he
whispered to her, “I intend to reveal my teacher.”

Isabella’s eyes welled up. While waiting for the noble men
and ladies of both countries to pair off, she intertwined her fingers with his
under the cover of her long sleeve.

At the first note, James led her through the gauntlet of
lifted arms. He had wrested many a trophy from these English-—cities, bounties
of gold, caches of weapons—but none was more prized than this marvelous
creature. None present missed the irony of the moment: A Scotsman and a
Frenchwoman had joined hands to decide the fate of England.

After a false start, he eventually remembered the steps that
she had long ago taught him. He felt her drawing nearer, and if he closed his
eyes, he could swear that Belle was now at his side. He sank into the soothing
notes. Was this not the composition the minstrels played during his first dance
with her in Paris? After all of these years, she still remembered.

With the swirling
Pas
providing cover, she
whispered to his ear, “It seems, Lord Douglas, that we have returned to the
place from which we started.”

He pulsed her hand with affection. “Quite a dance it’s been.”

“You were worthy.”

He gave her a quizzical look.

“You don’t remember the question I once posed to you on this
very floor?”

“At my age, I tend to forget more than I remember.”

“That night, you had just treated the Countess of Buchan in
a most unchivalrous manner. At the time, I thought you were quite unworthy of
her. You have since redeemed yourself.”

He turned away, nearly undone.

“You still grieve for her?”

“The years should have healed me, but … “

“She loved you dearly.”

“And how would
you
know
that
?”

“She once told me—”

The musical arrangement finished abruptly, interrupting her
revelation. Isabella clung to his arm, desperate to say more. But the
hall had become dangerously silent, with all eyes fixed on them.
Damn them
to Hell!
She had bowed all her life to the demands of these sniveling
English. No more would she suffer their insolent gossip. If she wished to speak
of private matters, what could they do to her now? She stopped him and searched
his eyes.

“
That
look I
do remember,” he whispered.

The dancers fled the floor, and Isabella had no choice but
to allow him to escort her to the dais. Both knew that this would be the last
time they would ever speak. When out of earshot of the others, he slowed their return to
her chair and asked under his breath, “Will your son deal with you in good
faith?”

She shook her head, too choked up to answer him directly.

He took her up the three steps to the platform and held his
bow to hide a whisper, “Should you ever find yourself in harm’s way, send
word.”

Isabella drew a shallow breath near his ear that died with a
sigh.

He looked one last time
into her eyes, and then turned away. The wedding and the festivities to follow
would extend through the week, but he had no wish to celebrate with those he
had fought for thirty years. He had fulfilled his duty to Robert. Never had he
so longed to return home.

He descended the dais and
passed the parting dancers. On his way out, he stopped aside young David and
patted him on the head. “You did well, lad. I’ll be proud to serve you when you
are king.”

As he limped across the
hall toward the doors, his thoughts returned to that night his father had been
forced to surrender this city. At last, he had avenged that humiliation. But
there was little satisfaction in it. These Englishmen on either side of him
followed his halting progress with smirks and judging glares. Did they think
him too old to box their ears again?

The ceremonial English
guards, grizzled veterans of the old wars, frowned at the disrespect being
shown him. They clashed the butts of their pikes to the stones in a grudging
recognition of his deeds.

He acknowledged the
gesture with a slight nod. At the portal, he paused, silently vowing never
again to step foot in this godforsaken place.

“Douglas!”

He turned at the shout.

A knight with a brooding
face marred by hooked nose had uttered that demand. The man’s harsh features
stung James’s memory. Was his mind playing tricks, or had a ghost just risen
from the grave? He stole a glance at Isabella. She shook her head at him in
warning.

“You murdered my father.”

James blinked hard, at a
loss.

“Robert Clifford.”

He felt the old blood lust
rushing back through his veins. “We have that in common, then. Your father
murdered mine.”

“I demand justice. On the
field.”

Nothing would have given
him more pleasure than to cut this branch of that wicked family’s lineage.

Clifford tried to move a
step closer in threat, but he staggered, his breath reeking of ale.

James looked beyond the
man’s shoulders and saw the English lords sniggering with anticipation. They
had evidently plied him with drink to incite a confrontation. He debated his
next move. If he allowed himself to be drawn into this duel, the English
enemies of Isabella would have their pretext to declare her treaty breached.

Clifford swung at his jaw
but he missed wildly. James pushed him aside and,
staring down the English barons, walked toward the doors.

“We still have your bloody
Stone!” Clifford shouted from his knees.

James marched back across
the floor and grasped the drunken Englishman by the collar. Pulling him to his
feet, he replied to the taunt in a voice loud enough for all in the hall to
hear: “You may keep the block that sits in under your king’s diapered ass in
Westminster. It is the only speck of Scotland you English have managed to hold
still under my watch.”

The English lords lost
their haughty smirks.

On the dais, Isabella sat
stunned, only then divining from James’s indifference that the stone stolen by
Longshanks was not genuine.

James released the
inebriated man and strode through the arched entry, slamming the heavy doors
behind him.

In the bailey outside, he
found McKie, McClurg, and his other veterans mounted and waiting for him. He
strode down the stairs and was about to raise his boot to the stirrup of his
Arabian horse when he discovered a second saddlebag hanging from his pommel. He
looked at his men for an indication of how the small rucksack had been placed
there, but they sat mute and unforthcoming.

He raised the bag and, sniffing a familiar perfume,
unwrapped its straps. From its folds he brought forth a sealed letter that was
frayed and stained with what looked like drops of tears. He carefully broke the
wax imprint and unfolded the letter’s torn creases. As he read the cursive
script written in French, his heart nearly stopped:

14 June in the Year of Our Lord, 1314

Dearest Jamie,

The English queen has offered to take down my words. She
tells me you are reported near Stirling, where a great battle approaches. She
has promised to do all in her power to see that this letter reaches you. She
has shown great kindness to me. I regret the jealousy I once nurtured against
her.

Jamie, you must not hold Robert responsible for my fate. I
chose the path to Scone willingly. We are all placed on this earth for a
purpose that we cannot know until the end is near. Freedom is an empty prize if
it costs the loss of treasured friendship.

I have dreamt each night of being in your arms again. The
wee monk at Glen Dochart promised me that we are not doomed to one fleeting
life, but that we shall all return to this world to reunite with those who have
shared our joys and tribulations.

Keep watch on Columba’s star. I will find you.

Love, Belle

The afternoon light began to fade as he read the last line
again. Through filming eyes, he looked up at a tower window and saw Isabella
lurking behind the curtains. Dipping his head to her in gratitude, he folded
the letter and placed it under his vest. He mounted, fighting the weakness in
his legs, and rode toward the bridge over the Tweed with his entourage.

He was nearly through the city’s gate when a spider hurdled
down on a thread and spooked his horse. The creature could have been the twin
to the one he had found in the Arran cave years ago. The spider twirled and climbed
the thread to lead his gaze skyward.

Above him hung a creaking cage.

Hundreds of townsfolk had rushed from their market shops to
enjoy his discovery, a small revenge for the humiliating defeat that he had
dealt them. When he reached behind his back, the gawkers recoiled, certain that
he was drawing his ax in a fit of rage.

Instead, he brought to his chest a mandolin that he carried
on his backpack. He had promised Belle that he would sing the last verse of her
favourite ballad on their wedding day. After her death, he had not found the
strength to even utter those words again. Could he remember them? His voice
cracked as he strummed a chord and sang:

“On quiet glen where old ghosts meet
I see her walking now
Away from me so hurriedly
My reason must allow
That I have loved not as I should
A creature made of clay
When the angel woos the clay she’ll lose
Her wings at the dawn of day.”

Its vigil finished, the spider sprang from the thread and
landed on the mane of the horse to be taken home.

Fighting to hold his emotions in check, James pulled the
heart-stone from under his shirt and hung it on the bottom rung of the cage. He
found a torch on the wall and, yanking it from its bolting, heaved it into the
cage. The flames quickly erupted, and within just minutes the cage crumbled,
dropping the elf-stone into the currents of the Tweed that flowed toward
Scotland.