The Spider and the Stone: A Novel of Scotland's Black Douglas (14 page)

James
put a sleeve to his nose, trying not to retch. Each day he spent in this
noisome city made him more homesick for Scotland. The stench from the urine and
the piles of refuse thrown from the windows were nauseating enough, but now
this cruel execution had roiled his stomach even more. The blighted wheat harvest
on the Continent had been the worst in thirty years, drawing thousands of
starving refugees from the far provinces to Paris like flies over a carcass.
As if color and entertainment alone could obliterate their misery, the French
king had ordered shops hung with banners of blue and gold cloth, the fountains
filled with red Claret, and choirs of white-garbed virgins to sing melodies in
the parks to drown out the cries of the beggars.

The bishop took him by the arm again, and together they plowed a path through the perfumed crowds until, at last, they reached the gilded gates of the royal palace. James had been looking forward to their long-awaited audience, if only because it promised a rare escape from these putrid hordes. Strategically situated downwind from the markets and charnel houses, the palace grounds were surrounded by gardens designed to throw up a cordon of fragrance.

Admitted into the outer courtyard, he and the bishop were
engulfed by a sea of courtiers, ladies-in-waiting, minstrels, diplomats,
clerics, knights, and earls, all clamoring to gain the ear of the chamberlain
who manned the public entry into the great hall. After an hour’s wait, they
were finally summoned into the presence of King Philip, who was known as “the
Fair,” not in honor of his compassion, which was non-existent, but because of
his pallid complexion and imbecilic stare, which made him look like a wax
statue.

Over the hum of a hundred conversations, a herald blew his
horn and announced, “The Bishop of St. Andrews!”

James stepped forward with the bishop and caught his first
glimpse of the king, who sat in the center of the chamber, oblivious to the
tumult swirling around him. He had been warned not to show surprise or betray
amusement at the monarch’s strange behavior. A month earlier, the Archbishop of
Pamiers had compared Philip to an owl, beautiful to gaze upon but otherwise a
useless bird. When the injudicious remark found its way back to the court, the
cleric had been racked and beheaded for the indiscretion.

Philip was indeed an oddity, but James was more intrigued by
the maiden who sat at the fatuous monarch’s right hand. With long blonde curls
and delicate seashells for ears, she was smartly attired in an embroidered
bodice of forest green silk that highlighted her blossoming bosom.

Detecting his interest, Lamberton whispered across over his shoulder,
“Isabella, his daughter. So they say.”

He well understood the doubt regarding her paternity. The
king’s sluggish introversion was exposed in sharp relief by the quick
expressions and attentiveness of this precocious lass whose striking cobalt
eyes took in all that moved. Her delicate nose tipped up just slightly, and her
upper lip formed a perfect Cupid’s bow. If Philip was an owl, his daughter was
a beautiful white hawk, breathtaking to gaze upon, but also a predator.

The princess turned on him with a provocative smile. Averting his admiring gaze too late, he shifted
uncomfortably under her bemused inspection. During these past months in France,
he had grown into a chiseled young man, and although he was still shorter than
most his age, his dark features, often mistaken for those of a Castilian, were
so exotic and unusual here that they caused even the worldly Parisian ladies to
turn at his passing.

The princess whispered to her father’s ear, and the king swiveled and stared quizzically at the two Scots, as
if questioning how they had suddenly materialized before him.

Lamberton bowed. “Sire, it is an honor.”

Phillip’s powdered cheeks flushed with irritation. When his daughter again whispered the identity of the man giving homage, the king blinked to revive his dormant brain and finally made the connection. “What news have you of this rabble uprising in your land, priest? I’ll not allow your Highland squabbles to spoil my daughter’s future with the Prince of Wales.”

Stunned, James interrogated the princess with a glare of
accusation.
You are to be condemned one day to the bed of Edward
Caernervon?

Isabella quickly cast her eyes down; her expressions were as
fleeting as the light filtered through St. Chapelle’s miraculous windows. When
she glanced up again at him, she had been transfigured by a haunting sadness.

Lamberton risked a cautious step forward. “Excellency, we
seek only to defend our borders. The English abuse us beyond all Christian
civility. I trust France will not turn its back on its staunchest ally.”

As Philip tapped his curled shoe, annoyed at being required to discuss matters of state, a tall Dominican monk with sallow skin and a cadaverous face emerged from the royal retinue and came to the monarch’s rescue. “France deals only with sovereign nations,” the monk said. “Scotland and its mission church must submit to England, as England submits to France.”

“We have not been introduced,” Lamberton said coldly.

The Dominican’s upper lip protruded over a half-moon
overbite, making him appear incapable of a smile, and the skin hanging from his
neck resembled the leather on the worn copy of Scripture he carried in his
scabrous hand. Yet the strangest aspect of his houndish countenance was its
bicameral division; the left side of his face seemed frozen, refusing to
participate in the expression of its mirror counterpart, a peculiarity that
gave the impression his soul was perpetually at war with his flesh. “I am
Diredonne, Abbot of Lagny,” he said haughtily. “Papal legate to the House of
Capet.”

Alarmed, Lamberton tried to simulate indifference as he inquired of the king, “Your lordship now feels the need to maintain an inquisitor?”

Philip was too distracted by the minstrels to hear the question.

The Dominican seized the opportunity to press his advantage.
“The Tribunal of Whitby long ago brought the Church of Scotland under the
authority of the Holy Father. I trust our wayward mission daughter has not
relapsed into its old heresy of claiming independence from the chair of Peter.”

Lamberton’s jowls flamed. “We are all children of equal worth in
God’s eyes.”

“Yes, but children spared the rod of discipline tend to
stray from the guidance of their elder and wiser siblings.”

“I would remind my brother in Christ that Scotland has
produced Britain’s only saint canonized by Rome, the venerable Margaret.”
Lamberton waited for the traditional signing required at the utterance of a
saint’s name, and when the inquisitor finally relinquished the half-hearted
gesture, the bishop drove his minor but satisfying score to the hilt. “I regret
that England has only locally-proclaimed saints, the Confessor and Beckett. If
Rome is the arbiter of all holiness, then God’s grace has been dispensed in
greater measure upon my country.”

The Dominican’s moist upper lip quivered.

Isabella interrupted their theological disputation. “Bishop,
your scribe here. Is he mute, or merely rude?”

Lamberton was taken aback, not just by the nature of the
inquiry, but also because the king’s daughter spoke the Anglo-Norman so well.
“Apologies, my lady. This is James of Douglasdale.”

Isabella turned to her father, who was keeping time to the
music with his feet. “Why does Douglasdale ring familiar,
Père
?” When the king
persisted in scanning the hall for a diversion, the princess answered her own
question. “Of course! I do now remember some correspondence from my betrothed about a border château added to his inheritance. I think he has placed it in
the care of one of his father's vassals.” She narrowed her eyes in a
taunt at James. “Perhaps I shall have a summer palace built there.”

Lamberton clamped James’s elbow to check his temper before he said something they would both regret. “We have imposed too long upon His Majesty’s patience.”

Philip had long since dismissed the two Scots from his
attention, but Isabella arched her thin eyebrows, as if making another last
attempt to incite an outburst from James as he departed.

The bishop bowed and backed away. Out of royal earshot, he
pulled James into the anonymity of the waiting throngs. “I have one more piece
of business to conduct here before we leave.”

James paced like a caged fox. “Did you hear that warbling
strumpet?”

Lamberton muttered a curse at the inquisitor protecting his position at the king’s side. “Aye, we both ate from humble pie. But now is not the time for retribution.” From across the chamber, the bishop saw a knight adorned in a coarse white mantle with a splayed red cross on his shoulder. Catching the knight’s eye, he nodded furtively, and then ordered James, “Remain here until I return. Make yourself inconspicuous.”

Waiting until a jester distracted the court with an acrobatic leap, the bishop followed the white-robed knight, undetected, into a private compartment.

Left alone, James retreated to a corner of the hall and
rehearsed again the cruel manner in which he would one day deal with Robert
Clifford, preferably with that upstart French princess present. His black
reverie of revenge was interrupted when the musicians struck up a lively
prelude and the floor cleared in preparation for a
Pas de Deux
. The ladies paired off with knights in two lines, face
to face with their partners. These French peacocks and hens began stalking each
other and fluttering away in a ritual that seemed designed to frustrate the men
and show off the women.

Halfway through the
Pas
,
he found himself surrounded by a well-endowed
demoiselle
and two giggling accomplices. The French lasses pleaded
with him to enter the dance, but he resisted. Not to be denied, one of them
interlocked her arms with his to demonstrate the steps. He made a half-hearted
attempt to imitate the pattern and stumbled badly. His misadventure drew more
young ladies to his aid, until he was trapped in the middle of a cackling bevy
of fluttering fans. Suddenly the music stopped in mid-chord, leaving him the
only one in fractured motion.

Princess Isabella split the rows of dancers. With all eyes
following her, she offered her hand to James. “You’ve never danced the
Pas
?”

The displaced
femmes
shot glares of envy at the princess as they
backed away with perfunctory bows, leaving him no choice but to accept
Isabella’s invitation. She demonstrated a series of intricate steps, and he
awkwardly tried to follow her lead, but this infernal dance was a maddening
test of subtlety and restraint, nothing like the Scot reels that gained
momentum and emotion with each stanza.

The courtiers monitored
his halting progress with smirks and whispers. He attempted another spin
and landed on his backside. Isabella laughed as she helped him to his feet. He
tried again, this time with more success, and soon he was floating with her
across the floor. Her mint-laced breath filled him with a tingling as she led him through the gauntlet of dancers.

Isabella whispered to his ear, “Say nothing of import to
anyone here. There are those who would see the interests of your country
thwarted.” She directed his glance toward the Dominican inquisitor. “That
malignant friar will use any loose utterance to further his designs.”

He realized that he had misjudged her. She had spoken of
Douglasdale during the audience not to be cruel, but to quell the inquisitor’s
suspicions regarding her loyalties to her future father-in-law. He squeezed her
hand in gratitude for the warning, and spun her in a dazzling pirouette.

“You are a natural,” she gasped.

“And you are a
tres
bonnie teacher.”

Isabella glowed, delighted by his unintentional cobbling of
Lowland Scot and French. “Dancing is not my only subject of instruction.”

Before he could decipher her meaning, she curtsied and spun
off to another partner, a tall French knight with a weathered but handsome face
creased by scars. He cursed under his breath. The infuriating princess had
spiked his ardor only to abandon him.
Damn all lasses anyway! Inconstant
creatures! All designed to destroy me!

Returned from his private meeting with the robed knight,
Lamberton had been watching the performance from the periphery. He finally
caught James’s eye and nodded sternly for him to join his departure. Passing
through the cordoned entrance, the cleric chided his charge with a whispered
aside, “Remind me never again to advise you to remain inconspicuous.”

“I did nothing but obey that princess’s command.”

Lamberton glanced back at Isabella. “Aye, I am discovering that you have a remarkable talent for drawing the notice of those in high station.”

Still in the arms of the French knight, she was casting provocative glances at James. She countered the bishop’s scowl with a lording smile of conquest.

Vexed by her inexplicable interest in his young companion, the bishop hurried their escape from the palace and warned under his breath, “That lass is too clever for her age. Consider yourself fortunate that she will have forgotten about you by the time you leave her sight.”

A
WEEK LATER, THE DOOR
to James’s small cell in diplomatic
lodging at the Hotel de Ville creaked open. Lying naked in the oppressive night
heat, he tensed and reached under the bedding for his dagger to fight off the
intruder.

The flame of a candle approached, and Princess Isabella came into the penumbra of the light. Stunned, he dropped the dagger clanging to the stones. She let her scarlet robe fall to the floor, revealing a diaphanous gown. Speechless, he pulled the blanket up to his chin. How had she gotten a key?

She sat on the bed and ran her hand across his stubbled jaw.
Her exploration migrated to the ridges of his muscled torso and threatened to
descend below his abdomen.