The Spider and the Stone: A Novel of Scotland's Black Douglas (19 page)

Robert jerked as if slapped. “That oath means nothing.”

“I know well enough what
your
word means.”

“I am sorry for your father. And for your lady.” Robert was
perplexed by James’s look of confusion. “Did you not see her?”

“Belle … was in Berwick?”

“Aye, she was close enough to touch you.”

He racked his memory of the faces in the hall that morning.
“What was
she
doing there?”

Robert retreated a step,
unprepared to be the deliverer of this news. “I thought word had been sent to
you. She was married last spring to Tabhann Comyn.”

His throat seized. In one disastrous day, he
had learned his father was dead, the girl he loved had spurned him, and the man
he thought was his friend had handed over Scotland to the English. Now, he was
even more desolated, if that were possible. “You rode all this way to tell me
that? It must give you great pleasure.”

“I came to convince you to return to Berwick.”

James whistled for his horse. “I’ve suffered enough English
insults.”

Robert captured his arm. “We bide our time.”

He shook off Robert’s hand and climbed to his stirrups.
“Until what? Until Longshanks has garrisons posted in every town? You are
destined to be our next king, God help us! Instead of acting the part, you
stand idle.”

“My position is not that simple.”

“You took a wife from Longshanks’s court. And Belle is a
traitor as well.”

“A traitor to what?”

“To my heart. But she was right about one thing. A leg on
each side of the border will always be
your
position.”

Robert yanked the reins so violently that James’s horse
reared. “Run, then! Isn’t that what the great runner always does when the heat
is on? You ran from Berwick! You ran from Douglasdale! You ran from your woman!
You ran from Scotland! Now you run from me! I wouldn’t have you at my side!” He
slapped the steed’s nostrils and caused it to snort and buck.

When James had finally regained control of his horse, he
turned and found Robert galloping back south.

T
HAT EVENING, THE
S
COT NOBLES
returned to Berwick’s great
hall to find its rafters decked with the finest banners of yellow and blue silk
that the English quartermaster could requisition on short notice so far north
of York. Thick weaves of ivy and rhododendrons filled the chamber with soothing
fragrances reminiscent of a Yuletide feast, and minstrels danced around
white-bloused scullions balancing wine casks on their shoulders. At the royal
table, Longshanks, showing off a new burgundy tabard gifted him by his English
subjects resettled in Berwick, seemed bent on eradicating all enmity between
the two kingdoms with an assault of color and music alone.

Yet Belle and her fellow Scots were not deceived by this
enforced hospitality. They mingled cautiously, monitoring their own countrymen
with as much suspicion as their hosts. She found the scene surreal: Hard-bitten
men who had clashed on the battlefield now exchanged pleasantries as if the
Berwick massacre had never occurred. Studying the cagey English monarch, she
was reminded of an old Fife adage: Invite your enemies to dinner, and by the
manner of their eating shall you discover the temper of their sword.

She looked toward the far corner of the hall and saw Robert
Bruce, resplendently attired a blue-green shirt dyed from the snails found only
on the coast of his Turnberry birthplace. He stood apart from the others,
brooding and shifting restlessly. After concocting an excuse to escape from
Tabhann, she approached the oldest Bruce brother with no small trepidation.
“Sir, we have never been introduced. I am Isabelle Comyn.”

Grateful as he seemed for a respite from his private
burdens, Robert could not fully divert his attention from his enemies around
him. His face grew increasingly drawn as he watched the Comyns strut across the
chamber like a bevy of peacocks. Finding him preoccupied with thoughts of
revenge, she made an effort to retreat, but he roused from his distractions and
apologized for his rudeness by kissing her hand. “I prefer to think of you as a
MacDuff still.”

She blushed. “I was warned of your charming ways. It is said that you know the straightest path to a lady’s heart.” After a hesitation, she
observed, “It may not be my place, but you seem troubled.”

Robert’s smile vanished. “I wager the same man troubles the
both of us.”

“I cannot believe my husband costs you sleepless nights.”

He stared at her with
mouth agape, aghast that anyone would think him remotely discomfited by
Tabhann Comyn. “I meant Jamie Douglas.”

Stunned, she drew him away from the crowd. “You know about
us?”

Robert nodded with a taut jaw. “He told me of you years ago.
A pig-headed fool he is! Plagued by a temper so foul that the Devil himself
could light Hell with its sparks!” He found her suppressing a chuckle. “Do I
amuse you?”

“I’m sorry.” She lowered her eyes in feigned penance and
stole a sheepish glance up at him. “It’s just … I have heard the same said of
you.”

Robert was about to defend himself, but in a rare moment of
self-reflection, nodded ruefully, accepting the charge as justified.

She searched the chamber again. “Do you know if Jamie will
be here?”

He shook his head. “He’ll not step foot in Berwick again, at
least not unarmed.” Seeing that his prediction had saddened her, he placed her
hand between his palms as if to bring warmth to her distressed heart. “We must
dismiss him from our thoughts this night.”

The music stopped.

Longshanks had finished his repast and was stretching his
limbs like a bear coming out of hibernation. “A
Pas de Deux!
At once!”
Invigorated by the wine, he leapt from the dais and stalked the floor to snare
a partner. Finding no ladies bold enough to risk his judgment, he drafted his
future daughter-in-law, who had adjusted her veil, too late, in an attempt to
avoid his eyes.

Caernervon gladly shoved Isabella toward the floor, eager to
turn his full attention to Gaveston.

The king led the princess to the middle of two columns of
English dancers that had faced off with their partners in preparation for the
opening sequence.

The minstrels struck up a restrained tune that sounded
shrill and lifeless to Belle’s ear. Several of the Scots reluctantly joined in,
seeing that political expediency required yet another debasement. While the
English dancers twirled gracefully and halted at the appropriate breaks, the
Scots lurched and staggered, unsure of the steps. On the sidelines, Clifford
and the royal retainers made no attempt to hide their amusement at the
ineptitude of their conscripted guests.

Not to be outdone in this ritual of rank, Tabhann insisted
that Belle accompany him into the dance. She had no choice but to acquiesce,
even though her unadorned green gown with its frayed hems made her stand out
sorely aside the rich appointments of the English ladies. As the
Pas
progressed, the women of both realms were segregated to one side, and she found
herself shuffled next to Isabella of France.

Isabella whispered to her, “I am told we share something.”

Belle turned abruptly, stunned that the French princess
would deign to speak to her. “I’m sorry, my lady?”

Maintaining a straightforward gaze—an admonition that Belle
should do the same—the princess nodded slightly with the beat, a sophisticated
court trick to camouflage the object of one’s attention. With the tight-lipped
skill of a ventriloquist, she explained, “A name. I am Isabella. I suppose that
might be called Isabelle in your land?”

“I know not.”

The princess spun on the high note and bowed with the
gracefulness of a swan. “I was intrigued this afternoon by one of your
countrymen. … Douglas, I believe was his name.”

Thrown off her count, Belle discovered that she was the only dancer still upright. Embarrassed by the misstep, she became even more disconcerted at finding Tabhann five partners down the line and fast approaching.

“Do you know this man Douglas?”

Belle tried to follow the princess’s lead while fixing her
eyes straight ahead. “I have met him, aye.”

Isabella demonstrated the perfected art of keeping time to
the music while carrying on a conversation. She pirouetted and returned to the
precise angle at which she had started. “Does he always insult kings?”

Blindsided by that barb, Belle abandoned all effort to
remain inconspicuous. “Does
your
newly adopted king always insult Scots?” She
turned and saw several of the ladies glancing over at her.
Be damned with
them all! And be damned with this meddlesome French coquette!

The French princess seemed not the least unnerved. Having
gleaned the confirmation of Belle’s true feelings, Isabella captured the
countess’s wrist and, for the first time during the dance, looked directly at
her. “I should pity the lady who wins the heart of such an unruly man.”

Belle put on an
unconvincing nonchalance. Lost in these nonsensical steps, she curtsied
awkwardly and excused herself from the dance before she broke down completely.
She dashed from the floor—and ran headfirst into James. She gasped—had he been standing there watching their
exchange?

The dancing stopped in mid-pass as the participants stirred
with whispers of surprise. James walked past her without even a nod of
recognition and, bowing to Princess Isabella, petitioned the Frenchwoman’s
hand.

The princess shot an alarmed glance at Longshanks, who,
preoccupied with Elizabeth Bruce’s well-buttressed bosom, remained unaware of
James’s return.

Before Clifford could intervene, James took the startled
princess into the line—just as she had done to him in Paris—and signaled for
the musicians to resume. The dancers, uncertain how to respond, slowly returned
to their positions and found their beats again. Both the English and Scots
watched in disbelief as James moved the princess deftly across the floor,
excelling every man present in dexterity and grace. When the unlikely twosome
passed Longshanks, Elizabeth Bruce distracted her wine-addled partner by
whispering a salacious bit of gossip into his ear.

The princess, relieved that the threat of immediate danger
had passed, surrendered to James’s lead. Not since Paris had she felt such
strength. She closed her eyes and whispered, “You have become a man.”

He spun her to face Caernervon, who was nudging Piers
Gaveston in playful banter. “And you are in practice to become an ornament.”

Insulted, the princess struggled to escape his accusatory
grasp, but he tamed her into submission. Try as she might, she could not remain
angry at him. “That was foolish of you today,” she whispered. “I would not
have you lose your head, even if there is debate whether anything resides in
it.”

“But you
would
have me lose my country.”

She saw the Countess of Buchan standing alone in the corner,
humiliated by being forced to watch their dance. She looked for Robert Bruce
and, finding him on the far side of the
Pas
line, nodded him to the task. Taking her intent, Robert captured Belle’s hand and brought
her into the swirling columns.

James retaliated by pulling Isabella closer to his side.

Seeing that she had become a pawn in this escalating
encounter, Isabella whispered to his ear, “The lady still loves you.”

“How would you know?”

She squeezed his hand to calm him. “Do you remember what I
told you about vows and empty words? It is her heart that matters.”

“In my country, men die for words.”

She stomped on his arch, making it appear to be an accident.
“I’ve yet to decide whether you are even worthy of her. Dance with her this
night, or you shall regret it the rest of your life.”

The music paused to signal the change of partners, and James
took the opportunity to bend down and examine the damage to his foot. Feeling
the princess tug his arm, he came upright to discover that Isabella had schemed
to position him next to Belle and Robert.

The princess captured Belle’s hand before she could escape. “You cannot guess whom I have found. Did you not tell me you once knew this gentleman?”

Flustered, Belle could not bring herself to look at James.
“I should think he does not remember me.”

The princess tapped her toe dangerously near James’s aching
arch. “A man who could forget such beauty would have to be blind or severely
damaged in the head.” She glared at Robert in a silent petition for him to join
her matchmaking. “Would you not agree, Lord Bruce?”

Robert was about to unleash a torrent of invective at James
when the princess flitted him off to the floor with her. Left together, James and Belle were swept into the vortex of
dancers.

Several moments passed before Tabhann became aware of the gossip being directed at his wife. Enraged, he threaded his way toward Belle. From across the room, the princess gained Elizabeth Bruce’s attention again and nodded her to the rescue. Taking the cue, Robert’s wife extricated herself from Longshanks’s groping in time to intercept Tabhann. She reroute the Scotsman to the floor before he could come within shouting distance of Belle and James.