The Spider and the Stone: A Novel of Scotland's Black Douglas (20 page)

James’s angry lead
unsettled Belle. He gave her not even a glance, but moved so expertly that she
questioned whether he could be the same rough-hewn boy who had clumsily wooed
her that day at the river. Soon she was floating in his firm embrace. “You put
me to shame,” she whispered, breathless.

He executed a harsh turn. “You do well enough at that on
your own.”

“I tried to send word.”

“Word of what? That you preferred a Comyn to a disinherited
beggar?”

“I don’t love Tabhann.”

“Of course you don’t. That’s why you married him.”

“You must believe me—”

“Believe you? It matters nothing now.”

She clutched his hand in pleading. “Jamie, don’t say that.”

“Damn these London manners!” He glared at the other dancers in the hall. “Don’t you see what Longshanks is doing? He’s trying to turn us into English sycophants with these pacifying, blood-thinning chorales meant for children!”

The
Pas
ended and the dancers began to disperse,
but Belle clung to James’s arm, begging for a chance to finish her explanation.

He brushed off her hold.
Marching to the center of the floor, he stole a lute from an astonished
musician and began churning out a rousing reel. High-stepping to the Gaelic
tune, he confronted his fellow Scots, challenging them to turn back the English
ploy to destroy their traditions. One by one, the clansmen became caught up in
the emotion of this veiled martial call. They entered the circle, arm in arm,
pounding the floor as if marching to battle.

Playing each stanza
faster until the timbers shook from the attack of boots, James strutted toward
Robert and taunted him to join in.

Angered by the reckless bluster, Robert shoved him away.

Clifford moved to quash the blatant act of defiance—until
Princess Isabella rushed in to join the reel. She laughed and clapped, defusing
the tension, and the king, monitoring the movements as if the floor were a
field of battle, motioned Clifford to back off.

Belle could only stand by and watch as James danced toward
Clifford in a challenge. The necklace holding the elf-stone flew from the
crease of his shirt and hung at his breastbone. She was stunned.
He still
wears it.

A horn’s blast brought the reel to a jolting halt, and
before she could speak to James again, Longshanks came loping across the floor. The Scots fell silent, retreating to the reality of their
plight.

Satisfied that the brief defiance had been aborted, Longshanks downplayed the veiled act of insurrection. “Well done! An entertaining example of your quaint customs. It is heartening to see how far we have come from the cave and the hut.” He smiled with more than just a hint of threat at James, who was still heaving from his exertion. “This competition of feet has given me an idea. Shall we continue with the theme? On the morrow after next, I will hold a joust! A most agreeable benefice shall be awarded to the victor.”

The English barons traded alarmed glances at the prospect of
allowing the Scots access to arms, if only tourney lances. Clifford tried to
convince the king to change his mind, but Longshanks dismissed the counsel and
refilled his goblet in preparation to retire to his quarters. Reaching the door, the king turned back and shot a quick
grin at Robert, then announced to all in the hall: “To make it interesting,
let’s have it Scots against my English knights, shall we?”

Robert nearly ran James
over as he stormed out of the hall.

T
HE MORNING OF THE TOURNEY
brought clouds as dark as the faces of the
hundreds of Scots who had gathered along the rails below the royal pavilion.
News of the tournament had reached Stirling and Newcastle during the night, and
commoners from both sides of the border had rushed to Berwick to witness the
rare contest. Yet none could have dreamed of what now appeared over the horizon
from the south.

A column of ten knights rode up in tight formation under the
Beausant emblem of the Knights Templar. The standard, a solid black square set
atop a solid white square, symbolized the eternal battle between God and Satan
and was kept perpetually unfurled with tethered rods to be seen as a rallying
point in battle. Having long ago abandoned the austere practice of riding
double, the Templars came trotting haughtily into the lists on large destriers
wrapped in lustrous caparisons of white and blood red.

Lamberton rushed forward to confront the monk leading the
mounted column. “This contest does not involve the Almighty.”

The Templar removed his helmet. “Then why are
you
here, Bishop?”

Lamberton was shocked to discover that he was speaking to an
old comrade. William Sinclair of Roslin was a descendant of crusaders rumored
to have discovered the Holy Grail on their sojourns in the East. The clan
Sinclair, whose nomen meant Holy Light, had built the only Temple preceptory in
Scotland at Ballentradoch, a forested glen south of Edinburgh. “Wil, by Christ!
You cannot mean to take up arms against your own?”

“I was ordered to come.”

“By the Master of London Temple. Your allegiance lies with
Scotland.”

“Out of our way, priest!”
warned one of the Templars riding behind Sinclair.

Lamberton had thought the day could not turn more foreboding, but he was proven wrong when the surly knight who had just shouted at him removed his helmet and revealed himself to be Peter d’Aumont, the Auvergne preceptor who had hurled threats of retaliation at him during their covert Paris rendezvous. Had d’Aumont crossed the Channel to expose their clandestine meeting to Longshanks? Why else would the king have sent for these Templars if not to force a public demonstration of their loyalty? The bishop was forced to give way as d’Aumont led his arrogant monks toward the royal viewing box.

Longshanks licked his teeth, eagerly anticipating the competition. “Poor Knights of Christ! You must be famished from your journey! We know how dutifully you fast in imitation of Our Lord!” His dripping sarcasm drew derisive laughter, for all knew that these despised monks were never ill fed, let alone poor. In fact, jokes and curses were often aimed at the holier-than-thou Templars, who insisted on remaining secluded behind their commandery walls, except to come out and harass the local inhabitants for tithes or to show off their swordplay. He winked at his councilors as he waved the monks up. “I laid wager that you would join us. Templars always choose the winning side, eh?”

Torn by conflicting allegiances, Sinclair shifted restlessly in his saddle. But d’Aumont suffered no such qualms as he cantered across the lists and scowled at the Scots who had killed his brethren at Falkirk. The crowds jeered and pushed against the railings to gain a better view of the overbearing monks.

Longshanks surveyed the reluctant northern nobles who stood
arrayed below his stand. “Who contests for Scotland?”

The Scots murmured among themselves. They had not counted on confronting these ruthless crusaders. After a hesitation, Red Comyn stepped forward with Tabhann and Cam. Neil Campbell, who was married to one of the Bruce sisters, also took up the challenge. Edward Bruce itched to join the team, but Robert forced his hothead brother to remain uncommitted.

“Only four?” Longshanks asked in reproach.

Seeing no other volunteers come forward, Lamberton signaled
for James to step up and fill the final slot.

“Five a side, then.” Longshanks’s eyes twinkled with
mischief as he motioned forward Sinclair. “Who from the Temple shall represent
us?”

“Brother d’Aumont and I accept.” Sinclair spoke with no enthusiasm, making clear that the king’s order to participate was not voluntary.

“Even with Clifford and Gloucester, we are still one short.”
Longshanks turned to the Bruce clan. “Rob, I’ve never known you to pass up a
tourney.”

Robert saw now that the king had concocted this challenge of lances to
force his hand, testing his allegiance in full view of his fellow countrymen.
He glanced at his feeble grandfather, desperate for his guidance, but the old
Competitor was too befuddled by the bustle around him. Tarrying while trying to
think of a way to avoid the call, Robert tried to find refuge in false modesty.
“My lord, there are others here more worthy. Lord Gaveston is accomplished.”

“Nonsense!” Longshanks climbed to his viewing seat on the
pavilion and slapped his hands to commence the tournament. “Don’t think I haven’t
heard the talk, Rob. Some are trumpeting you as the most skilled knight west of
Constantinople—behind d’Argentin and me, of course. If not for this infernal
gout, I’d be out there myself. Now, to the task, lad! Give us a show.”

Gloucester drew his cousin aside. “You needn’t do this.
Claim injury.”

But Robert knew that refusal was not an option. He slammed his
visor and joined the English combatants on the north end, fixing a withering
glare on James in the distance for having fomented this trouble for him.

While the Comyns prepared their ponies with blinders, James
chose a set of rusted armour from the pitiful array of choices offered by the
quartermaster.

Tabhann, laughing, forced a lance into James’s hands. “When
this is finished, Douglas, why don’t you swim back to France and take up again
with those Parisian sodomites.”

James shoved the offered weapon aside and found one to his
own liking. “So you’ll be free to make treasonous deals with Longshanks?”

Red restrained Tabhann from throwing a fist. “It’s the
English we’re fighting this hour. We’ll take care of him later.”

James put one foot in
the stirrup. “I want Clifford.”

Red smirked. “We’ve decided you’ll take the Bruce.”

Mounting to wait his turn, James looked to Campbell for
support in his protest, but the Comyns outranked the Bruce kinsman, and
Campbell could only shrug, powerless to overrule the decision.

Red grinned at his own cleverness as he took the first
position in the lists to face off against the Templar Sinclair. Both riders
circled their skittish mounts, and when the horn blasted, Red charged through
the low mist screaming Gaelic curses. He collided with the Templar in a din of
skidding violence and was catapulted to the ground. The Comyn men rushed over
the rails to examine Red. Relieved to find him only dazed, they dragged him
from the muck. The victorious Sinclair returned to his post, accepting with
indifference both the English accolades and the Scot hoots.

On the pavilion, Longshanks chortled while warming his hands
over a cauldron of burning coals. He noticed that Princess Isabella did not
share his enthusiasm for the initial English victory. “I do hope you’ll write
of that result in your letters to your vapid father. Be certain to describe
every detail. Perhaps he will be less inclined to foment alliances with these
Scots behind my back.”

The princess looked toward the far end of the pavilion,
where her future husband was cavorting with Gaveston in a game of chess.
Trained in the French art of the subtle
riposte
, she asked the king,
“Does your son not partake of the joust?” When that question chased the
monarch’s biting humor just as she intended, she answered her own question
with mock innocence. “No, I am learning that he prefers more delicate
pursuits.”

Distempered by that observation, Longshanks demanded more
warmed ale and turned back to the lists in time to see Neil Campbell draw the
assignment against Gloucester. Gaining a step on the horn, Campbell charged and
hugged his steed’s neck to avoid offering an easy target. A few paces from
impact, Campbell leaned toward the right and thrust his lance across his body
to catch Gloucester by surprise. Both lances shattered and rained black shards across
the slate sky. Gloucester wavered, finally slipping from the saddle. Bleeding
from a shoulder gash but still horsed, Campbell returned unsteadily to a
greeting of thunderous Scot cheers.

On the pavilion, Isabella leaned over to receive the king’s
assessment of that loss, but he pointedly ignored her.

At the English end in the lists, Clifford snorted with
satisfaction at seeing Gloucester thrown. Yet the officer’s mood soured when
Cam Comyn drove d’Aumont from his destrier with an unorthodox smote, slamming
the Templar sideways with the lance rather than using its tip.

D’Aumont rushed limping on foot to the pavilion to cry foul,
but Longshanks was so confident in the superiority of his two remaining knights
that he waved off the protest; this loser was a Frenchman and a Templar, after
all, and his defeat had been a rousing crowd-pleaser with both sides.

Before mounting for the fourth run, Clifford slammed his mailed forearm into Robert’s chest, a ritual designed to prepare one’s comrade for the coming jolt. The blow, more forceful than necessary, caught Robert by surprise and caused him to stumble. Clifford laughed as Robert lurched to recover his balance under his heavy hauberk. “Gloucester was meant for the monastery,” he said as he rode to the launch position. “Gird up, Bruce. We need to teach these Highland root grubbers a lesson before they gain the notion that they can stand on a field with us. I dealt with the half-wit father of that Douglas polecat. He’ll come at you wild and uneven.”

At the Scot end of the lists, Tabhann waited for the horn, nervously rubbing the length of his lance handle. At last, the blast shook the skies. Wrapped in black and silver, Clifford’s charger came snorting toward the climax with such pounding fury that it resembled a fire-breathing monster. Near the collision, Clifford deftly shifted across his pommel to avoid Tabhann’s lance. Tabhann took the impact in his gut and landed so violently that he tumbled across the ground like a wind-driven pinecone. The exuberant English peasants pelted Tabhann with rotten apples.

Delighted by Clifford’s triumph, Longshanks needled
Isabella, “You must concede that in the art of theatrics, we English do excel
you French. Look at the
dénouement
that I have arranged for your
delight.”