The Spider and the Stone: A Novel of Scotland's Black Douglas (22 page)

Now, as he inched closer to the bed, he signed his breast in renewed hope. Below him lay the king, horribly blotched and immobilized between two pig’s bladders filled with ice, his prodigious legs elevated with pulleys to drain the malignant fluids into his bowels. Desperate for a confirmation, the prince perked his ear to hear the whispers around the room. He had been disappointed too many times, but the sullen faces of the physicians suggested that this indeed was the hour of his ascension to the throne.

Sensing a hovering
presence, Longshanks opened his eyes. “The Borders?”

Caernervon passed a hand across the scabbed face to test his
father’s sight. “You should never have let that scofflaw Scot go free.”

Longshanks beckoned his son nearer with a turn of his
shaking hand. “My hearing is weak.” When Caernervon leaned down to repeat his
admonishment, the king erupted from his pillow and snared his son’s collar with
a choking hold. “By God, I will take you with me to Hell before I leave England
to your folly! I did not ask your counsel! Answer me!”

Caernervon shrieked as if bitten by an asp. “I’ve not been
in the North!”

The king reeled back with a choking spasm. The physicians
rushed up flashing their scalpels, but he repulsed them with wild swipes.

Caernervon was
horrified. His arrival had only served to revive the old man.

Longshanks rasped, “You think I don’t know where you’ve been?”

“Why was I ordered here if you are not—”

“Your incompetence is the best medicine at my disposal!” The
king dug his cracked fingers into the melting slabs of ice and brought a
handful to his burning forehead. “You said I should not have let someone go.”

“That day at Berwick,
when the Douglas cur refused to joust the Bruce. His defiance has emboldened
the heathens, from what I hear.”

“From what
you
hear? You gather your reconnaissance
from where? Those sodomite brothels in London?”

From the shadows, Clifford step forward with caution and
reported, “I fear the Prince speaks true, my lord. My spies in Lanark report
that Robert Bruce has inherited his grandfather’s lust for the Scot throne. And
there is talk about that the Border rebels are being stirred up again by this
son of the Douglas traitor that we disposed of in London Tower.”

Longshanks gargled lemon
water and spewed it across the room, dousing his attendants in a shower of
disease. “Then we must call Bruce’s bluff before he gains strength.”

“Father, grant me command of the army. I will bring Robert
Bruce back in chains and raise his head next to Wallace’s on London Bridge.”

The king sucked furiously on a chunk of ice to soothe his
throat. When that remedy proved only temporary in its relief, he threw the bowl
of frozen shards against the wall, ricocheting it contents off the heads of his
retinue. “Appoint him sheriff of Lanark.”

The prince whined, “Why would I want to be in charge of that
swine sty?”

Longshanks searched for anything in reach that would serve
as a cudgel. “Not you! Clodplate! Bruce! Appoint Bruce!”

Caernervon insisted to the physicians, “He is delirious.”

Longshanks struggled and grunted until he finally managed to
lever his elbows. “When Bruce accepts the commission, send an order under my
seal for him to raze Castle Douglas.”

Clifford had been enjoying the prince’s torment, but now,
finding his own interests at risk, he protested weakly, “My lord will recall
that Douglasdale was granted to me for services rendered to the realm.”

The king’s fevered eyes blazed. “And you, sirrah, will
recall that you keep your commission and your head at my pleasure!”

Chastened, Clifford
bowed. “Shall I deliver the order to Bruce?”

Gulping another difficult breath, Longshanks gasped, “Nay,
send a courier. I have another task for you. Where are Red Comyn and his brood
of grass snakes nesting these days?”

“Near Dumfries, by last report.”

Longshanks sopped streams of the fever sweat from his
forehead. “Young Bruce will not be any easy carp to hook. The Competitor will
make certain of that. While we keep those two cornered, we’ll slip a second
line into the water.” Wearied from the exertion, the king waved Clifford and
the physicians from the room. The prince hurried to take his leave with them,
but Longshanks captured his son’s wrist and, pulling him down to the bed,
caressed the back of his balding head. “Eddie, is there something more you wish
to tell me?”

“More?”

The king clamped the
nape of Edward’s trembling neck. “I am told you and Gaveston broke into the
Bishop of Coventry’s park and poached his deer.”

The prince yelped, his chin stretched to its limit. “What
does that matter? His grounds are subject to royal inspection.”

Longshanks kicked his legs from their restraining straps,
knocking the ice bladders across the floor. He flailed tottering to his feet
and dragged the prince toward the door. “Where the Devil are my councilors?
Planning my funeral?” When Gloucester and the guards burst into the chamber,
the king shouted, “Remove this reprobate from England!”

Horrified, Caernervon slid to his knees. “You cannot exile me!”

Longshanks stomped and thrashed with his heels, trying to
beat his son senseless, but the fever’s blurring prevented him from finding his
target. “No more funds to him, by Christ! And see to it that Gascon coxcomb is
also sent across the Channel! The Rhineland’s not far enough!”

Caernervon cried. “Not Piers!”

Longshanks ripped off his soaked nightshirt and drove the
prince on all fours toward the door by urinating on his back. “I’ll piss on
your grave before I see you squander all I’ve gained! Out, damn you! A daughter
would have had more balls! A blade, damn it! Bring me a sword!”

Saturated in piss, Caernervon crawled sobbing over the ice.
“I
will
be king! There is nothing you can do to stop it!” He found a
boot and hurled it. “If I am malformed, it is from your seed!”

Longshanks took the plated toe of the boot against his nose.
Now even more livid, he charged blindly and nearly had the prince in his grasp
when he staggered, coughing up gobs of clotted blood.

Caernervon, aghast at finding his shirt splattered, escaped
the room.

“God help us,” the king muttered as Gloucester assisted him
back to the bed. “If the branch grows so perverse when green, what crooked form
will it take when seasoned?”

Still on his knees just
outside the door, Caernervon prayed the old man would choke on the purging of
his lungs.

R
OWED IN A BARK TOWARD
the canal entrance of Lochmaben
Castle, Robert Bruce sat captured in thought, beset by a thousand memories.
Impatient with the pace of their approach, he leapt into the loch and waded toward the
mist-shrouded banks where his grandfather had taught him to hunt and fish as a
boy. Reaching high ground, he ran to the ancient Bruce stronghold that guarded
the Solway Firth and raced up the steps. At the door to the last room, he
hesitated and took a deep breath, then forced himself to enter.

The Competitor lay on his deathbed, surrounded by many of his
old comrades, including James the Stewart and Bishop Lamberton. The cleric
gripped Robert’s shoulder for courage and, finishing the last rites, led the
others out.

Robert grasped his grandfather’s frail hand, choking off a
cough in grief.

“Robbie … lad, is that you?”

Robert finally found his voice. “Aye, grandpa.”

Stirring, the Competitor drew back the blanket to reveal
their clan’s ceremonial broadsword at his side. “It is yours now. You must gain
what I could not.”

Robert turned to hide tears. “I’m not ready.”

“You
are
ready.”

“Wallace is dead.”

“Wallace was your Baptist. He was sent to prepare your way.”

“I fear Longshanks
suspects our plan.”

The Competitor pursed his lips to beg for water, and when
his thirst was slaked, he drew a long sigh and warned, “Longshanks won’t long
survive me. You must remain uncommitted until his wastrel son gains the
throne.”

“And if I my hand is forced?”

“Time is your ally,” the
Competitor counseled. “Longshanks knows he must bring the game to a head soon.
Do not fall for his trap.”

“Caernervon may be irresolute, but Lancaster and the earls
are not.”

“The English lords are drained dry by these wars. Play upon
their enmity with the Plantagenets. Divide them, as they have divided us. Learn
whom you can trust amongst our own. Earn their loyalty and never betray it.”

Robert tried to think of whom he could rally to his side.
“There is Edward, but Nigel and Tom are too young, and Alex is only a gownsman.
I know of no one else I can call upon.”

“The Hardi’s son?”

“He now holds me in low esteem.”

“No truer Scot than Wil Douglas ever drew breath. Go to the lad and make amends.” The Competitor clutched desperately at his grandson’s arm. “Rob, there is a matter that I have too long held from you.”

“You must rest.”

Old Bruce became more agitated. “Hear me on this! Decades
ago, your great-great uncle committed an act of despicable judgment that has
long plagued our clan. A holy hermit named Malachy came to this keep and asked
for boarding. That night he was fed well enough, but during the meal, he
learned that a robber was to be hanged before dawn. He begged our kinsman to
spare the felon’s life in an example of Christ’s mercy. Our forefather granted
him the pardon. But the next morning, the hermit found the criminal dangling
from a tree, in breach of the promise.”

The bizarre tale caused Robert to suspect that the fever was ravaging his grandfather’s mind.

“The hermit was declared a saint! He placed a curse on us!”

Robert eased him back to
the cot. “No saint would seek such vengeance.”

The old man’s swollen eyes were livid with fear. “That year a flood destroyed our castle at Annan. We have been denied the throne because of the saint’s anger. Robbie, I fear for my salvation … for the salvation of us all.”

Robert had never witnessed such weakness in him. “You took
the Cross, grandpa. God will welcome you into His arms.”

“You must gain forgiveness for us, Rob. Promise me!”

“How?”

Weeping like a child, the Competitor tried to reveal the
penance required, but his lips froze.

Robert had heard only one word of the request:
Jerusalem.

T
HE NEXT MORNING, THE
B
RUCE
brothers carried the
Competitor’s casket to the clan necropolis overlooking the loch. Lamberton
offered a few words in eulogy, which went unheard by Robert, lost in troubled
thought.

The diggers were about
to shovel the black Galloway loam into the grave when a courier rode up and
threw a packet into the burial pit, then sped off.

Robert climbed into the
grave and broke open the letter’s royal seal. He turned ashen as he read its
contents. Looking down at the coffin, he would have given all he had inherited
to ask his grandfather just one more question.

A
CCOMPANIED BY THE THIRTY
E
NGLISH
troopers placed at his
command, Robert slowed his approach into Douglasdale and tried to think of a
way to avoid the dilemma that Longshanks had devised by appointing him sheriff
of Lanarkshire. As he and his small command spurred across the Douglas water,
the ruins of the once proud tower stopped him short. A heap of neglected stone
was overgrown with thistles and brush. Why had Longshanks ordered him to raze
Castle Douglas if it offered no refuge for resistance? He turned to Clifford,
who had been constantly at his side pestering him during the journey, and
remarked dryly, “You’ve kept it up in fine fashion.”

“The rents pay my gaming losses,” Clifford quipped with a
grin. “But the confines, I am told, are still infested with a few rats.”

Screams came from the village, a quarter-mile away.

Robert cantered closer and saw six of Clifford’s men
rounding up the inhabitants for hanging. “I gave no order to gather prisoners.”

Clifford signaled for troopers with torches and grappling
hooks to surround the castle. “You’ll see their usefulness soon enough. Issue
the command.”

Robert rode up to one of the noosed Scots. “Sir, do I know
you?”

The half-blind man
turned toward his voice. “Thomas Dickson is my name.”

The color drained from Robert’s cheeks. He affected
indifference to avoid revealing the identity of the man who had served as Wil
Douglas’s attendant. “I am mistaken. I thought you were—” An arrow whizzed by
his ear.

“You
are
mistaken.”

Robert looked up at the tower to find the source of that
indictment.

On the wall, James stood with his bow reloaded. “Mistaken
for a Scotsman by all who thought you one. This time, I
will
fight
you.”

Robert now understood, too late, that Longshanks had set a trap for him, just as his grandfather had warned. He had assumed James was in Fife, under the watchful eye of Bishop Lamberton. He swung around in the saddle and demanded of Clifford, “Why was I not told James Douglas held this keep?”

Clifford reined a few steps back for safety’s sake while enjoying
Robert’s consternation. “The new sheriff of Lanark needs to improve his
surveillance.”

Robert pulled the royal order from his saddlebag and read it
again. Razing the castle was its sole directive, couched in the usual language
allowing discretion for unforeseen circumstances. He rode to the walls and
pleaded with James, “I would have a word with you in private.”

Clifford lashed up to intercept him. “No negotiations,
Bruce! You’ll be the one swinging if delay is your method!”

Ignoring the officer’s threat, Robert dismounted and hung
his buckler on the pommel to indicate his peaceful intention.