The Spider and the Stone: A Novel of Scotland's Black Douglas (24 page)

“Rob, lad! I trust the
journey was uneventful?”

Nervous, Robert looked around the chamber. A week had passed since Whitsun Sunday, but the beams were still strung with the trappings of the recent feast. His cousin Gloucester and
Isabella of France nodded to him from the far end of the dining table. Their
presence, and Longshanks’s jovial mood, eased his worries. After much agonized
debate, and despite Elizabeth’s fear that something was amiss, he had decided
to answer the royal summons. His wife often rattled on about her Irish
intuitions, but she little understood the demands of his situation. As the
newly appointed sheriff of Lanark, he could not refuse to explain his decision
to leave Castle Douglas standing. The best method for taming a lion, he had
assured her, was to place one’s head firmly within its jaws.

He also needed to buy
time. Earlier that week, fortune had smiled on him from an unexpected source:
Red Comyn had come to him with an offer to heal the divisions that prevented
Scotland from throwing off the English yoke. If he agreed to transfer title to
all lands disputed between them, Red promised to give up his claim to the
throne. The bargain was costly and fraught with risk, but he was determined to
avenge his grandfather’s failure to gain the crown. He had accepted the
arrangement with the caveat that Red would not publicly announce it until his
return to Scotland. If he could allay Longshanks’s suspicions a few more
months, he would be able to muster his forces, consolidate the support of the
Comyn vassals, and prepare the country’s defenses.

Longshanks led him to a table spread with slices of roast
lamb and candied yams. “Come, Rob, it’s been too long. How is my Liz?”

“I fear she misses the gaiety of your court.”

“You must bring her to us more often.”

“My liege, the Douglas tower …”

Longshanks waved off
that subject and commanded more wine. “No business this night, Rob. Slake your
thirst. I’ve just received a new shipment of claret from Brittany. I think
you’ll find it to your liking. Don’t you agree, Gloucester?”

Gloucester appeared lost
in sullen thought. “I’ve not sampled it.”

Longshanks harrumphed in
disgust. “Ah yes, the Earl of Sobriety. I could find a more entertaining dinner
companion in a monastery of deaf-mutes.”

Despite the king’s apparent lack of interest in the
Douglasdale affair, Robert was determined to resolve the issue without further
delay. “I’d not have you think that I disregarded your wishes.”

Longshanks dug his teeth into a leg of lamb and spat out a
chaw of gristle. “You took the Douglas rebel prisoner, I am told.”

Robert was relieved to
find the monarch amenable to his decision. “I placed him under the bond of the
Bishop of St. Andrews until I received further instructions from you. I have a
grievance to lodge against Robert Clifford. The man abused me with slanders and
threats.”

Longshanks did not miss a bite. “Clifford is long on action,
short on brains. Good thinking on the tower. We may need it as a staging base.
I was too vague in my orders. If only I had more men like you who could take
the initiative. Well, eat up, Rob. You don’t think we’d poison you, do you?”
Nearly choking from laughter at his own jibe, he turned to Gloucester for
confirmation of its wit, but the earl did not share in the merriment.

Isabella came to Robert’s assistance. “Majesty, Lord Bruce
has endured a long journey. Perhaps he wishes to retire for the night.”

Robert nodded to her in gratitude for the excuse to depart
before the king’s temper could turn sour.

Longshanks waved him off to the door. “By Christ, Rob,
you’re becoming an old man! What was it? Seven days ride from Lochmaben? Hah!
I’ve made that route in half the time. Off to bed with you, then! I’d not send
a sapped husband back to Liz!”

Robert bowed and quickly took his leave.

“Sleep well,” the king said. “We have much to discuss in the
morn.”

A
FTER
R
OBERT RETIRED,
C
LIFFORD ENTERED
the dining hall from
a side door and whispered to Longshanks, who nodded grimly and impaled his
carving knife into the table.

Dismissed, Clifford
turned to depart. Then, remembering another task, he opened his courier bag and
presented a small bundle to Isabella. “I was asked to deliver this to you.
Something about candle holders.”

Perplexed, Isabella began to open the parcel. “From whom?”

“The Countess of Buchan.”

Too abruptly for discretion, Isabella stopped untying the
package. When Clifford tarried to observe its contents, she feigned disgust and
flung the bundle aside. “Do these Highland peasants really think I’d have their
crude ornaments cluttering my compartments?”

Clifford mulled her indignation, then shrugged and took his leave.

Isabella bowed to the departing king who, enervated from the
artful performance of good health that he had staged for Robert’s benefit,
required the assistance of two servants to carry him to his bedchamber. When
Longshanks was near the door, she lowered the package to her lap and unwrapped
the lambskin below linen covering on the table. Two coins and a pair of spurs
fell out and clanged to the floor. She kicked them under the folds of her
kirtle.

The king turned back
toward the noise, and the princess displayed a fork as evidence of her
clumsiness. He shook his head in disgust and ordered the servants to continue
escorting him from the room, muttering something under his breath about how the
French cow was more trouble than she was worth.

Isabella watched as
Gloucester, burdened by troubled thought, lingered a few steps behind the king.
She could not fathom why the Scotswoman had sent these items to her. And why
had Clifford been at the castle of the Comyns? She noticed a smudge near a
folded corner of the lambskin. The word “Bruce” had been scrawled in a harried
script.

Spurs … Coins … the king of England … Bruce.

There was only one person she dared consult. “Lord
Gloucester, a word?”

The earl, annoyed by the
delay to his night of rest, threaded back through the scullions who were
cleaning the tables. “Yes, my lady.”

Isabella waited until the servants returned to the kitchen.
Then, she lifted the hem of her kirtle to reveal the spurs and coins. “These
were sent to me by the Countess of Buchan. I know not why.”

Gloucester’s eyes widened. “Where is my cousin lodged?”

“On the third floor of the north tower.”

He slipped the contents of the package
under his cloak. “Say nothing of this to anyone.”

H
OURS LATER, A KNOCK AT THE
door woke Robert. Groggy and in
his nightshirt, he rose from the bed and found the royal keeper of the wardrobe
holding a silver platter crowned by a large warming bowl. “From Lord Gloucester, sir. He
was concerned that you did not partake of dinner.”

Robert rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “What hour is it?”

“Half past matins.”

Robert moved to slam the door. “Advise the earl that I do
not appreciate his nocturnal pranks.”

“He said I should tell you it was cooked by the French
princess.”

“Cooked by the princess my ass! Give me the damn thing,
then. By the Rood, he will pay for this horseplay!” Robert lifted the cover
from the platter. “What in God’s name …” He stared at the dish under the
warming bowl.

While the court official waited to be dismissed, Robert
stood with his back to the door, examining the spurs and the coins imprinted
with Longshanks’s profile. He kept the platter hidden from the Keeper’s view as
he tried to make sense of this delivery. Spurs were a common Highland symbol
for flight, often sent when written messages were too dangerous. But how could
the French princess have known their meaning? And what was he to make of the
pennies? Were they meant as Judas gold, the Biblical symbols of betrayal? He
was so tired from the journey and strained by the events in Douglasdale that he
feared his mind was playing tricks with his judgment.

Did Longshanks intend to murder him this night?

Pale with alarm, he told Gloucester’s messenger, “Send my
thanks to the earl and the princess.” The tremor in his voice threatened to
betray his fear, but he asked anyway, “Are the guards still posted on the steps
below?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Robert gave the man more coins. “Bring them a small cask of
your best wine. And one for yourself.”

The functionary bowed
and departed, and Robert locked the door. Praying the wine would keep the
guards distracted, he pulled a torch from its moorings, extinguished its flame,
and thrust its handle through the slots. He threw off his nightshirt and
dressed quickly, pulling on his boots as he searched the room.

One window.

Finding no other means
of escape, he crawled onto a ledge that hovered several stories above the moat.
With difficulty, he reached a crenellation and pulled himself over the wall.
After the constables passed by on their rounds, he scampered to the roof and
rushed down the stairs to the stables.

D
URING HIS FOUR DAYS OF
hard riding north, Robert had
avoided displaying his herald for fear of alerting the local sheriffs who would
have been alerted of his escape from London. Now, as he approached the hills of
Northumbria and the old Roman wall that ran from the east coast to Carlisle, he
wondered again if he had misconstrued the spurs and coins that Gloucester had
delivered to him. Could Longshanks truly have conspired an attempt on his life?
If so, why had the king not confronted him that night, when he’d had the
chance? Perhaps Gloucester had simply overreacted to some harmless jest.

None of that mattered now. His absconding would be seen as
clear evidence of his treason. He had failed to heed his grandfather’s warning.
If he
was
wrong about Gloucester’s message, he had played his hand too
soon.

Hearing the distant thud
of hooves, he shielded his eyes from the morning’s slant light and saw a man
riding fast toward him from the north. He had passed a hundred such travelers
without incident. Still, to be safe, he slid his hand to the dagger under his
cloak. His heart quickened—the man’s banner bore the Comyn herald. What would a
Comyn man be doing south of the Borders?

He shouted, “Stop, I
say!”

The rider ignored the command and increased his speed.

He flashed his dagger. “Did you not hear me?”

The rider angled in a search for some means of avoiding the
confrontation. When he tried to dash past, Robert caught up with the knave and
buffeted him from his saddle. He leapt down and ripped off the man’s hood to
expose his face. “I’ll have your name or your life.”

“Brechin.”

That revelation rang ominous to Robert’s ear. The Brechins,
an Angus clan allied with the Comyns, had been one of the first Scots to rush
to Longshanks’s side during the invasion of 1296. “What purpose does Brechin of
Comyn service have in England?”

“Deal basely with me, and you will answer to the king!”

Robert pressed his blade against Brechin’s throat. “And
which king would that be?”

“The rightful king of
Scotland. What business is it of yours, Englishman?”

“I report to Edward
Plantagenet,” Robert said, lying to smoke him out.

“Then you’d do well to
escort me to him without delay. I have a communication for him from Red Comyn.”

Robert emptied the courier’s bag and found a letter pressed
with the Comyn seal. He slit open the correspondence and read it:

To His Royal Highness,

The deed is done. Enclosed find the indenture bearing
Bruce’s attestation. At this hour, I muster men to take command of the Bruce
castles in Turnberry, Kildrummy, and Lochmaben. By the time you receive this, I
trust you will have sent the traitor to join the Competitor in Hell.

Your servant, Comyn the Red

Seething at the betrayal, Robert opened his cloak to reveal
a silver brooch studded with crystal.

Brechin stared wide-eyed at the famous Bruce reliquary that
contained the bone fragments of the first saints on Iona.

Robert gave him a
choice. “Your last breath, or your altered allegiance.”

Brechin refused to be
cowed. “I serve Scotland, not you.”

Robert itched to run the traitor through, but he held back.
“Two weeks ago, Red Comyn offered me the throne in exchange for my lands.”

“I knew nothing of this.”

“Where will I find the treacherous whoreson?”

After a hesitation, Brechin revealed, “He litigates a case
in Dumfries.”

Robert dragged the Comyn vassal back to his horse. “Ride to
St. Andrews with all speed and tell Bishop Lamberton that I am in swift need of
our mutual friend. Then make haste to Dumfries and advise Comyn that you have
made good your delivery to London. Fail me on this, and nary a rabbit hole
north of the Tweed will offer you refuge from my wrath.”