The Spider and the Stone: A Novel of Scotland's Black Douglas (28 page)

“You would damn him for his mother’s sins?”

“There are rumors that the Gascon is proficient in the black
arts. I only advise you of these matters for your protection.”

“I cannot lose communication with him.” The prince turned
calculating in his tone. “What is it you want? Gold? A bishop’s ring?”

The Dominican folded his hands in a gesture of piety,
affecting dismay at such an offer. “Perhaps I should take up the matter with
your father.”

“I will be king within the year.”

When their voices trailed off, Isabella crawled along the
boards to follow their movement.

“King Philip has been presented disturbing information,” the
Dominican reported. “The Temple in France is rife with heresy. We suspect the
commanderies here in England are also infected. The Holy Father is examining
the evidence as we speak.”

“The Templars? Heretics? That is absurd!”

“I too dismissed the possibility,” the Dominican said,
“until I was presented with the testimonies of the monks arrested and brought
to Chinon.”

Caernervon’s voice turned suspicious. “The French king has
never given a whit about theology.” His voice suddenly leapt an octave with
discovery. “The Temple’s treasury would be a windfall for him. And you
Dominicans would be rid of a rival order.”

“My lord does me an injustice.”

“What does any of this have to do with me?” Caernervon
demanded.

The Dominican bowed, hiding an astringent smile. “I wish
only to keep you informed of possible traitors in your midst. I will continue
to strive to serve His Excellency in all ways. All I ask in return is that you
remember me in your prayers.”

As the two men slipped out of the sanctuary, Isabella
finally felt safe enough to release a held breath.

A
S AN
E
NGLISH COLUMN RODE
out from Perth castle under a
flag of parlay, James inched his fingers toward the sword at his side.

Mounted next to him, Robert reached over to restrain his arm.

Bridling at being forced to stand down, James suspected that
Robert still held out hope that Longshanks would recognize his right to the
Scot throne in exchange for another oath of fealty. But that was a fool’s
fancy, he knew, for the response to their call to arms at Scone had been
disheartening. The clans, cowed by the arrival of English galleys near
Carlisle, had sent only a tenth of their wapinshaw allotment, a setback that
Clifford’s spies certainly would have reported to London. He had pleaded for a
quick attack on Perth before the main English army could come north, but Robert
had temporized for two weeks, citing every excuse from a lack of siege guns to
his expectation of more reinforcements from Carrick.

“Keep rein on that temper, Jamie. There is no harm in hearing
what Pembroke has to say.”

“Do you forget that he
is kin to the Comyns?”

“Pembroke is an honorable man.”

“An
English
man. And one who takes counsel from
that scar-faced cur.”

“He will hold Clifford in check, as I must hold you.”

James set his jaw in protest as Robert moved his steed
several lengths away to draw him out of earshot of their five hundred
volunteers.

“The men watch my every move,” Robert reminded him under his
breath. “I cannot have you always questioning my decisions.”

James looked over his shoulder at their thin ranks. These
few who had joined them were hard-bitten veterans of the Wallace campaigns,
aged from years on the run but still itching to give battle. Their uncertain
glances betrayed their doubt that Robert had the mettle to hold the crown that he
had so impetuously grasped. Each of these patriots had lost a brother or father
to Clifford’s terrors. Simon Fraser, the grizzled bear of a man who had fought
on Stirling Bridge, was the eldest. And at his side, as always, stood ancient
Alexander Scrygemour, the tall, sloe-eyed standard-bearer whose family had long
held the honor of carrying the royal banner. The last member of this
triumvirate of nobility was the Earl of Atholl, the rotund castellan of the
northern Bruce keep at Kildrummy, affectionately called the “Falls of Atholl”
because he sweated so profusely even in winter. Accompanying these lairds stood
several men in their service, including Christopher Seton and Robert’s young
nephew, Thomas Randolph.

The rumbling of a second column riding up from the south
stirred him from his troubled contemplation. He reconnoitered the new arrivals
and found Edward Bruce escorting in not the promised force of two thousand, but
a paltry party of thirty that included Bishop Lamberton and several cloaked
women. Lashing up to confront Edward, he searched the horizon behind the
riders. “Have you ridden ahead of the main force?”

Edward Bruce ignored him, insisting on speaking to Robert
first.

Slowly it dawned on James that the hotheaded Bruce brother had
failed to convince even Robert’s vassals in Carrick and Annandale to take up
the cause. He rode to the rear of the entourage and discovered the hooded women
to be Elizabeth Bruce and her court, which included Robert’s married sisters,
Mary and Christine, and Robert’s daughter, Marjorie. He did not recognize the
last lady in the queen’s retinue—until she shed her cowl.

His face hardened. Why in God’s name had Edward brought
her
here?

He thought Belle had long since returned to Dalswinton. She
met his glare with her own quizzical glance, until he broke off their silent
sparring. Did she expect a warm greeting after abandoning him for Tabhann
Comyn? She had crowned Robert, but she remained married to his sworn enemy. He
turned from her and cracked at Edward, “Perhaps you’ll arm the women. Ah, but
that is well nigh impossible, since you’ve also failed to bring more weapons.”

Edward dismounted in a red heat, champing for a fight. Eager to accommodate, James leapt from his horse and drove a
shoulder into his chest. Wrestling Edward to the ground, he was about to land a
fist when Lamberton reined up to break them apart.

“Enough!" the bishop ordered. "You only embolden the English with this
scrapping!”

On the far ridge, Pembroke—so pale that Piers Gaveston had
nicknamed him Joseph the Jew—sat with a bemused smile while watching the Scots
bicker. Finally, tiring of the entertainment, the English earl led his officers
forward and met Robert with a look of affected insouciance, as if he deemed
this entire exercise beneath him. “Surrender, Bruce, and I will treat you with
mercy.”

Remounting, James rode
up to remind Pembroke, “You speak to a king!”

Clifford snorted at that conceit—until James’s blade came
zinging to his chest. He brushed it aside with his forearm. “You will pay for
that, Douglas!”

“It is
your
account that is overdue!”

While the two men hurled recriminations, Pembroke sat in the
saddle casually examining his fingernails. He glanced over at Robert again and
remarked dryly, “A king, it seems, who does not honor a flag of truce.”

Shamed at being called out for a breach of chivalry, Robert
signaled for James to break off the confrontation. He asked Pembroke, “Where
are the Comyns?”

“In Perth,” Pembroke said. “I have their word there will be
no reprisals.”

 While Robert debated
the offer, James studied the reaction of the volunteers. Although outnumbered,
they showed no stomach for capitulating to the treacherous Comyns. This low
ground below Perth was ideal terrain for the larger English horses, all the
more reason to question why Pembroke had delayed delivering his demand for
submission until so late in the day.

“We will afford you an hour to mass,” Robert said, testing
the earl’s resolve to fight. “This field is as good as any.”

For the first time, Pembroke’s hooded eyes flashed surprise.
“Don’t be foolish, Bruce. We have twice your number in infantry.”

James blustered at him, “You’d best return to England and
look after your estates. I hear Caernervon is shopping for a manor to gift his
favourite.”

With a supercilious smirk, Pembroke played his trump card.
“The Holy Father has excommunicated you, Bruce, and all who join in this
insurrection. The anathema has been pronounced from every pulpit in England.”

Lamberton slapped his pony to Robert’s side to afford him
time to regain his composure. “Longshanks must have put quite a dent in his
treasury with that purchase. What does the pope charge for an excommunication
these days? A week’s worth of feasting at Avignon? Let Clement come to St.
Andrews, if Philip will allow him out of his sight. There he will receive a
different account of who merits the Almighty’s wrath.”

“Blasphemous priest!” Clifford shouted.

Ignoring the bishop’s taunt, Pembroke insisted on addressing
Robert only, as if they were both hampered by the crassness of the inferior men
who served them. “The sun will set soon, Bruce. Give me your word that you’ll
not abscond during the night, and we will engage you in seemly order in the
morning.”

Looking relieved—too much so, for James’s preference—Robert
asked the earl, “The dragon will be lowered?”

Pembroke nodded his
assent to the condition that all combatants would be protected under Christian
rules of engagement.

James sensed that something was amiss. “Rob, a word with
you.”

Robert displayed a flash of anger at being addressed so
informally in the presence of the English. He requested a moment to confer with
his officers.

As the Scots rode off, Pembroke muttered to Clifford,
“Officers. His exchequer must be that halfwit with the sheep’s bladder on his
pike.”

James led Robert and his councilors to a near hill. He
turned and studied the English contingent from afar. “They’re using this truce
to judge our strength.”

Robert circled his horse in a tight radius, his ritual when
nervous. “More of our men may arrive by morning. We’ll face the low sun if we
fight now.”

“They won’t follow us to the Isles.”

“Whose side are you on, Douglas?” Edward demanded. “I say we
give them the blade on the morrow and end this now.”

“They hold the high ground,” James reminded Robert.

Edward was itching to
finish their interrupted brawl. “My brother is king—”

“Then stop heckling him to act like some sow-headed clan lord!” James turned from Edward and grasped Robert’s pommel to drive home his plea. “We should draw them deeper into the Highlands. Let them starve crawling home.”

Rubbed raw by the tepid response to his muster, Robert now
reacted harshly to any slight that even smacked of betrayal. “You’ve swiftly
enough turned colors. An hour ago you were as hotfoot as Eddie to attack.”

“Clifford is up to some mischief,” James insisted. “Each
passing day we keep the Comyns pinned behind those walls is a day closer to
Longshanks’s death.”

Robert chewed nervously at his lower lip. “Aye, and every
day that passes, another clan deserts me.”

James could not deny that sobering truth. Perhaps, for once,
Robert was making a decision with a long-term strategy in mind. A retreat on
the brink of their first battle might be tactically wise, but it could also
destroy what little trust the clans still held in him, to say nothing of his
own faltering confidence. To prevent the Comyns from turning the entire country
against them, these Bruces needed a victory, and soon. Feeling Robert’s waiting
stare, he reluctantly nodded his assent to reassembling on this field for
battle in the morning.

Having gained a consensus, Robert led his officers back to
waiting English and agreed to their proposed terms of engagement.

Pembroke betrayed no relief or surprise, but merely reined
around to retire into the city. As he cantered past the Scot ladies, he bowed
his head with an affectation of courtesy to Elizabeth Bruce. “Your father sends
his regards.”

There was threat enough in that message, James knew. The
Earl of Ulster was being hard pressed by Longshanks to recall his daughter from
Robert’s side and recruit an army of Irishmen for the invasion of Scotland.

While Elizabeth stammered for a response, Clifford tried to
place Belle’s face. “You are the Countess of Buchan, if memory serves.”

Belle calmed her garron, spooked by the proximity of the
officer’s bullying horse. “Your memory serves you better than your honor.”

Clifford smiled thinly at the insult. “The Bishop of
Canterbury would have you remember, woman, that your abandonment of the marital
bond is yet another reason for
your
excommunication.”

Those Scots on foot closed ranks in support around the Lass
of Scone, the name that the bards had given Belle for her courage in crowning
Robert.

Remembering how Robert had become distraught over the threat of eternal damnation, Belle sidled her pony closer to the English party and answered Clifford, loud enough for all to hear, “You may advise the archbishop, sir, that I’d sooner follow a Scot king to Hell than an English king to Heaven. But I’ll lose no sleep worrying over ever confronting that choice. The odds of Edward Plantagenet passing St. Peter’s gate are as long as those for finding his son in bed with a satisfied wife.”