The Spider and the Stone: A Novel of Scotland's Black Douglas (43 page)

I
N THE KITCHEN OF THE
old Douglas tower, Eleanor Douglas
removed a pot from the hearth to silence its boiling so that she could follow
the footsteps creaking the ceiling boards above her. On the ramparts, Robert Clifford was inspecting the walls, and with him walked John Webton, an inexperienced Sussex knight appointed castellan, and Thomas Randolph, the former Bruce ally who had been forced to join the English after his capture at Methven.

She could no longer make out faces from afar, but her hearing was still sharp, and she had put that faculty to good use in gathering surveillance. Longshanks’s death had proved a mixed blessing for the few villagers who remained in Douglasdale; Caernervon’s abandonment of his father’s invasion with a new army had allowed them to gather the first full harvest in ten years, but it had also freed Clifford to come north to collect on back rents. She placed her ear near the air vent to overhear Clifford giving orders.

“Take
ten men out tomorrow and cut some timbers,” the officer told his subordinate,
Webton. “I intend to reinforce these foundations.”

“My
scouts tell me that Bruce and his mossers still lurk in Carrick.”

“You
needn’t worry about Bruce,” Clifford assured Webton. “He fled north after that
dolt Pembroke was replaced by Richmond in command of the army.”

“The
king intends to renew the campaign?”

Clifford
snorted. “Edward campaigns only to Piers Gaveston’s ass. But Bruce will be
brought to heel soon enough. The lords will see to that. Until then, we will
fortify this keep to use as a bolt hole for scouting raids.”

Randolph
reminded the two Englishmen, “You’ve forgotten about James Douglas. You will come
to regret the day you hung his woman in that cage.”

In the kitchen below, Eleanor, learning of Belle’s plight for the first time, stifled a cry of anguish just as Thomas Dickson, her late husband’s elderly servant, entered the kitchen to gather plates for breakfast. Wiping tears, she motioned him over to attempt to listen with her, despite his hardness of hearing.

Clifford’s laughed off Randolph’s warning. “Douglas never
leaves Bruce’s side. His whore has been languishing in Berwick for over a year.
If he intended to launch a raid to save her, he would have attempted it by
now.”

Eleanor slumped against the wall. Although Robert Bruce had returned to Scotland eleven months ago, her stepson had not come back to Douglasdale, and she had become resigned to the permanency of the occupation. She had not seen her youngest son, Archie, since sending him off nine years ago to be cared for by kinsmen in the North. She looked out through the window toward the valley. How many times had she stood here in despair, thinking about jumping to her death? Below the village, several soldiers from Clifford’s garrison were entering St. Bride’s kirk to attend Mass. Farther north, across the Leith water, a woman, hooded and cloaked against the harsh wind, drove a herd of scrawny cattle toward a communal pen. Clifford must have seen the cattle, too, because she now heard him comment that a beefsteak would make a fine Sunday repast.

Webton protested that plan. “These people here depend upon the milk.”

“I am beginning to question if you have the resolve to serve me.”

“I’ll fight any man of arms,” Webton told Clifford. “But to commit thievery on starving womenfolk and children—”

“Send two men to take that herd at once. I want a flank cut delivered to the kitchen within the hour. And if the wench is comely, bring her along as well. There’s nothing more satisfying than a Highland cow, eh Randolph?”

Eleanor whispered a curse on the English officer, as if another malediction added to the previous thousand might tip the balance of God’s favor.

I
N THE GREAT HALL,
C
LIFFORD
watched with amusement as the
lame Dickson floundered out of the kitchen dragging his bad leg while balancing
goblets of wine on a tray. Laughing at his pathetic effort to hurry, Clifford
stuck out his boot and sent the feeble servant sprawling across the floor amid
spilt wine and shattered glass. “There’s a Douglas for you! At home on all
fours.”

Helpless to halt to the abuse, Randolph assisted Dickson to his
feet while Cull and Chullan, mangy and half-starved, snarled at Clifford from
their tethers. The miserable dogs were approaching the age when
most mastiffs broke down and died, and Randolph marveled at how they hung on despite
their sporadic feedings, as if fueled by a sheer hatred for Clifford and
nothing else.

Clifford taunted the wet noses of the hounds with his
cutting knife. “Ale, Scottie!” he demanded of Dickson while hissing at the
dogs. “No more of that insufferable French piss water!”

Dickson gathered up the goblet shards. “Aye, my lord.
Clumsy, I am.”

Eleanor rushed in to see what had caused the commotion.

“Well, woman?” Clifford barked. “I’ll not wait all day!”

She pursed her lips in anger, but then quickly retreated
into an affectation of submission. “Cooking, my lord. Cooking.”

“Make certain the beefsteak cut is generous.”

She turned back in confusion. “I’ve been delivered no meat.”

Clifford marred the table with his knife. “You will be, soon
enough. And I’d best not find a sliver of the flank missing.”

E
LEANOR RETURNED TO THE KITCHEN
grumbling curses. The door
slammed—and a hand reached from behind to cover her mouth. She struggled to
escape, until an old woman in a hood and herder rags pressed a kiss to her
cheek. The widow made out the blurred features of three men at the rear entry,
with blood dripping from their daggers. She recoiled with fright, and turned
back to the strange hag who had invaded her kitchen with the men.

The female intruder shed her outer garments.

Eleanor gasped, her eyes flooding with tears. She reached
out for an embrace to confirm that it was really her stepson in the flesh.

James looked over her
shoulder and nodded for the Trinity brothers to drag in the side of beef they
had just carved from the butchered heifer. He glanced through the window to
insure that the English guards had been dispatched and their places taken by
two of his raiders. Then, he hung the beef on a ceiling hook and motioned for
his stepmother to carve off a cut for Clifford’s steak.

Eleanor suddenly realized that James had been the cloaked
woman herding the cattle across the vale. His men had stolen upon the castle
with the migrating cows, a ruse her husband had often used. She made a move to
ask what was happening, but at that moment Dickson limped into the kitchen with
his head lowered. The old servant looked up and stiffened as if seeing a ghost.

Before James could muffle his reaction, Dickson dropped the
tray in shock.

I
N THE GREAT HALL, THE LOUD
report from the kitchen drove
Clifford to his feet. The officer rushed to the window and gazed down at the
bailey. The cow’s carcass was draining from a butcher’s hoist, and his guards
stood at their posts. Still suspicious, Clifford drew his blade and motioned
for Webton and Randolph to watch for intruders at the front door. He burst into
the kitchen.

Carving on the hanging side of beef, Eleanor turned with a
glare of disgust at the intrusion. “Did you expect the steak to jump to the
spit on its own?”

Clifford clamped a hand to her throat. “You do rattle on,
don’t you? That useless stepson of yours suffers from the same malady. Did I
ever tell you how I laid him on his bony rump at Berwick?” He shoved her toward
the hacking block. “If I’m not fed soon, I may fall into a foul mood.” He
kicked Dickson as he marched back into the hall.

When the kitchen door slammed shut, James leapt down from
his perch on the rafters and drove his fist into the beef slab to vent his
anger. He stared at the steak that Eleanor had just cut. Then, struck by a
thought, he whispered, “This meat won’t do for such a fine English gentleman.”
He pulled the ax from behind his back and told Dickson, “Tom, keep our guests
drinking.”

E
LEANOR AND
D
ICKSON CARRIED THREE
sizzling steaks into the
hall. After serving Webton and Randolph, the widow delivered the largest cut to
Clifford. “Rare, my lord. Just as you like it.”

Clifford impaled his knife into the steaming strip and took
a bite. After several chews, he pointed the blade at Eleanor. “Not bad for a
cow raised on Scot shit.” He stuffed his mouth with another morsel and studied
her with a look of suspicion. “What is this flavoring?”

“Rosemary. Mixed with thyme and cinnamon.”

Clifford savored the beefsteak’s juices. “By God, this is
succulent.” He turned to Randolph and Webton. “Does yours have an unusual bite
to it?”

Randolph shrugged as he kept his eyes on his plate, his
appetite ruined by the loss of the cow for some poor fellow countryman.

In the corner, the mastiffs whined, tortured by the aroma.

Clifford teased the hounds with another slither before
stuffing it into his mouth. “What would you know about delicacies, Randolph?
I’m telling you, this has a hint of the Continent, maybe Sussex even. My
sensibilities are so keen that I can identify the shire where the heifer has
grazed.” His nostrils flared. “I’ll wager a week’s pay that this cow was stolen
from Yorkshire.”

Eleanor asked him, “Will there be anything else, my lord?”

Clifford searched his plate. “Did I not order artichokes
with this?”

“Artichokes? You said nothing about—”

Clifford slung the grease in his plate at her. “I’d best be
tasting marinated artichokes before I finish!”

Splattered, Eleanor bowed
and hurried back to the kitchen with Dickson.

James had been watching the encounter from the cracked door.
He wiped the grease from his stepmother’s face with a rag and hurried her
toward the back entry. “The Trinity lads will take you north.”

Eleanor held back. “Your father built this tower, Jamie.
Don’t let them defile his memory.”

Her plea took him by surprise. “I haven’t the men to hold
it.”

She glared at him fiercely. “I don’t mean for you to hold
it.”

Suddenly taking her meaning, James was stunned.

At the rear door, McClurg reappeared. “The English are
coming back from the kirk.”

James saw that his stepmother was resolved not to leave
until he agreed to her request. With a heavy sigh, he ordered McClurg, “Get her
to safety. Then draw Clifford out from the tower.”

C
LIFFORD BELCHED, LEANED BACK, AND
loosened his belt. “That
old hizzie may be blinder than a cross-eyed bat, but she can still work a
stove.”

Disgusted by the officer’s boorishness, Randolph cracked,
“I’m surprised you managed to get it down without your artichokes.”

Clifford angrily spat out a cud of gristle, reminded of his
absent side order. “Damn that dotaged bitch! Where is she with those
artichokes?” He clanged a flagon with his knife. “Woman! Get out here!”

Receiving no answer, the officer erupted to his feet and
charged into the kitchen. His eyes bulged with a ghastly discovery.

Two of his guards hung from hooks—with the flesh hacked from
their ribs. The pot was still boiling over the hearth. Human bones and sinews
lay on the butcher’s block, and a message had been written in blood on the
table:

Bon Appetit, this is only the first course.
James of Douglas

Clifford staggered out into the bailey and vomited. Taking
the bait, he rushed to his horse and led his garrison out the gate, hell-bent
on gaining the blue Douglas banner that fluttered near the kirk.

H
IDING ON THE RAMPARTS,
J
AMES
hoped the Trinity lads would
run Clifford in circles for a few hours. When all was clear, he quietly
descended the stairway into the great hall and found his father’s herald still
hung over the hearth, slashed and pierced with arrows. He ran his hand across
the trestle table where the Guardians had held their meetings when he was a boy.
A wisp of cold wind creaked open the door, and he was now staring at Wallace’s
ghost in the shadows.

With honor comes duty,
lad.

He walked to a window and stared down at the spot where
Clifford had shackled his father on the day he was dragged to London Tower.

A bloodied face looked up at him.

Remember, you are a Douglas. You bend to none but
God and your conscience.

His nostrils stung from
the putrid smell of camphor lingering from the pomander that Clifford wore on
his belt. He had never been able to rid his head that noxious odor in the
Berwick breeze that swung Gibbie to his death.

His stepmother was right. Too many dark memories lingered
here now.

He hammered at the table with his ax, until nothing was left
but a pile of kindling, and then he removed his clan’s herald from the wall. He
threw it onto the stack of broken wood and was about to fire the wood when a
whimpering came from the darkness. He stalked the pining sound into an
antechamber. Gripping his ax, he threw open the door.

Cull and Chullan, too weak to bark, stared up at him with
pained eyes. Pocked with scab wounds from Clifford’s beatings, the mastiffs
struggled from their haunches to greet their old master.

He knelt to cut the hounds loose and brought them into his
embrace. He looked around and remembered this room had been the old study,
where his father had planned the muster of the army at Berwick. In the corner,
on the writing stand, he spied a black lock box. He had never seen that here
before. He pried it open with his dagger and found military orders, coins—and a
letter perfumed with a nutmeg fragrance. He opened the letter and read:

Dearest John,

I have not slept a
night since your proposal. My father does not look with favor upon our
arrangement. He holds you wanting in the qualities essential for a soldier and
believes you best suited for the clergy in temperament and resources. I
protested this harsh indictment, but he has relented only in degree by agreeing
to a probationary period, with a condition that I fear will prove too costly
for the reward. I have just learned that, as a test of your fortitude, he has
arranged for you to serve under Robert Clifford, a man whose reputation here is
less than honorable. The assignment is to hold a certain keep in the Scot
borders for one year. If you succeed in that task, my father has promised to
grant his permission for our marriage. My confidantes in the court warn that
this is tantamount to a denial at best and a death sentence at worst. The tower
was captured from a Scotsman named Douglas who, by all accounts, is a savage
bent on bloody revenge. I beg you not to accept this challenge, for I would
sooner have you alive in another’s arms than dead because of me.

Yours in love, Rosylann