Read Online The Spider and the Stone: A Novel of Scotland's Black Douglas by Glen Craney - Free Book Online Page B

must be Scotland.” He came nose to nose with Tabhann.
“And that makes it my concern. … Because I’m your future king.”
    Tabhann darkened, suddenly recognizing the stranger. “Robert Bruce.” He
spat, as if to void his mouth of a foul taste. “English scum. I’ll go to the
grave before I see you crowned.”
    Bruce leaned down to wipe Tabhann’s spittle from his boots.
“Let’s get a start on it, then.” He came back up with a cross hook that sent
Tabhann airborne.
    Cam rushed to his cousin’s aid, but Bruce buckled him with a
forearm. The MacDuff brothers dove into the fray, and Bruce parried their
charges like a trained swordsman, but the force of their numbers soon
overwhelmed him.
    Forgotten in the melee, James climbed from his knees and leapt on
Tabhann’s back, riding him face first into the prickly gorse. Recovering to his
feet, James fought his way out of the scrum and came back to back with Bruce.
Surrounded, he whispered to his new comrade, “They got us in fists.”
    Bruce wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth.
“Aye, but we got them in wits. Two to none, by my count.”
    The Comyns and MacDuffs puffed like bulls as they closed ranks for
another charge. James saw his ax and dived for its handle, but Tabhann denied
him with an elbow. Pinned, James slung the ax inches from Tabhann’s reach.
    Chullan pounced on the weapon and dragged it to Bruce.
    Rewarding the pup with a pat, Bruce whipped the weapon
around his head so deftly that the Comyns and MacDuffs were momentarily stunned
into inaction. “This has a fine heft.”
    Still under Tabhann’s weight, James grunted, “Don’t get too
attached!”
    Tabhann kicked James aside to charge at Bruce.
    Bruce hurled the ax at Tabhann’s jaw. Stunned with a gash from
the glancing blow, Tabhann staggered back. One by one, the Comyns and MacDuffs
scampered off. Tabhann, the last to retreat, shouted promises of revenge.
    Wincing from his bruises, James leveraged gingerly to a knee
and offered his hand to his rescuer in gratitude. “I owe you one.”
    Bruce picked up the ax again and held its handle toward the
fading sun to examine the name on the last inscription. “You’re Wil Douglas’s
son?”
    “Aye.”
    Bruce firmed their handshake. “Good timing. You can show me
the way to Castle Douglas. I’m to meet my grandfather there this night.” He had
a quick, expressive mouth and a sonorous voice that betrayed a dissonant hint
of self-doubt. His smile was never fully committed, but remained in conflict
with some inner sentinel against hubris. “So, was it over a lass or an insult?”
    James stretched his bruised limbs to check for damage. “How
did you know?”
    Bruce retrieved his skittish horse and palmed its nostrils
to soothe its nerves. “Do we Scots fight over anything else?” He winced from a
thigh bruise as he tried to mount.
    James helped him to the stirrups. “The lass I love holds you to be no Scotsman at all.”
    Offended by the questioning of his loyalty, Bruce repulsed the assistance. “My father’s ancestors came to this isle with the Conqueror, as did yours, Douglas. You and I are half-bred from Norman stock.”
    “So, does she speak true?”
    Sighing, Bruce hung his head with a sadness that seemed
passing strange for one so blessed in fortune and features. He muttered to
himself, “What is a Scot? A Norman? A Dane? A Pict? An Irishman who swims?”
    James had always assumed that the cut of a Scotsman was readily evident. Now, he wasn’t so sure. As he led Bruce’s horse up the ravine, he pondered the question at length, and finally he offered, “Any man who fights the English. There’s a bloodline good enough for me.”
    Bruce smiled ruefully, amused to find that James had been wrestling with what had been offered as a mere rhetorical comment. “The French may take issue with you. … Perhaps a Scotsman must be made, not born.”
    James enjoyed a laugh at his own expense. Despite Belle’s doubts about