The Spider and the Stone: A Novel of Scotland's Black Douglas Read Online Free PDF Page A

back the English. There be only one
creature a Scotsman despises more than an Englishman , he had told her. That be another Scotsman.
    The path west turned
inland toward a shadow-streaked glen, and the sun threatened to disappear over
Ben Cleuch. Vowing to chase these melancholic thoughts, she gathered her long
black hair around her neck and tightened her cloak against the rising sea
winds. She was grateful at least that one of her prayers had been answered: By
this time on the morrow, at the annual Michaelmas gathering of the clans at
Scone, she would attempt to sneak a glimpse of the fabled Stone of Destiny.
    She had always been enthralled by stories of the Lia Fail , the name given to the Stone by
the Highland monks who still spoke the Gaelic. Brought to Ireland by the
ancient Israelites and ferried across the sea by the first kings of Scotland,
the sacred relic possessed the gift of prophecy and was said to scream its
blessing when touched by the true king. Her clan, the oldest of them all, had
for centuries performed its exclusive privilege atop the Stone: The laying of
the crown upon the head of a new monarch.
    No MacDuff, no King!
    That was the warning spoken as the first words to every babe
delivered of a MacDuff womb.
    She hadn’t slept for two nights, exhilarated by the chance to finally visit the venerated Mound of Credulity, where divine sanction was bestowed upon royal power. Had the Stone truly been the pillow used by the
biblical Jacob to rest his head while he dreamed of the Ladder to Heaven? It
was said that no other rock of the same texture and composition existed. Would
its black sheen still be stained with the blood of the Canaanites? She held
fast to a reassuring faith that England would never subjugate Scotland so long
as the kingdom possessed the most powerful talisman of protection in all of
Christendom.
    Wearied of her obsession, her brothers constantly taunted
her that she would never hear the Stone speak. Only men, they enjoyed reminding
her, were allowed within the confines of Scone Abbey, where the Stone was kept
under guard on a wooden pedestal before the high altar. Inconsolable after
learning of the ban, she had prayed each night to St. Bride, patron saint of
courageous women, whose nuns tended the eternal flame in Ireland and threatened
damnation on any man who stole a gaze at its sacred light.
    Then, nearly a year ago, on her birthday, an old bard had appeared under her window in St. Andrews to deliver a message: One day you shall hear the deafening shriek of the Heaven Stone. She had protested that such a miracle would require her to be in the presence of a monarch during his coronation. How could she ever manage such a feat? He had offered her only an enigmatic riddle in reassurance: The Stone comes to those who serve it. Ever since that night, she had kept her promise to the bard never to speak of the revelation. After all, to be blessed with an oracle by a Highland poet was a mark of solemn fate, and of all the MacDuffs living and dead, only she had been so honored.
    Her garron neighed
sharply in warning. Caught up in her musings, she only then realized that her father had not turned the column north at Inverkeithing, but was continuing west along the coastal route. She caught him glancing back at her, as if expecting a reaction. She cantered closer and asked him, “Do we go to Scone by Stirling?” When he remained defiantly silent, she persisted. “Father?”
    Finally, he admitted, “We are not going to Scone.”
    “Not Scone? Where then are the clans to meet?”
    “Douglasdale.”
    She stared at her father, unable to comprehend the change of plans. “The South? But the clans have always met at Scone!” She leapt from her pony and circled his horse in a fit of despair. Her outburst threw the column into disarray. “You have deceived me!”
    Ian dismounted. “I warned you to chase this foolishness from your head!” Taking her by the shoulders, he shook her to silence, then