The Spider and the Stone: A Novel of Scotland's Black Douglas by Glen Craney Page A

pronouncing Gaelic blessings.
    They had engaged in only desultory conversation until,
reaching the Glen of Kilmartin at approaching dusk, they came upon a low
bogland bordered by the purple hills and flooding waters of Loch Crinan. A
giant fist of gray rock broke through a valley that had been turned into a
glade by the melted snow. In the fields around this strange crag, peat
harvesters had unearthed a dozen granite dolmens, all set in a circle.
    Spying the imposing mount, the bishop lashed into a gallop as if greeting an old friend. He dismounted at the foot of the crag and waddled up a winding path, signaling for James to follow. Heaving from the exertion, the bishop finally staggered to the summit and dropped himself on a boulder. After regaining his breath, he ordered his new charge, “Tell me what you see.”
    Gazing into the west, James shielded his eyes from the low
sun. He could just make out the white foam of the Irish Sea through the mists.
“I see the end of Scotland.”
    “Nay, you see the beginning of Scotland.”
    Perplexed by that suggestion, James looked down at his feet
and saw that he was standing on an oblong slab the breadth of a shield. On its
face, streaked with deep fissures channeled by rainwater, had been carved a
drawing of a wild boar next to a worn footprint a knuckle in depth.
    Lamberton raised his hands over the crag as if offering a
benediction. “A thousand years ago, our first kings were inaugurated here. A
great race of men brought the Stone of Destiny from Ireland to this very spot.”
    James leapt off the sacred rock, afraid that he had just
committed a sacrilege. “How did a bunch of sorry Irishmen get their hands on
the Stone?”
    “The Sons of Light were not Irish by birth,” the bishop
explained. “They came from the East and taught the mysteries of civilization to
many nations before settling in Ulster. They knew from their study of the stars
that a great flood would soon inundate the world.”
    “Drunken Ulstermen,” James scoffed.
    The bishop smiled knowingly. “Drunk with wisdom. The Sons
divined by second sight that only those dolmens down in that vale down there
would survive the coming deluge. When the Druids arrived here from the
mainland, many years later, they heard the stones whispering the prophecy.”
    James ran a hand across the wrinkled rock, trying to imagine
the Stone of Destiny resting on its base. “You’ve heard the Stone speak?” When
the bishop did not answer him, he became more intrigued. He knelt and pressed
his palm into the ancient footstep. “This is why you brought me here? To see a
pile of old slags?”
    “Your education is now my duty. If you wish to help me save
Scotland, you must know what is truly at stake. William Wallace is a good man,
but he has no understanding of the shrouded reason we must fight this war.”
    James gazed south past the shimmering waters of Loch Fynne,
unable to make sense of it all. Longshanks had already stolen the Stone of
Destiny. How long would it be before he pilfered these sacred menhirs, as well?
“It’s clear to me why we’re fighting. To drive out the English.”
    Lamberton sized up his new student, as if judging whether he
was capable of keeping a confidence. Deeming the risk worth the price, the
cleric asked him, “You have heard of the Culdees?”
    “The wizards who cower in the Highlands?”
    Lamberton bristled at that slander spread by the Roman monks. “The Culdees are not pagan soothsayers. They are descendants of the first saints in this land, disciples who brought Christ’s teachings back to these shores long before the conniving Italians had ever heard an Apostle’s sermon.”
    “Back here? What do you mean?”
    “Our Lord came to this land as a young man.”
    “Why?”
    “To study with the Druids. Christianity was not brought to
this Isle. It was born here.” Seeing
James frown skeptically, the bishop persisted. “Do you know the name of the
Druid god?” He did not wait for an