There's been a spider living in my kitchen for the last six months. It hasn't moved. It moves; it does that odd bicycling thing that spiders do that makes it look as if they're washing, and perhaps they are. But it doesn't do anything. It doesn't kill anything, it doesnt even have a proper web: it's just suspended on a St David's cross of silk, hanging there.
Robert the Bruce would still be stuck in his cave, hugging his knees with a numb arse, if he were me.