Every Kennedy servant would be occupied this night, plenishing chambers and serving food and drink. Only the earls and Meggan would be provided with rooms, of course. Their men would bed down wherever they could, either in the hall or in the outbuildings surrounding the bailey. The stables were so overfilled with horses that stableboys were working around the clock to shovel out the piles of manure. The men-at-arms were so toughened, especially those from the Highlands, that if there were no shelter, they simply dug themselves a hole in the ground, no matter the season.
In the kitchen Tina found Ada making up a tray for her mother. “Damn it, I’ve missed all the fun.”
“God’s nightgown, it was like a scene from the Hobs of Hell where they house all the lunatics,” Tina said. “You warned me how coarse and uncouth men were. They are bad enough one at a time, but en masse they are unbearable, unreasonable, unruly, and unsavory. When Archibald Kennedy arrived, he made Father look refined. Then when Archibald Campbell crawled in, he made the others look like gentlemen!”
Ada laughed. “When I’ve taken this up to your mother, I’m going to leave her in Beth and Kirsty’s capable hands and slip down to the hall for a bit of fun.”
Valentina shuddered. “Better you than me. I’ll try to soothe Meggie Campbell. No wonder she wants to marry Donal. He must seem like a bloody prince after living with Argyll at Castle Gloom. Oh Ada, before I forget. I want you to talk Father into taking me to Edinburgh with him.”
“And how in God’s name am I to manage that?” Ada demanded.
Tina winked. “Oh, you’ll think of a way, love.”
The hour was extremely late when Rob Kennedy extricated himself from his unexpected guests and climbed the stairs. In the passageway outside his wife’s chamber, he was pleased to encounter Ada. He undid the laces of her gown and fondled her lovely breasts as they came spilling out. “Lass, lass, I’m in sore need o’ a real woman.”
She slipped her arms about his neck and rubbed against his hardness. “Valentina wants you to take her to Edinburgh, instead of your wife.”
He whispered, “Elizabeth will have a rapid recovery if she thinks she’s goin’ tae the queen’s court”
Ada pressed against him “I could come with Tina to do for her—and do for you,” she promised
“How will I manage it, Ada? Ye know what Elizabeth’s like.”
Ada laced up her gown and reached out to unlatch the door, “Order her to go, and leave the rest to me.”
As Ada approached the bed to trim the candles, Elizabeth sighed and sat up. “Rob, how can you disturb me at such an hour?” she asked reproachfully
“Ada’s come tae pack fer ye. We leave fer Edinburgh at dawn”
Ada shot him a withering glance and said, “Lady Elizabeth is in need of peace and quiet after her terrible voyage”
“I need a woman’s influence at court,” he insisted
“It’s high time Valentina took on some of these responsibilities,” Ada suggested
“I’m traveling wi’ Arran, Cassillis, and Archibald Campbell It would no’ be fittin’ fer an unwed lass”
Elizabeth felt a relapse coming on at mention of the company she would be expected to keep
“If I came along to look after Valentina, it would be quite proper,” Ada said firmly.
“Yes, Rob Valentina can go in my stead for once It will give me a chance to spend time with Beth”
“I suppose I could manage,” said Rob grudgingly “Wheest, woman, ye always get yer ain road” He followed Ada outside the door and whispered, “Can I come up later?”
“You’ll have to wait until Edinburgh,” she said firmly, removing his hands from her breasts. “I promised Archibald Kennedy a bit of a romp. I’ll mollify him over the horses he lost.” She winked.
He slapped her across the bottom, sighing with regret. “So long as yer doin’ this fer me—keep it in the clan, mind!” he admonished.
Ada blew him a kiss. He had nothing to worry about; even she would be hard pressed to tackle Archibald Campbell, Earl of Argyll.
Chapter 11
Ramsay Douglas received the king’s messenger with resignation. At the beginning of the month, when he and his men came on leave, he should have reported to James, but once they arrived back in Douglas, the hunting had been excellent and lambing time was upon them—no small undertaking when you grazed ten thousand horned sheep. Too, other things had occupied him, the wild horses from the Highlands, the Gypsies, then the sport of the raids. Time was drawing close for the Border Wardens’ Court, when the Scots who patrolled the marches met with their English counterparts and disputes were discussed and resolved.
The king must wish to advise him regarding this formal, seasonal meeting, he decided. He may even wish to attend. James Stewart was a king who ruled his country with a stern eye and a strong hand. The king’s law prevailed everywhere, except in the wildest borders and the remote Highlands.
As Ram gave his servants orders to pack his finest clothes for court, he told Gavin to pass the word to the rest of the Douglases and to the moss-troopers. He walked down to the meadow taking note of the scent of broom and the golden gorse. It was a far cry from the filthy vennels of Edinburgh, yet he was ready for a change.
He was an adaptable man who fit easily into any background, squeezing the most life had to give from his days and his nights. A curse fell from his lips as he saw a solitary Ruffian cropping the thick clover. “Did ye have tae be such a savage brute she jumped the hedge tae get away from ye?” He mounted the stallion and searched for over an hour for the lovely mare with a sinking feeling inside him. He was truly disappointed that he had lost her, for already he had been picturing the exquisite colts the pair would have produced.
Edinburgh was only thirty-five miles as the crow flies, but the rugged Pentlands stood between Douglas and Auld Reekie, as the capital was called. Ram Douglas with his full complement of forty moss-troopers rode in their leathers, armed to the teeth. They met with no trouble on their journey since any who encountered them gave them a wide berth.
They watered their horses in the reed beds of a loch, startling its mallards and wild geese, and then in the distance they saw the long, smoky skyline of Edinburgh. The city was walled, and they entered through the archway called the West Bow. They clattered past St. Giles, where The Maiden was set up at the Market Cross. It was a delicate piece of machinery, to be sure, with its great knife counterbalanced by a heavy weight, designed to chop off heads. It always seemed to give his men a raging thirst, for they could never get beyond the alehouse on the corner.
Inside, one of the patrons unfortunately was wearing a bright blue and red plaid that looked suspiciously like the Hamilton tartan. Two Douglas moss-troopers picked him up bodily, tankard and all, and flung him into the cobbled high street. Ram allowed them an hour before he called, “To me!” He showed no mercy for his man who had just lifted a barmaid’s skirts and laid her across the table. If he hadn’t been able to get himself a piece of mutton in an hour, it was his own fault.
As they stepped outside the alehouse onto the long, busy street that stretched uphill to Castle Rock, there seemed to be a preponderance of Hamilton moss-troopers. Ram frowned, then his brow cleared. The king must have summoned Patrick Hamilton and his other border lords. Ram eyed his men, trying to keep the wolf’s grin from his face. “What do ye say, lads? Shall we cleanse the thoroughfare?”
A cheer went up followed by cries of “Way fer a Douglas! Make way fer a Douglas!” None hearing it could repress a shudder. It had been an ominous cry for three centuries. They fought and brawled their way to the very gates of Edinburgh Castle, surely the most bloodstained fortalice in the world. The Hamiltons gave almost as good as they got, so that by the time the high west gate, separating the castle from the city street, clanged shut behind the Douglases, there was not a moss-trooper of either clan who wasn’t sporting a black eye, a bloody lip, or a busted hand. Needless to say, they were thoroughly enjoying their visit to the capital.
Bathed, shaved, and resplendent in skintight hose and velvet doublet, Ram Douglas joined the throng of ambassadors, diplomats, bishops, petitioners, and courtiers who daily sought audience with James Stewart. The king was handsome and athletic, though he was nearing forty. His dark auburn hair fell to his shoulders, and his hazel eyes, though warm and friendly, were exceedingly shrewd. He eschewed sitting upon his carved throne but preferred to mingle with his people, both here at court and outside in the streets of the city. He was much loved by his people. He could tend a sick man, apply a leech, play a practical joke, or couch a lance with his knights.
James spotted Ramsay Douglas immediately. His swarthiness set him apart from other men. James did not acknowledge his presence immediately, however, so that he could observe his behavior when he came face to face with Patrick Hamilton. James was mildly surprised when the two borderers ignored each other; then his mouth tightened as he saw Hamilton’s swollen nose and the raw gash on Douglas’s cheekbone. Apparently this wasn’t their first encounter here. He had overlooked their feud, excusing their incompatible personalities. He decided he would put up with it no longer. He understood them only too well. War rather than peace was their normal condition. It was right and proper to be a fighter for just causes, but in times of peace they became rogue animals.
He dismissed everyone from the reception room except for his two border lords, and still they ignored each other. James smoothed his down-curving moustache thoughtfully. “Let’s sit down,” he said, indicating padded chairs around a carved refectory table.
“I’ll stand, sire,” Douglas replied.
“Ye’ll sit!” the king said with authority.
Ram sat with his back toward Patrick Hamilton.
“Wine?” offered James, serving them with his own hands.
Hamilton shook his head, refusing to drink with Douglas.
James exploded. “Goddamn it, I don’t ask that ye love each other! Clan feuds are no’ a way of life—they are an evil. An evil I intend tae eradicate!”
Neither of his lords was cowed, but they were warned. The king was noted for his quick bursts of temper that were soon over and served to clear the air He never held a grudge. “Ye can vent yer spleen on the enemy, not each other. Ye are both indispensable tae me in the borders. The minute ye went on leave, a Scots warden was murdered by an English warden,” he told Douglas.
“Who?” asked Ram, his dark brows drawing together.
“Kerr,” said the king, “murdered by Heron of Ford.”
Ram shook his head. “The Kerrs and Herons have lived within spitting distance for decades with only the border between them. They’ve always been mortal enemies—it was bound tae happen. I’ll hunt Heron down, sire.”
The king slammed his fist on the table, making the wine goblets dance. “Ye’ll no’ hunt him down. It is clearly a case for the Border Wardens’ Court. Ye will attend and resolve this dispute.”
“When I patrol the borders, sire, there is little trouble because I dispense justice, not mercy,” Douglas said fiercely.
Patrick Hamilton spoke up. “Sire, when old Henry Tudor was King o’ England, we could expect redress occasionally. That’s all gone by the board now that the spoiled boy-king sits on the throne.”
“Ye dinna need tae paint me a picture o’ Tudor’s shortcomings. I married his sister. They’re like two peas from the same worm-eaten pod. Both are shallow, greedy, vain, immature, petulant, and demanding. These are their virtues.”
Ramsay’s mouth lifted in a rare smile.
Christ’s holy wounds, thought James Stewart, if I sent Black Ram Douglas to Whitehall, he would serve as such a dire warning to that overblown bairn Henry VIII, he might even die of fright.
Patrick Hamilton opened his mouth to speak, but James held up his hand. “We’ll take it to the Border Court first.” He dismissed the subject and proceeded. “Tonight we will have music and pipers, and tomorrow night there is a play for entertainment. See that ye keep yer swords sheathed and yer men under control.”
Ramsay gave his moss-troopers leave to go abroad in the city, knowing that if Hamilton’s men were housed at Edinburgh Castle, it would be the only way to avoid brawls and knifings. For a moment he envied them their adventure into the notorious windy city. It was dark as pitch in that labyrinth of vennels, or narrow passageways between tall timbered houses. They stank of damp and piss, cats and rotted rubbish. If you set a foot wrong after a rain, it squelched in filth up to the ankle, yet the alehouses were filled with song, good food, and merry company, the brothels and gambling houses were colorful and filled with laughter and good sport.
Ram entered the banqueting hall at Edinburgh Castle It was long, low and dark, with small slit windows set high in its rough-cast walls. Though the floor was flagged, it was uneven, and a deep runnel ran across it, intended as a urinal when it was built. So much smoke blew back down its chimneys, the ceiling had to be whitewashed between the beams every month. No expense had been spared to make it habitable. The walls were covered with Flanders tapestries, the floor with woven silk rugs from Damascus, the mantels with French velvet. The dining tables were laid with silver plates, cups and chalices, Venetian crystal bowls, and silver with ornate Celtic patterns. Dominating the room was a thirty-foot banner of the tressured Red Lion of Scotland on its field of gold.
Janet Kennedy appraised the swarthy Douglas, who wore black velvet, startlingly relieved by his crest, the Bleeding Heart of Douglas, embroidered in crimson. She stepped intimately close to him and touched her finger to the raw gash upon his cheek. She was amused that he did not flinch. “That’s what comes of having saber-sharp cheekbones.” His shoulders were so broad, they looked padded, yet she knew otherwise. She’d seen him naked once, swimming in the sea at Tantallon, which belonged to Archibald Douglas, Earl of Angus. She knew that his uncle preferred him to his own son and often lamented that the earldom would be passed to the wrong Douglas. She allowed herself the indulgence of imagining Ram naked. She could still remember the drops of salt water clinging to the dark pelt of his chest and groin. But it was something else about him that made her pulse accelerate and her breath catch in her throat. One glance told a woman he was dangerous She’d never tame him if she tried for a hundred years. His pewter eyes made a woman feel she was inherently shallow and vain and that all her blandishing cajolery would get her a fuck and nothing more.
“Hello, Janet,” he said, his eyes boldly dipping into her décolletage to stare at her scarlet-painted nipples.
The king, who adored beautiful women and had a particular weakness for redheads, came up behind Ram and said, “I thought I told ye tae keep yer sword sheathed.” He then passed on to the dais table. For appearances he would dine with the queen, but after dinner he usually left the board to his heavy-drinking lords while he indulged vices more to his taste
Janet laughed up at Ram They knew each other quite well, since she had been Archibald Douglas’s mistress for some years. She was indeed beautiful tonight, yet inexplicably it annoyed him that she reminded him of Valentina Kennedy.
“I’ve risen in the world since last we met,” she said lightly.
“Indeed? Tae go from a Douglas tae a Stewart is a step down, in my opinion.”
“Christ, you’re still the most arrogant bastard in Scotland!”
He brought her fingers to his lips. “Yer silver tongue is no doubt what attracted a king.” He bowed and passed on down the room. He turned the head of every woman in sight. He deliberately avoided the Countess of Surrey, who had come from England with Margaret Tudor. Lady Howard had six daughters at court, known as the queen’s sluts of honor, and she was never without that speculative look of a huntress. He had no patience for a woman who was obtuse enough to think a Douglas might take an English woman to wife. The Kennedys might have lowered their standards and even the royal Stewarts, but Douglas blood was the finest in Scotland, and they’d never taint it.
He could not, however, avoid Queen Margaret. She beckon
ed him the moment she spied his dark countenance. She had only four interests in the world: jewels, clothes, rich food, and sex—not necessarily in that order. She was in the market for lovers and no longer even paid lip-service to discretion since the king had made no secret of the fact that he would welcome a horning from any of his nobles kind enough to oblige.
Ramsay graciously accepted her invitation to partner her for dinner, and he caught the amused glance James bestowed upon him. She cast Douglas a babyish glance of helplessness so that he would pull out her chair. She spoke in a childish voice that might have been provocatively arousing in a young girl, but Margaret looked middle-aged and because she could not curb her appetite, her figure was dumpy She spoke of fashion, rudely pointing to the clothes of various women in the banqueting hall. She rabbited on, exhausting both the subject and those close by who were forced to listen. When she was finished with a subject, there was no further contribution to be made or detail added.
Ram’s eyes traveled about the hall, mentally noting the attractive women, most of whom had been mistress to the king at one time or another. Marion Boyd was the mother of the king’s eldest illegimate son, Alexander. Isobel Stewart, the king’s own cousin, had borne him a daughter he’d called Jean. He had other bastards—Catherine, James— and Ram remembered a dark-haired baby girl that James and his beloved Margaret Drummond had made together. Margaret Drummond had been the great love of James Stewart’s life. It was even rumored they had secretly wed. She had been exceedingly beautiful with her black hair and creamy, flawless skin. Ram wondered cynically how long it would have lasted if the girl hadn’t been poisoned. It had supposedly left the king brokenhearted, yet he had managed to console himself with the aid of endless courtesans like Janet Kennedy.
Suddenly, Ram became aware of a hand upon his knee. It trailed up his thigh slowly in blatant invitation. He looked down at Margaret in disbelief. He was tempted to let her reach her goal and learn the unflattering truth that he remained flaccid and unaroused, but he found the invasion so distasteful, his hand closed about her fingers and firmly lifted her hand until it lay in her own lap. Margaret looked up at him with hurt bewilderment He held her eyes with a scorching look of anger and pressed her hand to her woman’s hot center. He deliberately used her own fingers to rub her until her eyes became dilated and glazed, her mouth slack with need. Once she was fully aroused, he swiftly let go of her hand and resumed eating. Thirty seconds later Margaret was on her feet, begging to be excused. She would have to finish what the wicked Douglas had begun.
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