Ada felt no guilt at the adultery. Elizabeth would have been devastated if she’d suspected, but Ada knew the sex act was a duty for her mistress, a duty that she avoided altogether these days.
Rob marveled at the differences of women. Ada was the same age as his wife, had never been pampered or indulged in her life as a servant, yet she was more exciting to a man in her plain gray gown than any courtesan. At his age he was no longer driven by lust, and his arousals happened only occasionally in a month’s time, but Ada made him as horny as a rutting stag.
He couldn’t get her out of her scarlet underclothes fast enough, but she playfully slapped his clumsy hands away, lest he tear the fabric in his haste, and finished undressing herself. She did it slowly, sensually, exposing a shoulder, a thigh, the curve of her back, so that by the time her breasts and bum cheeks were bared, he knew only that he had to have her beneath him while he plunged. He labored and groaned, his breath heaving, his face reddening alarmingly.
“Rob, are you all right, love?” she asked softly.
He grunted his delight, sweat breaking out across his brow and chest.
Her fingers brushed his temples, and she said softly, “Let me on top—you’re going at it too hard.”
He plunged a few more times, realized she was probably right, and rolled over onto his back. Ada clung to his great body so that she rolled with him, then lay still to allow him to catch his breath. Then she knelt above him and continued the plunging motion he’d begun. Ada built to orgasm quickly and allowed him to see and hear how much pleasure he was giving her. She was wise enough to realize how it thrilled the male to know he could give an aroused female deep satisfaction. Within a minute of her own writhing vocal climax, Rob Kennedy spilled himself profusely.
She rested in the curve of his arm, both of them grateful for what they had shared.
“Lass,” he said hoarsely, “I wish we could stay fer a month, but it’s no’ to be.”
“This is our last night?”
“Aye. I did ma duty by informin’ James about the English attackin’ ma ship, so there’s no need tae tarry.” He paused, then confided, “Cassillis practically ordered me home. The king’s enraged over these clan feuds, and our chief seems tae think our Tina inflames the men tae violence.”
“I think it’s best we go. The king has a weakness for redheads, and in truth it does her reputation no good to be in the company of Janet.”
“Dear God, her mother would run mad if she knew,” Rob said helplessly.
“Well, she won’t know, so stop your worrying. Tina has more good sense than to breathe the name Janet Kennedy to her mother.”
Rob pushed away thoughts of Elizabeth as he filled his hands and his eyes with Ada’s generous globes.
In the royal bed James Stewart breathed the name over and over. He adored women in general and worshipped this one in particular. “Janet, Janet,” he crooned, entwining his fingers in the luxuriant red hair spread across the satin embroidered pillows. Though he was forty, he had the body of an athlete. He rode every day, as often as he could—both horses and women. He had a preference for red hair that was almost a fetish, an obsession. He gazed at the burning bush at the apex of her thighs and lowered his mouth to it reverently.
“James,” she whispered, “I think I’m carrying your child.”
He lifted his head and gazed at her with joy. “Jan, that’s marvelous!” He loved all his children. “He’ll be a little redhead like the two of us.” He kissed the round curve of her belly reverently.
“Your hair is auburn, a far more beautiful shade than mine,” she protested.
“Not to me, sweet,” he murmured against her flaming mons, lost in her woman’s scent.
She too was delighted at the prospect of the child. He would keep her in luxury for the rest of her life, as he did all the women who had borne him children. His council didn’t object to his mistresses and bastards—each new one reconfirmed that he was not tainted by his father’s depraved and degenerate homosexuality. Sodomy could not be stomached by the rough, masculine Scots.
Later, as they lay on the floor before the fire, where their last bout of coupling had landed them, James absently stroked her hair.
“What’s troubling you?” she questioned as she fingered his roughened skin made by his chain of remorse. No body hair grew in a wide circle about his middle.
“The English,” he replied. “Nay, if I’m truthful, it’s my Scots … Clan feuds … only if we are united and stand together can we keep England at bay. The clans have been at their favorite pastime, cattle raiding, again.”
“The Campbells and the Hamiltons?” she asked.
He nodded and bit her ear playfully, “And you damned Kennedys are as bad as any, if not worse.”
“Ha! What about Douglas?” she demanded.
The king shook his head. “Young Hotspur would raid just for the pleasure of harassing the bloody Hamiltons. Not bad enough we have a running feud between Hamilton and Douglas—feuds have almost erupted between Campbell, Kennedy, and Douglas. I told Campbell tae get his daughter wed tae Donal Kennedy as soon as may be and ordered him tae sign a bond of friendship. I agreed tae have the wedding at Stirling”
“Why not a marriage bond between my cousin Rob’s daughter and Douglas?” Janet asked.
“It wouldn’t be the first marriage between Clan Kennedy and Clan Douglas,” he said, remembering.
“It shouldn’t have gone wrong. It was a good match,” Janet said.
“It was a perfect match,” James agreed. “Both their great-grandfathers married daughters of King Robert III. Damn, I’d love tae see an alliance between Kennedy and Douglas. I’d also like a bond between Hamilton and Douglas, but both houses have only sons.”
“I have the solution! Rob Kennedy has two daughters. Marry one to Hamilton, the other to Douglas, then they’ll all be united. Order them to do it, and order them all to sign a bond of friendship”
The king smiled. “Ah Jan, ye make it sound so simple. Order this and order that. Black Ram Douglas wouldn’t be best pleased tae be ordered tae take a wife.”
“He’s past thirty, it’s time he had an heir!” she pointed out.
“Over time,” chuckled James. “He’s one of my finest young warriors, Jan. I’m counting on him tae use his vessels tae harry the English if their ships keep up their piracy. I dinna want him pissed off at me for ordering him tae wed.”
She moved sensuously against him and lifted her mouth to his. “Sire, you are not nearly devious enough” His shaft raised its head and stretched itself like an animal awakening from a nap. “Call in your earls and tell them to put an end to the feuds, or you’ll be forced to hang a few of your lords. Cassillis will soon give Rob Kennedy his orders. I admit you might have to bang your fist on the table to make Angus know you mean business, but I don’t think even Ramsay Douglas would dare defy his chief.”
She was right, James admitted. To say Archibald Douglas was frighteningly arrogant was an understatement—he was insufferable. As the king covered Janet’s silken body, he wondered once again why Angus had allowed this delectable woman to slip through his fingers.
Chapter 13
James Stewart decided this time that there was safety in numbers. He summoned three of his earls —Cassillis, Arran, and Angus—to a private meeting and assumed a cold, implacable attitude. Though the Hamilton and Douglas clans were sworn enemies, Arran and Angus never let it interfere with their civility toward each other. As chiefs, they were above petty feuds and left the quarreling to their clans.
The king looked at each in turn and finally said with a note of contempt, “Are ye growing too old tae control yer clans?”
They were on the defensive immediately—exactly where he wanted them. He proceeded with a blistering denunciation upon their abilities to put an end to the raids. “I want ye, nay I demand that ye eradicate these raids! They are an evil to which you turn a blind eye, but I’m warning ye for the last time, I will no longer tolerate
fighting, burning, and taking booty among ourselves.”
James Hamilton, Earl of Arran, tried to point out that there would be feuds as long as two Scots remained alive in the realm, but the king crashed his fist down upon the oak table. “Silence! Must I need spell out chapter and verse the various means at yer disposal?” His voice was raised in anger, which was unusual for the even-tempered monarch. “Bonds must be signed. Then if the bonds are broken, hanging is justified!”
Cassillis swallowed hard, for he knew damned well his Kennedys had been raiding. Arran too felt his neck—not only had his Hamiltons likely been lifting cattle, the king knew they’d been brawling with the Douglas up and down the Cannongate. On top of that, as admiral, he had to take the censure for allowing English ships to harry Scots vessels.
Only Archibald Douglas, Earl of Angus, remained undaunted. He was a borderer, and a good borderer believed that the goods of all men in time of necessity were by the law of nature common. The king had a goal in mind, but he had yet to reveal what he wished to accomplish with this passionate harangue. Angus veiled his shrewd eyes and waited.
The king turned to Archibald Kennedy. “Cassillis, you are the pivotal means tae an end of these hostilities. Blood bonds are the best means of forging together rebellious clans tae preserve the peace. I’ve already spoken tae Argyll. I want ye tae see that Donal Kennedy weds the Campbell girl immediately. Now Cassillis, ye’ve two nieces. I want one tae go tae Arran and one tae Douglas.”
The Earl of Arran knew his son Patrick was ready to declare for Lady Valentina Kennedy, so he bowed his head in acquiescence. Angus, however, knew Hotspur Douglas would welcome marriage as heartily as the hangman’s noose. He opened his mouth to protest, but James said smoothly, “Angus, you know how a bond of marriage cements good relations. Since yer son married Bothwell’s lass, there’s been peace between yer clans where once there was nothing but hostility.”
Archibald Douglas’s mouth turned down at the corners. The Hepburn wench enjoyed indifferent health and had yet to produce an heir. He almost told the king to forget wedding plans for Ram Douglas, then bethought how the clan was in need of heirs to carry on the bloodline. “We’d no’ do well tae keep the best blood in Scotland bottled up when there’s so many could do wi’ a drop,” Douglas said with a contemptuous look at the others.
The king stood up, and they knew the audience was over. “See to it,” he added in conclusion.
As Cassillis and Arran departed, James said, “Angus, a word.”
Archibald paused, wondering shrewdly what else James was after.
The king possessed great shrewdness too, however. “I assume all yer vessels are armed with cannon?”
Douglas nodded in a guarded fashion.
The king continued, “If it becomes necessary, I want ye tae put them at Ramsay’s disposal. I know he’s not above a bit of pirating.”
“Sire, Arran’s yer bloody admiral,” Douglas pointed out.
James rolled his eyes. “I know, man. Is it any wonder I need the help of Douglas?” James let out an inaudible sigh. At last he had won him over.
Ramsay Douglas and his hardened moss-troopers usually wore scuffed leathers and rode about the wild borders armed to the teeth. Other years he had attended the Border Warden’s Court attired this way and eyed with contempt the English penchant for pageantry. This time, however, his instincts told him to arrive with all pomp and ceremony.
He arrived at the meeting in Berwick-on-Tweed in black, half armor, inlaid with gold. His helmet sported a tossing black plume. His men’s breastplates gleamed in the sun. Four trumpeters with their horns at the ready led the cavalcade, followed by two standard-bearers in colored tabards carrying the Red Lion on Gold of Scotland. Next came a piper in Douglas dress tartan, and directly behind him a flag bearing the Bleeding Heart of Douglas.
Ramsay dismounted from his massive black stallion and tossed back his crimson-lined cloak. His black head was erect with pride, and he smiled inwardly, thinking, top this, Dacre!
Lord Dacre, the English chief warden of the marches, had been given new orders by his spoiled megalomaniac of a monarch, Henry VIII. He was to raid into and devastate Scotland as far as he could. Henry had an overpowering ambition to gain control of Scotland, and he would use any means to attain his goal—conquest, assassination, bribery, or even intrigue with his sister Margaret, Scotland’s queen.
James Stewart knew Henry had his pig-greedy eyes focused upon his realm, but he had no idea to what lengths Henry would go to attain anything or anyone he desired.
Most of the small border clans posed no threat to Dacre, even the ones who were wardens like Ferguson, Elliot, and Lindsay, whom he discounted as without much power or influence. It was the larger, more powerful clans like Hamilton who would pose trouble since the chief was so high in the Scots king’s favor, he had been named admiral. And of course he feared Douglas. Henry knew the voracious ambition and power hunger of Clan Douglas. They were probably the most powerful family in Scotland—at least, they had the greatest armed might—and they were easily the richest.
Dacre came to the wardens’ meeting with his own heralds and flags, but for once the English were outdone at their own game. Lord Dacre had a long nose, and whenever he addressed a Scot, he looked down it as if he smelled something rancid.
Lord Ramsay Douglas was the highest-ranking Scots border lord, and he presided over the court with Dacre. There was a panel of judges made up of the wardens from both sides of the border; then there was a jury chosen from English and Scots families who lived on either side
Ram reviewed the usual list of cases that were to be heard, which dealt with thieving, raiding, and the lifting of sheep, cattle, and other goods Some were charged with poaching, and there were a couple of rapes, but nowhere could Ram Douglas see the case uppermost in his mind: Kerr versus Heron. Douglas pointed the omission out to Dacre.
“Ridiculous. Heron killed no Scot!” Dacre said firmly.
“Perhaps not,” said Douglas, holding on to his famous temper, “but he is charged with the murder of Kerr, and we will try him in this court.”
“Dare you challenge my word?” demanded Dacre in his most supercilious manner.
“I challenge ye if ye’ve guts enough tae step outside.”
“You would love to reduce this court session to a freebooter’s brawl, I have no doubt. Your temper and lack of self-control are perhaps why you are called Hotspur!”
Douglas froze him with a dark look. “No, the name was given tae me because of our motto, ‘Never Behind.’ I am a leader—always the first in battle or any other fight. The first tae right a wrong, the first tae punish injustice.” He continued without pause, “You will summon Heron tae present himself within twenty-four hours.”
Dacre thought discretion the better part of valor and nodded his agreement.
The next day, when Heron was conspicuous by his absence and Ram again challenged Dacre, the latter spread his hands. “Heron was nowhere to be found.”
Ramsay looked at him incredulously. There were very direct means of making an invisible man appear, by simply threatening to torture one of his offspring. Ram realized this was a farce. His first instinct was to take Heron himself and hang him from one of his own trees, but the king had been adamant about doing the thing legally.
Late in the afternoon, Ramsay was informed that people had been gathering across the River Tweed. They had grievances but would not set foot in England. He rode across the bridge to speak with them, canny enough to take the other Scots wardens with him as witnesses. The savage tales he heard of pillaging angered him, the tales of butchery sickened him. One man claimed, “The bastards put the torches tae our village. The women and children took refuge in the stable, but they fired that too!”
Ram questioned them closely to see if they could identify the raiders. There had been no identifying banners or badges, yet some of the people swore that uniformed soldiers had slaughtered their animals and stolen their fodder. Douglas pledg
ed his help to these border families, whose clan names were so familiar to him—Bruce, Scott, Hay, Armstrong; they were his people.
Once more Douglas challenged Dacre in a hard, cold manner. He knew if he allowed his temper to heat, blood would be spilled. Again came the supercilious excuses: “A warden cannot control every last moss-trooper who serves on border patrol.”
Douglas was almost speechless. “I have no trouble controlling my men. I pity a man who lacks leadership qualities.” They almost drew steel until he saw Patrick Hamilton’s eyes upon him. Hamilton would love to carry the tale back to the king, of Hotspur losing control of his infamous temper.
In bed that night Ramsay reflected upon Dacre’s words. It was true that men, especially hardened moss-troopers, were difficult to control, but surely that was what made a leader—he had to be stronger than the men under his command. He searched his mind for a man who was almost impossible to control and came up with himself With a grimace he assured himself that even he obeyed Angus and the king. He had no idea this obedience would shortly be put to the test.
The Wardens’ Court concluded a week later, with all the cases before it tried and justice dispensed, but to say that it had been an unsatisfactory meeting was a gross understatement. Douglas prepared a strongly worded report for James Stewart, recommending he make immediate, formal protest to the English Crown demanding redress and compensation and immediate cessation of hostilities. The alternative he suggested was simple. The king could look the other way while Douglas used his own methods to keep law and order.
When they left Edinburgh, the Campbells and Kennedys rode together as far as Glasgow. When Argyll had sold his cattle at the stockyards, they would make their way to Stirling to await the bridegroom and his clan.
Argyll grudgingly told Donal, his son-in-law to be, that since he’d driven the prize Campbell longhorns from Glasgow to Doon, he might as well carry on with the cattle drive and take them to Castle Kennedy at Wigtown.
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