The Devils Who Would Be King (Royal Pains Book 4)

by Nina Mason

  Just when he thought he’d go mad with impatience, the tower of St. Magnus Cathedral appeared above the roofline. Heaving a sigh of relief, he steered his lumbering mount toward it through the impoverished lanes of Kirkwall. Mothers with screaming infants sat upon every doorstep. Starving children in filthy rags watched him pass with hungry eyes. The sight aroused his pity. It also incited his anger.

  Why did the clerics not do more to feed their flock? Incensed by their neglect, he answered the question himself: They are too busy routing out sin, dishing out punishments, and slinging mud at their opponents to help their needy parishioners. He would help if he could, but the problem was far too pervasive to solve by throwing a few coins. He threw a few anyway, to ease his conscience.

  At length, he reached the cathedral. Rounding its corner, he was confronted by the larger circular tower of a roofless ruin. Beside the round tower stood a square one attached to a stone wall with an arched entryway. He rode through the passage into a courtyard. There, he found the fortress he sought.

  The Earl’s Palace, an impressive example of Renaissance architecture.

  As his gaze took in the corner turrets, steep slate roofs, and towering chimneys, longing took root in his chest. Suddenly, he missed his family home in Scotland and the life he’d had there with Maggie. He could still recall with perfect clarity the day he’d first set eyes on her. His father had brought her from a convent to be a companion to his sister, Mary. Though but ten years old at the time, Maggie was already a golden-haired beauty. Bewitched by her angelic face, he had known from that moment he would make her his bride one day.

  Overwhelmed by a sudden surge of longing, he nudged his horse toward the main entrance and dismounted. His knock on the heavy door was answered by an elderly man he presumed was the bishop’s butler.

  “I’ve come to see His Excellency on urgent business for His Majesty the King,” he told the bewigged manservant. “Is he at home?”

  “He is, my lord. May I know who I am to announce?”

  “Aye. You may tell him the Duke of Dunwoody is calling.”

  Surprise widened the man’s milky blue eyes. Clearly, he had not expected anyone dressed so humbly to be a gentleman of such elevated status.

  With new respect, the servant showed Robert into a large, rectangular hall with a carved ceiling and two fireplaces, both lit. The room was choked with black smoke and smelled acridly of burning peat—unsurprising given the dearth of trees on the island. A fancily studded leather targe hung over one of the mantles; a framed coat was displayed over the other. The whitewashed plaster walls were otherwise unadorned, giving the room a cold, institutional feel its Spartan furnishings did naught to dispel. There was naught in the space but a long table with thick legs, a handful of spindle-back chairs, and a half-empty bookcase.

  “Wait here, Your Grace, whilst I announce you to the bishop.”

  Robert flinched at the manservant's address. If he lived to be one hundred and ten, he would never feel at ease being addressed as “Your Grace.”

  After the servant disappeared through an arched doorway, Robert went to stand before the larger of the fireplaces. As he’d suspected, a stack of peat turves was burning in the grate. Several more lay in a basket on the hearth. He pulled off his gloves and stretched his hands toward the warmth of the flames. Though the morning gloom had cleared, the sea wind was still bitingly cold.

  Just as his fingers were starting to thaw, the manservant returned and bade him to follow. He did, up a flagstone staircase, down a drafty stone corridor, and into a grandiose bedchamber.

  The room was much warmer than the one downstairs. The dark Tudor-era paneling and substantial furnishings reminded Robert of his apartment at Whitehall Palace. A massive canopy bed draped in crimson damask stood in the center of the large space. Two high-backed tapestry chairs were positioned near the footboard, angled toward each other facing the door.

  An elderly gentleman he presumed to be Bishop Mackenzie occupied one of them.

  Frail as a twig and as wrinkled as dried fruit, he wore a midnight blue velvet cloak over a plain black waistcoat and breeches. At his neck was a clerical cravat with the preaching tabs commonly donned by the Protestant clergy of the day. A curly white peruke covered whatever remained of his natural hair. One gnarled hand rested on a gold-headed cane. Everything about him seemed old—except his eyes, which were as clear, bright, and blue as the sea surrounding the island.

  Robert hesitated for a moment, unsure how to address an Episcopal bishop. Was it the custom to kiss his ring, as with Catholic bishops? He waited for the man to extend his hand. When he failed to do so after a few awkward moments, Robert bowed at the waist and said, “Robert Armstrong, the Duke of Dunwoody, at your service, Your Excellency. Thank you for agreeing to see me on the spur of the moment.”

  A slight smile for Robert curled the bishop’s shriveled lips before he shifted his gaze to his manservant, who remained in the doorway. “You may go now, McManus. And please shut the door as you take your leave.”

  When he and Robert were alone behind closed doors, the bishop motioned toward the opposite chair. “Pray, do sit down, Your Grace. If you have come on behalf of the crown, as you say, you must have journeyed a great distance.”

  Robert claimed the offered seat as he said in earnest, “I have indeed, Your Excellency, but, as time is of the essence, I pray you will not take offense if I get straight to the point. Three ships under the command of the Earl of Argyle, a fugitive from justice and enemy of the crown, have just dropped anchor in Swanbister Bay. Two of the rebels have since come ashore—William Spence, a known traitor, and another man I do not know.” He hesitated and licked his lips, unsure how best to phrase the request he’d come to make. “On behalf of the king, I respectfully ask that you order their arrest at once—before they have a chance to return to their ships.”

  The bishop wasted no time in giving him an answer. “Consider it done. I only wish I could do more to aid the king’s cause.”

  For a moment, Robert considered turning in Juliette as well. Getting rid of her would be the work of a moment. He need only disclose her whereabouts and request that she be taken into custody. He could not, however, think what charges to levy against her. Insofar as he knew, her only crime had been to come out to watch the rebel ships drop anchor. He could, of course, simply invent an offense, but that seemed too ignoble. Not that what he’d contemplated doing to her whilst she was tied to his bed was any less dishonorable. In his defense, however, the thought of forcing himself upon her person was merely a passing fancy.

  Deciding to deal with Juliette himself, Robert withdrew from his waistcoat pocket the encrypted message he’d penned for King James. Inside the note, which briefly stated when and where the rebels had landed, he had hidden another—a sealed billet-doux for Maggie.

  “Since you mentioned it, there is one other service you might perform for His Majesty…” Robert extended the note toward Mackenzie. “If you would be so good as to arrange its safe delivery to St. James’s Palace, both I and the king will be in your debt.”

  The gleam in the old man’s eyes told Robert he took his full meaning: to be owed a royal favor was no small treasure. Bishop Mackenzie took the bound and sealed communique and slipped it into the pocket of his waistcoat. “You may count on me, Your Grace. I know just the two fellows to entrust with the errand.”

  Robert lifted a brow. “Two fellows? Would that not double the risk of exposure?”

  The bishop’s wrinkled mouth curved upward slightly. “On the contrary, Your Grace. I have every confidence sending two couriers will double the odds of success.”

  “Quite so,” Robert said, impressed by the facility of his aged mind. Bishop Mackenzie might be as old as Christmas, but he clearly remained in full command of his wits. “Now that I understand your reasoning, it seems a capital idea.”

  After giving the bishop the address of the dwelling where the rebels could be found, along with a full description of Spence an
d his associate, Robert hurriedly took his leave. There was no time to waste. He still had Juliette to deal with, and there was no telling when the rebels might sail on. If he missed this chance to infiltrate their ranks, he might not get another.

  Remounting his horse, he rode back to the inn and jumped down at the hitching post. All was quiet and the innkeeper gave him a friendly nod as he passed the office window. In his room, he found Juliette awake, but still tied to the bed. When he came in, she began to struggle and make noise behind her gag. He still held his riding crop. After securing the door, he stood there a moment, tapping his riding crop against the side of his boot as he considered what to do with her.

  He’d been fascinated by hermaphroditism ever since he’d come across a sculpture of Hermaphroditus while visiting Villa Borghese in Rome. According to the inspiring myth, Hermaphroditus, the son of Hermes and Aphrodite, was so beautiful, a nymph named Salmacis fell madly in love with him at first sight. Later, after forcing herself upon the youth, she begged the gods never to let them part. Granting her request, the gods merged her body with his. Thereafter, Hermaphroditus had the shape of a woman and the sexual organs of a man.

  Robert learned from the owner of the villa that beings like Hermaphroditus existed in the world, but were rare. Ever since, he’d longed to see one for himself, and had nearly gotten his chance several years ago when Maggie arranged for him to watch her in bed with Juliette. Unfortunately, Maggie terminated the adventure before he could get a good look at Juliette’s sex organs.

  Now, it seemed as if God had blessed him with another opportunity.

  Moving to the bedside, he dragged the tongue of the crop down the centerline of Juliette’s body. She was still blindfolded and gagged, still tied to the bedposts by her wrists and ankles. If he had time, he would strip her naked, hang her from the ceiling, and force her to suck his cock—exactly as Hugh did to Maggie.

  He did not, however, have time for anything so complicated; nor could he bring himself to orally rape an unwilling woman. So, instead, he pulled up her skirts and bent over the bed for a closer look at her tiny penis. Though the appendage sprouted from between her labial lips, there was no mistaking it for an overgrown clitoris. It was definitely a prick, albeit a small and flaccid one.

  In comparison, he resembled Priapus, the Greek god with an oversized, permanent erection.

  Fascinated by what he saw, he poked her tiny tarse with his forefinger. Next, he ran his finger up and down its short length. Gradually, the spongy tissue grew firmer and the foreskin drew back to expose the head. Leaning in for a closer look, he saw that her glans, though as knob-like as his, lacked a hole in the tip.

  He conducted his experiments with scientific detachment—at first, anyway. Somewhere along the line, his interest in her body’s response became more than academic. His fascination turned fleshly. Now, he wanted to play with her like a cat with a mouse, to dominate and punish her, and to fuck every one of her orifices.

  In his breeches, his cock had grown as hard as ivory and was throbbing with the need for release.

  Shuddering, he raised the crop, ready to strike, but stopped himself before he brought it down. He was better than this, dammit. What the devil had come over him? Moving to the head of the bed, he looked down at Juliette’s face.

  “If I remove the gag and blindfold, do you promise to keep quiet?”

  She nodded.

  He started with the blindfold. When it was off, she looked up at him with eyes that looked too much like Maggie’s for comfort. Avoiding her gaze, he removed the gag.

  She stretched her jaw and moistened her lips. Then, she said, “I am not what you suppose me to be.”

  He blinked down at her, unsure what she meant. “I suppose you to be a French Huguenot who somehow escaped imprisonment and has come to Orkney to support the rebels.”

  “That is what I mean,” she said. “I am none of those things.”

  He laughed. “Do you actually expect me to believe you are a Catholic?”

  “Believe what you like, but I speak the truth.”

  He remained unconvinced. “Why are you here?”

  “Like you, I am working for my king.”

  “You are a spy for King Louis?”

  “Who else?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “I do not believe you.”

  “’Tis true nonetheless.”

  “Prove it.”

  She wrinkled her brow. “How do you suggest I do that?”

  As he took a minute to think it through, he got an idea. His mother’s pearl rosary was in his pocket. No Protestant would know how to use the beads or dividing medals—or what they represented. The easiest way to test her claim would be to give her the beads and demand that she recite a full Rosary. To do that, however, he would have to untie her, which he was loath to do. The next best thing would be to quiz her on the mysteries Catholics reflected upon whilst praying the Rosary.

  “If what you say is true, you will know the mysteries of the Rosary. Do you?”

  “ Oui.”

  “Prove it to me and tell me how many mysteries there are.”

  “There are twenty.”

  That was true, but too easy. A Protestant, especially one pretending to be Catholic, might have studied enough of the Catechism to know such a simple fact.

  “How many categories do the mysteries fall into?”

  “Three,” she replied with confidence.

  Though her answer was correct, he still was dissatisfied. “Name the three categories.”

  “Joyous, Sorrowful, and Glorious,” she said quickly and with confidence—like a true Catholic.

  He considered asking her to recite the substrates of each mystery, but decided that would take too much time. He needed to get back to the beach before the rebel ships set sail. First, however, he needed answers to some personal questions that had plagued him for some time.

  “How did you come to marry my brother?”

  “The king arranged our marriage,” she said, “knowing the marquis was a secret convert who had ties to the covenanters in Scotland.”

  Bitterness rose in Robert’s throat. King Louis knew what he did not about his own brother? Did the king also know Hugh was not the natural son of the first Duke of Dunwoody? Robert had only learned the truth of his brother’s paternity as Hugh lay dying of the wound his own sword had inflicted.

  “Why should the King of France take an interest in the religious unrest in Scotland?”

  “He takes an avid interest in the religious discord throughout Great Britain,” Juliette replied. “That is why he secretly pays your new king for his allegiance, just as he paid his brother before him.”

  This gave Robert’s heart a shock. James had vowed he would not follow in his brother’s footsteps by taking his French cousin’s money. James wanted to revoke the Test Act, which deprived Catholics of their rights. Louis, meanwhile, was doing everything in his power to shred the Edict of Nantes, which granted his Protestant subjects the freedom to worship without fear of persecution. He had banned Reformed Protestants from working in most trades, pulled down their churches, and had sent his dragonnades into the provinces to terrorize them into recanting their faith.

  Under this harassment, they had converted in droves—conversions that, in Robert’s opinion, were no more trustworthy than a confession compelled by torture. And yet, Louis stood by his methods, believing no doubt the ends justified the means. What he seemed not to realize was that his ends, having been built upon sand, would only topple in time.

  For forcing people to change their beliefs by coercion could be no more effective than attempting to change their attitudes by legislation.

  Haters would hate, whatever the laws of the land might decree.

  James purported to want religious tolerance in Great Britain. Was he telling lies to cover his true aim? Did His Majesty in fact mean to force Catholicism upon his subjects, as King Louis was doing in France? Were that indeed the case, the Protestants had good reason to re
volt.

  Speaking of which, he had better get back to the beach and join Argyle’s army before the flotilla left the bay. Spence and his partner had to be in custody by now, so he was no longer in danger of being recognized. Except by Juliette, of course. Was she in earnest? Had she really come over from France as a spy for King Louis? Or was she a Huguenot, fleeing the king’s dragoons?

  Her answers with regard to the Rosary seemed to confirm her story—unless she’d merely been well primed before adopting her persona, which was entirely possible.

  Guilt stabbed Robert’s heart as he ran his gaze over Juliette’s vulnerable form. He should not have tied her up, should not have toyed with her in a profligate manner. Doing so made him no better than Louis’s dragoons. On the other hand, he was not yet certain she was telling the truth.

  He pulled down her skirts and raked his fingers through his hair. What should he do? Leave her here to be found by the chambermaid (long after the rebels had sailed, with any luck) or set her free and take his chances?

  Deciding to cut his losses and leave her tied, he grabbed his hat and case. As he started toward the door, he said to her without turning round, “As much as I want to believe you are being truthful with me, there is far too much at stake to take the chance you are being duplicitous.”

  “Wait!” Juliette cried just as he reached the door. “Do not leave me here like this. What if someone should come in and have his way with me?”

  He stayed where he was. “What else do you suggest I do to protect myself from exposure?”

  “I will not tell. I swear it.”

  “Why should I take the word of a woman who deceived my brother and abused my wife?”

  “I will admit to deceiving your brother, but I never harmed your wife. Did she never tell you what transpired betwixt us?”