Page 32 of Tempted
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.
