Page 33 of Tempted
“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 beckoned 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.
Ram moved over to sit beside James, with whom he had much more in common. The king was intelligent, curious, high-spirited, warm-hearted, and generous. He could discuss ships, trade, crafts, politics, or alchemy. His latest passion was building up a creditable fleet in the royal shipyards along the River Clyde.
“Ram, I wanted to talk to ye about mounting cannon on your mercantile vessels to convert them to warships.”
