Authors: Kathleen E. Woodiwiss
“You murdered the Queen's agent?” Elise interjected the question in amazement and turned to stare at her father as he laid a comforting hand upon hers.
“Quentin was the one who told the Hansa that I was spying on them,” Ramsey stated in a raspy whisper. “I found that out from Hilliard himself. It amused him that an Englishman could hand over his own uncle to be tortured and starved.”
Elise's head moved slowly until she glared at her cousin. “Don't ever give yourself airs above Forsworth, Quentin. You're wallowing in the same slime.”
He seemed amused by her disdain. “I can hardly declare my innocence before so noble a lady. I vow my heart doth break at your slight, and truly, my dear Elise, I'm sorry I disappoint you, but my mother taught her sons well that we should look after ourselves.”
“And so you do.” Elise dipped her head, acknowledging his statement as one of fact.
Arabella railed at him. “You used me! All this time you used me!”
Quentin bestowed a lazy-eyed gaze upon his mistress again. “I'd have married you, Arabella. I told you I would. I had planned to right after you inherited Huxford's wealth and after a proper period of mourning had passed.”
“How soon would you have killed me to gain that fortune?” Arabella asked caustically.
He pursed his lips thoughtfully and finally shrugged his brows. “Actually, you were quite suitable for a wife, and I rather enjoyed our interludes together. âTwould not have been too soon, my dear.”
“And to think I helped you murder my husband!”
Elise jerked her head up and stared at Arabella in amazement. “You helped him murder Reland?”
“Not exactly.” Quentin's chiding chuckle raised gooseflesh along Elise's skin. “Reland was quite alive when I carted him away from the stable, but you believed me when I told you he was dead. True, he was unconscious, and because of that I was able to haul him off the cart and drown him without a struggle.”
“You're detestable!” Arabella accused in roweling repugnance.
“Enough of this! I grow weary of your insults.” Ending the discussion, Quentin strode quickly away, his boot heels clicking against the stone floor and echoing back to them.
“I've been a fool,” Arabella moaned dismally. “All these years, I thought he loved me as I loved him.”
Elise had no words of comfort to give her cousin, for her mind was already searching for ways
to give her husband aid when he came to rescue them.
T
HE LIGHT OF LATE AFTERNOON
had been obscured by a slow, misty rain that was more fog than drizzle. Maxim had searched out a shallow swale that would offer some shelter for an approach by foot to the south side of the keep. The three of them that remained were well-equipped, with rope, swords, pistols, and daggers. Maxim was the first to slide down the gully, and behind him came Nicholas and Sir Kenneth. They found good cover to the base of the knoll, and there they waited as they appraised the ramparts and crumbling stone wall. No guards could be seen, and it was quickly surmised that Quentin's men had gathered in the shelter of the tower, save for the two who stood guard at the approach.
The invaders squinted up into the rain and scoured the mound and tower wall for any sign of an opening, a niche, a crevice, or anything that would allow them to gain entrance to the place. Close beneath the stonework of the walls they discovered a smear of rust flowing downward, staining the cliff.
Nicholas pointed it out, being more familiar with scuppers and drains. “It probably leads avay from
the lowest level.” He lifted a quizzical gaze to Maxim. “The dungeons perhaps?”
“Let's have a look.” Maxim glanced aside to receive Kenneth's nod of approval.
“Let's go!”
Hardly half an hour later the three rested beneath a large opening covered by a rusty iron grill. A thin trickle of ocher water ran from the lower edge. Carefully they worked their way upward until they clung with the slightest of toeholds to the stone beneath the grill. Nicholas reached up a hand and tied one end of his rope to a rusty metal bar, then grasped the edge with his large hands, braced himself, and heaved. The grate moved, but only the barest measure. Sir Kenneth and Maxim applied similar efforts from their positions, and slowly they worked the barrier out of its nest. When it was freed, Maxim let the weight of it swing onto Nicholas's rope, and it was lowered to a safe resting place beneath them. Nicholas flipped the rope and the knot fell free, allowing him to gather it in and restore it to his shoulder.
Maxim had already entered the cramped drain and warned Kenneth to silence as the knight heaved his bulk into the opening. A dim light showed through two grate-covered openings in the ceiling beyond them. One was only a few yards away, while the other was perhaps ten yards beyond. Bars and a corner of an iron gate could be seen from the nearest, and when Maxim crept beyond it to the distant opening, he saw the boots of a guard seated on a stool and heard the sonorous rasp of his snores. Cautiously he returned to the first grate.
An examination proved that the grill only rested on a shoulder cut in the stone floor. It was a tight fit, but the three of them laid their shoulders against it and slowly heaved. The rust-encrusted grate moved reluctantly with a slight grating sound, and they froze to listen. The snoring continued without interruption, and with a trio of nods they forced it again. The grill loosened, and they worked it up and away, moving it aside onto the flooring. Maxim carefully raised his head to peer over the level of the flooring. No one moved. The guard, having propped himself against the wall, still slumbered amid blissful dreams. Maxim searched with his eyes through the deep gloom until he found three slumbering forms in the shadows of the cell.
The men silently lifted themselves out of the drain, and while Maxim examined the massive lock, Kenneth went to watch near the stairs and Nicholas moved swiftly and lightly to where the guard dozed. He straddled the man's sprawled legs before he clobbered him over the head with the butt of his pistol. He kept the man from falling with his left hand and returned him to a slumbering pose, then caught his feet in a quickly formed loop and slipped the rope under the bench and securely bound the hands, snipping off the excess cordage and returning it to his coil.
Maxim plucked a lead shot from his pouch and rolled it across the flooring of the cell toward the cot where a wealth of auburn tresses spilled over its edge. Elise sat bolt upright, immediately awake, and found that fond and familiar form standing just beyond the bars. It was his finger across his lips and
the negative shake of his head that silenced the joyful gasp. She reached out and shook the man beside her. Slowly a bearded head raised, and she touched her father's lips with a hand to still his question, then pointed toward Maxim. His gaze came around to find the younger man, and a smile, the first for some months now, broke upon his countenance.
Maxim lightly tapped the lock, silently asking the whereabouts of the key, but Elise shook her head and mouthed the name “Quentin.” She made a tucking motion as if slipping it into a doublet, then she came close to the door and reached through to grasp her husband's hand. They leaned together, and even the bars could not prevent their lips from touching briefly. When they drew apart again, Maxim smiled and, with his thumb, wiped a smudge of rust from her cheek.
He inclined his head toward the third form lying alone on the other cot, and Elise shaped the name “Arabella” with her lips.
Nicholas strode along the row of bars that surrounded the cell and gently tapped at each with a stout cudgel he had found. Toward the far end of the cell, he found several that did not ring, but gave forth a dull
thunk
instead. Flicking his hand toward Kenneth, he summoned the knight near. The pair of them grasped the lower ends of the bars and, flexing their knees and gritting their teeth, heaved upward and outward. One bar moved with a moan of yielding metal, then caught and held, while the other rusted base snapped and the bar lifted clear the measure of two handbreadths.
The sound of heavy boots and a protracted yawn echoed from the stairs, announcing the entrance of
one of the guards who was coming to relieve the other. As his head came into view, he froze and his once-sleepy eyes widened as he saw three men staring back at him. He fumbled for his musket, but before he could raise it, Nicholas threw the cudgel, striking the piece from his grasp. The guard bellowed out a cry of alarm and, snatching a long rapier from his side, leapt to the dungeon floor where Kenneth met him with drawn sword. There was a rush of footsteps from above as the brigands scrambled toward the stairs.
Maxim stood away from the bars and lowered his musket. The first man to come into sight took a ball in the chest and slowly toppled to the floor. Another pistol spoke, and the next guard fell over his dead companion. Maxim replaced the empty pistols and his sword rang free as a half score guards clamored down the stairs. Elise smothered a scream as he was pressed back by the assaulting attack of a quartet of men, while Nicholas and Kenneth met a similar number with slashing, hacking sweeps of their long swords.
A sudden cacophony of screams rang from the level above them, and a moment later runnels of hot fat dribbled down the stairs. A handful of guards stumbled and slid down the slippery steps, holding their grease-soaked clothes away from the bodies while hardly daring to touch the bright red splotches on their faces.
On the upper level Justin threw open the long box and lifted the top compartment as Sherbourne tore off his bandage. The younger of the two seized his axe, while the knight claimed a mace and sword
from the box. Dietrich chose a long butcher knife half the length of a sword, but twice as deadly. He butted away a stout guard with his ponderous belly and swung around with a vicious swipe. The other saw the blade coming and danced back on the tip of his toes and sucked in his breath just as the knife whizzed past, then he slithered senseless to the floor as a huge mallet followed the assault and caught him alongside the head.
Quentin had been in the loftier chambers with his family, demanding their departure at dawn, when the commotion alerted him. Savagely he snarled at his brothers, “Well, let's see how good you three are at defending my hide. Without me, there's no treasure at all.”
Cassandra immediately jumped up and delivered swords to the hands of her offspring, then thrust out a finger toward the door in a command “Go! Fight the filthy rabble who would dare attack your brother!”
Quentin smirked as he raced from the chamber. Perhaps this one time it was to his benefit to have a family.
In the dungeons below Maxim had been pressed back toward the far wall by the advance of the guards. Still, he seemed the victor in the fray as he thrust out with his sword. One guard sank to his knees, and another struggled to hold at bay that whiplash blade that turned upon him and threatened at every quarter. He cried out as the rapier seared like fire through his ribs, then his own heavy sword clanged to the stone floor.
“Hold!”
Maxim glanced up, and his heart froze in his chest. Quentin had caught up a musket and now stood with its muzzle pointing through the bars a short distance from Elise's head. Behind him, his brothers had gathered and watched the proceedings warily. Maxim lowered his sword and Nicholas dropped the limp head of his opponent and let the fellow sink to the floor. From the level above, the sounds of scufflings and struggles continued, interjected with the clank of iron and the blunt thud of an axe.
“Stand back!” The flintlock was at full cock as Quentin's finger trembled on the trigger. “I warn you! Elise will only be the first, and my men will be upon you in a thrice.”
In the frozen moment that followed, there came a sharp whine of a ricocheting ball from outside, and the dull thud of a distant musket shot. A volley of gunfire followed as a warning to the occupants of Kensington Keep.
“That should be the company of fusiliers,” Maxim posed the conjecture, answering the unspoken question in the faces of the Radborne brothers.
No one moved, though it seemed now that the brigands sweated in fear and apprehension, then fate found her voice at this turn of events and took a hand. The first guard, whom Nicholas had bound so roughly, roused from his stupor and, with a shout of belated warning, lunged to his feet, or at least tried. The truss caught him as he heaved himself halfway up and arched him forward like a bow, just as the bench struck his knees from behind. He gave a whooping cry of dismay as he measured at least part of his length on the stones.
It was Ramsey who seized the moment of distraction. He and his daughter had worked a rusted end of his shackles free from its mount on the floor, then had carefully replaced it. Now he snatched it free and, flipping a loop in the chain, tossed it around the intruding muzzle of Quentin's weapon as he shoved Elise out of the way. He braced a foot against the bars and jerked hard. His strength was slight, but his surprise complete. The musket snaked through the bars until the lock struck a brace and snapped off with a sharp
ping
and rattled to rest somewhere in a dark crevasse.
Quentin drew back in dismay, rubbing his smarting hand, and reluctantly faced Maxim. That one raised his rapier in a quick salute and waited. Forsworth nudged his brother's arm and offered his own sword, and received a glare for his generosity. Neither of them noticed the guards making a careful retreat to ward the stairs.
“I'm no swordsman!” Quentin mewled in fear. “You'd slay me as quickly as a helpless babe.”
“You gave no quarter to the agent in my house,” Maxim remmded him. “You bent no mercy on your mistress at court. I would say you've plied your skills quite well against women and helpless men.”
“Mistress?” Arabella slowly shook her head and sank back to the cot, from whence she had risen at the onset of the fray. “Is there no end to his wickedness?”