Quentin took the reins and, wrapping them about his hand, stepped into the stirrup of his own saddle, just as Elise kicked her mount hard with her heel. The confused mare did a skittering, sideways scamper, nearly dragging Quentin across the back of his mount. By dint of will, he regained his balance and settled into the saddle. Reining his mount close against hers, he raised his quirt and slashed the innocent mare viciously across the face. One glance at his sweating, snarling visage warned Elise that his fragile temper was close to the breaking point, and she would be better off biding her time under a meeker bent of spirit.
It was a long ride, and the afternoon light dulled as the sun lowered behind clouds in the western sky and slowly spread a reddish glow across the land. Elise knew only that they traveled in a general westerly direction. They made a short camp beneath the shelter of some trees and rose again well before dawn to continue their journey. It was close to evening of that day when they topped a long ridge that overlooked a shallow, boulder-strewn valley. Perhaps a furlong or so beyond the ridge the earth rose again to form a knoll, upon which squatted the tumbled remains of a deserted castle. Her first glimpse of the crumbling edifice reminded her of Faulder Castle, but in comparison, the other keep would have possessed a semblance of grandeur. This was hardly more than a shell of a place. Only a single tower at the far side raised its weather-beaten battlements above the crumbling walls as if in bold defiance of the elements.
Dusk had already begun to settle upon the land when they passed between two piles of rubble that evidenced the general location of a onetime gate. A pair of guards rose from the shelters to challenge them with crossbows at the ready. Quentin swept back the hood of his cloak to identify himself and dropped a hand to his thigh as he rode past, seeming pleased by the alertness of his men. As she watched him, Elise had the sudden suspicion that she had seen him in a similar pose somewhere else, but the impression was fleeting, and she turned her gaze to the handful of men gathered around a warm fire. Quentin snapped an order to them, and they hastened to douse the flames and stamp out the coals until all evidence of a fire was gone.
Quentin dismounted and, tossing the reins of his mount to one of his men, came to free Elise from the bonds that held her in the saddle. He lifted her down, but when her feet struck the ground, her knees buckled beneath her. He caught her and would have swept her into his arms, but she snarled her denial through the gag. With stubborn effort, she heaved herself away from him and leaned against the side of the mare.
Quentin smiled indulgently and reached out to free her gag. “Now behave,” he cajoled as she glared at him. “ ‘Tis not in my mind to hurt you. I only want your company for a while, until your husband hands over the treasure.”
“Where’s my father?” Her words came out mangled by a dry, parched mouth.
“He’s near,” Quentin assured her. “No need for you to fret. He’s in . . . ah . . . reasonably good health.”
Elise disdained his bland smile. “I don’t know what tempted you to ever do this horrible thing, Quentin. To think that you were once my favorite cousin. Now it comes to me that I’m not a very good judge of character.”
“You know I’ve always been fond of you too, Elise.” He lifted his wide shoulders in an indolent shrug as she gave him a dubious stare. “If not for me, Hilliard would have killed your father when they caught him spying on us in the Stilliards. When I argued that he was worth saving because of the treasure he had hidden, they dumped him on one of Hilliard’s ships and took him off to Lubeck. If not for my threats to call a halt to the plot against the Queen, he’d probably still be there . . . or dead. Hilliard was not a very patient man. Ramsey would not have long withstood his torture.”
“If you truly saved my father’s life, then I must be grateful,” Elise replied stiffly. “But you’ve brought havoc down upon yourself by keeping him prisoner and by taking me.”
“I’ve heard of your husband’s reputation,” Quentin acknowledged. “ ‘Twould have taken a man of such daring to pluck Hilliard from his well-guarded nest, but I’m more wary. I’ve no intention of letting him know where or who I am.”
“He’ll find out. You can be sure of that,” Elise warned.
“Then the game will become dangerous to both of us. He has what I want, and I”—he smiled ruefully—“have what he wants. An even exchange seems in order. Otherwise, the innocent shall suffer, and that I’ve no stomach for.”
“No stomach for murder?” she queried with a delicate brow arched in doubt. “What of your mistress? What of Hilliard?”
Quentin heaved a laborious sigh. “When my life is threatened, I must take certain measures to guarantee my safety, though in truth they are against my nature. Still, what I’ve done to others, I’d be reluctant to do to you.”
“But you’d still kill me if you had to,” she jeered.
“Come along,” he bade solicitously, tugging lightly on the rope. “I’ve answered enough of your questions.”
“You won’t get away with this, Quentin. If you harm my father, they’ll be after you . . .”
Quentin gave a sharp tug on the rope, causing her to stumble on the smooth stone as he pulled her along with him into the tower. “Really, Elise, all those dire warnings are not going to do a bit of good. They tend to weary me.”
He paused just inside the tower and lifted a nearby torch from an iron sconce. Raising the flaming brand, he gestured to where stone stairs made a circular descent to the dungeons below.
“Now follow me and watch your step,” he cautioned. “You could fall and hurt yourself.”
Leading the way slowly downward, he held the torch high to light her way. Elise found the damp, mossy steps treacherous and her balance even more precarious with her arms securely bound by the skirt of her apron. They entered into the cavernous, torch-lit depths of the tower, stepped past a grating in the floor, and then passed a handful of guards gathered around a stout table piled high with dirty trenchers and the dried, crusted scraps of many a past meal.
One of the men shoved away the debris with his arm as he spied Quentin and sneered. “This rot eats at me belly,” he muttered. “What I wouldn’t give ta sink me teeth inta some tasty vittles. ‘Ere needs be a cook here.” He nudged an elbow against his neighbor’s am and leered after Elise as she passed. “Maybe her liedyship here can cook for us.”
“I doubt it,” Quentin retorted with little humor and squelched the man’s laughter with a cold-eyed glare. “You’d better mind your manners with this one, or you’ll answer to me.”
“She yer new light-o’-love?” heckled a bold one with a chortle.
Quentin dropped the cord as he instructed his cousin, “Wait here.”
Since there was nowhere she could go to effect an escape, Elise obeyed his directive and half-turned to watch as Quentin made a point of selecting a cudgel from a nearby pile of wood. Slapping it against the palm of his hand, he strode back to the man who had foolishly opened his mouth. That one was tall and broad of form and seemed confident of his prowess as he grinned up at the one who came to stand beside him. As the dark eyes fixed him with a stony stare, he shrugged and turned to swill his ale. He was just raising the tankard to his lips when the cudgel came down on top of it. The mug plummeted from his grasp, flinging ale in a whirling eddy as the stick continued downward across his arm, drawing a pained yowl from the man.
“Next time,” Quentin cautioned almost gently as he bent closer to the grimacing man, “you’d better mind your manners, or you won’t have an arm left to lift to your guzzling lips. Do I make myself clear?”
The bruised one eagerly nodded and as Quentin moved away, the man wiped in disdain at the wet droplets soaking into his breeches. Elise understood the message her cousin had just delivered to his troop. Even in his absence, she was not to be approached or harmed in any way. At least for this, she could be grateful.
In passing her, Quentin paused to slide the torch into an empty sconce and, glancing back, motioned her on. “This way.”
Reluctantly Elise followed him down a pair of wide, stone steps and they progressed to where a wall of heavy iron bars separated a darkly shadowed cell from the rest of the room. Her cousin plied a large key to the massive lock and, lifting a ponderous bar, swung the gate open.
“Your chambers, my lady.”
Elise moved cautiously through the door, having no ken what lurked in the blackened void beyond the bars. She turned in some indecision to Quentin and he reached to free her hands, then he swung the door closed between them. He inclined his head toward the corner of the cell where no light had reached, and glancing askance, Elise saw only the end of a cot.
“Your father should be waking up soon. ‘Twas only a small draught of potion that was given to help him sleep.”
With a gasp Elise flew to the narrow bed and though her blindly searching hands found a long, thin form, she could not discern whether or nay the man was kin.
“A candle, Quentin, please!” she begged with a sob.
“As my lady wishes.” He fetched the torch and thrust it into a nearby sconce.
Elise sank carefully to the edge of the cot, where she stared down at the heavily bearded face of the sleeping man. Even beneath the thick brush of whiskers there was no mistaking him. Her tears spilled profusely down her cheeks as she took note of his gaunt features and the thinly fleshed hands. His breathing barely lifted the wall of his chest, and almost in fear she gently shook his arm, receiving little response.
Quentin called back over his shoulder for a man to bring a pitcher of water and a rag. The one who answered his summons scurried in haste to do his bidding and was briefly allowed entry into the cell to deliver the requested items.
“Here ye are, m’liedy,” the small man said, setting the pitcher on a small, rough-hewn table near the cot. “Som’pin ta wash away the gentl’man’s sleep.”
Elise immediately dipped a cloth in the water, and, wringing it free of droplets, she began to wash the bearded face. Slowly her father roused to a vague awareness, and for a long moment he rolled his head and searched with his eyes as if his mind crawled from a deep well of darkness. His gaze found her, and his parched lips moved briefly. She bent closer as they moved again.
“Elise?”
“Oh, Papa!”
The cherished title was like a tender caress softly soothing him, and tears welled up in his eyes as he sighed the words. “My Elise.”
Chapter 32
THE WITHDRAWING ROOM of the Grand High Chancellor of the Order of the Garter and First Secretary to the Queen was not a small chamber, yet the space was filled with personages of such rank and prestige as to make the atmosphere almost stuffy. There were knights in breastplates of silver, dukes in fur-lined blanchets, earls in elaborately embroidered doublets, and such garments as to make Maxim’s garb, though tastefully handsome, perhaps the plainest in the room, save for the somber black of the Secretary’s own. That official had completed his noonday repast and ventured out into the antechamber to partake of the informal exchange ere the afternoon’s business commenced. He had elected to join Maxim who possessed enough experience, position, and wisdom to be content with his way of life and could, for that reason, carry on a reasonable conversation without interjecting ambitious little remarks or clever insinuations or innuendos against a rival. Eager to know the outcome of his investigation, Sir Francis engaged him in a careful review of what he had discovered about the two murders.
“We’ve obtained a description of the barrister who visited Newgate,” Maxim informed him. “And we’ve managed to find one of the Queen’s ladies who actually saw the murdered woman with her lover a few weeks before the incident. Her description of the man is remarkably close to the one we received from the guards at the gaol. Tall. Dark-haired. Dark-eyed. Handsome. ‘Tis my belief they’re one and the same. I may also have a name we can lay to the man. The Queen’s attendant led us to a page who had carried a couple of messages to the murdered woman from a man, and it seems that particular steward has always had a penchant for learning names of people at court and those associated with them. We need only to affirm that it was the same man.”
“Why was Hilliard murdered?” Sir Francis inquired.
“Both Hilliard and the man’s mistress could identify him, and with Hilliard in the gaol and destined to be drawn on hurdles at St. Giles-in-the-Field, he had reason to fear the agent would name him as a conspirator ere he retired from this world.”
Sir Francis clasped his hands behind his back and jutted out his bearded chin thoughtfully as he scanned the room. Besides Maxim, he had more than fifty agents in his personal employ here in England and abroad in foreign courts. There were others in his hire whose work was obscure to all but him. Even now his man, Gilbert Gifford, was bringing evidence of the plot Babington and his accomplices had contrived in an effort to free Mary and assassinate Elizabeth. His spies worked with a high degree of efficiency, and the Marquess of Bradbury was one of his best.
The Secretary sighed heavily. “I wish the Queen was more appreciative of our efforts to keep her safe. My purse grows flatter by the day, and I’m ever pressed to ask Cecil to intervene in my behalf so I can fund these missions to safeguard her life.”
“Lord Burghley knows her better than any of us,” Maxim encouraged the man. “If anyone can get her to finance your endeavors, he should be able to.”
“In the meantime I must be indebted to you. I’m aware that it cost you a goodly sum to find Hilliard out and bring him back here.”
“Think no more of it. I’m grateful to have my honor restored.”
“Aye, I thought I had lost a good man when Master Stamford brought accusations against you to the Queen, but it only opened a way for you to draw out Hilliard. I’m amazed at how well things worked toward that end.”
“I nearly died because of it,” Maxim observed in rueful retrospect.
“The reality of what happened to you could not be argued against. ‘Twas not a ploy, and because it actually occurred, your flight to Hamburg was all the more convincing, enabling you to draw Hilliard in. Had you not come to me the night of your return to England and begged to be given a chance to prove your innocence, you’d have still been an affront to her majesty . . . a condemned man.”
“I’m glad my loyalty to the Queen has been reaffirmed, so in years to come my children need not suffer her disfavor.” A smile curved Maxim’s lips. “Elise is expecting our first child later this year.”
Sir Francis clapped him on the back in hearty congratulation. “ ‘Tis good news, indeed! May we drink a toast to your continued good fortune . . . ?”
“Your lordship . . . Lord Seymour?” A youthful lieutenant tentatively interrupted and cleared his throat nervously when Maxim turned to face him. A roughly garbed man with unshorn beard was pushing close behind the lieutenant, almost on his heels.
“What is it?” Maxim asked, amused at the hesitancy of the steward.
The officer seized the collar of the scruffy one’s coat as that one tried to force his way past, but the peasant was determined to reach his goal and nearly dragged the lieutenant forward with him. With anger-reddened face, the younger seized the elder firmly and bade him to wait. Exasperated with this undisciplined man, he straightened his doublet with a jerk and forgot his awe of the Secretary and the Marquess.
“Your pardon, my lords, but this man claims to be a courier and has been sent with an important mis . . . ugh!” He grunted in pain as the nondescript one elbowed him in the ribs and shoved his way to the fore.
“I be called William ‘Anks, yer lordship,” the impatient man declared. He reached inside his frayed tunic and drew forth a folded parchment sealed with a blob of featureless red wax. Squinting up at Maxim, he slapped the packet against the open palm of his hand. “I tooks a solemn oath ta deliver this missive inta yer ‘ands an’ was promised a gold sovereign from yer very own purse for bringin’ h’it ‘ere ta yez.”
“The man’s a thief!” the outraged lieutenant exclaim
ed.
Maxim plucked the required coin from his purse and flipped it in front of the straggly one’s eyes. “Here’s the coin to pay for your hire, but the letter had better be worth every bit of its value.”
The unkempt messenger swept his hand above Maxim’s, swooping the coin away in its descent, and leered triumphantly at the lieutenant as he passed the parchment on to the nobleman.
“Who gave you this?” Maxim asked in some confusion as he saw his full title scrawled across the front of the letter.
“I wouldn’t be known’ the man,” the courier averred. “ ’E wore a hooded cloak, an’ ‘twere pitch black when ’e come beatin’ ‘is fist on me door. I come a far piece ta fetch this ta yez, an’, ‘is lor’ship gave me no more coins ‘an what ‘ould pay for the barge ta come downriver. If not for ‘im assurin’ me I’d be rewarded well, I wouldna’ve even come.” He tapped a finger against the front of the parchment. “ ’E said h’it were important an’ for yez ta read h’it at once.”
Maxim split the seal with his thumbnail and lifted the letter up close to the light. As he read the contents, his face took on such a look of pained horror that the Secretary became alarmed. As he crumpled the letter, his features contorted into a snarl of pure rage, and a low growl rumbled in his throat, reminding Sir Francis of a wild beast on the hunt.
“Is aught amiss?”
The Secretary’s words came to Maxim as if through a long tunnel. He fought the rage that threatened to send him howling in mindless pursuit across the hills and, with a dark, ominous frown, gritted out, “Elise has been taken hostage.” He held out the parchment to Walsingham. “Her captor is demanding ransom for her release.”