So Worthy My Love (75 page)

“Quentin's not living so high and mighty himself,” drawled the more solemn son. “I saw some of that gruel they were stewing up. A body would almost be tempted to starve before eating that slime.”

“I want to die! Right here and now!” Cassandra's distressed wail pierced the night. “If not from your foolery, then from some hungry beastie!”

The three sons froze with her comment, and their eyes searched warily for evidence of some creature in the shadows beyond their camp. They drew closer to the fire and faced outward, trying to penetrate the darkness. A nightbird chirped from somewhere close at hand, and a middle son whimpered. The undulating hoot of an owl drifted into the camp, and Forsworth fumbled for his sword.

Cassandra lifted her drooping head and glared at the three of them. “Get yourselves some rest!”

Her command made them all start, and finally they gathered their scattered wits. The camp grew quiet as the weary family settled down for the night and were finally drowsing when a distant howl drifted to their ears. Forsworth's eyes popped open, and he listened, his senses now fully alert. The howling came again, shivering down his spine. This time Cassandra leapt to her feet, then danced a frightful, shrieking jig as she trod in the edge of the fire where a small hot coal fell into her low slippers. A rustling through the trees brought the youngest one to his feet with a warbling wail.

“Wolves!”

A mad scramble ensued as the Radborne family fought each other to get to their mounts. Not caring how well the saddles and tack were affixed, in another moment the four were racing out of the forest astride wild-eyed nags who had caught the fever of their panic. Whether welcomed or not, they were bent on seeking shelter at Kensington Keep, for they doubted that even the bad-tempered Qucntin had grown fangs long enough to match the wily wolf.

In the silence that followed their passing, Sir Kenneth slapped his thigh and chortled in high glee. “I never saw fur flying so hard to get someone out of a place before! Those nags will be spent ere a half hour's passing of the moon. Truly, if Sherbourne's wolf call had been any better they'd have keeled over dead from fright.”

With a grin Maxim raised his hand to signal his small band to move out. They had returned to their camp to fetch their mounts and now at a leisurely pace followed the sounds of the panic stricken riders.

It was some time later, after watching the family's approach to Kensington Keep from the ridge, that Fitch and Spence went flying back along the road from whence they had come. Sir Kenneth had sighted a company of fusiliers before he had met up with Maxim's band, and now that their point of destination was determined, someone had to go back and lead them. ‘Twas evident that a greater force would be needed to win the day.

Justin, Sherbourne, and
Herr
Dietrich tore off in the other direction to reach the nearest town before morning. There they could buy supplies and outfit themselves in rare form for the trip to Kensington Keep. As for the remaining three, they gathered their weapons and those things which would be needed to penetrate Quentin's defenses.

A
STRANGE CLANGING
, clanking clamor drifted across the valley and, as the afternoon hour progressed, the persistent sound came ever nearer to the knoll whereupon Kensington Keep stood. In rising curiosity, the occupants of the tower crowded near the crumbling walls to scan the surrounding countryside and there glimpsed a trio of men approaching on horseback. Quentin could not stand the suspense. He was already in a temper, having had his sleep utterly destroyed by the return of his kin. This time they had proven even more tenacious about staying than he had been about their going, and he had finally given in, seeing no end to their arguments and protestations. He mangled a few curses as he swung into the saddle and rode out to meet the three whose mounts plodded lazily along. He soon discovered the source of the noise came from the last rider whose stout steed was loaded down with all manner of cooking utensils and paraphernalia. The rider in the van was old, wrinkled, and scraggly-haired, with shoulders rounded
and stooped. As Quentin drew near, he saw that the fellow had a nervous twitch, which lent a perpetual squint to the right eye. The second rider was of stronger, more
youthful form, but a wide bandage covered his eyes, and his mount was led by the elder.

“Good day ta yez, yer lor'ship,” called the ancient.

“What are you doing here?” the frustrated Quentin demanded. He quickly rejected the idea that these sorry, ragged beings had anything to do with Maxim's men, but still there was need to be cautious. For all he knew they could be thieves out to steal what they could from him.

The stooped shoulders gathered in a brief shrug. “Jes' passin' through. Ain't no ‘arm in ‘at, is ‘ere?”

“Passing through? With no intentions of stopping at Kensington Keep?” Quentin Radborne was suspicious.

“Don't see no purpose in it,” the ragged man answered.

“Who are you? Where do you come from?”

“Why, ‘at's me gran'son.” The ancient gestured over his shoulder at the one who rode directly behind him. “The poor lad were blinded a few months back in a scuffle wit' a ruddy Irishman.” Then the elder lifted his head and fixed a squinty gaze upon the last of the three. “An' ‘at's me nephew.” He thumped a finger against his temple. “But he's a mite slow though. Can't talk, ya know, but he can cook, ‘at he can!”

“Cook?”
Even Quentin had become convinced of their need for edible food. “Is he looking for work?”

“Well, yer lor'ship, he might be . . . that is, if'n ye're o' a mind ta let meself an' me gran'son here stay long ‘nough ta show him what ye want. He only knows me hand signals.”

“Anything!” Quentin agreed, then paused to caution, “But if you're lying about how well he can cook, you and the rest of your family will be booted out before nightfall. My men are not in a mood for any pranks and may well tear you apart if you cannot deliver what you promise. Do I make myself clear?”

“Ye got the makin's, yer lor'ship, ol' Deats can cook 'em up, ‘at he can,” the ancient answered with smug confidence.

“And by what name may you be called?” Quentin inquired of the ancient.

“Most just call me Justin.” He tossed a thumb over his shoulder. “An' me gran'son here goes by Sherb.”

Quentin gave a nod toward the tower. “Go on in. One of my men will show you where the kitchen is. ‘Tis not much, but it's the best we have.”

“Ol' Deat don't need much, yer lor'ship. Ye'll see.”

Quentin watched them until they entered the gates, then he made a wide sweep around the cliffs that surrounded the keep, assuring himself that the three were not part of a larger group of miscreants tucked within the trees somewhere. Satisfied that the three had come alone, he rode back and was pleasantly surprised by the delicious aroma already wafting through the compound. His mouth watered as he entered the tower, and he found the two hard at work cooking and cleaning up the tables. The blind one sat before the fire, enjoying its wamth as he sipped from a mug.

“Care for some spiced tea, yer lor'ship?” Justin offered. “We brought it wit' us, we did.”

Accepting a mug, Quentin savored the aroma a long pleasurable moment, then indulged in the wam liquid. He nodded his thanks to the cook as that one handed him a piece of flat bread cooked in a kettle of hot fat above the fire. His amazement knew no end as the sweetened bread created a luscious delight in his mouth, and he realized how hungry he was after avoiding the tasteless, greasy gruel that had become their main staple. Surely their plight was not because of a need of supplies, but for want of someone who could cook.

“I approve!” Quentin declared with enthusiasm. It was the only thing that had met with his approval for days!

The old man chortled in glee, then winked at the tall man. “Just thought we'd give ye a samplin' afore we talk 'bout Deat's wages.”

“Set a price and if it's fair, I'll consider it,” Quentin replied magnanimously. A good cook was worth keeping satisfied . . . at least for the short time he intended to be around to enjoy the fare. Before a wage was due, he would be well on his way to Spain with the treasure. And now with a cook to see to the preparation of the food, he would not have to face a mutiny.

“The three of you can bed down here in the kitchen,” Quentin directed. His eyes swept to a long box the newcomers had placed beside the hearth and he gave a jerk of his head toward it as he demanded, “What have you there?”

“Oh, ah . . . why, ‘at's Deat's knives, yer lor'ship,” Justin answered in a gravelly voice. He tottered over to the box and, lifting the lid, displayed
the top layer. Long and stout-bladed cutlery was set in neat niches wedged into the wood of the shallow tray. “Deat uses 'em for butcherin', ye know.”

Quentin licked his fingers, finding little reason for a close inspection of the lower trays of the box. After all, what was a cook without his knives? “I've some guests downstairs who'd be greatly heartened if they were given something worthy to eat. I'll escort you down when their food is ready.” He made a casual excuse in an attempt to silence any inquiries before they were spoken. “They're prisoners of the crown and are being held ‘til the Queen's men can come to fetch them, so I warn you make no attempt to free them lest you wish a much-shortened life. As to that”—he smiled as he slipped the key from his doublet and tossed it before their eyes—“I've got the only key, and no one enters or leaves the cell unless I'm there to open the door.”

“Tain't a twitch off me nose oo' ye gots locked away.” Justin shrugged indolently. “I'm just here ta settle me good nephew in as cook for ye.”

“Good! Then we understand each other.”

“Quentin!” The plaintive wail came from the small upstairs chamber which Quentin had once reserved for his own use. “Where are you, son? I'm hungry!”

The summoned one rolled his eyes heavenward as if in mute appeal, then almost angrily jabbed a finger at Justin. “You tell your nephew to prepare enough food to stuff down the gullets of that bunch of whiners upstairs. You'll find them in my quarters, and heaven help your hide if you delay!”

It was a short time later when Quentin's directive was carried out, and when Justin entered with a tray,
Cassandra and the three Radbornes seized the food in a greedy frenzy. Snarling and snatching to prevent anyone else from having what they desired, they tore apart the fowl with their hands and teeth as Justin backed out of the doorway. He had once seen wolves feeding, and their display was somewhat reminiscent of a canaille of those beasts.

The mood was somewhat more tranquil among the prisoners in the dungeon. Elise had been slumbering beside her father on the cot before she was roused by approaching footsteps. She blinked sleepily as the key rasped in the lock and the door was swung open to admit a gray-haired old man who hobbled across the space. He placed his burden on the crude table beside the cot, then glanced aside at her as he rubbed a spilled droplet from the tray. His squinting eye opened and closed in a deliberate wink, prompting Elise to stare at him for a confused, uncertain moment, then a sudden dawning swept her and she recognized the man behind the disguise. He left her and climbed the stairs, but she knew what his presence meant. Maxim was aware of where they were, and he had already begun infiltrating the enemy's camp to secure their safety.

The only comments came from Arabella, who strode near the iron gate as it was slammed closed and once more secured. “So, Quentin! You lock the door again! ‘Tis not that you've disturbed yourself to see to my comfort. Oh, nay! You've answered naught my tears and pleadings, but have steeled yourself against my cries. And now it seems you continue my imprisonment.”

“I'm only protecting you from my men.” Quentin excused his deed nonchalantly. “No telling what they'd do while my back is turned.”

“Ha!” his mistress scoffed. “You've locked me away in here, and I finally begin to see that I mean nothing to you.”

“Complaints! All I've heard since I've come to this place are complaints!” he grumbled. He motioned toward the tray. “See there! I've brought you food. Try it! Maybe ‘twill sweeten your temper.”

“I doubt it.” Arabella's chilled tone denied the possibility. “To think that I've let you run my life all these years. Father was right! All you wanted was my fortune and . . .”

“Your
fortune?” Quentin laughed aloud in jeering tones. “I worked harder for
your
fortune than you did yourself.”

“What do you mean?” Arabella demanded angrily. “My father arranged the matches himself.”

“That buffoon! He'd have settled for a mere portion of what you have in your possession now. I knew with your beauty you were worthy of an earl, or even a duke.”

“You wanted me to marry someone else?” Arabella questioned in surprise. “But I thought you detested an my suitors.”

“I did!” He shrugged and gave her a sneering grin. “At least the first ones. Their purses were of little value, and in his greed, Edward would have accepted them, for they had more than he. You ought to be thankful to me, Arabella. I arranged a better match.”

Arabella shook her head, as if to free her mind from the confusing cobwebs. “I don't understand.”

Quentin settled his arms akimbo in vexation and began to explain. “Dear girl, do you really think your life has been cursed? Nay, my lovely, your suitors fell beneath a stronger hand, except for perhaps one or two whose lives were snatched by fate ere I did a like service. I must say I found Seymour suitably wealthy, but the Queen's agent recognized me as a conspirator and it became necessary to lay the blame on him for that one's murder.”