Part Two
Castaways
And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh
at gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues talk
of court news; and we'll talk with them too, who
loses and who wins; who's in, who's out; and take
upon's the mystery of things . . .
SHAKESPEARE
Chapter Six
January, 1578--London
Whitehall Palace and the court of Elizabeth I
BLAZING TORCHES cast flickering light against the rich-hued tapestries and royal portraits which adorned the walls of the Great Hall. As countless slender tapers burned low, strolling musicians and singers, jesters, jugglers, and players vied jealously for the undivided attention of generous patrons and influential courtiers. Amusing themselves with gossip, games of chance, and politics, these privileged members of court whiled away the hours awaiting their queen's pleasure.
The silver-gilt cups and tankards had been filled and refilled many times over the red wines, Rhenish wines, sack, and ale. The banqueting table had been emptied of the large platters of venison roasts, oysters, river bass, stewed and pickled vegetables, salads, pasties, and tarts when the fanfaronade of trumpets and drums announced the entrance of Elizabeth from her privy chamber, where she had dined with a select few of her favorites in attendance.
Resplendent in a French gown worked with Venetian gold and a floral border encrusted with pearls, Elizabeth swept into the great hall. A starched, lacy ruff rose behind her head and framed her bright red hair and pale-complexioned face. A gold-wrought headdress studded with pearls crowned her head, while long ropes of pearls encrusted with gold and emeralds glistened against the tight bodice of her gown. The lace-edged sleeves were slashed to expose the richly figured brocade beneath, which was of the same golden material as the elegant underskirt revealed in front. A feather fan sprinkled with gold dust and attached to a golden handle entwined with exotic beasts fluttered in Elizabeth's hand, its various movements foretelling her volatile changes of mood.
Surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting and an assembly of court favorites, dignitaries, and officials, she moved easily amongst the crowd thronging the hall. Her loyal subjects knelt before her, hopeful of her notice and a kind word or jest spoken to them personally, and perhaps even a royal favor to be granted.
A lady-in-waiting, whose exceptional beauty in a stunning gown with a border worked cunningly with sparkling gems and pearls, and far richer seeming than the queen's own regal robes, received a glare of displeasure and a punishing pinch from Elizabeth, who would not suffer competition from one who served her, and who should remain no more than a shadow while in her presence. But a jester with a ready wit and comic antics soon had a smile curving his queen's lips as she laughed heartily at his fools' tricks.
By their queen's request, the court musicians, with lutes, viols, brass, and woodwinds, began a lively tune which heralded the dancing. Elizabeth, partnered by handsome courtiers who knew the steps well and showed a fine leg, enjoyed herself until she claimed the knaves would dance her to death and she retired to recline against silken cushions at the far side of the room. There, Elizabeth held court, summoning various people to her side and listening avidly until either boredom or anger overtook her patience for one who dallied too long before her or asked too many favors of her largesse.
From the crowded gallery overlooking the hall, the less fortunate watched in awe. And each dreamed of dressing in silk and jewels, with the finest lace scented with lavender, and on bended knee or with a deep curtsy would be presented to Elizabeth.
A young gallant who would soon draw the notice of his queen now stood in conversation with several other gentlemen near a deep window embrasure, where a certain amount of privacy could be found apart from the clamor.
He was dressed in a doublet of a deep burgundy color; the sleeves slashed and gold-embroidered showed the fine Holland linen of his shirt beneath. His trunk hose of a matching shade were only slightly puffed and slashed and were ornately embroidered in colored silks and golden threads. His netherstocks, gartered in velvet at the knee, were of silk and his shoes of cordovan leather. The starched whiteness of the plain ruff of cambric about his neck contrasted sharply with the darkness of his bronzed face. His hair was black and had a natural curl in its thickness, and an unruly strand curled against the single gold earring he wore in his left ear. As was the fashion, he wore a beard, but it was no bushy swallow's tail with curling moustache or long cathedral beard as was popular with academicians, nor did it serve to mask a weak chin. Dark as his hair and as neatly trimmed, the beard drew attention to the strength of his jawline.
Every so often, with a casualness that might have been deemed arrogance by one less sure of himself, he lifted a scented, gold pomander to his nose. It was indeed a noble profile, the nose patrician in cast. But when Valentine Whitelaw smiled, his mouth softened from its hard, chiseled lines and showed even teeth that gleamed in evidence of good health. His eyes, however, were the most startling feature about him, for they were heavy-lidded, the irises a bright turquoise shade that reflected like sunlight through clear water. They were fringed with long black lashes and set beneath beautifully arched brows.
He stood taller than his companions, and the server cut of his doublet showed to perfection the wideness of his shoulders and the narrowness of waist and hips. Many an envious eye had been cast by less endowed gentlemen at the sleek muscularity of his thighs and calves, which needed no padding or tailor's tricks to enhance their masculine shape.
The gentleman standing just to his right was jostled as a group of people hurried past, too preoccupied with their conversation to realize they had rudely elbowed out of the way a rather short, elegantly dressed gentleman in their path.
"Clack-cackle, bibble-babble, gibble-gabble," the affronted gentleman muttered as he watched the group barreling though the crowd. "I swear this place has gotten as busy as Fleet Street during a royal procession, and with just as many riffraff milling about. Think I should see to my purse just in case it's been lifted. Since you've been away, Valentine, the court has tripled in size. Good Lord, I'm not acquainted with even half of this vermin," he decided as he eyed another noisy group approaching and took the precaution of taking a step backward. "You know where to reach my family should I be trampled underfoot, never to draw breath again. They will have a moment's horror at the thought that I was in Smithfield Market, thinking I'd become a swineherd rather than a courtier, so you will have to explain the circumstances of my premature death, Valentine," he beseeched his friend. "They will be overwrought at the thought."
Valentine Whitelaw found himself smiling widely at George Hargraves's nonsensical talk. "By your death, I understand completely."
"No, by the scandal caused by the rumor that I was herding swine to market," he exclaimed with so serious an expression that anyone but a good friend would have been convinced of the shaken gentleman's concern.
"D'ye know, George, I think ye've missed your calling in life," Thomas Sandrick, another well-dressed gallant standing with them, drawled. "The law isn't for you at all. 'Tis court jestering, and 'twould be one way of capturing Elizabeth's eye. Perhaps you might even manage to obtain a knighthood from your appreciative queen. Sir George Hargraves, first Earl of Doggerel, and his lady, the dancing bear!" Thomas Sandrick intoned dramatically, much to the appreciation of the other gentlemen within hearing distance.
"Well, you, my late, unlamented friend, won't live long enough to congratulate me," George threatened.
"You mean you won't name one of the little cubs after me?" Thomas demanded in outrage, a grieved look on his handsome face.
"Most likely I'll send one after you, teeth bared," George complained good-naturedly.
"I doubt seriously, however, that Walsingham acted the court jester to be rewarded his knighthood," Thomas Sandrick commented as he noticed the dour-faced Walsingham staring their way. "Sir Francis it is now," he reminded himse
lf, for Elizabeth's current secretary of state, and onetime ambassador to France, had been knighted only the year before.
"Too serious by far for my tastes," George said. "That is why I shall be forced to turn down any royal appointments. Takes the humor right out of a man. Why, look at Lord Burghley, there. Did you ever see such a suffering expression?" he demanded as if resting his case, for all eyes followed his request and came to rest on William Cecil, still the queen's closest adviser, who was indeed looking a bit haggard.
"Gout," Thomas advised. "And he's becoming hard of hearing. Makes it devilishly hard to tell him any secrets," he said, winning a look of admiration from the quick-witted George.
" 'Tis a thought, becoming hard of hearing. Might not be half bad," George said, wincing as a loudmouthed individual walked past. "Lord, look at that!" he exclaimed with a loud guffaw of his own as he watched an elegantly dressed gentleman, overly anxious to be presented to his queen, trip over one of the silk pillows at her feet and fall sprawling to the carpeted floor in front of her, his face turning as bright a red as her hair as he quickly scrambled to his feet and tried to look dignified.
"Faith, but 'tis damned embarrassing the way some folks grovel," George declared before doubling over in laughter.
Valentine Whitelaw eyed his friend curiously. "I do believe, George, that life at court has had a peculiar effect on your personality. You used to be such a jovial fellow."
"Ah, Valentine," George said with a gasp, "I wish you wouldn't go to sea so damned much. I never seem to have as amusing a time when you're not here. And now that you've got your own ship and some land and a house in the West Country you never do come to London much anymore. 'Sdeath, but I nearly walked past you earlier, thinking you a stranger."
"I am sorry, George. I had no idea."
" 'Tis just that you are so difficult a fellow to get to laugh, that when you do, I know I've been especially amusing. You sharpen my wits," George said. "I suppose, though, 'tis a family trait. Basil wasn't the merriest of gentlemen."
Valentine Whitelaw was silent for a moment. "No, he wasn't, although because he did not laugh indiscreetly did not mean he was without a sense of humor."
"Of course, I was much younger then," George explained away his failure. "Hadn't quite developed my skills then. Depended more on physical pranks than on my sidesplitting witticisms. Have it finely honed now. Pity, though, Basil isn't here. 'Twould be the culmination of all of my long, hard years of study to get him to laugh uproariously," George wished aloud, then looked a bit chagrined when Thomas Sandrick jabbed him in the ribs and jerked his head meaningfully toward their friend.
"I wish he were standing here now," Valentine finally said, still finding it hard to believe that Basil had been lost at sea, along with Geoffrey Christian and his family, as well as all hands aboard the Arion.
"How long ago was that?" Sir Charles, an older gentleman, and a longtime friend of the Whitelaw brothers, asked now.
"This time seven years ago Basil set sail with Geoffrey Christian aboard his ship the Arion."
" 'Sblood, was it really that long ago?"
"Yes." The only surviving Whitelaw brother answered abruptly, for those years had haunted him.
"Can't be," the gentleman declared with a shake of his graying head. "Seems like yesterday I was dining with him and Lady Elspeth at Whiteswood. Still go there, but it isn't the same without good old Basil there to welcome me. Not that I blame Lady Elspeth for remarrying, she did have a son to raise, and she is still a damned fine-looking woman. Suppose you don't visit quite as often as you used to even though it is your family home. A fine place, that. I can certainly understand why Sir William has been in no hurry to build a place of his own. I've heard talk, however, that Sir William has had his eye on an estate closer to London."
"Elspeth may have remarried but Simon is still a Whitelaw and when he is of age he will inherit Whiteswood. My fondness for Elspeth has not diminished because she married Sir William. He has treated Simon like his own son. Since I am often away at sea, I am relieved to know that both Elspeth and Simon are well cared for."
"Generous of you, Valentine. Damned generous," Sir Charles declared. "No. Can't understand it, Valentine.
"What can't you understand, Sir Charles?"
"Well, why Basil ever sailed to the Indies in the first place. We both know he wasn't one for doing much traveling. Not like you, he wasn't. He'd grumble about having to travel with Her Majesty during the summer months when she takes to the road and travels about the countryside. It suited him to travel between here and Whiteswood, but no further afield for him. That is why I cannot understand what he was doing aboard the Arion. Know he was a good friend of Christian's but still, I just cannot understand," Sir Charles said with a sigh. "Never told you why, did he?"
"No, he did not," Valentine answered.
"Surprised he didn't, or that you weren't on board. You used to sail with Christian, didn't you? Oh-ho, I remember now, you were with Drake, doin' a bit of adventurin', eh?" he chuckled. "You young sea dogs are a rovin' pack. France was the place for adventurin' when I was your age. Still is, if you ask me, that and Spain. Both need to feel the bite of a good English sword. But you hot-blooded young bucks have to go sailing off to godforsaken, faraway places where heathens and strange beasts are the only creatures roaming the lands. Waste of time and money," he muttered, his thoughts straying.
Valentine smiled slightly, for Sir Charles was a harmless gentleman. "I had not yet left England when Geoffrey Christian sailed, but I had already signed on with Drake. Otherwise, I would have been aboard the Arion the day she sank."
"Didn't know Christian that well, of course, but seems strange to me he'd attack the Spanish like he did, what with his own wife and child being aboard," Sir Charles commented in disapproval, for public opinion had turned against Geoffrey Christian's reckless act.
"He would not have," Valentine said.
"You sound certain of that."
"I am, Sir Charles. I knew Geoffrey Christian, and he would never have attacked a fleet of galleons, not with Magdalena and his daughter aboard, and certainly not if he knew he could not win. Nor would he have jeopardized Basil's life, especially if-" he began, then shrugged and turned his gaze away from Sir Francis Walsingham and Lord Burghley. He had no proof that Basil had been working for them, but he did have his suspicions--even if they were just that.
"Wasn't it from a report by the Spanish ambassador that you and Lady Elspeth were informed of the sinking of the Arion? The witnesses did say that the Spanish ships had to fire on the Arion in self-defense. You have to admit, Valentine, that Geoffrey Christian did not make his reputation as a privateer by turning tail. I imagine he made himself a few enemies, and the Spanish claim he'd been doing a bit of raiding along the Main before he was sunk. The man was fond of trouble, Valentine. He looked for it. Why get himself a Spanish wife, otherwise? No, I'm afraid he was a belligerent fellow, and this time he got in a fight he couldn't win."
Valentine Whitelaw's lips were tight as he said, "You have only the word of the Spanish ambassador, and your witnesses are the Spanish captains who would have rejoiced in sending Geoffrey Christian to the bottom. Even against the odds, Geoffrey Christian was unbeatable-if he'd even had half a chance, he would have survived," Valentine Whitelaw speculated.
Sir Charles looked pityingly at the younger man. "You were not there, Valentine. I'm afraid that no one knows exactly what happened that day. The truth is buried with those unfortunates aboard the Arion, and she's on the bottom of the sea."
"One day, I will find the truth. I owe Basil and Geoffrey Christian that much at least," he said softly.
Sir Charles coughed uncomfortably, clearing his throat. "I'm sorry I missed out on Drake's latest venture. I hear, too late now of course since he's already sailed, that he needed investors. Sailing to Alexandria, is he? Would like to get in on some of that trade."
Valentine Whitelaw smiled slightly. That was exactly what Drake, and his inves
tors, among them Elizabeth, wanted people, especially the Spanish to believe--that Drake was bound for the Mediterranean, where he would trade English goods for spices. In truth, Francis Drake was up to his old tricks. He had devised a bold plan of attack against the Spanish, intending to sail round South America and into the mostly unexplored waters of the Pacific, where he planned to attack the port city of Panama and loot it of its gold and silver before the treasure could be sent by pack mule to Nombre di Dios on the Caribbean side of the isthmus. He also intended to try to establish a profitable trade with the islands of the Far East. Less than a month ago he had set sail in the Pelican, accompanied by four other ships and a company of over one hundred fifty men.
"If you ever need any private monies, Valentine, for your ventures, you just say the word and I'm committed for a handsome sum. Seems unnatural to me, seeing the other side of the world like Drake has," he said, a touch of envy in his voice. "Lord help us, but he'll be wantin' to sail to the stars next."
"Or at least around the world? 'Sdeath, but I can't even find my way safely around London, much less the world," George commented. "Still don't believe 'tis round," he added with a wink.
"Where was it you found that manservant of yours anyway?" Sir Charles suddenly demanded. "Don't mind telling you that he makes me more than a little nervous, Valentine. Made a wager with Roeburton that he's one of these eunuchs."
"God's light, I had no idea!" George said in amazement as he raised an inquiring eyebrow at the robust Henry Roeburton, who was standing not more than ten feet away.
"Not Henry, damn it!" Sir Charles said in exasperation, glaring at George's innocent expression. "The manservant! Valentine's valet de chambre, or--or--steward, or--or whatever he is!" Sir Charles said huffily.
"Oh, the Turk," George said, finally seeming to understand. "He's Turkish, and I for one am not about to ask him so personal a question," George advised them, thinking of the Turk's size and unsmiling countenance, and the curved blade of the scimitar that swung at his waist.
Wild Bells to the Wild Sky Page 9