"Man doesn't say much, either. Did he have his tongue cut out? Hear 'tis the way these sultans keep their servants from giving away court secrets. He's not one of those dervishes, is he?" he asked with such a look of concern on his face, that George Hargraves nearly glanced over his shoulder expecting to see a bare-chested Turk come leaping and whirling into the center of Elizabeth's court with a bloodcurdling howl that would have the ladies fainting. "Can't see why you took him on as your servant," Sir Charles said, keeping an uneasy eye on George's grinning face and not daring to ask what he was thinking.
"I did not have much say in the matter," Valentine remarked, remembering how he had seen the lone, turbaned man fighting for his life against half a dozen armed men in a bazaar in Alexandria . . .
Not liking to see anyone outnumbered in a fight, whatever the circumstances, he had come to the man's aid, and just in time, for the Turk had been wounded and was losing ground as fast as blood. Standing back to back, they had each faced with sword and dagger drawn a trio of angry Arabians, fanatically bent on beheading the Turk, and anyone unfortunate enough to be standing between them and their quarry. Valentine Whitelaw had found himself in a fight for his own life; with a fierce determination equal to the Arabs', but borne of wishing to see England again, he had vanquished two of the Turk's attackers. And with the timely intervention of several of his crew, who had seen their captain's predicament and charged in unmindful of the danger, they had quickly routed the others.
The fight over, the Turk had turned to face his unexpected ally. The dark, impenetrable eyes had met briefly the Englishman's clear-eyed gaze, then the seriously wounded Turk had fallen unconscious to the ground. Belatedly, Valentine Whitelaw had realized that he couldn't walk off and leave the man he had just saved lying helpless in the bazaar and at the mercy of his attackers, who were sure to return in greater numbers. Since no one stepped forward to claim the wounded man, Valentine had taken him back to his ship, where he'd seen that the stranger was nursed back to health.
Although the Turk had never spoken of his previous life, Valentine, assisted by a local merchant he had traded with, learned that the Turk had been a Janizary and had served the great Ali Pasha in the battle at Lepanto. The Turkish fleet had been destroyed by the Venetians and her Christian allies in their crusade against the Ottoman empire and the followers of Islam. Surviving the slaughter, the Turk had then joined Uluch Ali, an Algerian corsair, who had also been one of the fortunate few to survive the battle and who had returned to Constantinople a powerful man.
The merchant, a dealer in the finest Turkish carpets, had heard on one of his travels that the man Valentine knew only as the Turk was called Mustafa and had killed an influential pasha in the Sultan's court. The Turk had fallen in love with a slave girl who had been sold to a North African sheik by this same court official, despite the Turk's request for the girl and willingness to pay an exorbitant amount of gold for her. A northern European with the pale hair and eyes that would bring a high price on the market when she was sold as a concubine to a wealthy Muslim in Alexandria or Madagascar, she had been too valuable not to auction off to the highest bidder.
After taking his revenge against the pasha, the Turk had followed the girl to Egypt, and that was all the merchant could tell him about the man whose life Valentine had just saved. Although, the merchant had added after a quick glance around to make certain he was not overheard, since the Englishman had always dealt fairly with him, he could tell him this: Several sailors aboard a galley recently arrived from Constantinople had told a tale about a pale-haired girl jumping into the sea to drown rather than become a concubine to the sheik who had bought her. With a secretive look, the merchant had whispered the name of the feared sheik whose galley that had been and whose men had been the ones who had attacked the Turk in the bazaar. When the galley had docked, a madman had stormed aboard searching for the girl. During the ensuing scuffle, the sheik's favorite son and several guards who had been aboard at the time to protect the sheik's newly arrived concubines were killed. The attack on the Turk in the bazaar had been an act of retribution; that was why the Englishman should not have interfered. If he valued his life, the merchant had warned, he should leave Alexandria immediately.
A dagger thrown from an unknown assassin's hand the very next day had convinced Valentine of the expediency of following the merchant's advice, and he had wasted little time in leaving Alexandria. However, the Turk had sailed with them. Through the merchant's nervous translation. Valentine had understood the Turk to say that Valentine now owned his life, that he would serve him loyally and to the death. His life was his to command.
Valentine had no choice; the man had no place to go. He could not return to his home in Constantinople, nor could he stay in Alexandria or anywhere in North Africa. When Valentine had agreed to allow the Turk to stay on board ship, he had thought he might be able to find the man something useful to do, and then, when they reached a safe port, the man could go about his business or stay on board as a member of the crew. Never had Valentine imagined that the Turk would so seriously devote his life to serving him, or that the Turk would so quickly become indispensable to him.
To have called the Turk merely a manservant would have been incorrect as well as demeaning. He was a man of many trades. Although trained as a soldier, he easily learned the skills of a seaman. With a pride that none dared question, he now served his new master as steward, valet, and--many had learned to their regret--as Valentine Whitelaw's protector. Even Valentine had difficulty remembering the countless times during the past years when the Turk's sword had deflected a surely fatal blow meant for him.
"Eli-- 'Sdeath, but she's coming this way," Thomas Sandrick said suddenly, an expression of awed appreciation spreading across his handsome face.
"Elizabeth?" George exclaimed, dropping onto his bended knee in anticipation of being presented to Her Majesty.
"No, Eliza Valchamps," Thomas Sandrick said reverently as his eyes feasted on the vision of loveliness approaching.
George Hargraves turned as bright as the fair one's gown. Pretending to straighten his hose, he quickly stood, not daring to catch anyone's eye. But he needn't have worried, for all eyes, including Valentine Whitelaw’s, were held by the unparalleled beauty of the woman accompanying young Eliza Valchamps.
Cordelia Howard's black eyes flashed with amusement as she came to a halt before them and declared, "I do fear Elizabeth's wrath should she catch a gentleman down on bended knee before anyone but herself. Please remember that in future, George. I value my position at court too much to lose it over a smitten beau who forgets himself while in public. Sir Charles, Thomas," she greeted them courteously enough, but when she turned to Valentine Whitelaw her eyes were burning with an unnatural brightness.
"Cordelia," he murmured.
"I did not know you had returned from your latest voyage," she commented, a pout forming on her lovely mouth. "I never can remember where 'tis you go or why. By my faith, but it seems as if you've been away more during the last couple of years than you've been here. One of these days, Valentine, you will return to England to discover that few people of your acquaintance even remember you."
Valentine smiled. "I trust not everyone. One always hopes that the affections of friends . . . and acquaintances . . . will remain unchanged no matter how much time passes. Reunions can be so rewarding," he said. "Haven't you found that to be true?"
Cordelia remained silent for a moment, as if indeed remembering. "You know little Eliza Valchamps? She's a very distant cousin of mine, and Raymond Valchamps's youngest sister. Five more ahead of her, and it nearly bankrupted the family marrying them all off. Lord, what a feat," she said with a laugh that caused a painful-looking blush to spread across Eliza's paling cheeks. "That is why dear Eliza is in London. We must find her a husband, although, I fear 'twill be a bit difficult, since she has hardly more than pittance as dowry, and . . . well," Cordelia left the rest unspoken, for although Eliza had fine eyes and a delic
ate profile, next to Cordelia's raven-haired, dark-eyed beauty, she paled into a mousy insignificance.
Apparently, Eliza Valchamps, gray eyed and ash blond, was beautiful enough for Thomas Sandrick, for his eyes had never strayed from her. A discreet look from her lowered eyes was all the acknowledgment he'd received, but it was enough for a man in love.
Cordelia had not missed the masculine glint of approval in Thomas Sandrick's eye or the blush that had momentarily brightened Eliza's pale cheeks when she had greeted him. Her task might not be as difficult as she had imagined when first asked to introduce her nonentity of a cousin to a prospective husband in London, Cordelia thought. A speculative gleam in her eye, she watched the two young people. To wed little Eliza Valchamps to Thomas Sandrick would be quite an accomplishment, since the gentleman was wealthy and heir to a title and vast estates. And since they were both Catholic there would be no difficulty on that score. She would make certain the banns were announced before Eliza left London, Cordelia promised herself. And, she thought with a smile of anticipation curving her lips provocatively as she recognized one gentleman in particular amongst a lively group approaching, she would see that Raymond Valchamps rewarded her handsomely for her efforts on behalf of his sister. as brother-in-law to Thomas Sandrick, dear Raymond, knowing him as well as she did, would soon have a far heavier purse to carry about. She would have to lighten it considerably for him.
"Dear, dear Raymond," Cordelia greeted him, the smile and look in her eye unsettling to the gentleman who had captured her notice. He knew his beautiful cousin to well to be flattered by her effusive attentions, Cordelia never did anything unless it suited her purpose.
"Cordelia, exquisite as always," Raymond Valchamps responded, ignoring his sister's presence as he acknowledged the other gentlemen at hand. "Whitelaw," he said, "I believe congratulations are in order."
"Oh?" Valentine Whitelaw raised a politely curious brow, for Raymond Valchamps had never been one of his close acquaintances.
"Yes, indeed. 'Tis all I've heard since doffing my cloak, how Valentine Whitelaw is stealing prizes right from under Drake's nose. Hear the man will have to chain his crew to the deck if he wants to keep them aboard, so many of them anxious to sign on with our latest hero. I understand 'twas a galleon loaded down with Philip's gold and silver that you boarded and took as your latest prize. Whatever will he say when he learns the treasure is in your pocket instead of his?" he exclaimed in amused speculation.
"Ask Valentine to finance Alva's mercenaries in the Netherlands," George bellowed, his next comment lost in the laughter which followed.
"More likely Elizabeth will grant our brave sea captain a title," Raymond Valchamps added, unable to hide his envy of the other man.
George Hargraves smiled slightly, for it was well known that the two men had been longtime rivals for the affections of the beautiful yet elusive Cordelia Howard, and from the seductive look in Cordelia's dark eyes when she gazed at Valentine Whitelaw it would seem he was the victor-at least for present, for Cordelia Howard was not known for her constancy.
"Sir Valentine Whitelaw. Has a nice ring to it," George commented. "Although, seeing how dangerous life at court can be, 'twould seem to me that Valentine would have a far better chance of being knighted if he'd stay in London and defend his friends' backs. Many more bloodthirsty mercenaries to deal with right here in Whitehall than in all the Spanish Main. Wouldn't you agree, Valchamps? I believe you have been involved in quite a few skirmishes of late," George remarked, for he suspected it had been Valchamps who had made certain that the queen had heard a particularly malicious piece of gossip concerning the reputation of a lady he was fond of.
For a moment Raymond Valchamps said nothing, allowing his gaze to rest on George Hargraves. And, as usually was the case, his adversary gradually grew ill at ease, losing his advantage to the other man, for it was difficult to hold Valchamps's gaze for long, and he knew it. With a slight smile curving his lips, and never reaching the one blue eye and one brown eye, he said, "Indeed? Can't say I remember, Hargraves. Most likely you've exaggerated the importance of whatever 'tis. In fact, I'd lay odds 'twas yet another one of your endless pranks. 'Sdeath, but one seldom knows whether or not to take the man seriously," he said to no one in particular as he glanced at George Hargraves's short figure with insulting speculation. "Ought to recommend the gentleman to Elizabeth as her next jester. 'Twould certainly keep us amused until the next village idiot comes along. I'll even supply the bells for your cap."
George Hargraves reached for his glove to wipe the sneering smile from Raymond Valchamps's face, but before he could challenge him to a duel, he felt a restraining hand against his arm. Despite his efforts, he could not shake Valentine Whitelaw's grip.
"Have caution, my friend. 'Twould not be worth the effort, George," Valentine advised. "Besides, Thomas would not thank you for causing him such an unnecessary hardship."
George Hargraves and his adversary, as well as Thomas Sandrick, seemed puzzled by the offhand remark. "Thomas?"
"What the devil does Sandrick have to do with anything?" Raymond Valchamps demanded arrogantly.
"Well, should George lose, and I do think it likely since you are a fairly capable swordsman and outreach George by several inches, I would then have to challenge you. Your subsequent death would, I suppose, result in your family mourning your passing. And that brings me to Thomas, who would not enjoy seeing the fair Eliza dressed in black. Nor indeed would Cordelia, a distant relation, or her many admirers thank you for causing her such an inconvenience."
George slapped his thigh, his laughter mingling with his friends' as his anger was cooled by amusement. Unfortunately, however, it seemed that Raymond Valchamps found Valentine Whitelaw's conclusion anything but amusing. He met those mocking eyes, but they never wavered from his, much to Raymond Valchamps' discomfort for a change. He was reaching for his sword when he heard a commanding voice behind him.
"God's death, but I'll have no brawling in my palace!" Elizabeth vowed. "Have you gentlemen, and I use the word with some doubt, the need to prove yourselves on the field of battle, then there is the tilting yard beyond these walls. But take heed, my mettlesome ones, for if you continue with this dispute you may find your pretty heads rather than your proud shields hanging in the Shield Gallery. And beware! I would not thank either one of you for depriving me of the other's company," she warned.
" 'Twould seem well-behaved and handsome courtiers are devilishly hard to come by nowadays," she remarked, her dark eyes flashing her disapproval and seeming to send a special message to the group of finely dressed gentlemen at her side. Amongst that elite gathering: Lord Burghley; Sir Francis Walsingham; Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, the queen's longtime favorite who seldom seemed out of favor with Her Majesty for long despite his indiscretions; Sir Christopher Hatton, darkly handsome and the finest dancer at court; Philip Sidney, a distinguished young gentleman poet who personified all that was honorable; Edward de Vere, ever quarrelsome and Cecil's son-in-law; and other notables and would-be notables jealously guarding their places at Elizabeth's side.
With a casual gesture, she bid her loyal subjects rise. Apparently satisfied that she had suitably impressed the two who would have dueled in her presence, she smiled. They were both such handsome rogues she found it difficult to remain angry. Indeed, she would rather flirt with them than have them banished from her sight because of such foolishness.
"Well, my roguish captain, 'twould seem we have just welcomed you back into our presence and already a storm is threatening to blow you away from us," Elizabeth said with a twinkle in her eye as she greeted Valentine Whitelaw.
"Your presence, madam, is like the sun shining through the clouds," Valentine said softly before kissing the ringed hand held out to him. On her finger sparkled a glowing emerald, his gift to her at the New Year's celebrations, when he had been given a private audience with her, and during which time he had related his latest adventures.
" 'Tis lovely," s
he whispered, her eyes gazing down at his dark head. So young. So free, she thought sadly.
"It pales before your magnificence, madam," Valentine Whitelaw responded sincerely, and although Elizabeth was still an attractive woman in the middle of her fifth decade, and entering the twentieth year of her reign, Valentine Whitelaw was more impressed by the manner in which she had ruled England. Her critics and friends alike might accuse her of many things, arrogance, wantonness, and pettiness, or kindness, loyalty, and generosity, but none could say she lacked courage. And none could claim that Elizabeth had ruled with anything but the best interests of her subjects at heart.
"Ha! You will have to look to your laurels my fine ones," she declared with a quick glance around her at her courtiers, "for 'twould seem my good captain is not only brave and adventuresome, but courtly as well. We will have to keep you by our side more often, Captain Rogue. Nay, that will not serve, for I do not wish Philip to become too quiescent with one of my sea dogs chained at my side," she said, and loud enough for the Spanish emissary who hovered nearby to overhear.
"This may prove to be the year for hearty English ale rather than sweet Spanish sherris sack," George Hargraves murmured beneath his breath, and Elizabeth hearing him laughed loudly despite the Spanish gentleman's flushed and angry countenance.
With a sly look, Elizabeth turned her attention to Raymond Valchamps. Although his strangely colored eyes made some uneasy, Elizabeth was fond of him, for he was classically handsome, with finely etched lips and slightly flared nostrils, which lent him an almost faunish look. Despite the delicate molding of his face, there was no question that Raymond Valchamps was a gentleman who enjoyed feminine company. Several of his well-publicized affairs had resulted in his receiving the nickname of Satyr from his queen, who was fond of finding pet names for her favorites.
Wild Bells to the Wild Sky Page 10