Valentine's appearance in the hall was greeted with hails of recognition by a number of the older retainers, who still fondly recalled many an incident the younger Whitelaw brother had been involved in when growing up at Whiteswood. The steward, who had been a yeoman in the household when Basil had first become master, escorted Valentine through the hall and up the curving flight of stone steps that climbed to the first floor. There, in the privacy of the master's great chamber, Valentine awaited the return of Sir William and Lady Elspeth.
For more than an hour Valentine had stood contemplating the fire burning so brightly in the hearth of the quiet chamber. He glanced about the comfortable room where Sir William conducted the affairs of the estate and where the family dined in private. The plasterwork ceiling and ornate paneling were new, but the armorial glass in the darkened windows still bore the coat of arms of the Whitelaw family. Fine paintings had joined the tapestries hanging on the walls, and embroidered cushions on high-backed chairs set close to the hearth offered comfort to the master and his family. A backgammon board was positioned between two of the chairs and bore proof of recent play.
Valentine paced restlessly before the flames. How could he possibly tell Sir William that he might no longer be master of Whiteswood? That his marriage to Elspeth might be bigamous? That his beloved children might be bastards?
How could he relate the joyous news that Basil might still live, when such news could only destroy Sir William's life? And what of Elspeth? She had given birth to a son and a daughter by that man, a man she had thought to be her lawful husband. And what of Simon? He had come to accept Sir William as his father. There was a deep affection between the two.
How welcomed would Basil be at Whiteswood now? And it seemed almost certain that Basil would be returning, Valentine thought as he remembered how George Hargraves had burst in on him at Highwater Tavern with the startling news.
Calming the excitable George, Valentine had gradually gotten the story out of his friend. George had arrived with a group of friends at Devil's Tavern well after Valentine had left. George had been about to leave when he overheard someone demanding to see Valentine Whitelaw. His visitor, a rough-looking individual who had seen better days, had been told aboard the Madrigal that her captain was to be found with Frobisher at the Devil. George, being a curious fellow, and reluctant to send an enemy to his friend's door should the man have an old score to settle, demanded to be told of the man's business with Valentine Whitelaw.
The man had been reluctant at first to divulge his information, until several tankards of ale had warmed his blood and loosened his tongue. He finally told George that his name was Randall, and that his brother, whom he had thought dead for seven years, was back in London.
A strange occurrence indeed, George had thought, his interest piqued enough to buy the man another ale in order to hear the rest of the story and discover what relationship his friend Valentine had with the Randall brothers.
George Hargraves had not been prepared for the revelation that Jemmy Randall's brother, Joshua, had been the bos'n aboard Geoffrey Christian's ship. When the Arion had gone down, Joshua Randall and several others had been little better than a slave in the household of some grandee in Mexico City, but after he'd refused to convert to the old faith and tried to escape his captivity he had been made a galley slave aboard a galleon. For two years he had managed to survive, then, when he thought he'd die behind the oars, their ship had run afoul of several English privateers south of the Azores. The Spanish captain had surrendered, the victors freeing their English mates, and that was how his brother had managed to get back to England. He was a dying man, Jemmy said, but that didn't seem to concern Joshua; it was the passengers who had been set ashore and abandoned that had him worried the most.
Jemmy Randall had halted his story there, telling George that he expected Captain Whitelaw might be interested enough in hearing the rest of the story, and in seeing the map Joshua had drawn of the location of the island the castaways had been stranded on, to pay a fair price.
Valentine had gone to the lodgings where Joshua Randall lay dying. Although he wouldn't have recognized the emaciated man, he remembered the bos'n from his own days of sailing aboard the Arion with Geoffrey Christian.
" 'Tis young Master Whitelaw? Not dreamin', am I?" the feverish man had whispered.
"I am here, Master Randall," Valentine had reassured him, grasping the man's shaking hand on his.
The warm strength of his hand had seemed to have a calming effect on Joshua Randall, even though tears streamed from his eyes as he told Valentine his story.
". . . and the cap'n, he fought hard. Cursin' all the time, he was. I thought for a while there we was goin' to beat 'em. But the cap'n was hurt in the chest, bleedin' bad. He died before them bastards could gloat over the Arion goin' to the bottom. Laughed at them he did. Broke me heart, when the cap'n fell to his knees. Then he was gone. 'Twas too late then, anyways,' Joshua Randall said, a cough wracking his thin chest.
"Your brother says that Captain Christian sent his wife and daughter, and the other passenger aboard the Arion, Basil Whitlow, ashore?" Valentine questioned him gently.
"Aye, that he did," the bos'n agreed. "He sent young Lawson with them. Saw him row them ashore. Then we was fightin' them Spaniards. So many of them. And ye know, that Eddie Lawson, he comes rowin' back out to try to save us when the Arion went down. Good lad, he was. But d'ye know, them bastards blew him right out of the water. Poor little Eddie," he mumbled thickly. "I thought at first Doña Magdalena and sweet Mistress Lily were in the boat, that was the way the cap'n had it planned. Glad the cap'n didn't see that."
"What did he have planned?"
"That when we went down, Lawson would row them out to one of the Spanish galleons. The lady was Spanish, and he said they would be returned safely to Santo Domingo. The cap'n was wrong. If Doña Magdalena and the little one, and Sir Basil, he was an important gentleman the cap'n said, had been aboard, they would have been killed. The Spaniards pulled some of us who tried to swim away out of the water. Wish the sharks had got me, I do. They got some of the lads.
" 'Twas a trap, Master Whitelaw! They was waitin' fer us before we even got into the Gulf," he cried, his hands gripping Valentine's shirt, but his passion was soon spent and he dropped back against the pillows. "But we beat 'em through the Straits, then tried to get into the islands and lose them. But we couldn't make it."
"You survived, Joshua. You beat them."
"Aye, I did, didn't I?" he sighed.
"You drew a map of the location of that island?"
"Aye, Master Whitelaw," he said, a secretive look entering his eyes. "Always worried about young Mistress Lily bein' left like that."
"I'll find them, Joshua. I'll find Doña Magdalena and Lily. Sir Basil is my brother. I'll find them, and I'll bring them home," Valentine promised the dying man.
Joshua Randall had almost smiled, and there was a look of contentment on his face when he drifted into a restless sleep. The map was now in Valentine's possession. Jemmy Randall, plenty of money jiggling in his pocket, seemed almost relieved when told that a physician and his attendants would see to his brother's care and any arrangements after that would be handled as well.
Valentine was startled from his thoughts when a log fell in a shower of sparks in the fireplace. He felt the parchment, folded so carefully against his breast, and wondered what he would find when he reached the destination marked with a crude X on Joshua Randall's map.
Valentine was still pondering that thought, and dreading the meeting with Elspeth and Sir William, when the door opened.
"Uncle Valentine!" Simon Whitelaw cried out as he caught sight of the tall, bronzed man standing so quietly before the hearth. "I knew you'd come! I knew you would! I told them no one, especially a Spaniard, could sink you!"
"Simon! You've grown a foot since last we met!" Valentine exclaimed, holding the youngster at arm's length while he took his measure. "Can't keep you in the same double
t and hose longer than a month, I'll wager. The tailor will be cutting your hose as long as Sir William's by next Twelfth Day," he predicted, much to his nephew's delight as he offered his hand to him, then grasped Simon's thin shoulders in a hearty hug, for the lad was not too adult yet to mind a relative's fond embrace.
Valentine hoped he had been successful in masking the start he'd felt when first seeing Simon. The boy was tall for his age, and his bones seemed to stick out of his flesh at all angles. With eyes and hair black as midnight, and with a profile that was becoming more hawkish every day, at fourteen, Simon Whitelaw bore a startling resemblance to his father. There could be no mistaking whose son he was. Valentine glanced over Simon's dark head, realizing that his nephew must be a constant reminder to his mother and Sir William of the man who had fathered him.
"Valentine, my dear," Lady Elspeth greeted her former brother-in-law fondly. "I am so pleased to see you. I had feared the holidays would pass without your presence at Whiteswood. I had hoped since you were away that Quinta and Artemis would join us, but, alas, they would stay in Cornwall. Thinking you might arrive, they did not want you to find your home closed up. Trying to persuade a Whitelaw to change of mind is like speaking to the winds. Ah, how thin you have become. We shall have to put some flesh on those bones of yours, Valentine."
"Elspeth." Valentine kissed her hand, then her soft cheek, with brotherly affection. "More beautiful than ever."
"And you more glib. No doubt you have been at court and paid your respect to Elizabeth. Court life can tarnish a shining armor, my dear," Elspeth responded with a low laugh. "I shall remind myself not to believe half of what you say."
"Too sharp-tongued by half," he laughed as he held out his hand to Sir William.
"Good to see you, Valentine," Sir William Davies now greeted him, gripping his hand firmly. "Despite Elspeth's concern you seem fit. A good voyage?"
"Aye, a good one," Valentine allowed.
"How many galleons did you sink?" Simon demanded eagerly, his boyish face full of admiration for his adventurer uncle. "I'll wear a ring of Spanish gold in my ear one of these days!" Simon vowed with youthful zeal.
"Simon, please, there will be plenty of time to hear of such things," Elspeth requested with gentle authority. "Strokes says you declined to sup and would only take ale," she said with a disapproving shake of her beautifully coiffed, fair head. "I am told that you were reluctant even to accept our hospitality overnight."
"What is this, Valentine?" Sir William demanded, his face becoming flushed. "Whiteswood will always be your home. Now, hear me out. I know you have your mother's home in Cornwall, but I have always hoped from the first day I became master of Whiteswood, that you, and your aunt and sister would still consider this your home. And that you would all feel free to come and go as you pleased."
"Thank you, Sir William," Valentine said, feeling more awkward than before. He glanced at Simon for a moment, then at Elspeth and Sir William. "We have need to talk. I cannot stay longer than this night. When we have spoken, you will understand the need for my unseemly haste."
"Simon. Although you ate enough for two when in the village, I know you grow impatient to sample the fare on the banqueting table below. Elspeth? Come, let us start the festivities, then we will return and speak with Valentine. I fear something weighs heavily on his mind," Sir William correctly interpreted the slight frown marring Valentine's brow.
"Yes, of course," Elspeth agreed. " 'Tis getting late for the children to be up, and yet we cannot deny them their pleasure of the feasting," she said smiling down at her daughter who was leaning tiredly against Elspeth's hip.
"Can this fair maid truly be Betsy?" Valentine demanded with grave consideration of her shyly hidden face. "The fair curls seem vaguely familiar. And were they not turned away from me, I would swear those eyes were as bright a blue as a summer sky. But what is this? Bows!" Valentine said, his hand gently cupping the little girl's small, rounded chin. "Now I am certain 'tis Betsy, my own cosset, for she was always fond of red satin bows," he cajoled as he noticed the profusion of bows sewn to the underskirt of her gown. And as he sighed, apparently heartbroken, he was rewarded by a quick peek from a pair of very bright blue eyes before giggling Betsy buried her face in her mother's gown.
"And you remember Wilfred?" Sir William said, beaming down proudly as his five-year-old son stepped forward like a well-bred gentleman greeting a guest in his home, although his courtly bow was slightly off balance.
"Of course I do. Wilfred has certainly grown into a fine young gentleman who does the Davies name proud," Valentine said with proper seriousness to Betsy's older brother, whose gap-toothed smile was widening as he giggled.
"You will accompany us, Valentine?" Elspeth asked softly.
"Please, we would be honored," Sir William added. "There are many in the hall who would be pleased to have two Whitelaws welcoming the new year with them," Sir William said without animosity, and little realizing how prophetic his statement might become as Valentine accompanied them to the great hall below.
The fire in the hearth of the great chamber had burned low when Valentine finished telling Elspeth and Sir William the strange tale that had begun so dramatically the day before.
Elspeth sat with her head downbeat, her slender hands folded together in her lap. Her expression was hidden from them. Sir William sat stiffly in his chair, his eyes never straying from the softly glowing coals in the hearth.
"I will be riding for Highcross Court on the morrow. Geoffrey Christian's cousin must be told. Then I will return to London, where my ship, the Madrigal, is docked. I will sail to Cornwall and inform my aunt and sister of what has happened. Then," Valentine paused, "I will sail for the Indies."
Elspeth gave a slight nod but did not look up.
Sir William cleared his throat. "Of course." And for the first time since Valentine had begun his story Sir William glanced up, and Valentine saw that his eyes were red.
Valentine spread his hands, feeling a strange helplessness. "I would not have had you hear this from anyone else. The news that Basil may be alive will have spread throughout London."
Sir William stood up. He suddenly looked old and beaten, and his step, which had always seemed so self-assured, was slow and hesitant. Valentine hid the pity he felt for the slightly older man, whose pleasant-featured face only an hour earlier had been so full of happiness as he had stood with his family and friends around him and toasted a new year full of prosperity.
Sir William's hand trembled now as he placed it on Valentine's firmly muscled arm. "I know you must go, Valentine. You can do nothing else. Whatever happens, 'tis God's will," he said.
Without another word, Sir William Davies left the room.
"Elspeth?" Valentine spoke softly.
Elspeth raised her head, her expression still serene. But when Valentine looked into her eyes, the torment was revealed.
"Seven years, Valentine, I have thought him dead. I loved him as I have loved no other. It was difficult at first to accept his death, but finally I could. I came to accept that the happiness I had come to believe would always be mine was lost to me forever. I never thought I could love another man, not after Basil. I did not want to love again. I wanted those feelings to be as dead as Basil. But I found happiness again, and I have come to love William very deeply, Valentine. Do you understand what I am saying?"
"Yes."
"How can there be such great happiness and sadness? When I heard you say that Basil might yet live, my happiness knew no bounds. To think that he is alive. Dear God, how I prayed to hear that news. But now I know that if he lives my life with William and our children is over. Whatever are we to do, Valentine?" she asked, but before Valentine could speak, she held up her hand pleadingly. Turning it palm up, she held her hand outstretched to him.
Valentine took her slender hand in his and drew her to her feet.
"Goodspeed you on your journey, Valentine," she said quietly. For a long moment she stared into Valentine's
face. Then she followed Sir William from the great chamber, where Basil Whitelaw had once sat as master of Whiteswood.
Highcross Court, home of the Christian family for generations, seemed deserted when Valentine Whitelaw rode into the courtyard. It was a far different house than the one he remembered. When Geoffrey Christian and Magdalena had resided within its walls, Highcross Court had been filled with light and laughter.
A surly-looking groom was crossing the yard from the stable block with unhurried strides. And from the straw sticking to his jerkin and hose, he had either been sleeping or rolling in the hay. Whichever activity he had been involved in, he seemed less than pleased by the interruption.
"Master know ye be callin'?" he asked doubtfully, eyeing the new arrivals up and down as he stood, arms crossed, blocking their path. "Where the divil ye be from?" he demanded insultingly, his eyes widened as he stared disbelievingly at the Turk.
"Tell your master that Valentine Whitelaw awaits his pleasure."
"Reckon ye be waitin' a goodly spell then, seein' how the master be sittin' for his portrait. Some fancy gent come down from London to do it. Reckon his nabs was thinkin' of giftin' the queen with his likeness at the New Year's celebrations, so fond of it and himself, he be. But then he weren't invited to court. Fit to be tied, he was," the groom chortled. " 'Tweren't done anyways. Couldn't give Her Majesty a paintin' of himself with only half a face and no hair, though, comes to think 'bout it, his nabs might look all the better fer it. Anyhows, he won't like bein' interrupted," he warned them. "Reckon he be mighty cross, seein' how he's most likely missed his meal. Strainin' at the bit, he is, thinking about that cold joint of mutton left over from last night's meal."
"I'll risk incurring his disfavor," Valentine said, the look in his eye advising the groom to step aside.
"Door be open. Ye wants I should stable yer horses?" he asked with a speculative gleam in his eye as he took note of Valentine's fine clothes and the quality of his mount.
Wild Bells to the Wild Sky Page 13