Wild Bells to the Wild Sky

by Laurie McBain

  "We will not be staying."

  With a shrug the groom moved out of Valentine Whitelaw's path, and well out of the way of the big, mean-looking fellow with the puffed-up hat on his head. those dark eyes made him uneasy; never left him all the while he'd been talking to the well-dressed gentlemen. With a sly look over his shoulder as he hurried back to the stables, he wondered what business they could possibly have with the master.

  Inside, the hall was cold and empty and unwelcoming. No fire burned in the great hearth, and Valentine doubted that even when darkness fell would tapers be lighted to brighten the room.

  As Valentine glanced around the hall, trying to imagine where the master would be sitting to have his portrait painted, a young maid came hurrying out from behind the screens at the far end. Her arms were straining against the weight of the two buckets she carried. Soapy water sloshed out with each step she took and splashed down on her heavy clogs. The rags thrown across her thin shoulders were little better than the faded gown she wore.

  Preoccupied with the task ahead of her, she didn't see the two men standing at the foot of the great staircase until she was nearly upon them.

  Her squeal of fright echoed throughout the gloomy hall when she glanced up to meet the Turk's curious stare. Both Valentine and the Turk had to jump to avoid the wave of water that spread out around her as she dropped the two buckets. Her roughened hands covered her mouth and muffled the cry that followed when she realized that she had dumped the soapy contents of the two buckets, across the hall and nearly on top of the finely shod feet of the tall gentleman standing before her.

  "Please, sir, don't be tellin' the master what I've gone and done. He'll beat me, he will," she pleaded, pushing back a straying wisp of pale blond hair, then wiping the tears from her cheek with the back of her hand. "I didn't get any supper last night 'cause I spilled his wine. I was hopin' fer some tonight, but if he finds out . . . I'm sorry, sir."

  Valentine smiled. "No harm was done. I would like to speak with your master. Where is he?"

  His request to see Hartwell Barclay seemed to disquiet the child, for she was hardly more than twelve or thirteen, and with a gesture that had become a nervous habit, she pushed back the strand of hair that had fallen across her face again.

  "Oh, sir, ye don't want to be doin' that. Please, sir, I--I can't be goin' up there and--"

  "You needn't. I will find him," Valentine interrupted her, silently damning Hartwell Barclay for the parsimonious, bullying master he apparently was, for the child was scared to death, as well as overworked from the look of her. "Where is he?" he asked, his tone brooking no argument.

  "I-in the gallery," she finally whispered, pointing overhead.

  "Thank you. Now you'd better get someone to help you clean this up."

  "There be just me in the scullery. The master got rid o' the others, said there be too many idle hands around this house. I'll have this cleaned up in no time at all," she said, her spirits rising as she realized that the master would not learn of her latest mistake. "Are ye sure ye oughta be doin' this, sir?" she dared to question as the handsome gentleman started up the stairs. She didn't want to see him get into any trouble, and the master had a nasty temper even at the best of times.

  Valentine smiled again, but this time his smile didn't set the girl's mind at ease as it had when he had smiled down at her. She found herself almost pitying Hartwell Barclay should this gentleman not be the master's friend.

  She was still watching the two men when they reached the top of the staircase. Her mouth had dropped open in amazement as she had taken notice for the first time of the man accompanying Valentine Whitelaw. His turbaned head along with the curling moustache and shoes held her spellbound. The master wouldn't be pleased at all when he caught sight of that one, she thought with a shiver as she sank down onto her knees and began to mop up the slippery mess covering the floor.

  The two men at the far end of the gallery did not hear the approach of the unexpected visitors to Highcross Court. A pale light streamed in from the tall windows and lighted tapers filled the small area with a misleading warmth and brightness. Hartwell Barclay stood with hand on hip, staring with a majestic tilt of his head at the lands beyond the windows.

  "Oh, Master Barclay, this portrait will be my finest achievement," the artist exclaimed as he peered around the corner of the canvas at his subject, then back again to the likeness he was adding flesh tones to.

  "At the price I am paying you, it had better be a masterpiece," Hartwell Barclay said, his voice rather squeaky for so large a gentleman.

  Valentine paused a few feet back, his presence still undetected by either man. He looked at the portrait, then looked at the man posing for it; there was little resemblance between the two.

  The man in the portrait was a Greek god. He had a classical profile beneath curling locks; a muscular leg clad in silk was elegantly posed; and the richly ornamented codpiece, painted in generous proportions by the artist, revealed the gentleman's unquestionable masculinity.

  Despite how he might wish to be portrayed in a painting, Hartwell Barclay had a forbidding countenance. His profile was anything but classical, his nose bulbous, his eyes close-set, his chin doubling. His colorless hair was thinning on top, but his thickening waistline could indeed have been painted in generous proportions. Anything else so portrayed was merely wishful thinking.

  " 'Sdeath, but I'm getting a stiff neck. 'Tis well past luncheon. I'm growing faint from lack of nourishment. One would think you were painting a mural, so long it has taken. Enough for now, I say!" Hartwell Barclay complained as his stomach growled its protest.

  " 'Tis fine with me," the artist agreed, eager to look at something more appetizing for a change. "I could use an ale or two."

  Hartwell Barclay snorted. "You've been drinking my cellar dry for the past few months. My cupboards are bare. And since I've been taking precious time to pose, my servants think themselves on holiday; lords and ladies all, sitting around doing nothing all day long. You've already cost me plenty. I may deduct such amounts as I see fit when it comes time to figure the cost of this painting. Remember that when you sit down to sup and spear a second slice of beef," he warned as he turned to face the smaller man, stretching his aching muscles as he stepped closer to view the portrait.

  "Hartwell Barclay, always the gracious host. You haven't changed," Valentine greeted the man.

  "What-Who is that?" Hartwell demanded, startled as he peered into the shadows of the long hall.

  "Valentine Whitelaw."

  "Who the devil let you in? Told you last time I wasn't interested in any of those cursed voyages of yours. Pah! Seeking revenge against the Spanish for sinking my cousin's ship! Did me a favor. Geoffrey Christian would've gambled away the family fortunes to finance those damned ventures of his. Geoffrey Christian is dead! I am now master of Highcross Court."

  "Maybe not," Valentine murmured softly.

  "What? You can't come into my home and speak to me in that tone of voice. You may have been welcome here when Geoffrey Christian was master, but you are no longer welcome now Highcross is mine. Who's that with you?" Hartwell demanded, moving closer, then quickly stepping back behind his portrait when he caught sight of the Turk. "A foreigner! And a heathen at that! Out of my house, begone, the both of you!"

  "I had not planned on staying."

  "If you don't leave now, I'll have the footmen throw you out! Where the blazes are they anyway? Odell! Odell!" he yelled. "You're just like him. So bold and brave. Have the ladies begging, I'll bet. Strutting around court like some prince of the realm. Geoffrey was like that. He had Highcross. He had wealth. He was handsome and witty. Oh, how he used to laugh at me!" Hartwell Barclay said angrily, still seething with jealousy of his dead cousin. "Thought he'd die soon enough on one of those voyages of his and I would inherit Highcross. Prayed for that every day. Then he married that Spanish bitch just to cheat me out of my rightful place. Made a Papist mistress of Highcross. But I got the last laugh,
" Hartwell crowed. "They all went down together!"

  "Maybe not." Valentine took great pleasure in repeating those two words.

  Hartwell Barclay's face grew increasingly flushed. He could see enough of Valentine Whitelaw's expression to know an uneasy sensation growing within. The man wouldn't have come to Highcross unless...

  "What do you want?" he asked suspiciously.

  "I do not want anything."

  "What did you mean by those words? Tell me! I demand to know!"

  Valentine smiled. "I thought you might be relieved to know that Geoffrey Christian is indeed dead."

  Hartwell Barclay looked at Valentine Whitelaw as if he were crazed. "You are certainly slow to hear the news. I've known that for seven years."

  "Yes, but what you haven't known is that Geoffrey Christian sent his wife and daughter and my brother ashore before they Arion sank."

  Hartwell Barclay looked as if he'd had the air knocked out of him. "Lies! Lies! All lies! How dare you come in here and say such things! Odell! Odell!" he hollered hysterically, glancing wildly down the gallery. With a scream of rage, he stormed from behind the safety of his portrait to confront his tormentor.

  "That Spanish whore and her brat can't be alive! She can't be! Highcross is mine!" he blubbered, stomping his foot as if stamping out such a possibility.

  Valentine glanced at the man, then turned away in distaste.

  "You're going to recue them, aren't you! Damn you! Odell! Odell!" Hartwell Barclay cried again. Momentarily forgetting his fears of Valentine Whitelaw, he charged after the man who had turned his back on him with such a look of contempt and was now walking away.

  "They're probably dead! My God, it has been seven years! They're dead! Dead, I say! You won't find your brother alive. I tell you they are dead! Waste of time and money to go in search of them! If you don't go, I'll reward you handsomely. I'm rich. Far richer than you! I could invest in one of your voyages. You won't find anyone if you go!" he yelled at Valentine Whitelaw's broad back.

  Valentine and the Turk had reached the staircase and were halfway down its length. The Turk was a step or two behind, his hand resting in its usual place on the golden hilt of his curved sword. But when he saw the two footmen standing at the bottom about to ascend, a gleam came into his eye as he stepped ahead of Valentine.

  Farley and Fairfax Odell, one short and dark, the other tall and fair, stared up at the two men descending the stairs. Neither had missed that gleam, and with a quick exchange of glances they started to back away from the stairs. With a well-honed instinct for self-preservation foremost in their thoughts, they had decided that their master, who was charging down the steps in hot pursuit, wasn't worth dying for.

  "Stop them! Stop them!" Hartwell Barclay cried frantically, actually believing for a moment that his footmen might be able to seize Valentine Whitelaw and his servant and keep them from leaving Whiteswood and from ever leaving England in search of the castaways.

  But Farley and Fairfax Odell were not so foolhardy. With some haste, despite their feet slipping on the wet flooring, they headed toward the back of the hall. As they passed by the scullery maid, who had paused in her scrubbing when she had heard the disturbance, they lifted her to her feet. Fairfax's big foot swung wide, knocking over one of the buckets. There was little Hartwell Barclay could do to him when finding someone to blame for the mess that covered the floor. With widening grins on their faces, they carried the maid with them into the safety of the kitchens.

  Valentine Whitelaw turned at the door in time to see Hartwell Barclay sliding across the wet floorboards, his feet spinning into the air as he lost his footing and landed with a thud on his beefy rear end.

  Smiling slightly, Valentine mounted.

  Bust as he rode away from Highcross, he couldn't help but remember Hartwell Barclay's words. And as the miles lessened toward London, he kept hearing the words echoed by his horse's hooves pounding against the hard-packed earth.

  Dead . . . dead . . . dead . . .

  "I hope to God you are right and Christian's brat is dead," Raymond Valchamps swore as he paced nervously to and fro

  "Seven years is a long time," the man standing before the window, his back to the room, said softly.

  "Damn! Who would have thought Christian would have set them ashore? If that brat told Whitelaw what she saw in Santo Domingo, then we've been living on borrowed time for the past seven years. God, I thought we were safe when his ship went down. Do you think Don Pedro knows?"

  The other man was silent. "I am beginning to wonder if Don Pedro hasn't known all along," he finally said.

  "Damn his soul!"

  "Why should he tell us? As far as he was concerned, they were dead. Who would rescue them if no one knew they lived?"

  "We could have gone ashore and made certain they were dead."

  "We?" the other man questioned doubtfully.

  "Ah, yes, I had forgotten that you never have had much stomach for violence. I think you were even sorry that Christian's ship went down. Well, be thankful that it did, for if Whitelaw had had any suspicions that we were on board a Spanish galleon, he would have seen us swinging from the gibbets quick enough. You waste your pity on him, as well as on the child. She was a danger to us. And if she still lives, she is still a threat to us. If only I had suspected she had escaped the ship I would have killed her with my own hands. We would be free-not hiding here in the dark, afraid of a knock on the door."

  "And on which island were they set ashore? There were countless islets within rowing distance of Christian's ship. You would never have found them. I had hoped all of that was in the past. An unfortunate incident, one that we could forget."

  "In the past? Forget that Elizabeth still lives? Have you forgotten our purpose? Have you forgotten the true faith? The persecutions? I have prayed for another St. Bartholomew's Day. Not enough heretic blood was shed," Raymond Valchamps said unhappily.

  The other man sighed. "I do not believe bloodshed is the means by which we will succeed."

  " 'Tis the only way! You still believe Elizabeth might wed a Catholic? Oh, she is the cunning one. She has been playing that game since she was first courted by Philip. He thought to add England to his empire by marrying her, yet she spurned him. She is old now and still she dangles her crown before their noses. You think she will marry that boy Alençon and form an alliance with France against Spain? Always, we are told to wait. Why are they so afraid of shedding a little English blood?"

  "A rebellion could cost us everything. The wrong people could come into power," the soft-spoken man tried to calm his friend. "Although I would see the true faith restored our land, I have little desire to see the Spanish invade England."

  "That is the only way we will overthrow Elizabeth's rule. And once they have defeated the heretics, we shall be the ones to rule."

  His friend looked at him pityingly.

  "Just remember, while we sit here taking no action, Elizabeth still rules. Remember that!"

  "Remember too, my hot-blooded one, that we are fortunate to still be alive," the man standing by the windows cautioned. "Others have been arrested. Others have gone to the gallows. Even one as powerful as Norfolk failed. When they intercepted Ridolfi's ciphers, we could have been implicated then, but it was by the will of Heaven that we have been kept apart from the actual plotting. I have lost count of the priests I have given shelter to during the past years. I cannot even remember their faces, but they have helped our cause more than a massacre would ever have. Perhaps it is our fate to lend assistance to those who would bear the arms for us. We will sustain them and their efforts."

  "You speak so eloquently. You have not suffered any these past years. You have done well, my friend. You have wealth, power, position. You would not care to lose that, would you?" Raymond Valchamps retorted. "Well, you had better pray that Valentine Whitelaw doesn't find anyone still alive on the island in the Indies, or you and I might find ourselves exiled on the Continent, or, more likely, we will both lose our heads
."

  It was the end of January, and the Madrigal was riding at anchor in Plymouth Harbor. While her crew took on supplies, her captain crossed the Tamar, the river that bordered Devonshire and Cornwall before emptying into Plymouth Sound. The miles of tumbling whitewater cut steep ravines through the bleak moors and dense forests along the border and isolated Cornwall from the rest of the West Country.

  Valentine Whitelaw traveled west. He was going home. He rode within sight of the wild Cornish coast. The roar of breakers rolling against the rocky shore far below and the strident cries of cormorants soaring high above his head filled his senses.

  Every so often he would turn inland to cross one of the many rivers and creeks that fed into the sea, passing quietly through sleepy hamlets before turning back toward the coast.

  He halted his journey in St. Austell only long enough to down an ale and sausages, leaving the apple pastry with scalded cream only half eaten, much to the dismay of the innkeeper's attractive daughter. She had hoped to engage the handsome traveler in conversation after he had dined, despite the unfriendly attitude of the strangely quiet man who sat at the table with him.

  Valentine Whitelaw's blood quickened when he sighted the fishing village of Poldreggan. On the far side of the bay, across the creek that meandered through the fertile valley that climbed inland from the scattering of cottages above the sands, was Ravindzara.

  Ravindzara, named from a Madagascan word Valentine had heard used by merchants trading in clove nutmeg, the first cargo the Madrigal had brought home to England and made a handsome profit on. The good leaf had allowed him to reopen his mother's home. For far too long it had stood empty.

  His mother, the last to bear the Polgannis name, had inherited the house on the death of her father. I had never been known as anything but the Hall. Until the Penmorley family had built Penmorley Hall it had been the largest house between Fowey and Truro, and the Polygannises had been one of the most influential families in the country.