"To England?"
"Yes, all the way across the seas to England."
"To Whitehall? To return the queen's wild white horses?"
"That's right. They are the queen's wild white horses. That is why her palace is named Whitehall. The wild white horses were stolen from their golden stables at Whitehall by the evil witch."
"And we are going to return them to the queen and save her from the evil witch with one blue eye and one brown eye," Dulcie continued. "And we will van—van--what will we do to the witch, Lily?"
"We will vanquish the witch with the one blue eye and one brown eye, and we will save the queen from the traitors who are plotting to kill her."
"The wild white horses . . ." Dulcie murmured.
Lily glanced down at Dulcie. Her dark head heavy against her breast as she slept peacefully, a slight smile tilting the corners of her mouth upward.
"I wish it were true, Lily," Tristram said.
Lily stared far out to sea. It was empty, even of wild white horses.
Be not afeard: the isle is full
of noises, sounds and sweet airs, that
give delight, and hurt not.
SHAKESPEARE
Chapter Ten
ON A FLAG of white the red cross of St. George flew proudly on the mainmast-head of the Madrigal. Her captain, Valentine Whitelaw, had ordered her brought too well beyond the reefs where the waves for breaking in white crests across the shallows.
The Madrigal was a three-masted galleon of eighty tons and eighteen guns, with over fifty men manning her. She was sleek and swift, with a low forecastle and upper deck. She was unadorned except for the figurehead of a sea maid gracing her bow and the gilded carving and coat of arms of her captain decorating her stern. A striped stern ensign in the queen's colors of green and white, with the red cross of St. George in the canton, fluttered in the breeze.
Standing on the quarterdeck, the captain of the Madrigal cast a sharp eye overhead of his crew scrambled up the rigging and along the yardarms, where they quickly and efficiently took in the ship's sails and secured them. She was swinging slightly, due to the tide, but her anchors and cables were proved. She wouldn't break free and drift into the dangerous waters of the coral reefs and shoals surrounding the island.
In the distance, Valentine Whitelaw could see a crescent of golden sand curving along the shore. Beyond that was a dense forest. Leeward of the Madrigal a rocky headland studded with pine and palmetto stretched out its spiny back to the sea. Off to starboard another headland jutted into the bay, but it bent sharply at a right angle forming a natural breakwater. The force of the waves broken, a peaceful cove beckoned beyond. It was sheltered on its far side by low cliffs that curved out of sight.
Valentine Whitelaw glanced down at the map he had studied almost every day since the Madrigal had set sail from Plymouth. Joshua Randall hadn't been wrong; the island was just as the Arion's bos'n had drawn it. Little changed, in fact, from seven years ago. If only he could have banished those years in between and been there when Geoffrey Christian and the Arion had fought alone and her passengers had been stranded. With the Madrigal's guns lending support, they would have beaten the Spanish that day, Valentine vowed. He knew a deep frustration at having missed out on the fight his brother and friend had found themselves in. Gradually Valentine became aware of the map now crumpled in his hand. Carefully he smoothed the creases and refolded it.
Feeling he was being observed, Valentine glanced up to find the Turk's dark eyes watching him. "Now we find the truth, Mustafa," he said softly, his eyes returning to the island, where as of yet no sign of life had been sighted by the lookout.
The Turk nodded, his gaze following his captain's as the Madrigal's boat was lowered into the water, the oarsmen taking up their positions as they prepared to row the search party ashore.
Lily dived deep into the warm waters of the cove. Her long hair floated out around her as she swam through the turquoise undersea realm, where great domed castles were built of bright orange coral, twisted trees sprouted yellow coral branches, and curious, iridescent fish darted through waving sea grasses like flashes of the rainbow.
She saw a slowly moving turtle and grabbed a ride through a sandy-bottomed channel between the coral reefs. Through the clear, aquamarine waters in the distance, she could see the entrance to the cave. She dropped off the turtle's back and dived toward the coral arch. Sunlight cascaded down through the roofless ceiling of the entrance chamber and lit the interior like brightly burning candles.
Lily came up for air. Above her head, white fluffs of cloud drifted across the blue sky. She dived back down into the cave, following the narrow passageway deeper into the reef. It grew darker as she progressed, for the corridor was roofed in stone now and only an occasional shaft of sunlight found its way in.
Her paddling feet struck sand and she surfaced in a large cavern formed of rock. Finding her footing, Lily climbed out of the water and onto the sandy shelf at the edge of the pool. She walked up the gentle slope, feeling the ground harden beneath her bare feet as she climbed higher in the cave. Light filtered in through a rough-hewn window formed between two ill-fitting rocks of the low cliff that rose out of the sea. On the top, the land entrance was reached by following a meandering stone path along the shore. Little more than a shadow in the rocks behind a stunted pine, the entrance was barely discernible, even to the searching eye.
Lily knelt beside the chest that held their treasure. The lid protested on its rusty hinges as she opened it. She shook out the feathered cape that had been carefully folded over the golden mask and headdress. Beneath those, the glint of Spanish gold and silver met her eye as she stared into the depths of the trunk. Lily captured an emerald in the palm of her hand, its fire darkened until she held it up to the pale light streaming through the aperture.
She foraged deeper inside the chest, looking for one of the gold fishhooks that Tristram used for fishing. He had several in varying sizes and needed to replace one of the smaller ones he'd lost the day before. As her hand moved about, it struck the grainy hardness of Basil's leather-bound journal. Next to it was the log of the Arion. A few days before he had fallen ill, Basil has asked her to place his journal in the sea chest with the rest of their treasure. At his request, Lily had also placed her father's log beside Basil's journal. One day, when she had more time, she would get them out and read them, she promised herself. Even though Basil had never allowed anyone to read his journal while he was alive, preferring to read aloud to them from its contents, she did not think he would mind now. Besides, she was running out of stories to amuse Tristram and Dulcie, and she was sure to discover something exciting in the log about one of her father's many adventures, and Basil's journal was certain to be full of interesting observations.
Lily picked up the cape, and unable to resist the urge, she placed it across her shoulders. Busy with her game of make-believe, she tied on the mask of gold. Although it had been beaten by the Indian artisans to a paper-thin fineness it was still heavy and her breath sounded labored and muffled through the nose piercings. As a sudden thought struck her, she grinningly plated the headdress on her head and prepared to leave the cave by its land entrance.
If Tristram had fallen asleep again, she thought with a glint in her pale green eyes, then he was in for the fright of his life.
Valentine Whitelaw felt his heartbeat quickening as he stepped ashore. It was a sensation not unlike that he'd experienced during his first battle at sea. He felt both exultation and fear. What would he find? he wondered, his gaze moving swiftly along the ragged edge of pine forest that bordered the beach.
As they'd neared the crescent of sandy shore, the boat slicing through the dark blue waters of the channel, he'd thought of Lawson rowing out of the bay to rescue his mates that fateful day so long ago. The shallow hull of the boat, far lighter once he'd unloaded his passengers, would have skimmed over the razor-edged reefs. Valentine could envision Basil and Magdalena, and the child, standing on sho
re watching. Waiting no doubt for Geoffrey Christian to return and rescue them. No one had come back for them--not until now.
Valentine hid his disappointment when no one responded to his hails. He smiled wryly as he remembered the satisfying scene he had imagined. Basil had come running along the shore, a look of incredulity on his face as he'd recognized his rescuer.
"Are you certain this is the same island that is on your map?" Thomas Sandrick asked as he jumped from the boat. Still unsteady from being at sea, he staggered, losing his balance and falling onto one knee. He glanced down in dismay at the sea splashing around his legs and ruining his fine silk hose. With a sigh, he struggled out of the surf and came to stand beside Valentine. "The place seems deserted. Seven years is a long time," he advised his friend.
"Randall was very observant. He knew how many leagues distant the Arion had sailed through the passage before reaching the island. He made careful notations of landmarks to use as a guide in finding the island. The shoreline he sketched of the island is identical to this one. There can be no mistake," Valentine responded, unwilling to admit to any doubts that he himself might be feeling.
He glanced over at Thomas Sandrick and wondered if he'd been wise in allowing him to accompany them. He had been surprised when his friend had approached him with the request to sail with them to the Indies in search of Basil. Thomas had jestingly explained that if he were to invest in future voyages of the Madrigal, as well as other ventures in the New World, it would serve him well to learn more about these strange lands beyond the shores of England. Unfortunately, however, adventuring did not seem to come naturally to Thomas Sandrick. Continuing to dress as befitted a fashionable London gentleman, he seemed woefully out of place aboard the Madrigal. And he was not a very good sailor. Valentine doubted that his friend would see much of the New World spending most of his time below deck confined to his bunk because of seasickness.
" 'Ere, Cap'n! Tracks!" the coxswain called out excitedly. Having beached the boat, the crew had started to explore while their captain had stood daydreaming.
"Some of them 'ead up into the trees! Look! There be more 'eaded that way, down the beach, and some more toward the 'eadland!"
"We'll go this way first. If they've built a shelter, it will be in a protected area away from shore and near a spring," Valentine decided, for there were several different sets of tracks leading away from the beach and into the trees.
Valentine eyed his friend, who was fanning himself in the heat. "Are you up to it, Thomas?"
Thomas Sandrick nodded, managing to smile; Valentine had to admire him, for as sick as he'd been, Thomas had never looked at once complained or expected special treatment. He had set his mind on sailing to the New World and nothing was going to stop him. Valentine had never realized quite how resolute a man Thomas Sandrick was. Not having fared well even on the short voyage through the Channel to Plymouth, he could have jumped ship there and saved himself further misery, but Thomas had stayed aboard, determined to sail with the Madrigal.
" Reckon the cap'n's brother ain't all that big a gent," one of the crew remarked as his own footprint stamped out the tiny one beneath. " Even the biggest footprint ain't very big. Ain't wearin' no shoes, either," he added.
" Ye don't s'pose there still be the man-eaters hereabouts?" his portly mate asked, glancing around nervously and praying he wouldn't see a savage face glaring at him from the bushes.
"If there are any, reckon ye'd be lastin' them a month or two," chuckled a seaman with a bright red beard and crinkling blue eyes.
"That ain't very funny!" the nervous one said as they made their way up the beach.
" 'Tis too quiet," a thin, lantern-jawed crew member said as he blinked his eyes. He could've sworn he'd seen a shadow moving through the thick undergrowth.
To anyone watching the intruder's progress from the concealment of that shadowy undergrowth, the rescuers might very well have appeared frightening. They certainly would have seemed a rowdy, ungentlemanly group even to adult eyes, what with their unkempt appearance and ribald talk. But to a small child, especially one unaccustomed to strangers, they would have looked like bloodthirsty brigands stalking the sands.
And that was exactly how they appeared to Dulcie, who was hiding behind a palm. Her dark eyes were like saucers in her small face as she stared in open-mouthed terror at the group. If she could have moved her feet, she would have raced up the beach to find Lily and Tristram, but she could only stand behind the palm and watch as the men stomped along the path toward their hut and the only home she had ever known.
Valentine Whitelaw's long strides had put him in the lead as they left the beach and made their way along what seemed to be a path between the trees; constant use having beaten down the waist-high grasses that were swaying with the gentle breeze.
Valentine felt his excitement growing as he saw the hut in the distance. Although roughly finished, it was apparent that great care and pride had been taken in the building of it, for above the modest doorway a crude likeness of the Whitelaw family's coat of arms had been carved on a flat piece of wood.
Thomas Sandrick nearly stumbled as he saw the hut. Shaking his head in disbelief, he murmured, "So you were right. They are alive. How I envy you your faith, Valentine. Once you discovered the map, you never doubted that you would find your brother and the others."
In response, Valentine quickened his pace and entered the hut. But even Valentine was unprepared for what awaited them inside the house that his brother had built with his own hands.
God's light! They be eatin' off plates o' gold!" the red-bearded seaman exclaimed as he stared in amazement at the elegantly laid table, the gold plates, silver tableware, and goblets of fine glass rich enough for a royal banquet. "Lord love us, all we be missin' is a throne made o' gold!" he said, forgetting for a moment whose brother it was they were searching for.
"Lookee here! They even fish with hooks made out o' gold!" another awed crew member said in disbelief as he spied the gleaming metal hooked to a neatly coiled length of string.
Liam O'Hara, an Irish gentleman-adventurer who'd signed aboard the Madrigal for a bit of excitement and profit, fingered the gold plate, his eyes narrowing as he took note of the engravings. "This is Spanish. So is the silver. And look at that rapier and dagger on the wall. From Toledo, or I'm a Dutchman and Protestant to boot. I'd know that workmanship anywhere. Wouldn't mind owning that myself," he said with a look of envy. Eyeing Valentine Whitelaw more closely, he asked, "You are certain that was your coat of arms over the doorway and not some Spanish grandee's? Faith, but I'd no idea you were Catholic," he suddenly exclaimed.
Thomas Sandrick glanced at his friend in surprise, but Valentine Whitelaw was frowning, until O'Hara pointed at the gold crucifix hanging from the wall.
"Geoffrey Christian's wife, Magdalena, was Catholic. She was also Spanish," Valentine responded. His explanation might have explained the crucifix, but it left unexplained the remaining Spanish items, for he seriously doubted that Magdalena would have brought such things off the Arion, even if she'd had the time.
"Maybe Captain Christian sent the valuables ashore with his wife. Didn't want them Spaniards to get their 'ands on 'em," the bos'n said, voicing his captain's speculations. "These things could've come off one of the cap'n's prizes."
Valentine had to admit that the idea had merit, for he himself ate off gold plate won in battle from a Spanish captain's table, and he drank madeira and port from another Spanish captain's prized cargo of fine wines, and most of the rare gems he had given Cordelia came from that same captain's personal coffers. He could still remember the voyage and subsequent battle during which Geoffrey Christian had acquired the fiery emerald that Magdalena had worn with such pride.
But still Valentine was puzzled. He glanced around the room. There was a simple table and five stools. The table had been set for five; Basil, Magdalena, and the child--but for whom else? And yet, only three mats with neatly folded blankets were placed against the far
wall. A sea chest had been positioned beneath a window. Opening the lid, Valentine stared down at the neat pile of clothes inside. They were an odd assortment of men's and women's, and of varying sizes and styles, although nothing very fashionable. Sitting on top of another, smaller chest across the room Valentine saw a doll. Woven from a rough, cottonlike material, it had eyes and nose formed of tiny shells and a dress made from a strip of elegant lace. Inside the chest, he found a woman's combs and personal items, including a rope of pearls and the emerald pendant he recalled so well.
The place had obviously been lived in--and by Basil and Magdalena, and a child--and yet there was a strange emptiness about it, Valentine thought as he picked up the ornately engraved, gold plate occupying the place of honor at the head of the rough-planked table.
" 'Twould seem as if your brother has been enjoying all of the comforts of home," O'Hara commented with a smirk as he lifted up to the crew's curious eyes a frilly-edged, silk chemise. "We should all be so fortunate to find ourselves stranded on deserted isle with a beautiful, hot-blooded doña," he said, and glancing away to wink at a couple of other gentlemen seamen who'd signed aboard, the Irishman wasn't aware of the cold, unfriendly gleam that had come into his captain's eye. He was even more unsuspecting of the Turk's quick movement, at least until he glanced back to find a sword point hovering perilously close to his throat.
Red-beard eyed the fancy gentleman contemptuously. He could have told his nabs not to say what he was thinking, at least not in the captain's presence if it was something rude about a lady, or the captain's brother, and especially if the Turk was by his side.
Valentine shook his head at Mustafa, who, rather reluctantly it seemed, sheathed his sword.
Wild Bells to the Wild Sky Page 17