Wild Bells to the Wild Sky

by Laurie McBain

  SIR RAYMOND VALCHAMPS had been a contented man during the past few years. Knighted for his valor by the grateful queen whose life he had risked his own to save, or so she believed, Sir Raymond had continued to enjoy Elizabeth's royal favor. Her largesse had included the gift of a great estate, where he lived as if he were a royal prince of the realm, a townhouse on the Strand, and thousands of fertile acres in the Midlands. Valuable licenses of export had been granted to him, the profits of so lucrative a trade giving him the advantage over less fortunate courtiers who found life at court a continual drain on their resources.

  The family home in Buckinghamshire was finally his. He had inherited a fortune from his grandmother, as well as an estate and lands with a considerable yearly income collected in rents from the tenants. And his sister, Eliza, was now wed to the noble and wealthy Thomas Sandrick.

  And soon the most beautiful woman in all of England, Cordelia Howard, was to become his wife. He had beaten Valentine Whitelaw to the prize. While the brave captain was sailing the seas in search of Spanish gold, Cordelia accepted his proposal of marriage. Quite a shock it would be to Valentine Whitelaw when he returned to England to find his mistress wed to his most hated rival.

  "Not too warm, m'dear?" Sir Raymond inquired solicitously of the woman walking by his side, his gaze taking in the lovely line of her brow.

  "Not at all, my love," Cordelia Howard replied as she neatly sidestepped a steaming pile of manure centered in the path before her. "Oh, Raymond, really! You weren't watching where you stepped. I do believe you've ruined your slipper," she berated him.

  Sir Raymond Valchamps stared down at his fine, silk slippers. One of them was now coated with a noisome substance. A look of dismay replaced the smug expression on his handsome face. "Damn! I knew this would happen. Nothing good ever comes of mixing with rabble like this, Cordelia. I don't know why you insisted we come. By evening the place will be little better than one big brawl," he warned.

  Cordelia stared down at his foul-smelling shoe in distaste. "You needn't worry on that score. We will leave the fair early, for we are to dine this evening with Sir William and Lady Elspeth Davies. You cannot have forgotten that? I intend to have ample time to prepare, after all, 'twill be quite an occasion. I hear the house Sir William has built is magnificent."

  "No, I have not forgotten. I've heard scarce little else since you received the invitation."

  " 'Tis amazing the bargains one can find at a fair. I bought a rare piece of gold cloth last month at the Bartholomew Fair. And look at these silks I've just bought. And I've still some of the scent I found here last year. I can see that I shall have to be quick about finding more," she said, pressing a perfume-soaked handkerchief to her nose. "Besides, I seem to recall you were suddenly most eager to escort me."

  "If I get out of here without having either my purse or my throat cut I'll consider myself damned fortunate," Sir Raymond complained, his contemptuous glance causing more than one person walking by to give the fancy, sour-faced gentleman plenty of elbow room. "And, if you recall, 'twas I who bought the silks. And surprised I am that I've any coin left in my purse."

  "I do wish you would do something about that cursed shoe," Cordelia was quick to remind him as he stepped closer to her side and nearly lost his balance when he slipped.

  Swinging a gold pomander as if warding off any other evils lurking before him, Sir Raymond glanced around. "As soon as I find somewhere to sit, I will have Prescott clean it," he said, much to his manservant's annoyance.

  "Why, 'tis George Hargraves, isn't it?" Cordelia demanded as she caught sight of a short gentleman making his way through the crowd, a wide grin on his face as he spoke with several well-dressed gentlemen accompanying him. "I wonder what he's up to? I swear George can't be trusted not to have some trick up his sleeve. Damned irritating. Who is that with him?" Cordelia questioned, squinting as she tried to recognize the man just a step behind.

  Sir Raymond followed her curious gaze. "Which one? Looks like Sir Charles Denning to me."

  "Well, of course, I know that! I meant the other man."

  "Thomas Sandrick?"

  "No, no, not him. How strange. Eliza said nothing to me about attending the fair today. And I spoke with her yesterday noon."

  "Perhaps she did not accompany Thomas. She does have many more duties now as his wife and the mother of his son," Sir Raymond reminded her.

  "There! You see! I thought 'twas him," Cordelia said, a gleam in her dark eyes as she stared at the tall, bold-faced man who reminded her so much of Valentine Whitelaw.

  "Him? I am surprised, my dear, that you would deign to glance his way," Sir Raymond commented with acerbity as he recognized the gentleman who'd recently arrived at court and was fast becoming one of Elizabeth's favorites. With growing unease, Sir Raymond had watched the obscure young rustic worming his way into the queen's inner circle. For now, he seemed to amuse her with his brashness, but one misstep and he would soon find himself banished from court.

  "Walter Raleigh. That is his name, is it not?" Cordelia asked with growing interest, unaware of Sir Raymond's ire. "I vow, he is the fine-looking one."

  "Sir Walter Raleigh I'm sure he wishes, but it won't become more than wishful thinking if I can help it," Sir Raymond promised, for there were others, like himself, who'd belatedly come to realize that the blunt-spoken Devonshireman might be a threat to their own positions at court.

  "I have heard that he is quite a wit," Cordelia speculated, eyeing the gentleman's finely shaped leg.

  Sir Raymond snorted derisively. "If you can understand him. I swear these West Country men speak with more of a burr than those heathens in Scotland," Sir Raymond commented.

  "I've never had any trouble understanding Valentine, and he lives in the West Country," Cordelia said, a slow smile curving her lips. "In fact, 'twould seem that most West Country men are uncommonly tall and dark. 'Tis indeed a bold face both Valentine and this Walter Raleigh show to the world. 'Tis quite fascinating."

  "To know knowledge, neither Whitelaw nor Raleigh are well-known wits. Of course, you would have more personal knowledge of Whitelaw, wouldn't you, m'dear? I've always been of the opinion that one doesn't need to listen very carefully to him. Indeed, doesn't say much at all, does our fearless sea captain? I dare say, when you and he were together, you didn't waste much time on useless conversation, now did you? But then, he hasn't been in England enough of late to put either one of us to the test. Pity, that, I s'pose, m'dear, your charms weren't enticing enough to keep him chained to your side," Sir Raymond remarked maliciously, for even he was not so conceited as not to have wondered what would have happened had it been Valentine Whitelaw who'd been knighted rather than himself. "However, in all modesty, my dear, I do believe you have made the best choice in accepting my proposal rather than Whitelaw's. He would have bored you to death within a month. You've become too jaded, my dear, to remain content for long with his unimaginative devotion to your beauty."

  For perhaps the first time in her life, Cordelia Howard blushed. The truth of the matter was that Valentine Whitelaw had not asked her to marry him. At least he had not since she'd turned him down. And that had been over three years ago. They had continued their affair, with no lessening of passion between them, and she had mistakenly thought she would be able to change her mind any time she so wished. That he would remain devoted to her she had never doubted. At least she had thought that until last spring when she had visited his home in Cornwall. After that visit, which had been less than successful, there had been a definite change in their relationship. In her conceit, Cordelia had not realized that a man who took great pride in the home and land that for the first time he could truly call his own would not wish to hear it criticized even by the woman he loved--and certainly not by the woman he had hoped to bring to Ravindzara as its mistress. Valentine Whitelaw had heard nothing but criticism of his home, his servants, and his beloved Cornish coast. There had never been a kind word for anyone, and Valentine had gradually see
n another woman revealed to him. And it was not the woman he had loved almost blindly. He saw a vindictive and greedy woman who thought of no one but herself.

  And it was there, at Ravindzara, that Valentine Whitelaw had known that Cordelia Howard, beautiful though she might be, was not the woman to share his life. Had either admitted the truth, their relationship had not, during the last few years, fared as well as Valentine Whitelaw's voyages. And Cordelia Howard had been quick to place the blame for their estrangement on those long absences. Had he not been away from her side for so long, they would still have been in love with each other, or so she tried to convince herself. But Cordelia now had to face the unpleasant realization that Valentine Whitelaw might no longer wish that she become his wife. And even worse, that he had fallen out of love with her.

  It had been a difficult time for the beautiful Cordelia Howard. Never before without her admirers and suitors, now she was suddenly faced with the reality that only Raymond Valchamps still sought her hand in marriage. It had been a bitter blow for a woman who, only three years earlier, had thought she could have any man of her choosing. Not only had she lost Valentine Whitelaw, but Sir Rodger Penmorley had surprised them all when he'd asked Valentine Whitelaw's crippled sister to wed him. That had stung Cordelia; to lose out to that woman, a woman she'd never even considered a rival. She had waited too long. Of course, she would have chosen Raymond anyway, she told herself. He was, after all, a knight and a favorite of Elizabeth's. They would live in London for most of the year, then, when not in residence on the Strand, they would travel to his numerous country houses. What more could she ask? She had what she wanted. But, sometimes, in the middle of the night, when she remembered a pair of warm turquoise eyes . . .

  "This Walter Raleigh of yours cuts quite a figure. That silk doublet must have cost him a fortune. I've never seen such an exquisite color or such fine lace. I vow, I am envious," Cordelia spoke harshly, banishing the image of Valentine Whitelaw from her mind. "I imagine Elizabeth gave it to him. She is becoming rather fond of him, is she not, my dear?" Cordelia asked with an innocent-looking expression. "If it were not for those exceptional eyes of yours, my love, I dare say you might seem quite ordinary when standing next to Walter Raleigh. I fear you will have to make more of an effort to be noticed in future."

  "Damned if I'll dress like a struttin' peacock. But let me give you a riddle, m'dear," Sir Raymond said, the tight smile on his face warning Cordelia of the insult before she heard it. "How can it be that a lady may not be a lady at all? Stumped you, have I?"

  "I'm sure you will not keep me in a suspense for long."

  "Why, 'tis when a harlot marries a titled gentleman, of course!"

  Cordelia smiled. "Have you thought, my dear, that you might jeopardize your treasured place by Elizabeth's side by marrying me? She prefers, nay, demands, complete devotion from her courtiers. How do you think she will take to having to share you with a wife? And that wife a woman she does not have much fondness for?" Cordelia demanded. "I believe Walter Raleigh remains unattached. My, my, intelligent as well as ambitious?"

  Sir Raymond Valchamps shrugged.

  "You are not concerned, are you? Are you so favored by Elizabeth that you do not fear anyone? I am impressed, my dear. I expect, however, that you are breathing easier because she will change her opinion about marriage soon enough when she weds the Duke of Alençon," Cordelia predicted, looking startled when Sir Raymond said something rude beneath his breath.

  "She will never wed him. We have all been made fools of to have ever believed it likely," Sir Raymond said in disgust, thinking of the years that had been wasted while the whore had dangled her crown before that French pup. "Two years now she has been playing this game. At first, I did not believe she would marry him. 'Twas just another play to keep the French and Spanish from forming a closer alliance. But when he came to England and I saw how they amused one another, how she papered him and kept him at her side, how very fond she became of him, why, I actually began to believe that she would wed him," he complained bitterly, thinking of all of the opportunities he had missed to rid England of Elizabeth's marriage to Alençon. Little had the queen realized how safe she'd been during the last two years while he'd bided his time, believing her intentions were true.

  "Well, she may yet do so," Cordelia said, wondering why Raymond should be so upset about it. Perhaps he'd been counting on his own marriage being more acceptable to Elizabeth if she were contemplating nuptials of her own.

  " 'Tis important," Sir Raymond replied, a strange expression in his eyes." 'Twill make it more difficult, that is all. But, not impossible, I think," he added, smiling as if at some private joke.

  He would, however, miss the monies he'd been receiving from the French ambassador for the past several years. In exchange, he'd used his influence at court to further France's cause. He glanced down at the ruby glowing on his finger. A gift from a grateful Alençon, who needed all of the allies he could find in the English court. There were many, among them Sir Francis Walsingham, who were bitterly opposed to such an alliance. The Protestant preachers throughout England had been warning against Elizabeth's proposed marriage to a Catholic prince. Crowds had come close to rioting in the streets and Elizabeth’s popularity had never been so low. There had even been an attempt on her life several years earlier when an unknown assassin had fired on the royal barge. A pity, thought Sir Raymond, that her assailant had missed and hit one of her attendants instead. Had Elizabeth died then, it would have ended forever Protestant rule in England.

  Most likely there would have been civil war, but during the confusion, a group of loyal followers could have freed Mary Stuart from her imprisonment. Fourteen years now the Queen of Scots had been held prisoner in England, Sir Raymond fumed. But with Spanish troops landing in Ireland, Spain's army just across the Channel in the Netherlands, and Catholics rebelling in England and Scotland, they would soon have won the war and returned England and her people to the true faith.

  Actually, he would be sorry if Elizabeth did not wed Alençon, for he preferred the French to the Spanish. Although he had in the past held closer ties with the Spanish, he had no special love for them. Until recently, he'd thought the French would be more useful to their cause, but now, it looked as if he might have to resume his relationship with the Spanish; indeed, he had an appointment with Bernardino de Mendoza, the Spanish ambassador, the very next day.

  Whatever, it mattered naught to him, Sir Raymond thought, not unduly worried as long as the end result was the assassination of Elizabeth Tudor.

  "We really should greet them," Cordelia was saying as she quickened her step toward where George Hargraves, Sir Charles Denning, Thomas Sandrick, and Walter Raleigh were standing in conversation.

  "I'll be damned, Cordelia, if I am going to greet anyone, even George Hargraves, with this on my shoe," Sir Raymond declared. "I'll be over there, near that booth," he told her as he disappeared into the crowd, determined not to give Hargraves anything to jest about on the morrow, and spying dung on his shoe, George Hargraves would not have been able to resist a ribald comment.

  Damned crowded, Sir Raymond Valchamps thought as he squeezed into the crowd, wondering if he'd be able to find a seat. With an impatient gesture and coin pressed into his palm, he sent away his surprised manservant, allowing the man to think his master a most generous gentleman. Sir Raymond felt the stiffness of the ciphered letter tucked safely up his sleeve and smiled despite the press of unwashed bodies surrounding him, for that was the real reason behind his separating from Cordelia and not wishing to meet the others. Not a half hour past, the cipher had been passed to him. At the proper time, he would pass the secret document to a courier, who would then pass it to an agent who had access to Mary Stuart. Raymond Valchamps felt a shiver go through him as he thought of the pop's hand having touched the missive he now carried. At times, despite the comfort he found himself enjoying as a knight of the realm and court favorite, he wished to be more actively involved in the plotting
against Elizabeth.

  At the beginning of the year he'd been on the Continent, having received Elizabeth's permission to travel abroad under the excuse of making necessary business contacts concerning his exporting of cloth. Once on the Continent, he had quickly made for Paris, where he'd met with English Catholics in exile and with agents of Mary, Queen of Scots. It was there that he'd heard more of the plan, backed by the pope and Philip II, to invade England. And should the ultimate deed fall unto him and he be chosen to strike the blow against Elizabeth, then he would do it with a clear conscience, having been promised a papal dispensation.

  Sir Raymond Valchamps sighed, glancing around curiously, wondering when he would be contacted. Who would the courier be this time? Except for the dark blue velvet hat with a red feather on the left side, the man would probably be a complete stranger to him. He would be nothing more than someone accidentally bumping against him and whispering the password, at which he would hand over the cipher and be about his way. He eyed those closest around him, his mind wandering while he waited. Idly, he listened to the performance that had just begun in the booth close by.

  It was with a sense of disbelief that Sir Raymond Valchamps continued to stand there. It took some effort to turn his gaze toward the booth where the puppet show was in progress. Strange that he should feel so chilled on so warm a day in summer, he found himself thinking, oblivious now to the crowd pressing so close, like a noose about his neck.

  On the small stage, where several puppets were engaged in various antics, a tale was unfolding. A team of wild white horses, drawing an incredible chariot formed of coral, came prancing out onto the stage. The stiff wooden legs stomped up and down almost rhythmically as unseen hands pulled their strings and guided them. A princely figure was addressed as Prince Basil by a small puppet called Sweet Rose, who held the reins. On a voyage of great importance, they had discovered an evil jinni's plot to murder Elizabeth, Queen of the Misty Isle. They had been trying to return to England when they had fallen under the spell of the witch of the Northland, who had pretended to befriend them. But the witch had blown a storm into their path and wrecked them on a strange western isle where they were destined to spend the rest of their days.