But Lily, Queen of the Indian Isles, granted them each a wish. And in their chariot of coral, with a team of wild white horses, they would fly through the skies to the Misty Isle. Then the dark, cowled figure of a priest swept threateningly from out of the shadowy palms of a tropical isle painted on the backdrop, while a bizarre, feathered figure with a tall headdress and a gold-painted mask jumped in front of the horse-drawn chariot. There was a battle, and the prince and Sweet Rose were taken captive.
A puppet with flowing red hair floated across the stage on a sea horse. Uttering words of warning, Lily, Queen of the Indian Isles, confronted the menacing bird-figure from the New World. The jinni knew no fear and flung her off the cliff. A bearded puppet wearing a crown and brandishing a sword rose from out of the sea and rescued the fallen heroine from death, but both fled before the cannon fire from a troop of Spanish soldiers marching across the small stage.
The curtains closed, to great applause, then opened to reveal a painted backdrop of a mythical, undersea kingdom with strangely colored turreted towers and grotesquely shaped trees. The sea maiden and King Neptune floated down to a cave where a treasure chest lay half buried in the sand. Sitting on a golden throne, the king called his troops from the sea. Dolphins, turtles, starfish, and all manner of horrible, finned beasts appeared. Leading them was a young merman, the brave Count Tristram. Fearful for their safety, and that of Prince Basil and Sweet Rose, the sea maiden went in search of help and exited the stage.
Sir Raymond stared at the stage almost impatiently while he waited for the curtains to part on Act Three. The painted backdrop had become an ocean, with the distant shore of the isle rising from the mists in the background. Across this sea sailed a galleon with golden sails, the red cross of St. George flying above the masts. Courageously, the ship's captain sailed into the raging battle, sinking the Spaniards' ship, which disappeared from the stage accompanied by a roar of approval from the crowd.
The cowled priest was hiding behind a palm tee, but soon he was routed as a black jaguar leapt from behind the flowery underbrush and landed on the robed figure. The jinni attacked Prince Basil and Sweet Rose, but the prince, escaping his bonds, drew his sword and did battle with the jinni.
As Sir Raymond Valchamps stood mesmerized before the stage he saw the golden mask flung from the puppet in the feathered cape. A gasp of surprise came from the audience as a horrible face was revealed. The jinni was not a savage creature from the New World after all, but the evil Northland witch with one blue eye and one brown eye. Unblinkingly, Sir Raymond watched as Prince Basil beheaded the witch to the crowd's bloodthirsty delight.
The final scene opened at court, with Elizabeth, an elegant puppet with a bright red wig and velvet gown, knighting the captain of the ship and granting permission for the captain and the Queen of the Indian Isles to wed, while Prince Basil, Sweet Rose, and Count Tristram stood before her. And the head of the witch, with its one brown eyes and one blue eye and colorless hair, was stuck on a mock Traitor's Gate.
"Saved the queen, they have. God bless her!"
"Aye, got the witch with the one blue eye and one brown eye," someone commented next to sir Raymond Valchamps.
"Stuck the ugly head on Traitor's Gate! Let the crows have it!"
"Lord 'elp us, but d'ye think there really be traitors like that 'ere in England?"
Standing up on the ledge at the top of the booth, five figures cloaked in black, with expressionless, black-masked faces, took their bows.
Sir Raymond pushed his way through the crowd, not hearing a woman's cry of fear before she fainted when he shoved his way past her, his gaze catching and holding hers for a terrifying instant. Blindly, he walked right past the man in the dark blue velvet hat with the bright red feather who had been trying to move closer to his side for the past ten minutes.
Sir Raymond Valchamps was never certain how he managed to make his way through the crowd and around to the back of the booth. Standing near a booth close by, as if interested in the display of brass gleaming along the counter, he watched as a tall man dressed in a green jerkin lifted a small, cloaked figure down from the ledge in back. Pulling off the concealing mask, a young girl's face met his eye. Another figure had climbed down unassisted. Removing the mask, a boy of about ten started laughing in response to the jesting remark made by another cloaked figure, which when the cloak and mask were removed revealed a short, dark-haired man.
But Sir Raymond continued to watch. He saw the man in the green jerkin reach up again, this time to give a hand to the last cloaked figure, safely guiding the puppeteer down the rickety steps to the ground.
Sir Raymond's breath quickened as the robe fell from the figure.
Lily Christian
Sir Raymond leaned against the side of the booth, suddenly unable to support himself. Geoffrey Christian's brat seemed to haunt him as surely as if her father had returned from the grave to see revenge for his murder.
Sir Raymond stared at the beautiful young woman, her dark red hair glinting in the sunshine. Why? Why? he asked himself. He dropped his eyes, almost guiltily, when she glanced around. How well he remembered those pale green eyes staring at him so curiously in the courtyard of her grandfather's villa in Santo Domingo. He had been lulled until today into forgetting the threat she was.
After that meeting with her at Tamesis House, when she had her brother and sister had returned to England, and when he had failed to end her life, he had made certain that everyone knew he'd met her before; but at Highcross Court, when Elizabeth and the court had visited. No one would have believed the child should she have spoken of meeting him elsewhere, and certainly not in Santo Domingo. But the child had never said anything; at least he'd never been questioned about such a meeting. The years had passed and he'd seen her at court and had even delighted in seeking her out and forcing her into casual conversation with him. He knew she was frightened of him, although he was the only one who knew why. Even she was ignorant of the truth. What a fool he'd been. She had tricked him, deceived him into believing that she was no longer a threat to him.
Sir Raymond swallowed, feeling the cold perspiration beading his upper lip. But now, if anyone of their acquaintance should witness this puppet show . . .
"The last performance of the day. It went well, Lily Francisca," Romney Lee congratulated her. "I think you should practice more with the horses, Odell. You nearly got the wires tangled up," he told Farley, who was handing his cloak to Tillie.
Farley Odell sniffed. "I'd like to see you do as well. Nor am I hearin' ye complainin' any about the share of the profits ye've pocketed for our day's work," he reminded him.
Romney Lee smiled. "Now, d'ye really think they'd be comin' just to see your pretty face if it weren't for my sweet-talkin' them up to the booth? I ought to be taking more than I am. Damned generous of me, actually. I've been thinking that you might do better in future to wrestle in the ring with that ox of a brother of yours. In between serious matches, that is. Perhaps we could get a bear cub for you to tangle with."
"Why, ye--"
"Farley, please!" Lily interrupted, stepping between them. The Odells and Romney Lee had never gotten along, and the situation had been growing worse of late. "Romney?" she questioned. She hadn't missed the instinctive movement of his hand toward his wrist.
"Only for you," he murmured, the look in his dark eyes when he gazed at Lily causing Farley Odell more unease than the knife the gypsy carried strapped to his forearm.
"Down, Ruff!" Tristram ordered, trying to keep the dog's nose out of the box where Tillie had careful folded their cloaks and placed the masks.
"His name is Raphael, Tristram," Dulcie corrected him, patting the big dog.
"Ruff! Ruff! Praaack! Bong! Bong!" Cisco chimed from Lily's shoulder.
"I wonder how Fairfax did?" Farley said. "I think I'll head over that way and see," he decided.
"Lock up the booth, first," Romney told him, his hand sliding under Lily's elbow.
"I'll do it, Rom,
" Lily protested as Farley puffed out his chest. "Go on, Farley."
"Thank you, Mistress Lily," Farley said quickly, a smug grin spreading across his face when he saw the gypsy opening his mouth to object.
"Can I come with you, Farley?" Tristram asked.
"All right by me. Mistress Lily?"
Lily nodded her agreement. "But don't stay too long, or you'll miss dinner, and I don't want you anywhere near the bull bating. You had horrible nightmares last time you watched it."
" 'Tis just goin' to be meat pie again, Lily," Tristram complained.
"I haven't the time or the money to make anything else, Tristram. 'Tis good and hearty--"
"--and cold," Tristram said glumly.
"I did a bit of barterin' today and managed to find enough for a baked custard," Tillie offered shyly.
"Well, aren't ye the one?" Farley beamed proudly. "We definitely won't be late," he said, wondering if there was any left, for Tillie ate enough for a whole troop of soldiers nowadays.
"Keep an eye on him, will you, Farley?" Lily requested, although she feared she was wasting her breath.
"Right, mistress. Come on, Master Tristram."
"I've told you before, Lily Francisca, you are too kind-hearted," Romney Lee said, eyeing her thoughtfully. "You've gotten too thin. I've seen you giving your share of food to the woman," he said when Tillie had walked around to the front of the booth to place the box of cloaks on the stage. "You should let me deal with the Odells. They take advantage of your kindness. Everyone does," Romney added beneath his breath. "Including me."
"You? You've done more than enough for us. I am the one indebted to you, Rom," Lily reminded him. "If you hadn't helped us escape from Highcross that morning, well, I hate to think what might have happened. But the Odells are my responsibility. Farley and Fairfax have worked at Highcross since they were boys. They have always been loyal to my family. Have you forgotten that Tillie is going to have a baby? 'Tis her first one, Rom. She's scared. Except for Farley and Fairfax, I'm the only person she has. She needs the food more than I do," Lily said climbing back up the steps.
"Where are you going?"
"I want to get this puppet of the witch. He's a bit worse for wear since we behead him so many times a day," she said, taking the puppet down from where it was hanging in the row with the others.
Romney Lee shook his head. "You always refer to the witch as a 'he. 'Most are women."
Lily stared down at the wooden head with its pale thatch of hair and one blue eye and one brown eye, a strange expression on her face. "I don't know why I know the witch is a man, except perhaps because Basil always referred to the witch as a he. And I suppose he reminds me of someone I have never cared for," Lily said, looking away from that lifeless stare as she hurried down the steps.
"Careful!" Romney said, reaching out to steady her when she nearly lost her footing. "I can't have anything happen to my best performer."
"How can anything happen to me when you are forever keeping an eye on me?"
Romney laughed as he closed and locked the doors that opened in front and back of the booth. "I am merely protecting my property," he said with a wicked grin as he checked to make certain everything was secure. "There are too many rogues wandering around this fair for you to go about unguarded. One can't even leave the booth open anymore. The old spirit is gone. No more honor among us," he sighed. "But no one who knows me would dare to steal from me."
"I do have Raphael," Lily protested.
"Him?" Romney Lee asked incredulously as he eyed the big, clumsy dog with its comical ruff and the velvet-clad monkey sitting astride its back. "A most frightening appearance and about as ferocious as a lamb. All he does is cost money by eating our food."
"He's my watchdog! Raphael is brave!" Dulcie cried angrily, staring up at Romney in dislike.
"Ah, now I meant no harm, Sweet Rosalinda. With that silly face, he does bring in a fair amount during the procession," Romney allowed, reaching out to pull a strand of her long dark hair.
Dulcie jerked away from him and moved between Lily and Tillie, the latter giving the little girl plenty of room when her dog followed, pushing his head between them.
Romney Lee laughed. "I don't think she likes me, nor does her dog," he said. "I usually have a way with pretty little girls and wild beasts."
"Don't listen to him, Raphael. I think you're wonderful," she whispered in his droopy ear, patting him on his head affectionately.
Lily put her arm around Dulcie's thin shoulders. "She means no offense. She just doesn't understand your teasing."
"As long as her sister never takes a dislike to me, that is all I am concerned about," Romney warned. "Are you taking Merry out this evening? I do not like it. You shouldn't ride alone, Lily Francisca."
"Merry has to have exercise. I just take him for a run along the riverbank. Besides, no one can catch us. We race like the wind," she said, dismissing his fears with a smile as their figures became lost in the crowd and they were no longer visible to Sir Raymond Valchamps, who stood alone, watching them.
Lord Burghley stared down at the clutter of papers scattered across the table. Some things never changed, he thought a trifle sadly as he felt the warm breeze wafting in from the windows. Glancing toward the fading twilight, he knew a sudden longing to be strolling along a garden path, breathing the sweet scents of a summer's evening and hearing his grandchildren's laughter drifting to him from the terrace. He shifted his gouty foot, wincing slightly with the pain.
Even had he the leisure, there would be no long walks for him this eve, he realized, returning his attention to the parchment opened before him. It had been of particular interest to him. It was a report concerning Don Pedro Enrique Villasandro, captain of the Estrella D'Abla. It seemed that the good captain had been making inquiries as to the whereabouts of Valentine Whitelaw. Lord Burghley frowned. Their bold Englishman had been an unusually sharp thorn in the Spaniard's side ever since he'd become captain of his own ship and since Valentine Whitelaw had learned of the Spaniard's part in his brother's death.
A slight smile crossed William Cecil's aging face as he remembered back to another time, when Basil Whitelaw and he had engaged in many a diverting conversation. He and Sir Basil had been of similar mind concerning their philosophies of life. How he missed those times of reasonable, rational thought. Theirs had been calm voices heard even by the belligerent. But now one had been silenced, and the constant threat of war seemed to loom ever larger in the minds of those less patient with diplomatic measures. Such a pity Sir Basil had been lost to them for there were too few voices speaking out and cautioning against rash acts.
Perhaps it was his own guilt or his suspicions aroused because of the assignment Sir Basil had been carrying out for the government, but he had never felt completely satisfied with the explanation of his friend's death. An old score to be settled between Geoffrey Christian and this Spaniard? No, 'twas too coincidental. Often, he and Sir Francis had speculated on the possibility that Sir Basil had indeed discovered something in Santo Domingo. He shook his head. Idle speculation, that was all. they had no proof-and what good could it possibly do them now to have in their hands what information Sir Basil had gathered ten years ago?
There was a knock on the door and he bid enter the man he'd been expecting for close to an hour.
"Well?"
"He didn't make contact."
Lord Burghley raised an incredulous brow. "The cipher was not passed?"
"No, m'lord. I never lost sight of the man. I followed him to the fair. I watched him. Never once did I lose sight of that cursed blue bonnet with the scarlet feather. One time, m'lord, I thought he was about to make contact, but no one came close to him. There was some kind of commotion by one of the booths, some woman fainted, but I kept my eye on the courier, and he never received as much as a nod from anyone. I'm sorry, m'lord," the agent said.
Lord Burghley shook his head. "I do not understand. We know there was a missive from the pope to Mary Stuar
t. Well, perhaps tomorrow. You have someone watching the man now? Good," he said when the young man nodded.
"I followed him to the ambassador's residence. He stayed but a few minutes, then left. I then followed him to his lodgings on the wharf, where one of my men is stationed. If he leaves, we will know."
"Make certain the Spanish ambassador's residence remains under constant surveillance. I want to know of everyone who arrives there, whatever time of the day or night. Have you placed an agent on that priest we tracked from . . . let me see, yes, from the Tramorgans'?" he asked, checking the name of the Catholic family where the priest had stayed when first he'd arrived after entering England surreptitiously two days ago. Their agents had been awaiting his arrival in the small coastal village where he'd been set ashore.
"Yes. He's traveling north."
"Fine, Keep me informed on his movements. And don't lose him."
"No, m'lord," the man said, then was gone.
Due to Sir Francis Walsingham's diligence, or some might have said fanaticism, for he had a deep Puritan streak in him, they had agents sending them information from France, Spain, Germany, the Netherlands, and even Rome. Sir Francis's foresight in placing agents in the seminaries had paid off handsomely, for they now knew beforehand when to expect certain priests to arrive in England. From the time they set foot on English soil, they were watched and every move detailed in reports sent to the government.
Slowly the net was being drawn in, and soon they would have quite a catch. There would be many to share in a traitor's death at Tyburn, William Cecil thought without pleasure, carefully folding up the dispatches, ciphers, and incriminating lists of names before preparing to retire for the evening.
Valentine Whitelaw stood on the Madrigal's quarterdeck, his gaze raking the skyline of the city. He saw church spires instead of ships' masts. He heard the ringing of bells rather than the roar of cannon. The haze hanging low over the city came from hearth fires, not the smoke of battle. It was good to be home, he thought. The Madrigal, riding at anchor, had returned safe from yet another profitable voyage.
Wild Bells to the Wild Sky Page 38