"The Severn? Perchance, the Avon?"
"Aye, now there ye be. That's the one. Ye be the smarter by far o' the two o' us. The village be similar to East Highford. On the river, ye know. A market town," he said with a wide, toothless grin of pleasure as he anticipated his reward.
"Stratford-upon-Avon?"
"Oh, sir, ye have impressed me, that ye have."
"My family visited the Comptons at their home, Compton Wynyates, 'tis just south of Stratford. And we traveled with the queen to Kenilworth Castle, the Earl of Leicester's home. 'Tisn't far from Stratford."
"Did ye really now, sir? Well, if that ain't amazin'," Hollings said, wiggling the fingers of his outstretched hand.
"Here, you deserve it all, and thank you," Simon Whitelaw said, dropping the plump bag of coins into the man's palm. "I had better find them at Maire Lester's," he added as warning to the man.
The groom shrugged. "Can't help what happened to 'em after they left Highcross. But I do know they reached the mill, 'cause Romney Lee, the miller's wife's brother, he come here to Highcross to find out what was goin' on, and when I told him what had happened, that the master had an accident, but was goin' to be all right, more's the pity, he says that he saw Mistress Christian and her brother and sister and them damned Odells headin' up the road way past the mill. Reckon they was headin' toward London. Sent out the villagers after them, but never found them on the road," he puzzled. He must have misunderstood the gypsy, he thought. Glancing up, he watched as the young gentleman galloped out of the courtyard. Long ride ahead of him, he thought unconcernedly as he poured the coins out of the purse, his smile widening.
Simon Whitelaw was looking grim as he rode toward London. Hartwell Barclay hadn't heard the end of this yet, he vowed, wishing Valentine Whitelaw had returned to England. He would know how to deal with these people who had driven Lily, Tristram, and Dulcie from Highcross. He would know what to do. He would know how to find Lily.
As good luck would have it.
SHAKESPEARE
Chapter Twenty
"CINNAMON CAKES! Cinnamon cakes! Freshly baked cinnamon cakes!" the little girl called out, shaking a blue and red tambourine over her head while she twirled in front of a small, gaily decorated cart being pulled by a mastiff.
Dressed in crimson velvet, with a richly embroidered kirtle sweeping the ground, and a brightly colored scarf of fringed, Indian silk crisscrossed over her bodice, she seemed an exotic creature with her golden earrings, necklace of pale pink shells, and an amethyst stone gleaming mysteriously from the gold ring on her finger.
"Posies! Posies! Sweet-scented posies!" she cried, curtsying prettily while holding out a bunch of colorful wildflowers tied with a length of silk ribbon.
"Dance, Sweet Rose, dance!" a handsome young man strumming a lute called to her, his nimble fingers plucking a lively tune while the little girl danced faster and faster.
On the toes of her dainty velvet slippers, with petticoats flying, she raced away. She returned quickly with a cinnamon cake for him, then danced away again to entice the crowd with an armful of posies. The troubadour, spying the fair maiden who was standing beside the cart and who had bestowed a smile upon him as well as a cinnamon cake, began another ballad:
My lord's daughter went through the wood her lane,
And there she met the cap'n, a servant to the king.
He said unto his livery man, "Where't na agin the law,
I would tak her to my own bed, and lay her at the wa."
"I'm walking here my lane," says she, "among
my father's trees;
And ye may let me walk my lane, kind sir, now gin ye please.
The supper bell it will be rung, and I'll be miss'd awa;
Sae I'll na lie in your bed, at neither stock norwa."
He said, "My pretty lady, I pray lend me your hand,
And ye'll hae drums and trumpets always at your command;
And fifty men to guard you wi, that weel their swords can draw;
Sae we'll both lie in one bed, and ye'll lie at the wa..."
"O keep awa frae me, kind sir, I pray don't me perplex,
For I'll na lie in your bed till ye answer questions six..."
"O what is greener than the grass, what's higher than the trees?
O what is worse than women's wish, what's deeper
than the seas?
What bird craws first, what tree buds first, what first
does on them fa?
Before I lie in your bed, at either stock or wa."
"Death is greener than the grass, heaven higher than the trees;
The devil's worse than women's wish, hell's deeper
than the seas;
The cock craws first, the cedar buds first, dew first
on them does fa;
Sae we'll both lie in one bed, and ye shall lie at the wa."
Little did this lady think, that morning when she raise,
That this was for to be the last o' her maiden days.
But there's na into the king's realm to be found a merrier twa,
And she must lie in his bed, but she'll not lie next the wa.
With a fine flourish, the troubadour ended his song. Sweeping his velvet hat from his head, he bowed deeply, then rose, and with hat in hand strolled through the crowd, smiling now and again when he was favored with a coin from a blushing maid or a bold and comely wench.
" 'Tis a harsh winter comin' on! I can feel it in me achin' bones! Come! Feel the softness of this fur! The richest, blackest sable! Siberian wolf! Touch this soft, Persian fleece! A king's ransom I should be sellin' it for!"
"Silk! Every color of the rainbow! God bless her, but the queen herself took my last bolt of crimson! Not even unloaded from the ship's hold yet, that fine was it!"
"Have ye seen this ebony chess set! Carved under the watchful eye of the Russian czar himself!" another vendor called a bit louder.
"Clove and nutmeg from the Indies!"
"Venetian glass!"
"Sandalwood and aloes!"
"Cherry ripe! Spanish lemons! Fine lemons from Seville!"
The aroma of cooking meats, of pigeons slowly turning on sqits while they roasted over open fires, of great cuts of beef and mutton, and wild boar, filled the air. The juices were caught in pans and blended with claret and spices, and thickened with eggs and butter, to be served in trenchers with a thick slice of bread. Aromatic steam rose from the big kettles of stewed crabs and oysters, while plates were heaped high with a tasty mixture of quartered potatoes and apples, sweetened with sugar, cinnamon, ginger, and oranges, and served piping hot. Minced pies, puddings, and tarts, still warm from the ovens, were set out for close inspection on rough-hewn counters, while tall pitchers, kegs, and larger barrels stood ready to be emptied of ale, cider, beer, and wine. The row of drinking cups and tankards never remained constant as they exchanged hands over and over again to be filled with the best, well-aged March ale or the cheaper and far weaker penny ale.
"We've sold all of the cinnamon cakes, except for this one, Lily," Dulcie said, eyeing the last cake hungrily.
"We can't have that. 'Tisn't good for business. You had better do something about it quick, Dulcie," Lily advised.
Dulcie grinned, and quicker than a magician's sleight of hand, she made the cake disappear, the only evidence of its existence a sprinkling of crumbs around her mouth.
Leaning against the cart, Dulcie scratched Cappie under his whiskered chin.
"Tired?" Lily asked when Dulcie yawned widely.
"A little. 'Tis so warm. I danced all day, didn't I, Lily?" she asked, hugging Lily around the waist and staring up into her sister's face for her approval.
"You were never still. I shall have to put a bell on you to keep track of you, fairy-child," Lily said, smoothing a soft black curl from Dulcie's cheek as she pressed a kiss against her forehead.
"Hey!" Tristram called out, approaching them from somewhere out of the crowd. "Gee, you sold all of the cakes? Not even a crumb
left," he said with a disappointed glance at the empty tray in the cart. "Except, for those on Dulcie's chin. How ya doin', Ruff?" he said, patting the big dog whose tail had started wagging when he'd recognized Tristram's figure.
"Tristram!"
"Prrraaack! Ruff! Ruff! Prrraaack! Buss us a nice one, sweeting! Buss us a nice one, Tristram sweeting!" Cisco repeated, eyeing the frowning lad with a cool yellow eye. "Ruff! Ruff!"
"Tristram!"
"Oh, all right. Raphael, your highness. Looks like we sold everything but these posies. Can't eat them, though. I wonder how roasted parrot would taste?"
"You haven't eaten all day?"
"Been too busy juggling, Lily. Haven't had a hand free. Although, Old Maria gave me a bun when I was near her booth earlier. Sure did eye me strangely," he added. "Said to come by later and she'd read your palm for free, Lily."
"My palm?" Lily questioned, surprised by the offer, for Old Maria never did anything for free unless it served her purpose.
"Raphael's thirsty, Lily."
"Why don't you take Dulcie and the cart back to the camp and get Tillie to feed you? She has probably baked a whole new batch of cakes. She had a wedge of cheese and some tarts in her basket when I saw her earlier, and she said Fairfax was going to put some cider in the brook. I'm certain 'tis well-chilled by now. And don't forget to feed Cappie and Cisco, Tristram."
"And Ruff?" Dulcie added unthinkingly, much to Tristram's delight for he laughed and turned a cartwheeling handspring in front of her squealing figure.
"Yes, and Ruff. I'll see if I can sell the rest of these," Lily said, gathering up the remaining bunches of flowers. If she hurried, she might be able to sell enough to buy several of the roasted squabs that had been tantalizing her for most of the day. It would be a nice surprise for the others, she thought, remembering Tristram's comment about cold meat pie.
Tristram heaped the unsold posies into the woven basket Lily had hooked over her arm, then turned Raphael and the cart around. "See you later, Lily," he called as he began to lead them through the crowd.
Lily stood watching until they'd safely reached the edge of the fair and disappeared underneath the trees. Positioning the basket more comfortably over her arm, Lily pushed her way into the heart of the midway. She needn't have worried about selling the remaining posies, for even before she started to call out, "Sweet posies! Sweet posies for your sweetheart!" she was surrounded by eager young men anxious to catch her eye, even if they did have to buy a posy for a nonexistent sweetheart.
Lily spun around angrily when she felt someone caressing her waist as if he'd every right to. Ready to slap away the hand and deal a stinging rebuke to the impudent fellow, Lily's indignation mounted when a soft kiss was pressed against her cheek before she could do either. But she smiled in relief when she saw Rom's grinning face.
"I thought I should let these young gallants know before they commit a serious mistake, that they may feast their eyes upon you, but nothing more if they value their lives," Romney warned, loud enough for a stubborn lad, determined to insinuate himself closer to Lily, to overhear and hopefully take heed.
Rom took pity on the callow youth, for he could well understand the lad's heartsick expression. Lily, dressed in a plain gown of violet silk brocade embroidered with gold and silver silks, was a temptation to yearn after. A delicate square of crisp linen was folded demurely against her throat, while a gauzy white veil trimmed with gold lace floated gracefully from her shoulders and almost touched the ground. The slashed, puffed sleeves of her bodice revealed the fineness of the linen chemise beneath. She had draped her kirtle high in front to expose her beribboned white petticoats, the scent of lavender drifting from them with every rustling step she took. Braided with fragrant, delicate flowers, her hair hung down her back in a maidenly innocence that contrasted strangely with the barbaric-looking gold earrings that gleamed through the dark red strands.
Rom stared down into her face. Even though the day had been hot, and her cheek was warm and flushed, her brow damp with a light coating of perspiration, the heat rising from her body was sweetly scented. She always smelled as if she'd just rubbed perfumed oils into her skin, Rom thought, feeling a manly stirring and wishing they were lying in the shade of a greenwood far away from the noise and prying eyes.
"Rom?" Lily asked when he remained silent, staring down at her with a troubled expression in his dark blue eyes.
But Rom didn't hear her. He watched her lips moving and was reminded of the glistening pearls that were so treasured by Jack o' Selsey, a dealer trading in precious stones. Once Rom had come upon Lily unawares and had watched while she'd rubbed her teeth with a small piece of soft cloth dampened in a soapy-looking solution. Her breath was always fresh, never soured with ale or the strong herbs and spices from the victuals of the night before. He'd continued to watch when she'd started to brush her long hair, until the strands had crackled with fire.
"Rom?"
"I'm sorry, just dreamin'," he said with an embarrassed grin.
"You're tired. You are doing far too much, Rom. You cannot continue trying to handle our problems while managing your own affairs. We ask too much of you, Rom," Lily said, noticing for the first time the lines of worry etched around the corners of his mouth. Unaware of the interpretation he might put on her gesture, Lily reached up to smooth the lines away, her eyes warm with friendship as she tucked her hand under his arm and walked with him in companionable silence.
Romney Lee was startled and uncomfortable, which surprised him even more. For so long he had waited, longed for such a closeness between them. But now, knowing that he had lied to her, he felt guilt not exultation. It was a strange, sobering sensation for Romney Lee, for he had come to think of himself as a man without conscience.
He glanced away, unable to meet her clear-eyed gaze. He had cheated her, and now when she offered him her friendship and perhaps more, he felt like the thief he was. He did not deserve her gentle ministrations and concern, he berated himself, damning himself for a liar, when he remembered the gratitude in her eyes that morning he had stopped them on the lane from Highcross, he felt as if he had betrayed the trust she'd placed in him.
So clever, he had been. He had only been thinking of himself. He hadn't worried about what fears she might be feeling, believing herself responsible for another's death. But now, all he could think of was what she would think when she learned of his cruel trick, of his deceit, how she would stare at him in contempt before turning away from him forever.
Romney Lee frowned. It had been too easy, like taking something from a child. At daybreak, leaving Lily and the others safely hidden behind the mill, he had ridden into the village to learn all he could about what had happened at Highcross the night before. Thinking Hartwell Barclay dead, he hadn't been surprised to find the groom drinking ale at the Oaks. There was little for that idler to do with his master gone. The groom was thoroughly enjoying being the center of attraction while he recounted his tale.
Listening to the groom's droning voice, it had been quite a shock to hear that Hartwell Barclay wasn't dead, but alive and well, if a bit groggy from the accident that had nearly cost him his life. The man could have drowned, hitting his head like that in the tub, the groom had declared with a smirk. When Hollings had returned to Highcross with the physician and constable, they had discovered Hartwell Barclay bellowing and struggling to remove himself from the tub of cold water. The groom couldn't quite hide the disappointment he must have felt when discovering that his master still lived. Hartwell Barclay had kept mumbling that it had been an accident. No harm had been done, he had kept reassuring everyone, almost guiltily so, some might have thought had they known what really had occurred. After that, Hartwell Barclay had fallen unconscious, or into a stupor from the prodigious amount of liquor he had consumed, for he'd still reeked of it despite his unexpected bath. But because Lily Christian and the others had not been properly questioned, and since the Odell brothers still had to answer for their rowdy behavior th
e night before, the authorities had continued the search.
Rom remembered how he'd had to hide his grin of satisfaction when he had returned to the mill and told them the lie that they were being sought by the authorities for the murder of Hartwell Barclay and they must leave the shire. So hesitant, he had sounded, when suggesting they should join his band of peddlers and vagabonds. Lily and the others had been beholden to him, just as he had planned. Indeed, what had happened that morning could not have been planned any more ingeniously had he himself se t the events into motion, and Lily, so trusting and innocent, had fallen right into his hands. He had seen his chance and he had seized it, uncaring of the consequences.
Later, he had tried to convince himself that he'd acted out of genuine concern for Lily and her family. He understood only too well what had really happened that night. Partly because of what Lily and the maid, Tillie, had told him, but mostly because he knew the kind of man Hartwell Barclay was. As he thought of that, he suddenly saw another face, the face of Geoffrey Christian, and Rom closed his eyes against the accusing glint in those green eyes so like Lily's. I am not like Hartwell Barclay, he told himself. "I am not like that. I'm not," he spoke softly, defiantly, and opening his eyes, he blinked, startled by the brightness of the afternoon sunlight.
Almost guiltily he glanced down at Lily Christian, but she was unaware of his softly spoken words. She was staring straight ahead, oblivious to all around her while she gazed at a man standing in the midway, a curious expression of both longing and aloofness and her face that puzzled Romney. But it was the unguarded look of desire that momentarily flashed in Lily's pale green eyes when her gaze was caught and held by the man's bold stare that alarmed him the most.
Wild Bells to the Wild Sky Page 42