Wild Bells to the Wild Sky

by Laurie McBain

  Lily nodded. "I know, Farley. I too have been thinking that it is time we left the fair. I do not think even Rom can convince the others to let us stay, despite how he feels about us staying with him.

  "Damned jealous, they be," Fairfax muttered. "Haven't lost a match yet, I haven't," he chuckled. "Still think one o' them burned us out o' the puppet show. Reckon they ain't as smart as they think. Heard a number of them grumblin' about losin' business 'cause the show wasn't bringin' in customers. Can't please some folk."

  "I hope Rom won't anger them. They are his friends, and I don't want him to get thrown out with us. He has already done too much for us. We have another choice, but this is all Rom has."

  "Reckon he'd like something more," Farley murmured.

  "Where we goin' to go, Lily?" Tristram asked in surprise. "We can't go back to Highcross can we?"

  "Are we still goin' to Maire Lester's?"

  "No, I do not think that will be necessary now."

  "What do you mean, Lily? Did she die? She's kinda old, isn't she?"

  Lily drew a deep breath. "I saw Valentine Whitelaw today. He is back in England."

  "Uncle Valentine! He's here, Lily!" Dulcie squealed excitedly.

  "Valentine! Really, Lily?" Tristram said, grinning widely. "Where is he? Why didn't he come back with you? Didn't you talk to him?:

  Lily glanced away guiltily. "No, I did not speak with him. I needed time to think about how we would explain what had happened at Highcross and why we are with the fair. I have sent a note to him to meet with me this evening, and we will talk," she lied, then added truthfully, "He will learn the truth then."

  "Tonight? Is he coming here?" Tristram demanded, belatedly realizing that Valentine Whitelaw might indeed think it strange they were here in London. And he'd probably blame him for all that happened, Tristram thought, wishing he'd never gone into the churchyard that night.

  "I thought it best to meet him away from the camp. It would only cause suspicion to have him come here."

  "I always thought the captain was a good man, Mistress Lily. Glad to hear he's returned. Reckon he'll set things right with them villagers in East Highford," Farley declared, feeling better about things already.

  "Can I come, too, Lily?" Tristram asked.

  "Me, too!" Dulcie cried.

  "No, I am not meeting him until evening, and it might be late before we finish our conversation. We have much to discuss, and I would rather speak with him alone. 'Twill be hard to explain," Lily said, some of her anticipated pleasure disappearing when she thought more about her proposed meeting with Valentine Whitelaw. "I want to change," she said suddenly. " 'Twas so hot today, I'm going to have to wash this gown before I wear it again," she added a trifle lamely, anxious to get out of her soiled gown.

  Although he was hesitant to offer, Farley finally managed to find the nerve. "Maybe me and Fairfax oughta come with ye, Mistress Lily. Reckon I could explain about Fairfax and Tillie and me bein' with ye. Wouldn't want to cap'n to think we done something wrong. Reckon 'twill kinda look that way in his eyes," he said worriedly. And exchanging glances with Fairfax, who had opened a curious eye when he'd heard Farley's extraordinary offer, both remembered their first encounter with Valentine Whitelaw and his servant on the stairs at Highcross. No, Farley was certainly right, they didn't want the cap'n thinking ill of them.

  "No, thank you anyway, Farley, but I do not think it will be a pleasant conversation. It might be wiser to allow Valentine Whitelaw to regain his composure before I even mention the part about you and Fairfax and Tristram hiding in the churchyard and frightening the reverend and the villagers half to death," Lily advised.

  "Good idea," Fairfax quickly agreed, remembering the curved sword that foreign fellow wore at his hip.

  "Might not even have to mention it at all," Farley went so far as to speculate. "Reckon if some people could keep their mouths shut about it..." he added.

  "I wouldn't say anything, Farley!" Tristram declared stoutly; after all, it was his neck too.

  Farley shook his head. "I wasn't thinkin' o' ye, Master Tristram," he said, eyeing his brother's lazy form instead.

  "Ah, Farley, now ye know I woudn't be sayin' anything. Why, remember the time when ye and that maid- now what was her name? Well, don't matter," Fairfax began, hiding his grin when he saw Farley glance quickly at Tillie, who was staring at him in amazement.

  "Here, Lily, you haven't eaten anything all day, I bet," Dulcie said, handing Lily a plate with a small wedge of cheese and a cold tart sitting proudly in the middle. "It's the last one," Dulcie told her, thinking it might enhance it some in her sister's eyes, but instead, Lily began to cry softly. She had forgotten all about the roasted squabs for their supper.

  "Oh, Lily, what's wrong?" Dulcie cried, tears hovering close in her luminous eyes. "I told Tristram not to eat that other tart. I knew you'd be hungry."

  "I'm sorry, Lily. I thought you wouldn't mind. You always give me the extra one, anyway," Tristram said, feeling horribly guilty about having eaten that last tart. "I did give half of it to Ruff," he added.

  Lily shook her head, pulling them both close to her and giving them each a hug. "I'm not crying about that. I'm just a little tired. Here, I'm not even hungry. You split this tart, and I'll just have the cheese. I ate something earlier," she lied, handing each of them a piece of the tart.

  Tristram eyed her suspiciously. "Are you certain, Lily?"

  "Yes, I'm certain. Now do as I say!" she said, quickly wiping away her tears. "I do not want to hear another word about it," she warned, not seeing Tillie shake her head and exchanging an I-told-you-so glance with Farley, for they had both said Mistress Lily was getting far too thin.

  "I want to wash away the dust before it gets dark," Lily told them, making her way to the small tent they'd put up between the cart and one of the low branches of the oak. "I intend to look my best when I meet with Valentine Whitelaw tonight. We are not beggars asking for handouts."

  "Ye want me to give ye a hand, Mistress Lily?" Tillie asked, starting to rise, Farley's hand giving her a lift up. "We can bring some pails of water from the stream."

  "Thank you, but I'll just wash in the stream. I won't be long," Lily said.

  Gathering up her green velvet gown, a cloth for washing and drying herself, and her favorite scents, Lily made her way toward the stream that flowed just beyond the camp and closest to where they'd set up their tent. A thick copse of trees grew close to the bank and provided ample privacy. There was no one around to disturb her as Lily placed her clothes on a flat rock. With punishing strokes, Lily brushed her hair free of tangles. Braiding it over her shoulder, she secured it high atop her head. Slipping off her gown and petticoats and clad only in her smock, Lily waded into the cold water. She took her prized bar of soap and used just enough to cleanse the dust a perspiration form her legs and arms. She scrubbed her face clean, rinsing away the touch of Valentine Whitelaw.

  As she stood in the middle of the stream, listening to its soft murmuring around her, she breathed deeply of the cooling air, still heavy with the pungent scent of the woods. Lily continued to stand with the water flowing around her calves. It had a soothing effect and she found herself wishing she could lie down and float with the waters as they flowed into the Thames.

  The shadows were lengthening as the light began to fade and the shapes of the trees became dark silhouettes against the mauve sky. Suddenly Lily was alerted by the sound of a twig cracking loudly beneath someone's foot and a flock of startled birds took to the sky in fright.

  "Who is there?" she demanded, angry that someone might be spying on her. "Please, who is it?"

  But there was only silence.

  Even though she could see and hear the comforting noises from the camp through the trees, Lily hurried from the stream and wasted no time drying off and smoothing the scented lotions into her skin. She fumbled with the fastenings on the green velvet ropa, her smock and petticoats sticking to her damp skin as she struggled into her stockings and sl
ippers.

  Lily kept glancing over her shoulders as she walked back through the trees. The copse seemed far thicker than it had when she'd entered less than an hour earlier. With a sigh of relief, she left the dark underbrush and walked out into the clearing, where golden sunlight slanted down on her and where she heard the sound of cheerful voices and smelled the aroma of cooking meats, for some were just beginning to prepare their evening meals.

  Passing by the back of the cart, Lily tossed the discarded silk gown over the edge of the tub. Leaving her toiletries in the cart, she neared the fire Fairfax was adding wood to. Farley sat close with Tillie napping beside him, and Tristram and Dulcie had moved in from the other side, for by darkness it would be far cooler, and even now the shadows held the chill of autumn fast approaching.

  "Why don't you get ready for bed?" Lily asked, sitting down next to Dulcie, who was beginning to nod off, her head propped against Raphael's soft coat.

  "Will you tell me a story first?" she requested, yawning widely.

  "What would you like to hear?" Lily asked, smiling, for she knew before Dulcie answered what it would be.

  "The tale of the wild white horses," she murmured sleepily, turning to lie in Lily's arms. "Tell me about the island too, Lily. I want to hear about Neptune and the cove."

  "When we were on the island, she always wanted to hear about England and the queen. Now we're here, she only wants to hear about the island," Tristram complained as he helped Cappie out of his coat and hat, carefully folding them up and ready for the next day's performance.

  "Prrraaack! Wild white horses!"

  "That reminds me, Tristram. Did you remember to feed Merry?"

  "Whole bag of oats, and a nip on my shoulder for my trouble," Tristram replied, stretching out his feet to the fire. "I think he's getting meaner, Lily."

  Lily smiled. "He's just getting old."

  "He's getting older and meaner, then," Tristram said. "Hey, look! I think I've seen the first star of the evening!" he crowed with delight, pointing up into the darkening sky, now streaked with mauve.

  "Oh, Tristram! It isn't fair. You always find it first," Dulcie said, disappointed as she searched the heavens for a star. "I don't see any."

  "Don't worry, soon there will be too many to count," Lily said. "After I tell you the tale of the white horses, I'll tell you a new one about the dancing stars," Lily promised, beginning the story. Soon, it would be time to meet Valentine Whitelaw.

  Devil's Tavern was crowded to the beams with patrons. There was hardly more than enough elbow room to lift a tankard by, so packed were the oak tables. A fire burned brightly in the great hearth, helping to warm the damp chill creeping in on the mists rising from the river. Overlooking the Thames and the gallows at Wapping, where there was a convenient public landing place, the tavern was a hive of activity. It was within easy distance of the Pool of London, and the first place a knowledgeable seafarer might stop to meet with friends and quench a thirst. Every so often, the bellowing voice of a bargeman answering the call for "Oars!" could be heard responding with a ribald cry. More often than not, a brief silence would fall over the taproom while they waited for the usual ear-burning oath full of unusually descriptive vulgarities that the watermen prided themselves on mastering.

  Valentine Whitelaw had met Thomas Sandrick as agreed upon and had found a table against the wall, where they'd been served a light supper of beef and ale. But soon their party had grown in size, when his gentlemen friends, including George Hargraves and Walter Raleigh, and fellow captains had discovered his return to London.

  The noise was deafening around him, and Valentine could only catch a word or two of any of several conversations going on at once.

  "Ye've been away. Did ye not hear? 'Tis Sir Francis Drake now!"

  "Aye, he's the devil himself, that one!"

  "Her majesty went aboard his ship in Deptford and knighted him right there on the deck. Ye should have been there. Says, just as bold as brass, she did, that them Spaniards were demandin' Drake's head, so she takes this gilded sword and with a devilish look, hands it to the French ambassador. Has the gent knight Drake instead of beheadin' him."

  "Half a million pounds that treasure was worth. Made a tidy sum, I hear."

  "I know! I served with him. He's the sly one!"

  "Since he's been raidin' the Main, I hear them Spaniards have nicknamed him El Dragón. Got 'em scared senseless, never knowin' when he's goin' to strike and burn their cities and loot 'em of gold!"

  "Hear tell there be a few of them pointed Spanish beards with hairs out of place since ye been sailin' them waters, Whitelaw. Learned a few tricks from Drake, eh?"

  But Valentine Whitelaw didn't hear, he was too busy remembering a soft body pressed against his and the sweet fragrance of perfume that still clung to his clothes and skin. Impatiently, he glanced at the fading light. Soon, it would be dark. Already, he was late, but Walter Raleigh had been full of questions about the New World, more interested in the continent that lay north of the Indies than the Main.

  "Thomas, I'm afraid I've got to leave. I have another appointment I will not miss."

  "A woman, no doubt!" someone commented wryly.

  "Won't be seen' Valentine for some time then."

  "That beautiful, is she?"

  "No, he's just back from a long voyage. No woman aboard! I'm never all that particular, myself. First pair of hips I see will do fer me," the grizzled-looking man said, eyeing a buxom serving wench with a lusty look when she passed by. Reaching out a long arm, he pulled her onto his lap; his hands slid roughly along her hip and thigh, and bussing her a juicy one on the mouth, he grinned down into her laughing face, her halfhearted protest going unheeded.

  Valentine Whitelaw couldn't hide the look of distaste that crossed his tanned face. For the first time, Matt Evan's crudeness was offensive to him; even though the remarks might have been made in a good-natured jesting, it bothered Valentine to have Francisca referred to in the same breath as the drab sprawled indecorously across Evan's lap.

  Francisca was not just any woman to ease his lusts by. Despite what he might have said about just one night aboard the Madrigal, he knew he would want her in his bed fore many nights to come. He had already thought about setting her up as his mistress. He could see that she had everything she needed. A fine house in the city. A coach. Clothes and jewels and servants to wait on her every whim. He would pamper her and keep her in silks and velvets, her dark red hair gleaming with pearls and her soft, pale skin scented with the headiest, most exotic perfumes he would buy for her in Arabia.

  Perhaps he would even take her to Plymouth with him, since he would be spending more time in the West Country. It would be but a few hours' ride to see her whenever he wished. One day, he might even take her to visit Ravindzara. Thinking of Francisca, of having her in bed, of her mouth trembling and soft from his kisses, of her pale, slender thighs entwined around his hips, of taking her until she was breathless with desire, the image of any other woman but a redheaded, green-eyed enchantress faded from his mind. So did the idea that had been forming in his mind of late that he needed a wife, and that he might make his intentions known to Honoria Penmorley.

  Realizing he still sat lost in his daydreaming while the sunset faded across the river, where a woman was waiting for him, Valentine began to excuse himself, rising from the table with a determined glint in his eye to bid a quick farewell to his friends.

  Valentine hadn't gotten as far as the next table, the Turk moving closely behind him, when he was halted by a man he knew only slightly. The man drew him aside, slipping him a note.

  "Lord Burghley wishes to see you."

  "Now?" Valentine questioned in disbelief.

  "Yes, sir, now. If you please. His lordship has been busy with appointments all day, and only now has he found the time to see you. If you please?" the man repeated, but more insistently this time, and Valentine realized the man was not likely to take no for an answer. Nor indeed did one refuse to see William Ce
cil when he requested your presence.

  Valentine hid his frustration well as he followed the man from the tavern. For a brief moment, Valentine Whitelaw stood outside, staring with a narrowed gaze at the distant bank. The first star of the evening had risen low in the darkening skies.

  "Mustafa"

  "Yes, Cap'n?"

  "I do not know how long I shall be," he said, glancing over at the silent courier.

  "I am afraid I cannot say, sir," was all he allowed as he headed toward the steps, where a barge awaited.

  "I want you to go across the river and meet Francisca. I don't want her to think I am not coming. Damn!" Valentine cursed when he saw the night watchman, carrying his halberd and horn-lantern, wander past as he roared the hour and warned the residents to light their lanterns and hang them outside their homes to light the way for others. " 'Tis later than I thought."

  "Francisca?" Mustafa said the name curiously. "The girl from the fair?"

  "Yes, I've arranged to meet her. I want you to go instead. She saw you with me this afternoon. Explain to her why I cannot come. Take her aboard the Madrigal, and don't take no for an answer if she resists you. I don't think she will, though," Valentine added with the assurance, or perhaps the arrogance, of a handsome man who had seldom been denied the woman he was after.

  "Bring her aboard, Cap'n?" Mustafa questioned, for the captain had never had a woman aboard the Madrigal before, except, of course, the women of his family.

  "Captain Whitelaw? We must not keep Lord Burghley waiting," the messenger reminded him.

  "Just do it, Mustafa. I will expect to see her in my cabin when I come aboard," he warned, and with one final glance across the river, the bank now lost in darkness, Valentine Whitelaw made his way down the slippery steps to the barge that waited to carry him back upriver, but not to meet the person he'd been hoping to.