Wild Bells to the Wild Sky

by Laurie McBain

  "As you wish, Cap'n," Mustafa said, bowing his turbaned head deferentially, but he was more curious than ever about this woman who had so captivated his captain.

  Lily patted Merry's flank comfortingly, although she suspected she derived more comfort from the contact than he did. It had grown dark so quickly. She could scarcely see the river anymore, except where the flickering glow from the stern lanterns of ships and passing barges reflected in the blackness of the waters swirling past. But a mist was rising, and son she wouldn't even be able to see those few beacons.

  Lily glanced around uneasily. There were so many strange sounds. The river kept up a constant gurgling as the waters lapped against the hulls of the ships anchored midstream, before rushing against the bank. Every so often she would hear voices calling through the night, but most of the words remained unintelligible to her innocent ears.

  In the fading twilight, she had found Valentine Whitelaw's ship, the Madrigal. She'd recognized the carved figurehead of the sea maid riding her bow. Under different circumstances, Lily found herself thinking, she would have liked to go aboard his ship again. She was the most beautiful ship on the Thames. But now, never...

  Lily sighed, jumping nervously when Merry snorted, his warm breath tickling the back of her neck. "All right, boy, I know you don't like standing out here in the mists any more than I do," she spoke to him gently, rubbing his soft nose.

  He wasn't coming. Valentine Whitelaw was not going to meet her. What a fool she had been to believe his lies. He had gotten all he had wanted under the trees. After all, he had Cordelia to hold in his arms whenever he chose. They were probably aboard his ship right now, standing on the deck watching her forlorn figure on the shore, laughing at her gullibility. Or perhaps he'd seen another comely maid and enticed her into his bed, Lily decided, her anger growing with each shivering breath she took.

  She didn't know if she was more relieved or angry that he had not kept their assignation. Even though she had not been looking forward to the confrontation, despite her desire to see his shocked expression when she revealed her true identity, she did not like being made a fool of, and that was exactly what she was to remain here waiting for him any longer.

  "Come along, Merry. Let's go," Lily whispered, and leading the big white horse over to a fallen tree stump, she climbed on his back and, with a light touch of her heels to his flank, she sent him back toward the camp.

  Sir Raymond Valchamps lifted his scented pomander to his nose and eyed with increasing contempt the rabble of unwashed bodies crowded so close together in the small taproom of the inn situated on a narrow lane just beyond Traitor's Gate. It was absolutely breathtaking, he though.

  And they were an angry mob, too. It wouldn't take much to incite them to further violence after the beating many of them had taken that afternoon when they'd tangled with a group of ruffians from the fair.

  Sir Raymond smiled. Things had gone rather nicely for him today.

  "Damn those peddlers! Cheated me out of a fair price, that one did!"

  "Sold me a lame horse last week. Tried to take it back, but they said the nag wasn't lame when I bought it. Accused me of lyin'!" a rough-looking man said angrily, taking a long swallow from his tankard of ale.

  "Heard tell they be sellin' ale that's only a few days old, yet chargin' even more than this place does! Hate to tell any o' ye'se been drinkin' it what I thinks it be made of."

  "How about that, John? Them cheatin' ye out o' yer customers with stuff like that," another one yelled at the innkeeper.

  "Aye, cheatin' the public, I says. Oughta run the lot of them out of London."

  "Lost plenty bettin' on ye in the ring. Why'd ye let that big fair-haired fellow beat ye?"

  "Cheated, he did! Bit me on the shoulder!" the man defended his loss with a guilty glance away from his friend's speculative gaze.

  "Not only did he beat ye, and steal my earnings, he was sweet-talkin' and fondlin' yer daughter!"

  "Lizzie? He had them big ham-fists of his on me daughter? When? I'll-"

  ` "What d'ye mean ye can't be payin' fer the ale ye sat here drinkin'?" the innkeeper demanded of the fancy gentleman who'd been sitting by himself in the corner.

  "Exactly what I said, my good man," Sir Raymond declared, glancing around at the indignant faces glaring at him. "My purse has been stolen," he said, standing up so quickly he upended the small oak table, sending the plates the serving maid had set down when collecting his empty tankard scattering onto the dirty floor. " 'Twas the whore. The one traveling with the gypsies. Has red hair. She did it. At the fair, just a little while ago. She wanted me to buy some of the posies she was selling."

  "Aye, remember her, I do," someone said.

  "Smiled at me so sweetly, why, I couldn't keep her hands off my person, so bold was she."

  "Wish she'd been as bold with me, eh?" someone guffawed, thinking he'd have dealt easily enough with the wench. The fancy gent probably needed his servants' help.

  "Enticed me behind one of the tents for a bit of pleasure. Well? I'm a man, aren't I?" Sir Raymond demanded as several of the men nodded understandingly. "She was fair enough to catch my eye," Sir Raymond said, unfortunately drawing the attention of several to his eyes. "Then, before I could do more than put an arm around her. I was hit from behind. When I awoke, my purse was gone, as well as my rings!" he declared, his gold pomander safely tucked away inside his hat now. "My God! 'Tis an outrage. So weak was I, that I could only get as far as this inn. I hope you will forgive me, good sir, for drinking your ale without being able to pay for it."

  "Oh, sir, never think that. 'Tis on the house. Why, after what ye've been through! They oughta be hanged! The nerve of them to do such a thing to a gentleman! Why, I never heard of such boldness!"

  "Yes, quite," Sir Raymond murmured faintly, fanning himself. He glanced up in feigned surprise when two men who'd been standing in the crowded taproom, awaiting his signal, suddenly picked up a couple of torches, and lighting them, held them high over their heads much to the innkeeper's horror as he watched the flames licking against the rafters of his inn.

  "Let's burn 'em out! Come on! Are ye with us?"

  "Aye!"

  "Burn the thieves and whores out of our town!"

  "We'll take care of them gypsies!"

  "I'm with you!" Sir Raymond cried out, making his way through the crowded taproom.

  Sir Raymond's elegant figure became lost in the crowd that surged through the streets of Southwark, growing larger as they passed by the other inns and taverns. They neared the grounds where the vagabond band was peacefully settled around their fires while most ate their only hot meal of the day, and others were already asleep for the night beneath their carts or inside colorful tents.

  The fires from the torches held to the booths and tents passed along the way spread quickly, surprising and even sobering some of the mob by the searing heat from the flames rising high over the fairgrounds.

  Screams and cries filled the air. The smoke billowed in black clouds, choking and blinding the people as they staggered about. Animals and people began to rush madly through the mob, oblivious to the cudgels and fists being swung by many as gypsies and vagabonds met the vicious attack by the townspeople with an erupting anger of their own.

  Reaching the campsites, Sir Raymond held back, watching the crowd. Woman and children were running wildly along the outskirts of the fighting, many huddling together in little groups, while other quickly gathered up their belongings and, locating their scattered animals, wasted no time in hitching them up to their carts and wagons.

  Staying close to the trees, and safely out of reach of the bloodthirsty combatants, Sir Raymond made his way toward the group, searching out the figure of Lily Christian. With a sense of disbelief at his good fortune, he saw her standing alone, near a cart where a couple of oxen stood tethered to a tree by a tent.

  Slowly, he moved up behind her, the loud noises masking his stealthy approach out of the trees. Pulling the knife from his do
ublet, Sir Raymond raised it high above his head, his arm arced to strike the death blow.

  Through the haze he saw a man approaching from the crowd, yelling something to the girl, a warning, but Sir Raymond's arm was already swinging down, the knife blade glinting in the firelight as it inched closer, slicing past her dark red head to drive deep into her back, the soft flesh of her slender shoulder ripping apart as Sir Raymond stabbed deep into her body, the blood spurting from the wound splattering his chest and face.

  The force of the blow spun her around to face him and Sir Raymond screamed with fear when her hair came loose in his hands.

  Sir Raymond's mouth opened in horror as he stared down at the flimsy piece of dark red lace that floated to the ground at his feet. He looked up in time to see the girl's face as she fell against him. It had been a mask of death, the dark, sightless eyes staring at him in surprise.

  The girl he had just murdered had not been Lily Christian. but Sir Raymond had no time to speculate upon his mistake as he himself was attacked by a knife-wielding fiend. The man's body hurled against his and sent them both flying into the dirt.

  Sir Raymond cried out, feeling some of the searing pain that the girl must have felt when he'd driven his knife into her. For a moment, Sir Raymond thought he was going to die. The blade of the knife had felt so startlingly cold against his flesh; then it had become a burning sensation deep inside of him. Holding his own weapon against his chest as he tried to defend himself, Sir Raymond and his attacker rolled over. Then suddenly Sir Raymond found himself released from the death hold the other man had held him in.

  Fearing another blinding pain striking him full force, Sir Raymond remained unmoving, but when the other man didn't move, he cautiously rolled away. Staggering to his feet, blood dripping from the wound in his shoulder, Sir Raymond stared down at the man who had attacked him.

  Sir Raymond stared bemusedly at his knife embedded in the man's chest. Had he truly struck the blow himself, he could not have had a surer aim. Gradually, Sir Raymond became aware that the fight had gone out of the mob, and many of them were running away, nursing wounds, as they sought the safety of their homes.

  Taking a handkerchief from his doublet, Sir Raymond tried to stanch the flow of blood from his wound. Odd, now that his fear of having been attacked was over, his wound seemed strangely insignificant. What bothered him the most was that Lily Christian still lived.

  Moving into the shadows of the trees, Sir Raymond stared down at the two people he'd killed. He couldn't understand how he'd mistaken that woman for Lily Christian. She was wearing the same dress he'd seen Lily Christian wearing earlier in the day. Of course she had been wearing that damned veil over her head. A pity it'd been the same dark red as Lily Christian's hair.

  Suddenly, Sir Raymond caught his breath as he watched Lily Christian riding into the camp astride a white horse. Quickly, she dismounted and was racing directly toward where he stood in the quiet of the trees, when someone called out to her and she turned, then ran in the opposite direction, out of his reach.

  A young boy and girl flung themselves into her outstretched arms. Hugging them tight, she hurried to the side of a woman who was trying to kneel near a man who had been felled by a blow to the head. Another, shorter man, assisted her, then knelt beside her as he examined the large man lying unconscious on the ground.

  As Sir Raymond continued to watch, Lily Christian glanced up, looking his way. Unable to control himself, he stepped deeper into the shadowy concealment of the trees just behind the cart.

  Sir Raymond knew she couldn't see him, but he could see her. She might have escaped death this time but not the next time, he vowed. He would not fail again.

  O mistress mine! Where are you roaming?

  SHAKESPEARE

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  IT WAS JUST BEFORE DAWN. Valentine Whitelaw stood on the deck of the Madrigal and stared broodingly across the river, toward the distant bank cloaked in mist and barely visible through the lightening gloom.

  She was gone.

  While he had been waiting to meet with Lord Burghley, she had fled. And after what the Turk had told him had happened at the vagabond camp, he knew he might never have seen her again. She could have been the one lying dead, stabbed through the heart, Valentine thought, damning the circumstances that had kept him from meeting her, from being by her side when danger had struck so close.

  He had waited nearly five hours before William Cecil had been able to see him. When he'd entered Cecil's chambers, that tired gentleman had been hurriedly leaving. Ordered to attend the queen at once, his lordship had given him an apologetic glance and promise that he would not be long as he'd limped along the corridor, and from the flustered look of a member of the queen's guard who'd been sent to escort the Lord Treasurer, Her Majesty was most likely in one of her towering rages and needed to be quieted by the comforting, calming voice of her old friend.

  Valentine had sat waiting patiently. Then he'd paced the long, darkened corridor with impatient strides as the hours had slowly passed and he'd thought too often of the woman waiting for him. But believing that Turk had brought Francisca aboard the Madrigal, and that she was comfortably settled in his cabin, he had not grown overly concerned, just frustrated not to have been with her.

  Recalling now his dismay when he'd come aboard after midnight to find his cabin empty, then his shock when he'd heard the reason why, he realized that he had yet another score to settle with Don Pedro Enrique Villasandro, captain of the Estrella D'Alba. The Spaniard had plagued him long enough, Valentine mused, vowing to settle that score once and for all.

  The Spanish captain had been the reason for Lord Burghley's summons, and Valentine now held Don Pedro indirectly responsible for having put Francisca's life in danger and for what had not happened last night aboard the Madrigal. Lord Burghley, ever one to advise caution, was concerned about the growing animosity between the two captains and had advised a more conciliatory attitude. Lord Burghley did not wish to see a personal grudge develop into a far more serious incident between the two unfriendly nations. An official complaint from the Spanish ambassador had been lodged against Valentine Whitelaw, listing in fine detail his piratical acts against Spain and her loyal subjects. And Drake, through his latest exploits of plunder throughout Spain's empire in the New World, was causing irreparable harm to the already fragile negotiations.

  They did not need yet another Englishman giving Philip more cause to arm Spain against England. Valentine Whitelaw knew that Cecil and the queen were having a battle of their own to maintain England's peace while trying to restrain the war-mongering voices of many members of her council, among them Walsingham's, Hatton's, and Leicester's, who were far less pacificatory toward Spain.

  Cecil had gone on to inform him that when Don Pedro had been in England the month before, he had inquired about the whereabouts of his enemy, and through sources he would not care to divulge, they had learned that spies were watching Valentine Whitelaw's movements and had been asking quite a few questions along the docks about the future voyages of the Madrigal.

  Valentine Whitelaw smiled, for Don Pedro Enrique Villasandro would not have to wonder for long. Cecil had also told him that the captain of the Estrella D'Alba had sailed for Spain over a fortnight ago, carrying high-placed members of the ambassador's household and other important dignitaries. Indeed, it seemed of late that all of the Estrella D'Alba's voyages had been on the king's business. Her passengers were more often than not traveling on diplomatic missions rather than private business. It would be most embarrassing if an Englishman were to sink a ship in which the Spanish ambassador or any member of his family were sailing. Cecil had said with a judicious shake of his head. Of course, if the Madrigal was attacked first, her captain would have every right to defend himself, Cecil had added, not totally lacking in understanding of the situation.

  Valentine Whitelaw had been in complete agreement. And, of course, he did have his own spies too, and he would soon know where Don
Pedro next planned to sail, and whether his passengers were important enough to allow the Estrella D'Alba to go unchallenged. If not, then perhaps they would meet sooner than he had anticipated, Valentine speculated, thinking of his next voyage

  But that would have to wait. At first light, he would try to find Francisca. He had to find her. If only he had been there last night when that mob of townspeople had attacked the camp. Mustafa had told him of the stalls and tents set aflame, of the frightened women and children, some huddling in groups, others running blindly into the thick of the fray, and of the animals, driven into a frenzy by the fire, causing panic when stampeding through the camp.

  The Turk had been deeply upset by his failure to please his captain. He'd explained that he had rowed over to the riverbank as his captain had ordered, but had found the girl gone. He'd already decided to go in search of her when he'd seen the flames and heard the cries for help. He'd hurried to the camp, arriving in time to see a group of people standing around a man and a woman who'd been wounded during the attack.

  He had moved up closer to see if he could be of any assistance. He hadn't been able to see the woman's face, because of the people gathered so close, but her gown, of violet silk, had been stained with blood. Edging even closer, to peer over the shoulders of several people kneeling beside the fallen pair, he had seen the girl the captain had wanted them to bring aboard the Madrigal, and it had been the same girl, the Turk had reassured his stunned captain. There had been no mistaking the dark red hair and green eyes the captain had described to him.

  For a horrible instant, Valentine Whitelaw had believed the dead girl was Francisca, for he remembered only to vividly that gown of violet silk, and he'd felt as if the knife that had mortally wounded her had struck him instead. His mind had filled with the image of her lying on the ground, the blood seeping from her lifeless body.