But the Turk had gone on to say that this Francisca had been kneeling beside a man, who had apparently been wounded trying to defend the woman who had been so brutally attacked. The dead woman had looked like one of the gypsies, her hair black, her skin dark. A silver-haired man, now holding the woman in his arms, had given orders to move the man into one of the carts. The man was not dead yet, although, from the look of the wound, the Turk suspected he soon would be. The silver-haired man had ordered everyone to pack up their belongings. They were leaving the fair and London before dawn and before their attackers returned.
The girl who'd been sitting with the wounded man's head cradled in her lap, had glanced up, her face stained with tears and darkened by the smoke from the fires still burning out of control. The man lying in her arms had moaned in pain, calling her name. It had been Francisca. His hand had grasped hers with surprising strength, for the girl had given a start of surprise and quickly bent over him, listening to his whispered words. She'd looked up at the silver-haired man pleadingly, and the Turk had heard her asked if she and her family were to be allowed to travel with them.
The silver-haired man had shaken his head, saying something abusive to this Francisca, which had caused the wounded man to raise his bloodied shoulders, gasping for breath as he begged the older man to let the girl accompany them. The silver-haired an had hesitated, then nodded his agreement to the man's request.
The Turk had looked discomfited while he'd continued his talk, but Valentine Whitelaw had been insistent. The Turk had tried to speak with the girl when she had gotten to her feet, but she'd stayed beside the man, comforting him. He hadn't been able to get close because of the group surrounding them. He had walked out of sight, not wishing to attract any more attention and had waited. He'd watched the carts rolling out, toward the south. Then he had returned to the ship to await his captain's arrival.
Concluding his story, the Turk had frowned. It had bothered him at the time, this persistent feeling that he knew the girl, but he kept silent, thinking the captain would think him mad. But he did tell the captain something else he'd seen, which had bothered him even more.
Standing in the trees, he had become aware of another man, a gentleman, standing nearby, and also watching the group of vagabonds and gypsies leaving the burning camp. Sensing the man's desire not to be seen, the Turk had lingered, now watching the man instead. To his surprise, after the last cart had rumbled down the lane, the man stepped from the trees, his face revealed by the flickering light of the flames that continued to burn, sending a reddish glow into the night sky.
The man had glanced around, searching for someone, then, when two rough-looking men had approached him, both carrying cudgels and torches that were still burning brightly, he had handed each of them a purse of money. The Turk had known it was money, because one of the men, less trusting than the other, had tossed down his torch and opened the purse. Pouring the gleaming contents into his palm and weighing the amount, he had nodded to the gentleman, and with a wide grin on his face, he and his friends had hurried away.
The Turk had recognized the fancy-dressed gentleman paying off the two men. It had been an acquaintance of the captain's: Sir Raymond Valchamps.
Sir Raymond Valchamps? Valentine Whitelaw couldn't get the name out of his mind as he continued to wonder why Valchamps had been at the gypsy camp, and why he had been paying off two men who had obviously been part of the mob that had set fire to the gypsies' encampment.
Valentine Whitelaw continued to stand on deck, lost in his thoughts. Quinta was not due in London for almost a fortnight. For now, Sir Rodger was content to remain in London, busy with business affairs. And by tomorrow, the Madrigal's cargo would have been unloaded. He would have time to search for Francisca. He had to find her, he thought again, unwilling to let her disappear out of his life after that chance sighting of her riding along the riverbank. He knew he would never be able to forget her, to stop wondering about her. The first pale streakings of dawn were lighting the eastern skies when Valentine, preparing to go ashore and begin his search, heard a hail from off the port side.
Much as he enjoyed his nephew's company, Valentine Whitelaw was less than pleased to see Simon waving to him wildly from a boat being rowed close to the Madrigal amidships.
"Valentine! Uncle Valentine! You're back!" Simon Whitelaw cried excitedly, and spying his uncle standing on the deck, forgetful of where he was as he tried to attract his uncle's attention.
Simon Whitelaw scrambled aboard, his young face mirroring his disturbing adventures of the last day. His doublet was dusty and wrinkled, and there was a rip in one of the sleeves. His hose hadn't fared any better, nor had his shoes, which were caked in dirt. He had a bruise on one thin cheek, and his eyes were bloodshot and heavy-lidded from lack of sleep.
"Good Lord, Simon! What has happened? Nothin wrong at Riverhurst, is there? I was just there yesterday morning to call on Lady Elspeth and Sir William," Valentine exclaimed, worried now that he'd seen his nephew's disheveled appearance.
"No. I was just there. That is how I knew you'd returned to England in time to help. I stopped there to tell the what had happened, and Mother and Sir William told me that you were back. Oh, Uncle Valentine, thank god you have returned," Simon said, his voice hoarse.
"Is there some trouble at Whiteswood? You are not having difficulties with the tenants or servants, are you?" Valentine demanded, but thought it unlikely, since they had known Simon all of his life. "What happened to your cheek? Not in a fight, were you?" Valentine asked doubtfully, for that did not sound like his nephew.
"No," Simon said, looking ashamed. "I fell from my horse. I wasn't watching where I was going. I think I fell asleep. But I'm all right. A few bruises. Kept me from falling asleep again. And everything is fine at Whiteswood. Uncle Valentine, she's gone!" Simon declared, his dark eyes full of anguish.
For a moment, Valentine Whitelaw thought he heard an echo ringing in his ears. Then, eyeing his nephew suspiciously, he wondered what game he was playing?
"Uncle Valentine? Don't you understand? She is gone. So are the others. Lily has disappeared!"
"Lily?"
"Yes, Lily Christian! Dulcie and Tristram, too! And Cappie and Cisco and Raphael and Merry! They've all disappeared. It was that Hartwell Barclay, Valentine. He's the one!" Simon said angrily. "If he hadn't gone into her room and fallen into that tub of water, Lord knows what might have happened, because I believe the groom when he says Hartwell Barclay has been trying to seduce Lily. They weren't safe there! And now, they've run away. The Odels and Tillie too!"
Valentine Whitelaw stared at his nephew in growing concern; never before had he seen Simon in such a state, and he wondered if the lad had been sowing a few wild oats and lifting too many tankards of ale. "Now, Simon, why don't you come into my cabin and lie down. You look tired, lad. We will discuss this after you've had a chance to rest."
"I am tired, Valentine. It seems as if I've been riding since night before last, but I can't rest until we've found them. they're gone, Valentine. They had to leave Highcross because of that Hartwell Barclay. Oh, he denies it all, but I know the truth. I never have liked him much. And now they're trying to say Lily is a witch! I think they wanted to burn her at the stake! Well, they've got me to answer to, as well as my family, and I told them as much. I'll see that reverend in hell first," Simon said, his voice rising heatedly again. "Of course, now that you're here, Valentine, I know you will wish to deal with these upstarts personally. But I shall accompany you. I want to see their smug faces when you toss the lot of them out on their rear ends! Especially the constable and that sour-dispositioned woman and her whey-faced daughter, sitting there like a couple of fat hens ruling the roost already."
Valentine Whitelaw sighed, his glance straying to the distant bank as he said, "Why don't you come below and tell me exactly what has happened."
"I knew I could count on you, Uncle Valentine. All the way back from Highcross, I kept wishing you were back in Eng
land. I knew you would know what to do. I think they've gone to find Maire Lester," he confided eagerly.
"Who is Maire Lester?"
"The old nursemaid. I know that is where they've gone. She's the only one they could trust. You were out of the country. Artemis is married now and going to have a baby. Quinta's up north somewhere. They must have been terrified, thinking they killed Hartwell Barclay and that the village wanted to burn Lily and arrest the Odells and Tristram for raiding the churchyard. I stopped off in the village to get an ale before riding back to London, and you should have heard the talk," Simon exclaimed. "If we leave right away, Uncle Valentine, we can reach Stratford without any delay," Simon said.
"Stratford?"
"Yes, that is where the Maire Lester lives."
Valentine Whitelaw eyed his nephew, an angry glint in his eyes. "If this is some kind of jest, Simon, by God I'll-" he warned.
"Jest?" Simon croaked, his voice squeaky with indignation. "Uncle Valentine, I'm telling you the truth. You can go to Highcross and talk to Hartwell Barclay in person, but my sister, and Lily and Tristram, are gone! We've got to find them. They're out there somewhere," Simon said, waving his arm so that all directions were encompassed. "Anything could have happened to them, Valentine. They've been wandering the countryside for months now. Just think of the riffraff that travels the roads. Vagabonds. Deserters. Thieves. Gypsies!"
Valentine nodded slowly. Yes, gypsies, he though. "Stratford lies north of her. In Warwickshire, is it not?"
"Yes," Simon agreed quickly. "Not to far from Coventry, or Kenilworth and Charlecote," he added, mentioning two of the greater estates Valentine might have visited.
"And you believe Lily, Dulcie, and Tristram have gone there?" Valentine asked slowly, his gaze lingering a moment longer toward the south, then he glanced away, knowing that he had made his decision. There was no other decision he could have made; Dulcie and the other children were his responsibility. Suddenly, he found himself remembering the vow he had made to Lily Christian years ago. He would always be there for her, he had promised. His vow to protect her and Dulcie and Tristram came before his selfish desire to find a woman he had wanted only for his bed.
With a bitter smile, Valentine Whitelaw realized that fate was against him this time and some things were not meant to be. "Very well, Simon. Let us hope you are right, and Lily Christian and the others have gone to this Maire Lester's."
"Francisca? My Lily Francisca," Romney Lee murmured feverishly. "Where are you, Francisca? Don't leave me, Francisca. Please, don't ever leave me. It is so dark. I wish there was sunshine. I'm so cold," he said, shivering, then pushing away the blankets and complaining of the heat.
It was afternoon, and although the shadows were lengthening the sun was still shining brightly. In a wide meadow, Silver Jones had halted their flight from London so the animals could rest, and the wounds of those who had been hurt in the fight could be properly treated.
Lily pressed a cooling compress against Romney's burning forehead. "I won't leave you, Rom. I'm here, right beside you," she reassured him, her hand gentle against his lips as she moistened them with a few drops of water.
"My love, my beautiful Lily Francisca," he said, his dark blue eyes staring up at her as if memorizing every beloved feature.
Lily hid her start of surprise well and smiled down into his flushed face.
"I love you, Lily Francisca. I think I always have. You have always been like the fine piece of silver I coveted but had no table to set it on, or the bolt of silk that was too fine for my roughened hand, and that embroidered armchair I wanted but only had a cart to set it in. Always, I have wished for that just beyond my reach. When I saw that man attacking you I felt as if I had lost the most precious thing in my life. I hurried over, but not quick enough. You had fallen. So much blood. Your blood stained my hands. Your blood. So red," he said, beginning to shake violently.
"It is all right, Rom. Please don't think of it. I am not dead. No one has hurt me," Lily said, trying to quiet him. "I am here, feel me."
Rom grasped her hands in his. "No. You are not dead, are you? I can smell the fragrance you wear. Your body is warm, not cold with death. Your heart beating so strongly. I can feel it," he said lightly placing his hand over her breast.
Lily remained still, allowing him to touch her.
"I am so confused. I thought you had died, and it was all my fault. I had lied to you, and because of my deceit, I had killed you. But then I saw Navarre's face. It was Navarre, wasn't it? She was killed in your place. I couldn't understand. It was like a nightmare. But she was wearing your gown. Francisca?" Rom muttered, both his hands clasping hers. "She was dressed in your lovely violet gown. Francisca? Where are you?" he whispered.
"I am here," Lily said softly.
Navarre. She was dead, and it almost seemed as if she had died by mistake, although Old Maria had seemed to accept what had happened with her usual lack of surprise-as if she had already seen it. Lily drew a shaky breath, remembering the feeling of horror she'd felt seeing Navarre lying there, her sightless eyes staring up at her accusingly. She had been dressed in the gown that she, Lily, had worn that very afternoon. The pale violet silk had been stained with Navarre's blood. Lily swallowed the painful lump in her throat. For an instant, she had felt as if she'd been staring at herself and a chilling premonition had spread through her that had left her shaking with fear.
She realized now that it had been Navaree who'd been watching her by the stream, following her through the copse that afternoon. She must have seen her toss the gown over the tub and, seeing her chance, had stolen it. Navarre had always envied her the gowns she wore.
She had probably found the purse of money too, Lily thought. Valentine Whitelaw's money. She had forgotten it after her wash, and when she'd gone back to get it, remembering she'd left it tied to the waistband of her gown, she'd found that both the purse of money and the gown had disappeared.
"Lily Francisca? Will you forgive me?" Romney pleaded.
"For what, Rom? You are my friend. I will always be grateful to you," Lily told him, smoothing back the chestnut curls clinging damply to his brow.
"Your friend? No, I do not deserve to be. But I have loved you as I have no other. do not hate me for stealing this summer from you, Lily Francisca. Do not hate me."
"I could never hate you, Rom," Lily told him, pressing a kiss against his forehead.
Romney Lee smiled. "Never? I wonder?"
"Do you want to know a secret? I would not have missed this summer, Rom. I've loved traveling with you from fair to fair."
Romney Lee sighed. "We will be happy together, Lily Francisca. We will always travel across England, from fair to fair we will ride. Our puppet show will make us wealthy. We will buy a beautiful wagon. Carved and painted as bright as the sun. It will be our home. We will love there and raise our children. You will lie with me, won't you, Lily Francisca?" he asked, a boyishly innocent expression on his face as he stared up at her.
"Yes, Rom, I will lie with you."
"And be my lover? My only lover, Lily Francisca?"
"Yes, my love."
"My beautiful flower. You do love me, don't you?"
"Yes, Rom, I do love you," Lily told him, and truthfully so, although not in the sense he might wish.
"How I have loved you. Will you kiss me, Lily Francisca?" he asked, his dark blue eyes glazed with pain. "One kiss."
Tears filling her eyes, Lily lowered her mouth to his and let his lips touch hers in a gentle kiss that held the promise of a love that could never be.
Romney Lee stared up into Lily Christian's face, her pale green eyes like a clear pool of water above him, and he felt himself floating away, drifting out of his pain-racked body into a peaceful sleep.
Two hours later, Romney Lee died in Lily Christian's arms. Silver Jones had come up to the cart when he'd seen her climbing from it, his hand steadying her when she'd stumbled.
"We will take him with us to the marshes. 'Tis wher
e both he and Navarre were born, and where they will both be laid to rest," Silver Jones spoke huskily, his bull-shoulders slumped with grief for his niece and the young man he'd always thought of as a son. "I will let Romney Lee's sister know of his death, but he will be buried by us. He was one of us and my Navarre loved him. She had a great deal of money on her when she died. I do not know where she got it, but I will use whatever I need of it to give both of them a decent burial. Navarre would have wanted it that way," he said, almost daring Lily to claim the money as hers, for both she and Silver Jones knew that the gown Navarre had been wearing had been hers.
"You and the others must leave."
Lily nodded. She knew they couldn't return to Kent.
"We only allowed you to stay because of rom. He convinced us last night to let you stay. Maybe, too, because you did good," he added grudgingly. "You'd better leave soon. It would be best, now that..." But he let the rest of his words trail off. "There are some who will blame you for Rom's death. And for Navarre's. Go, now, while you still have some daylight left," Silver Jones advised before he walked away without a backward glance.
Lily walked slowly to their car. Tristram and Dulcie sat quietly on the edge, their feet dangling while they waited for her return. Tillie and Farley were arguing in loud whispers, and Fairfax sat propped against the side, his head bandaged from the blow he'd received during the scuffle when he'd tried to protect the others from being attacked.
"We are leaving," Lily told them abruptly.
"Rom died, didn't he?" Tristan demanded, his eyes red-rimed.
"Yes."
"Which way we headed?" Farley asked.
"North. We have no place to go but to Maire Lester's."
"Can't we get Valentine to help us, Lily?" Tristram asked. "Didn't you tell him what happened? Didn't he believe you?"
"He never showed up. He's probably already sailed for Cornwall," Lily said shortly, glad she did not have to face Valentine Whitelaw. There wasn't anything he could do for them. They did not need his help, or his pity, she thought proudly.
Wild Bells to the Wild Sky Page 48