Wild Bells to the Wild Sky

by Laurie McBain

  Lily fought the tears that threatened to fall. She was important only as a witness against Sir Raymond Valchamps. Valentine Whitelaw did not care beyond that. "A game. That is all it ever is for you," she said bitterly, stumbling slightly over a vine and shaking off the hand that had kept her from falling.

  "A game? Perhaps, my dear," Valentine Whitelaw agreed, a strange expression on his hardened face, "but one of life and death. Never forget that, will you, Lily?" he requested.

  Lily glanced away from him, unable to meet his gaze. It was while she stood there, staring along the cliff face, searching for something, that she saw the grotesque tree, its limbs bent out of shape and driven into tortuous angles by the winds that battled across the headland. She remembered now that the path curved around that tree, although she'd never remembered that until now, to wend along the headland until it came precariously close to a ravine that dropped straight down into the sea below. At one time, it must have been a cave much like the one that hid their treasure, only the roof had caved in long ago and the sea had surged into it, cutting a jagged fissure into the headland.

  At that juncture, there were two paths, one led down toward the cove, while the other wove higher along the cliff, leading to the summit.

  "We turn here and follow this path," Lily said, indicating a stony path that seemed to lead nowhere.

  "Are you certain?" Simon demanded, having caught up to the party that had almost disappeared out of the cove. "There's another path that climbs over the headland there," he said, drawing everyone's attention t a dangerous-looking path of little more than rough-hewn stone steps too far apart to be easily followed. It led over the top of the headland before disappearing into the forest.

  "No, that one only leads down to the beach on the far side, then around the curve of the shore. We very seldom used it. On the far side it is slippery from the waves that splash across it," Lily said. "I know now where the cave is. Watch your step, the path closely follows the cliff edge," she warned.

  "Lead the way," Valentine Whitelaw said, no longer in doubt of finding the cave.

  Sensing his confidence, Lily started along the narrow footpath along the cliff. Without hesitation, she turned toward the summit of the cliff, several of the crew wondering if they would come out into thin air when they reached it, then fall into the sea below, for the sound of the waves was too close for many of them to take more than one carefully placed step at a time.

  Almost reaching the summit, Lily suddenly vanished, and those same crew members froze in their steps, believing the end was near unless they could retrace their steps back to the shore below.

  But Valentine, who was just behind her, stepped between the rocks, the path narrowing even more until they were standing directly before the cliff, where only a stunted-looking pine grew and the edge sheered off alarmingly close. They had nowhere to go.

  Lily couldn't help but smile at his disappointed expression, for he believed she had been mistaken after all.

  Even though he'd been standing before her, gazing at her, he still could scarcely believe his eyes when Lily stepped behind the pine and disappeared into the solid face of the cliff.

  "My God! Where'd she go?" Simon exclaimed, having come up in time to see Valentine standing there alone.

  But Valentine Whitelaw was not worried. Grinning at Simon, he stepped behind the tree and disappeared.

  Valentine felt the coolness engulfing him. He continued to stand just inside the entrance, his eyes unaccustomed to the dark, especially after the blinding brightness outside. Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the shadowy confines of the cave, and a shaft of light shining down from an opening higher up lit the cave as if by candlelight.

  He blinked slightly and stared across the cave to find Lily watching him. Beside her was a wooden chest. He could hear the sound of the sea as it surged into the cavery with the ebb and flow of the tide. And even in the filtered light, he could see the glint of water at the bottom of the sloping floor of the cave.

  "You remembered, Lily."

  He could see the smile that flickered over her face.

  "How the devil did Basil get this chest in here?" he demanded, for it would have been no easy task for two men, much less one, to cart the heavy chest along that path.

  Lily laughed softly, the sound echoing strangely through the cave.

  "He took it apart and carried it into the cave in sections. Then he put it back together again. It took us weeks to haul the treasure inside," Lily told him, opening up the lid of the chest to reveal its startling contents.

  "Ah, Basil," Valentine murmured, hearing Simon and the others entering the cave behind him as he stared down at the treasure.

  "What an incredible place!" Simon breathed, awed by the curving rock formation arching above his head and in his haste nearly slipping on the dampness that coated the rock floor.

  "Lookee 'ere! 'Tis a fortune!" cried one of the crew, his mouth dropping open as he came to stand by the chest, the glint of gold and silver unmistakable even in the shadowy light of the cave.

  "And I thought we'd made a fine haul when we dove for the rest of the treasure out there in the bay. Must o'been the king o' Spain's biggest treasure ship that went down!"

  "Emeralds and pearls. Lord, this one be as big as an egg!"

  "Ooohwee! Lookee 'ere, 'tis a chain o' gold links. Must be a king's ransom in these two links alone," the sailor said, weighing the length of chain across his palm. "How we goin' to get all o' this outa here?" he suddenly demanded, crestfallen at the thought that they might have to leave it here for old Neptune to guard, because there was no way he was going to carry this chest down that path. "What d'ye think, Cap'n?" he asked.

  But Valentine Whitelaw wasn't listening. He had found the journal.

  Francisco Esteban Villasandro waited nervously, wondering how he would find the courage to carry out his father's orders. Although Don Pedro had placed his son in command of the landing party, he had sent along one of the ship's officers to advise the young man who had yet to prove himself a man by his father's inflexible standards.

  But, Francisco though, at least he was on shore and had been able to keep his dinner down for one night. And sleeping beneath the stars, with a fire burning brightly against the darkness and the frightening, savage cries sounding from the forest, he had found a certain measure of peace and the fortitude to tell his father that he did not wish to captain one of his father's galleons. He wished to become a priest and devote his life to the Church. He was not a soldier. And no matter how much his father wished otherwise, he was not and never could be a man of the sword.

  Upon their return to Madrid, he would tell his father that he wished to join a seminary and study for the priesthood. He had spent many anguished hours in deliberation, and, after telling his pleased mother and their priest of his decision, he had been unusually even-tempered since receiving a missive from a dust-stained courier. Then, before he could even broach the subject, his father had received another important message and hurried off to answer a royal summons. Two days later and hardly a week after his father had returned from a voyage to England, the Estrella D'Alba, with a small fleet of ships accompanying her, had set sail for the Indies.

  His father has requested his presence on board or, rather, had assumed that his only son would accompany him on this greatest of journeys to rid Spain and the seas of one of her most hated enemies. Francisco knew no more of the voyage than that his father intended to entrap an English privateer who had challenged his father on many occasions. The man had raided the Main and even been so bold as to attack the treasure fleet just off the coast of Spain. The devout in the coastal villages went in fear of spying the red cross of St. George flying on the mast of a ship sailing out of thin air. He had heard some of the men aboard the Estrella D'Alba refer to the man as El Tigre, because the man seemed to lie in wait for their captains, striking before they knew what had happened. He did not know, nor did he care to ask, what his given name was. If the man was to be feared
as much as the other heretical Englishman, Drake, then it was indeed an honor to be aboard his father's ship and share in the glory of this Englishman's death.

  Francisco clasped the heavy silver cross he wore tucked beneath his doublet, the cool feel of the silver comforting him. If accepted for the priesthood, he would carry God's word into a heathen England, and whether the heretics burned at the stake or drowned at sea, it was all part of God's will.

  Shielding his eyes, he gazed out to sea, where he could just make out the mainmast of the Estrella D'Alba riding at anchor beyond the waves that rolled across the reefs and broke in foaming white crests that sent sea spray shooting high into the air. He couldn't spy the other galleons, for they'd anchored some distance apart, prepared to raise sail as soon as the word was given.

  Francisco glanced around at the camp. The crew, which had rowed the small pinnace ashore the day before, were scattered along the beach beneath several palms. Some were resting peacefully in the shade, while others were jesting and playing games of chance in the sand with shells and driftwood they'd scavenged. The soldiers who'd come ashore with them stayed apart, their harquebuses and halberds close at hand. They seemed so calm, so unconcerned about their task ahead, Francisco thought almost resentfully, for he was weak in the knees and felt a quivering in his stomach that threatened to erupt at any moment.

  No, he thought, he would not disgrace himself before these men, his father's men. He would, for this one time only, prove himself his father's son, he vowed. He opened his eyes to find Diego Calderon's dark eyes watching him, and forcing himself to draw in a deep breath and calm his fluttering heart, he stood tall, meeting the older man's gaze with dignity.

  Diego Calderon nodded deferentially to his captain's son. He'd had his doubts when Don Pedro had given command to his son, thinking the boy a weakling, but the young man seemed willing to carry out his father's orders. Indeed, he had sounded quite authoritative when sending the scout to the other side of the island at dawn. His report to Don Pedro concerning his son's abilities to command would not disappoint his captain.

  Diego Calderon scratched his head, leaving several graying strands standing on end. The scout should have returned by now with the news that El Tigre's ship was anchored on the other side of the island, or that it had yet to arrive. Either way, they had to send word to Don Pedro so he could plan his next strategy. If all went as previously discussed aboard the Estrella D'Alba, then the landing party would, upon hearing the news that the Englishman's ship was anchored beyond the reefs on the windward side of the island, split into two units. They would then cross the island and cut off any escape for the English over land, for, by then, Don Pedro with his fleet of heavily armed galleons would have rounded the island and cut off El Tiger's escape to sea.

  But where was the scout? He'd had ample time to reach the other shore and discover if the enemy was within range. He should have been back by now.

  Young Francisco Villasandro must have thought so as well. "¿Canto tiempo lleva?" he demanded, his warm brown eyes searching the forest for a sign of the scout. "¿Canto dista de aqui a--" he had started to ask the older gentleman, whose experienced eye could have estimated how far the scout had to travel to reach the far side of the isle, when he was interrupted by an excited hail from the trees he'd just searched.

  "¡El tigre! ¡El Tigre! He is here! I have seen him! His ship is anchored just off shore," the scout called out, nearly tripping over his own feet in his excitement to report his news.

  Lily walked along the sands, skirting the tide as it spread higher on the beach as the afternoon waned. She stopped and looked back toward the distant headland. No one had even noticed that she'd wandered off. The crew was busy loading the boat. Several hours earlier, after the discovery of the cave and the treasure, Valentine had sent half of the crew back to the boat they'd beached in the bay. They'd rowed it back out beyond the reefs, then sent it skimming through the waters around the headland and into the cove, where they'd left it anchored in the shallows so it would be easier to shove off with the added weight of the treasure.

  Lily paused by the tall pine for a few minutes before sitting down cross-legged in the sand, just beyond the graves, but still in the shade. She sat there for a while in companionable silence, watching the sunlight glistening like molten gold across the water, the light changing constantly as the sun sank lower on the horizon. She'd forgotten how warm it could get on the island, she thought, pulling her bodice free where it was sticking to her skin. On impulse, she kicked off her slippers, leaving them half-buried in the sand. She lifted her skirts and pulled off her garters, rolling down her stockings and tossing them into the air to float down. She stretched out her legs, wiggling her toes through the hot sand.

  The memories came flooding back of another time when she, Tristram, and Dulcie had raced along these very same sands, past this tall pine, bare then of the graves that marked it now, for Basil and her mother would have been laughing and calling to them from the headland. Basil would have started the fire, and their mother would have cooked their evening supper, the aromatic odors drifting on the smoke-scented early evening air. Then, as the fire burned low, until there was little left but glowing coals, Basil would have told them a story, his deep voice lulling them to sleep on the sand that still held the warmth from the day, the sea lapping gently against the shore like a lullaby.

  Lily stood up, brushing the sand from her skirts. She gathered up the front of her skirt and petticoat and tucked the ends into her waistband, leaving her legs bared to mid-thigh, the skirts draped high and clear of the surf as she waded into the shallows. She spied a shell and reached into the clear waters to capture it. She held the shell to her ear and listened; she could hear someone calling to her. Glancing toward the headland, she saw Simon approaching with several of the crew, who were carrying barrels over their shoulders.

  "Lily!"

  Lily waved and tossed the pink-tinted shell to him. Simon caught it, examining it carefully, a grin of pleasure on his face. " 'Tis beautiful. I've never seen one quite so big as this," he said in awe.

  "The meat from it is delicious. But this one is empty. Would you like it?"

  "You mean it? Don't you want it? It might be quite valuable back in England."

  Lily smiled, deciding not to tell him that she'd seen hundreds just like it while living on the island.

  "Betsy will love it. I'd better find something for Wilfred, too, or he'll set up a howl," Simon declared.

  "I'll help you find some more. I know just where to look. Where are you headed?" she asked, eyeing the sailors who'd kept walking down the beach.

  Belatedly, Simon became aware that he'd neglected his duty and raised an arm to hail them, but they'd already disappeared over the headland. "We're going to get fresh water. Valentine told me to ask you if you could lead us to the pool? Do you think you remember where it is?"

  "The pool? I think I can find it," she said, slightly stung by the innocent reminder of her previous confusion. "I'd like to see if our hut is still there," she said, but she was curious about something else as she fell into step with Simon, who was hurrying now to catch up to the sailors, but she decided against telling him that the pool was also the main watering hole for many of the animals of the isle. And there was one particular animal she wished to find.

  She glanced back, toward the boat being loaded, her gaze searching for Valentine's tall figure. She was surprised to see one of the sailors walking along behind them, but not hurrying to catch up.

  "He isn't there," Simon told her, guessing her thoughts.

  "Oh?" Lily said, pretending a lack of interest.

  "He climbed back up the headland. He's posted a guard there, and that fellow following us is stationed at that pine Tristram used to guard," Simon explained.

  Lily eyed the sailor again. "Valentine is very cautious."

  "That is why he's alive today," Simon said. "I wish he'd let me see inside that journal. 'Twas my father's, after all," Simon said wist
fully.

  "He has been very strange since reading it," Lily commented, for Valentine had not allowed her to see inside either. "He is just like Basil, for he would never let any of us read what he'd written there," she said, thinking of how Valentine had tucked the journal under his arm after retrieving it from the chest. Once back on the beach, and after giving his orders to his crew, he'd separated himself from everyone, and sitting on the beach, he'd read the neatly penned words filling the pages, his expression becoming grave as he'd turned the pages. For an hour afterwards, while he'd awaited the return of his crew, he'd remained withdrawn, his expression thoughtful as he'd gazed out to sea.

  Unable to contain her curiosity, Lily had asked if Raymond Valchamps's name had been mentioned and if he'd been involved in a plot to assassinate the queen. Valentine Whitelaw had gazed up at her, a dangerous glint in his eye, then he'd nodded, but he had said nothing.

  Glancing down at her bare feet and slender length of leg, Simon blushed. "Don't you need your shoes, Lily?" he advised tactfully, not wishing to say that she was drawing attention to herself.

  They'd climbed the headland and were descending to the sandy beach of the bay on the other side, where the tree sailors were standing nearby, waiting for directions. But their eyes widened when they saw the display of leg revealed to their appreciative gazes.