Wild Bells to the Wild Sky

by Laurie McBain

  "I am interested, Mistress Christian, in hearing of your latest exploits. You do seem inclined for misadventure. What an exceptional life you have led; not quite . . . well . . . what shall we say? ah . . . respectable, although I do not mean any offense by the word," she commented with an understanding, pitying glance at the younger woman.

  "Here we are," Quinta said, entering the chamber, a maid carrying a tray with several goblets and dishes crowded across it. "I trust I haven't been too long?" she said glancing between the two women curiously, for Honoria, still seated primly in the chair before the fire, was staring at Lily Christian with a satisfied smile curving her lips, while Lily Christian was staring out the window, a faraway look in her eye.

  "No, not at all. It gave Mistress Christian and me a chance to become better acquainted. We have discovered that we think much alike concerning many subjects," Honoria Penmorley said, her smile widening as she accepted her steaming posset.

  "Indeed, Mistress Penmorley has very kindly helped me to make up my mind about many things which have of late been troubling me, but now I feel my conscience is clear," Lily Christian said, a glint in her pale green eyes as she stared at the other woman, her fingers fondling the ring of Spanish gold in her ear.

  Sir Raymond Valchamps gazed at his reflection in the looking glass, a look of admiration in his eye. Dressed in a black velvet doublet with gold jeweled embroidery, his silken hose of the finest quality, his shoes of the best cordovan leather, the toes fashionably slashed and edged with gold, he looked the princely figure he felt. The ruff about his throat was stiffly starched and framed his face to perfection.

  "You fool!" he said, hitting his manservant across the face, when the man held out his cloak. "I told you I wanted the black one lined with sable. This is lined with silk. Would you have me freeze to death on the river?"

  "No, sir," the man mumbled, wishing he should be so lucky. " 'Tis below, sir, I was having one of the maids darn a small tear in the hem."

  "Through your mishandling I'm certain. Well?"

  "I'll get it immediately, sir," the servant said hurriedly, wiping his hand across his bloodied lip as he left the room.

  With a slight smile, Sir Raymond set his black silk hat on his head of pale curls, adjusting the high, soft crown to just the right angle, so the narrow brim slanted across his brow. With a silent chuckle he gazed at the dazzling brooch pinned to it, the sapphires, rubies, emeralds, and pearls winking wickedly at him.

  He tapped his fingers impatiently against the gold pomander that hung from his neck, wondering where Cordelia was; he could hardly wait for her reaction.

  He glanced around his bedchamber, delighting in the great canopied bed supported by gilded posts, its high headboard carved with his initials and armorial bearings, and surrounded by bas-relief figures from mythical scenes. A scarlet coverlet, the silk embroidered with golden threads entwined in convoluted designs, covered the feather mattress and plump pillows.

  Above his head was a magnificent mural painted on the plaster ceiling and portraying saints and demons locked in eternal combat. Chairs upholstered in red velvet were placed in front of the hearth with its molded mantelpiece fashioned in the classical style. But his joy was the small stained-glass window depicting the Last Judgment; the bright reds and blues, so savage in intensity, filled him with a sense of his own purpose.

  Sir Raymond sauntered across the room to a door set discreetly in the paneled wall. He opened it and glanced into the darkness of what once had been a servant's room and now served as a jakes. With a smile, he felt along the wall, touching the molding. Beneath the curving edge, he found the latch that released the spring holding the secret panel tightly shut.

  Few people would have searched here for a secret passage leading down to another passage in the house next door. Hearing footsteps on the stairs, Sir Raymond quickly backed out of the small closet and closed the door.

  Swinging his pomander lazily, he waited. He was not worried. He felt certain Don Pedro Villasandro would succeed in his mission, but if the Spaniard failed, and he had to flee England, then he would easily outsmart Lord Burghley's spies. He knew they were watching his house, his every movement. but they were not watching the house next door, and right under their noses he would slip out of England. But so far, he'd had no word from the Spanish ambassador concerning Don Pedro's voyage, nor had he heard from his own spies watching the Pool of London, where the Madrigal would dock, if she ever returned to England. He would have time to flee, once he had received word, and his manservant was under orders not to open the door to anyone unless an invited guest.

  "Damn you!" Cordelia Howard stood in the doorway staring at him.

  "I knew it!" she spat. "My brooch! I had it yesterday, and you were the only one in my bedchamber. I remember now you going through my jewels. Damn you, Raymond. Give it back! 'Tis my most expensive piece!"

  "Is it really?" he inquired with malicious pleasure. "I thought the necklace I gave you was your most prized possession. 'Twould seem to me you attach a great deal of sentiment to this insignificant trinket; indeed, m'dear, I fear 'tis a trifle gaudy," Sir Raymond declared, eyeing its brilliancy in the mirror. "Does look rather nice, though, 'pon my hat."

  "Give it back, Raymond," Cordelia warned through tight lips, her black eyes narrowing into slits.

  "Could it be you desire it because that bold sea captain, Valentine Whitelaw, gave it to you for being so obliging whenever he came into port?"

  "You swine," Cordelia said, her hands clenched until her long nails bit deep into the soft flesh of her palms. She moved closer, her silken petticoats beneath her gown of black velvet rustling softly.

  "My dear, you really must control that temper of yours. You do realize that when we marry, all of your possessions become mine, and I may do with them as I please. I rather like the jewels in this brooch, m'dear, so I shall have it reset into several pieces," he said, watching her carefully as he toyed with her.

  Unable to contain herself, she stormed across the room, but Sir Raymond was expecting her attack and caught her arm, twisting it painfully behind her back.

  "Let go, Raymond! You're hurting me. Do you want to break my arm?" she cried.

  "Never raise your voice in anger at me again, Cordelia. I do as I please and I answer to no one," he warned, releasing her abruptly.

  Cordelia swung around, but before her hand could come in contact with his face, he had caught it, and the back of his hand had slapped her hard across the cheek and mouth, his ring leaving a vivid scratch.

  Sir Raymond released Cordelia from his punishing hold and she hurried to the mirror to see the damage to her flawless features. Her dark eyes welled with tears when she saw the cruel scratch.

  "Now look what you made me do," Sir Raymond said in growing irritation as he noticed the drop of blood staining the ruffle of fine lace edging his sleeve. "If this doesn't come out, I shall have to change. Damn, we are going to be even later now."

  Cordelia Howard stared at her fiancé's image reflected in the mirror, and she despised him. How could she ever have been fascinated by Raymond Valchamps, or even remotely entertained the thought of marrying him? His true character had emerged after she'd accepted his proposal. She had begun to see a fanaticism and cruelty in the man that she'd never suspected. She had always known he had a cruel streak in him, but she'd had no idea how deep it had gone until she'd started spending more time with him.

  Before, when she'd spent a few hours or a night with him, he had seemed wildly exciting, and he had been gracious and generous and determined to please her, but once he'd won his prize, he'd changed and she'd found herself engaged to a vicious-tongued, parsimonious man who seemed to delight in tormenting others.

  He treated her little better than a servant or a whore, taking what he wanted by demand or force. Cordelia Howard eyed him nervously, for she knew a fear of him that she'd never experienced before, and it came not only of today's incident. She bore the bruises of his previous beating when somethi
ng had displeased him and he'd taken his anger out on her.

  "Where are you going?" he demanded as she edged toward the door.

  Cordelia stopped, and turning around, she pointed to her face. "I need to wash this blood away. I need some water."

  "There's some here," he said, indicating the stained water where he'd rinsed his ruffle.

  "If you don't mind, I'll get some fresh water in the kitchen," she told him, moving closer to the door.

  "Very well. I didn't get all of this out. Better have my man bring up some fresh water when he comes. And where is h, anyway? Sent him down to get my cloak. Simple enough task."

  "I'll tell him," Cordelia said, leaving the room.

  Once outside, she stood for a moment taking a deep breath to quell her shaking and swore she'd find a way to break her engagement to Raymond Valchamps, even though she knew she would fear for her life if she tried to leave him.

  Hurrying down the stairs, she grabbed her cloak and ran to the door, swinging it wide. She nearly cried out when she saw a troop of the queen's guard standing just beyond, their captain climbing the steps to the house.

  "This is the residence of Sir Raymond Valchamps?" he inquired.

  "Yes. What is this about?" she asked, eyeing the troop more closely.

  "And you are?" he continued, watching her suspiciously, she thought, a sudden fear snaking through her.

  "His fi--an acquaintance," she suddenly corrected herself. "I was just about to leave."

  "You've had an accident?"

  "Yes," Cordelia Howard laughed harshly, touching her finger to where the blood had congealed against the corner of her mouth. "I am returning home to see to it. I tripped and fell."

  "The Sir Raymond Valchamps is still within?" he asked with a casualness that did not fool Cordelia.

  Cordelia Howard had an instinct for survival and sensed a change in the wind, which could prove fortuitous for her if she acted quickly now. With a smile curving her stiffening lip, she gestured within, where Sir Raymond's manservant had just come to stand by the door, as if prepared to slam it shut.

  "Yes, Sir Raymond is still inside. Upstairs, in his bedchamber. 'Tis the first door on the left at the head of the stairs. Is that not correct, Matson?" she asked by the staircase, watching the well-armed guard entering the hall.

  "Oh, aye, that it is," Matson answered, quick as Cordelia to sense a change in his fortunes, especially as he watched the well-armed guard entering Sir Raymond Valchamp's home. "In fact, ye should be careful, for there's a board on that top step that squeaks like the devil if ye steps on it. Master always complains that he hears it at night, wakes him up, ye know. Aye, he be expectin' me with his cloak here," he said, rubbing his hand over the soft sable. "Reckon he might not be needin' it now," he guessed, glancing over at the captain of the guard.

  "Oh, he will still be going out, but perhaps not to the party he had originally planned to attend. I will remember your assistance," the captain said as he began to climb the staircase.

  Matson smiled, wincing slightly when his split lip cracked open again. He glanced over at the door where a couple of the guard stood at attention, looking for the lady, but Cordelia Howard had disappeared.

  Despite the pain, he grinned wider as he walked back toward the kitchens, thinking Sir Raymond Valchamps would have to make do with the silk-lined cloak after all.

  Sir Raymond Valchamps was adjusting the lace ruffle, eyeing it critically when he heard a footstep at the door and without glancing up, he said, "Well, 'tis about time you got here. What the devil's been keeping you?"

  "We had to get the warrant for your arrest, Sir Raymond," the captain of the guard said from the doorway, his men stepping into the room and grabbing Sir Raymond before he could even get halfway across the room to the door to the jakes.

  Valentine Whitelaw, the Turk a step behind, stood in the great arched doorway to the banqueting hall at Riverhurst. The room was ablaze with light from chandeliers swinging from the high plasterwork ceiling. Colorful murals and richly embroidered tapestries graced the walls and glowed softly in the firelight spreading from the great hearth. A long table against another wall held the sumptuous feast laid out for the assembled guests, who were watching a masque performed by a company of players made up of family and friends. A stage had been set up at the far end of the hall, where George Hargraves, representing Orpheus, patron of song and dance, strummed a lyre while the nine muses garbed in exotic clothing circled him. a painted backdrop of trees and temples, the sea shimmering in the distance while clouds seemed to move back and forth above the stage almost magically, created a stunning illusion of mythical scene as several small children costumed as sprites and fairies raced across the stage.

  The spectators clapped enthusiastically as the final act ended. In a quiet corner, away from the stage where a small orchestra was setting up, several groups of gentlemen were gathering to play cards and backgammon, while the musicians began to play a slow tune for the guests who were now beginning to dance a graceful measure, some still clad in their unusual costumes from the performance.

  "I don't see my mother anywhere. She's probably behind the stage. I thought I recognized a couple of those sprites. She's most likely seeing that Betsy and Wilfred are gotten into bed without any further delay," Simon said, coming to stand beside Valentine. "I told the steward to find Sir William. A troop of guard standing in the hall is liable to cause some comment, Valentine," he advised, for people were already beginning to glace their way. "I think I'll go upstairs and see if I can find them," he said.

  "I'd rather you said nothing to anyone until I've had a chance to speak with Sir William and Elspeth, and handle this matter, Simon," Valentine told him.

  "Of course, I understand. You can trust me, Valentine. Isn't that Sir Rodger? I didn't know he was in London. I thought he'd be with Artemis," Simon exclaimed, watching a tall man disappearing into the crowd of dancers.

  "Where?" Valentine asked, his gaze searching the crowd.

  "He's gone now. Good Lord, look at George Hargraves," Simon said with a loud guffaw as a short man dressed in a toga and wearing an ivy-leaf crown danced past with a tall goddess in his arms, but so busy was he trying to keep his crown from slipping that he didn't see either man staring at him from the doorway.

  Valentine Whitelaw's gaze narrowed. Thomas Sandrick stood against the wall, sipping from a goblet of wine, his head inclined slightly as he listened attentively to what his wife, Eliza, was saying; they Valentine lost sight of him when a crowd of people surged around them, laughter drifting over the strains of music.

  "Good Lord! Valentine Whitelaw, you've returned from yet another voyage!" a loud-voiced woman spoke directly beside them. "And your mother will be thankful you've returned in one piece, I might add," she said, turning her critical eye on the younger Whitelaw. "Couldn't believe it when she'd said you'd left to sail with your uncle, after what happened to your father. I can tell you, Master Whitelaw, I wouldn't allow such a thing. You mark my wo--"

  "Lady Denning," Simon spoke coolly, sounding quite a bit like his father in that instant.

  "Sir Charles escorted you this eve, Lady Denning?" Valentine inquired with seeming little interest.

  "Nearly didn't, said he'd something important to handle. But he's glad he did now, for he would have missed seeing George Hargraves dressed up as Orpheus. Not that 'twas supposed to be George, too short for the Muses," she said with a hearty laugh. " 'Twas supposed to have been Sir Raymond Valchamps, but he never showed up. Damned impertinence. And would you believe it? That she-wolf he's goin' to marry comes sweeping in here on the arm of that young buck Raleigh. Never heard of such an improper thing."

  "Where is Sir Charles?"

  "Over there, playing dice most likely," Lady Denning said, but when she glanced to where she'd seen him sitting just moments before, she frowned. "Well, he was there. Wonder where he has wandered off to now? If I catch him with one of those serving wenches, I'll--" she said through clenched teeth, the ligh
t of battle in her eye. "What the devil is a troop of the queen's guard doing skulking back here in the hall?" she demanded, her voice carrying across the room and drawing the curious attention of several people nearby.

  "Captain," the Turk murmured, his nod drawing Valentine's gaze across the room.

  "There! There he is!" Simon cried

  "Who? Charles?" Lady Denning roared, squinting as she tried to follow where young Simon Whitelaw was pointing.

  Sir Charles Denning, who'd been standing just out of Lady Denning's line of sight, gulped, seeing his wife standing with a troop of guard at her back while Simon Whitelaw pointed him out to them, his intentions of following that fair-haired wench into the kitchens vanishing from his thoughts.

  "Sir William! Here!" Simon called to his stepfather, waving to catch his attention from across the crowded room.

  Sir William Davies glanced up to see Simon standing in the doorway waving to him. Beside him stood Valentine Whitelaw, and behind him, a troop of the royal guard.

  Valentine Whitelaw stared at Sir William, their eyes meeting across the great banqueting hall. Words were not necessary, for they both now knew the truth.

  Sir William Davies had been the other man Basil Whitelaw had recognized in Santo Domingo ten years ago.

  "What's wrong?" Simon demanded, for his stepfather suddenly looked ill. In fact, for a moment, he'd looked like he was staring death in the face. "Where's he going? He saw me waving to him. Is he sick? What's wrong?" Simon repeated again, but his uncle had already disappeared into the crowd, and the Turk's turban was bobbing up and down as he followed in his captain's wake, but Simon had little time to wonder, for several of the soldiers hurried after them, causing a panic amongst the dancing guests as the guard, swords drawn, shoved their way through the finely dressed gentlemen and their ladies, who'd thought for no more excitement this evening than an amusing masque.