"Where did you find it?"
"On the island. I was walking along the sands and spied this priceless treasure. 'Tis a sweetly scented as its mistress," he said, breathing the delicate lavender scent that clung to the lace. "I have kept it against my heart," he told her, his turquoise eyes bright with love as Lily caressed his cheek, her fingers trailing along the roughness of his beard.
Lily jumped nervously when she heard footsteps beyond the door, her face flushed with embarrassment when she realized she stood in his arms in nothing more than her petticoat and smock, which left her little modesty under his roving hands as she felt his caress along her hip.
With a smile, he released her from his embrace and walked over to where his cloak lay across the window seat. He held it out and wrapped her within its concealing folds.
"We have much to discuss, Lily Francisca, and we have a lot of hours to make up for. Come," he said, holding out his hand to her,” 'tis a fairly warm day for winter, and I have yet to show you that cove just below the cliffs. We will be undisturbed there," Valentine Whitelaw said, his fingers closing around hers when she placed her hand in his.
"You are certain we will not be disturbed?" she asked, wrapping the great folds of his cloak around her.
"If no one knows where we are, how can we be disturbed? It will be our secret," he said with a devilish glint in his eye as he pulled her after him out the door.
"Prraaack! Buss us a nice one! Lift a leg, mate! Ooooh, where are we off to, my pretty one? Prraaack! The cove. No one knows! A secret! Prraaack!" Cisco chirped, his giggling laughter filling the room.
This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise
This fortress built by Nature for herself . . .
This precious stone set in the silver sea . . .
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.
SHAKESPEARE
Epilogue
"GOD BLESS QUEEN ELIZABETH!"
Dressed in a gown of cloth of gold, with a crimson cloak trimmed in ermine and a golden crown set regally on her red-gold curls, Elizabeth Regina rode in a chariot of gold through the streets of London. Elizabeth, who had been christened in a mantle of purple velvet and anointed with the holy oil entitled for royalty at Grey Friars Church on September 10, 1533, was now celebrating her fiftieth year of birth and the twenty-fifth year of her reign. The only child of King Henry VIII and his ill-fated queen, Anne Boleyn, Elizabeth had been destined to rule the island kingdom and bring about a golden age that would give birth to an empire.
"God save Your Grace!"
Banners of silk, emblazoned with the royal arms, fluttered while trumpets and drums sounded. The Master of the Horse rode behind the queen, leading her white horse draped in gold. The captain of the guard and the royal horsemen came next, riding in close formation. Ladies-in-waiting and courtiers followed, their horses' bridles gleaming with jewels, while the Lord Mayor, churchmen, aldermen, dignitaries, and court officials completed the royal procession.
The narrow, cobbled streets of the city were crowded with the usual congestion of traffic and inhabitants, as well as the country folk who'd swarmed through the city gates from village and town to celebrate their queen's fiftieth anniversary. Footmen dressed in velvet liveries ran before the coaches of nobles to clear safe passage through the rabble, while plainly garbed drivers, with daring oaths and loudly cracking whips, sent their carts and drays into the narrowest of lanes with little regard for anyone's safety. From three-storied gabled houses, oak-framed with lath and plaster walls, bay-windowed shops with creaking signs swinging over the doorways, inns with taprooms and courtyards packed with drunken revelers and weary travelers, and the stately homes of the wealthy the people cheered Elizabeth Tudor's cavalcade as it would through the streets of London. Nosegays of delicate lavender and rosemary, marigolds, and red and white Tudor roses fluttered down from above to carpet her path.
"God bless you all, my good people!" Elizabeth called to her loyal subjects.
Sir Valentine Whitelaw, newly knighted by his queen, stood on a garland-draped balcony overlooking the street below. His lady stood beside him in a rich cloak of green velvet embroidered with gold and pearls, her dark red hair glinting like fire in the sunlight.
Lady Lily Francisca Whitelaw felt the warmth of her husband's hand caressing her waist. She glanced up, her eyes meeting his for a long moment before he lowered his lips to touch hers in a tender kiss that bound them together. He whispered something in her ear, his lips and words causing her to blush delicately, her pale green eyes glowing with love for him. Beneath her cloak she felt his hand over to rest protectively against her rounding stomach, where the child conceived of that love now moved with life. Lily glanced up in surprise. Meeting the startled look in his turquoise eyes, she knew he had felt the vigorous movement of his child within her. He smiled with delight, and with a sigh of contentment, Lily leaned back against Valentine's chest, feeling his gentle strength encompassing her while his arms held her close against his heart. Soon they would be returning to Ravindzara. The Madrigal was riding at anchor in the Thames, her crew ready to board once they'd received their captain's orders to sail.
Tristram Christian stood proudly beside his sister and her husband, dressed in his finest doublet and hose. He was Geoffrey Christian's son, and the world knew it, and he was the rightful master of the ancestral home-although, until of age, he would continue to live with Lily and Valentine at Ravindzara. Every so often, the young master of Highcross, unable to contain himself, would lean precariously close to the railing of the balcony, nearly tumbling over as he sought a better view of the procession passing beneath. His grinning face was beaming with mischief when he glanced back at his friends standing just behind him. The two men, one short and dark, the other tall and fair, each of whom was holding a bawling baby in their arms, shrugged helplessly in response, while Tillie Odell, the triplets' mother, stood between them, her only daughter sound asleep in her arms. She smiled complacently, knowing the Odell brothers would in future have little time or energy for mischievous pranks.
Dulcie Whitelaw stood between her brother and sister, her dark brown eyes glowing with excitement while she watched the celebration, her dainty feet, clad in brand-new silk slippers, never stilled as she stood on tiptoe to toss roses into the crowded street. Her laughter and squeals of delight brought amused grins from those around her, especially from Simon Whitelaw, who kept a firm grasp on his sister's slender shoulders to keep her from flying over the rail.
A look of sadness briefly shadowed his expression when he thought of his mother, and young Wilfred and Betsy, still in seclusion at Riverhurst. Soon, he vowed, he would escort them all to court, where they would walk proudly beside him. They did not bear the guilt or shame of Sir William's betrayal. They had been the innocent victims. Simon smiled. Elizabeth had personally extended to him her wish that his mother would return to court, where she would gladly receive her. He could hardly wait to tell his mother that when he visited Riverhurst.
The rest of the family and close friends stood surrounding them. Quinta Whitelaw, Sir Rodger, Artemis, and their daughter, Elizabeth Mary Rose, held between them, would be returning to Cornwall aboard the Madrigal. George Hargraves, overshadowed by the tall woman beside him, was grinning widely at some remark she'd just made. Standing to the right of Valentine Whitelaw, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his scimitar, the Turk watched the proceedings, a ghost of a smile softening his harsh countenance when his gaze shifted to his captain and his lady.
Soon, he thought, they would be sailing along the rocky coast of this island that had been shrouded in mists the first time he had gazed up it. A strange, cold land it had seemed then. But now . . . Soon, the Turk thought with longing, he and his captain and family, would return home to Ravindzara, where the sea winds blew warmly against the shore.
Rich pageantry met the eye on
every street corner while the roar of cannon fire, commemorating the great occasion, sounded in the distance. But the merrymaking would not soon end, for with nightfall, the skies over London would be ablaze with a brilliant display of fireworks, of shooting rockets and showers of brightly colored stars. Bonfires would be lit in honor of the jubilee, while the revels continued throughout the night.
The bells of the city continued to peal. From every church steeple they rang out in joyous celebration of Elizabeth.
Wild Bells to the Wild Sky Page 66