Wild Bells to the Wild Sky (15 page)

"Simon! You've grown a foot since last we met!" Valentine exclaimed, holding the
youngster
at arm's length while he took his measure. "Can't keep you in the same doublet and hose longer than a month, I'll wager. The tailor will be cutting your hose as long as Sir William's by next Twelfth Day," he predicted, mu
ch
to his nephew's delight as he offered his hand to him, t
hen grasped Simon's thin shoul
ders in a hearty hug, for the lad was not too adult yet to mind a relative's fond embrace.

Valentine hoped he had been successful in masking the start he'd felt when first seeing Simon. The boy was tall for his age, and his bones seemed to stick out of his flesh at all angles. With eyes and hair black as midnight, and with a profile that was becoming more hawkish every day, at fourteen, Simon Whitelaw bore a startling resemblance to his father. There could be no mistaking whose son he was. Valentine glanced over Simon's dark head, realizing that his nephew must be a constant reminder to his mother and Sir William of the man who had fathered him.

"Valentine, my dear," Lady Elspeth greeted her former brother-in-law fondly. "I am so pleased to see you. I had feared the holidays would pass without your presence at Whiteswood. I had hoped since you were away that Quinta and Artemis would join us, but, alas, they would stay in Cornwall. Thinking you might arrive, they did not want you to find your home closed up. Trying to persuade a Whitelaw to change of mind is like speaking to the winds. Ah, how thin you have become. We shall have to put some flesh on those bones of yours, Valentine."

"Elspeth." Valentine kissed her hand, then her soft cheek, with brotherly affection. "More beautiful than ever."

"And you more glib. No doubt you have been at court and paid your respect to Elizabeth. Court life can tarnish a shining armor, my dear," Elspeth responded with a low laugh. "I shall remind myself not to believe half of what you say."

"Too sharp-tongued by half," he laughed as he held out his hand to Sir William.

"Good to see you, Valentine," Sir William Davies now greeted him, gripping his hand firmly. "Despite Elspeth's concern you seem fit. A good voyage?"

"Aye, a good one," Valentine allowed.

"How many galleons did you sink?" Simon demanded eagerly, his boyish face full of admiration for his adventurer uncle. "I'll wear a ring of Spanish gold in my ear one of these days!" Simon vowed with youthful zeal.

"Simon, please, there will be plenty of time to hear of such things," Elspeth requested with gentle authority. "Strokes says you declined to sup and would only take ale," she said with a disapproving shake of her beautifully coiffed, fair head. "I am told that you were reluctant even to accept our hospitality overnight."

"What is this,
Valentine
?" Sir William demanded, his face becoming flush
ed. "Whiteswood will always be
your home. Now, hear me out. I know you have your mother's home in Cornwall, but I have always hoped from the first day I became master of Whiteswood, that you, and your aunt and sister would still consider this your home. And that you would all feel free to come and go as you pleased."

"Thank you, Sir William," Valentine said, feeling more awkward than before. He glanced at Simon for a moment, then at Elspeth and Sir William. "We have need to talk. I cannot stay longer than this night. When we
have
spoken, you will understand the need for my unseemly haste."

"Simon. Although you ate enough for two when in the village, I know you grow impatient to sample the fare on the banqueting table below. Elspeth? Come, let us start the festivities, then we will return and speak with Valentine. I fear something weighs heavily on his mind," Sir William correctly interpreted the slight frown marring Valentine's brow.

"Yes, of course," Elspeth agreed. " 'Tis getting late for the children to be up, and yet we cannot deny them their pleasure of the feasting," she said smiling down at her daughter who was leaning tiredly against Elspeth's hip.

"Can this fair maid truly be Betsy?" Valentine demanded with grave consideration of her shyly hidden face. "The fair curls seem vaguely familiar. And were they not turned away from me, I would swear those eyes were as bright a blue as a summer sky. But what is this? Bows!" Valentine said, his hand gently cupping the little girl's small, rounded chin. "Now I am certain 'tis Betsy, my own cosset, for she was always fond of red satin bows," he cajoled as he noticed the profusion of bows sewn to the underskirt of her gown. And as he sighed, apparently heartbroken, he was rewarded by a quick peek from a pair of very bright blue eyes before giggling Betsy buried her face in her mother's gown.

"And you remember Wilfred?" Sir William said, beaming down proudly as his five-year-old son stepped forward like a well-bred gentleman greeting a guest in his home, although his courtly bow was slightly off balance.

"Of course I do. Wilfred has certainly grown into a fine young gentleman who does the Davies name proud," Valentine said with proper seriousness to Betsy's older brother, whose gap-toothed smile was widening as he giggled.

"You will accompany us, Valentine?" Elspeth asked softly.

"Please, we would be honored," Sir William added. "There are many in the hall who would be pleased to have two Whitelaws welcoming the new year with them," Sir William said without animosity, and little realizing how prophetic his statement might become as Valentine accompanied them to the great hall below.

The fire in the hearth of the great chamber had burned low when Valentine finished telling Elspeth and Sir William the strange tale that had begun so dramatically the day before.

Elspeth sat with her head downbeat, her slender hands folded together in her lap. Her expression was hidden from them. Sir William sat stiffly in his chair, his eyes never straying from the softly glowing coals in the hearth.

"I will be riding for Highcross Court on the morrow. Geoffrey Christian's cousin must be told. Then I will return to London, where my ship, the
Madrigal
, is docked. I will sail to Cornwall and inform my aunt and sister of what has happened. Then," Valentine paused, "I will sail for the Indies."

Elspeth gave a slight nod but did not look up.

Sir William cleared his throat. "Of course." And for the first time since Valentine had begun his story Sir William glanced up, and Valentine saw that his eyes were red.

Valentine spread his hands, feeling a strange helplessness. "I would not have had you hear this from anyone else. The news that Basil may be alive will have spread throughout London."

Sir William stood up
.
He suddenly looked old and beaten, and his step, which had always seemed so self-assured, was slow and hesitant. Valentine hid the pity he felt for the slightly older man, whose pleasant-featured face only an hour earlier had been so full of happiness as he had stood with his family and friends around him and toasted a new year full of prosperity.

Sir William's hand trembled now as he placed it on Valentine's firmly muscled arm. "I know you must go,
Valentine
. You can do nothing else. Whatever happens, 'tis God's will," he said.

Without another word, Sir William Davies left the room.

"Elspeth?" Valentine spoke softly.

Elspeth raised her head, her expression still serene. But when Valentine looked into her eyes, the torment was revealed.

"Seven years, Valentine, I have thought him dead. I loved him as I have loved no other. It was difficult at first to accept his death, but finally I could. I came to accept that the happiness I had come to believe would always be mine was lost to me forever. I never thought I could love another man, not after Basil. I did not want to love again. I wanted those feelings to be as dead as Basil. But I found happiness again, and I have come to love William very deeply, Valentine. Do you understand what I am saying?"

"Yes."

"How can there be such great happiness and sadness? When I heard you say that Basil might yet live, my happiness knew no bounds. To think that he is alive. Dear God, how I prayed to hear that news. But now I know that if he lives my life with William and our children is over. Whatever are we to do, Valentine?" she asked, but before Valentine could speak, she held up her hand pleadingly. Turning it palm up, she held her hand outstretched to him.

Valentine took her slender hand in his and drew her to her feet.

"Goodspeed you on your journey, Valentine," she said quietly. For a long moment she stared into Valentine's face. Then she followed Sir William from the great chamber, where Basil Whitelaw had once sat as master of Whiteswood.

Highcross Court, home of the Christian family for generations, seemed deserted when Valentine Whitelaw rode into the courtyard. It was a far different house than the one he remembered. When Geoffrey Christian and Magdalena had resided within its walls, Highcross Court had been filled with light and laughter.

A surly-looking groom was crossing the yard from the stable block with unhurried strides. And from the straw sticking to his jerkin and hose, he had either been sleeping or rolling in the hay. Whichever activity he had been involved in, he seemed less than pleased by the interruption.

"Master know ye be callin'?" he asked doubtfully, eyeing the new arrivals up and down as he stood, arms crossed, blocking their path. "Where the divil ye be from?" he demanded insultingly, his eyes widened as he stared disbelievingly at the Turk.

"Tell your master that Valentine Whitelaw awaits his pleasure."

"Reckon ye be waitin' a goodly spell then, seein' how the master be sittin' for his portrait. Some fancy gent come down from London to do it. Reckon his nabs was thinkin' of giftin' the queen with his likeness at the New Year's celebrations, so fond of it and himself, he be. But then he weren't invited to court. Fit to be tied, he was," the groom chortled. " 'Tweren't done anyways. Couldn't give Her Majesty a paintin' of himself with only half a face and no hair, though, comes to think 'bout it, his nabs might look all the better fer it. Anyhows, he won't like bein' interrupted," he warned them. "Reckon he be mighty cross, seein' how he's most likely missed his meal. Strainin' at the bit, he is,
thinking
about that cold joint of mutton left over from last night's meal."

"I'll risk incurring his disfavor," Valentine said, the look in his eye advising the groom to step aside.

"Door be open. Ye wants I should stable yer horses?" he asked with a speculative gleam in his eye as he took note of Valentine's fine clothes and the quality of his mount.

"We will not be staying."

With a shrug the groom moved out of Valentine Whitelaw's path, and well out of the way of the big, mean-looking fellow with the puffed-up hat on his head. those dark eyes made him uneasy; never left him all the while he'd been talking to the well-dressed gentlemen. With a sly look over his shoulder as he hurried back to the stables, he wondered what business they could possibly have with the master.

Inside, the hall was cold and empty and unwelcoming. No fire burned in the great hearth, and Valentine doubted that even when darkness fell would tapers be lighted to brighten the room.

As Valentine glanced around the hall, trying to imagine where the master would be sitting to have his portrait painted, a young maid came hurrying out from behind the screens at the far end. Her arms were straining against the weight of the two buckets she carried. Soapy water sloshed out with each step she took and splashed down on her heavy clogs.
The
rags thrown across her thin shoulders were little better than the faded gown she wore.

Preoccupied with the task ahead of her, she didn't see the two men standing at the foot of the great staircase until she was nearly upon them.

Her squeal of fright echoed throughout the gloomy hall when she glanced up to meet the Turk's curious stare. Both Valentine and the Turk had to jump to avoid the wave of water that spread out around her as she dropped the two buckets. Her roughened hands covered her mouth and muffled the cry that followed when she realized that she had dumped the soapy contents of the two buckets, across the hall and nearly on top of the finely shod feet of the tall gentleman standing before her.

"Please, sir, don't be tellin' the master what I've gone and done. He'll beat me, he will," she pleaded, pushing back a straying wisp of pale blond hair, then wiping the tears from her cheek with the back of her hand. "I didn't get any supper last night 'cause I spilled his wine. I was hopin' fer some tonight, but if he finds out
.
.
.
I'm sorry,
sir."

Valentine smiled. "No harm was done. I would like to speak with your master. Where is he?"

His request to see Hartwell Barclay seemed to disquiet the child, for she was hardly more than twelve or thirteen, and with a gesture that had become a nervous habit, she pushed back the strand of hair that had fallen across
her
face again.

"Oh, sir, ye don't want to be doin' that. Please, sir, I-
-
I can't be goin' up there and-
-
"