Wild Bells to the Wild Sky (57 page)

But there was only silence.

Even though she could see and hear the comforting noises from the camp through the trees, Lily hurried from the stream and wasted no time drying off and smoothing the scented lotions into her skin. She fumbled with the fastenings on the green velvet ropa, her smock and petticoats sticking to her damp skin as she struggled into her stockings and slippers.

Lily kept glancing over her shoulders as she walked back through the trees. The copse seemed far thicker than it had when she'd entered less than an hour earlier. With a sigh of relief, she left the dark underbrush and walked out into the clearing, where golden sunlight slanted down on her and where she heard the sound of cheerful voices and smelled the aroma of cooking meats, for some were just beginning to prepare their evening meals.

Passing by the back of the cart, Lily tossed the discarded silk gown over the edge of the tub. Leaving her toiletries in the cart, she neared the fire Fairfax was adding wood to. Farley sat close with Tillie napping beside him, and Tristram and Dulcie had moved in from the other side, for by darkness it would be far cooler, and even now the shadows held the chill of autumn fast approaching.

"Why don't you get ready for bed?" Lily asked, sitting down next to Dulcie, who was beginning to nod off, her head propped against Raphael's soft coat.

"Will you tell me a story first?" she requested, yawning widely.

"What would you like to hear?" Lily asked, smiling, for she knew before Dulcie answered what it would be.

"The tale of the wild white horses," she murmured sleepily, turning to lie in Lily's arms. "Tell me about the island too, Lily. I want to hear about Neptune and the cove."

"When we were on the island, she always wanted to hear about England and the queen. Now we're here, she
only
wants to hear about the island," Tristram complained as he helped Cappie out of his coat and hat, carefully folding them up and ready for the nex
t
day's performance.

"P
rrraaack! Wild white horses!"

"That reminds me, Tristram. Did you remember to feed Merry?"

"Whole bag of oats, and a nip on my shoulder for my trouble," Tristram replied, stretching out his feet to the fire. "I think he's getting meaner, Lily."

Lily smiled. "He's just getting old."

"He's getting older and meaner, then," Tristram said. "Hey, look! I think I've seen the first star of the
evening
!" he crowed with delight, pointing up into the darkening sky, now streaked with
mauve
.

"Oh, Tristram! It isn't fair. You always find it first," Dulcie said, disappointed as she searched the heavens for a star. "I don't see any."

"Don't worry, soon there will be too many to count," Lily said. "After I tell you the tale of the white horses, I'll tell you a new one about the dancing stars," Lily promised, beginning the story. Soon, it would be time to meet Valentine Whitelaw.

Devil's Tavern was crowded to the beams with patrons. There was hardly more than enough elbow room to lift a tankard by, so packed were the oak tables. A fire burned brightly in the great hearth, helping to warm the damp chill creeping in on the mists rising from the river. Overlooking the Thames and the gallows at Wapping, where there was a convenient public landing place, the tavern was a hive of activity. It was within easy distance of the Pool of London, and the first place a knowledgeable seafarer might stop to meet with friends and quench a thirst. Every so often, the bellowing voice of a bargeman answering the call for "Oars!" could be heard responding with a ribald cry. More often than not, a brief silence would fall over the taproom while they waited for the usual ear-burning oath full of unusually descriptive vulgarities
that
the watermen prided themselves on mastering.

Valentine Whitelaw had met Thomas Sandrick as agreed upon and had found a table against the wall, where they'd been served a light supper of beef and ale. But soon their party had grown in size, when his gentlemen friends, including George Hargraves and Walter Raleigh, and fellow captains had discovered his return to London.

The noise was deafening around him, and Valentine could only catch a word or two of any of several conversations going on at once.

"Ye've been away. Did
ye not hear? 'Tis Sir Francis D
rake now!"

"Aye, he's the devil himself, that one!"

"Her majesty went aboard his ship in Deptford and knighted him right there on the deck. Ye should have been there. Says, just as bold as brass, she did, that them Spaniards were demandin' Drake's head, so she takes this gilded sword and with a devilish look, hands it to the French ambassador. Has the gent knight Drake instead of beheadin' him."
"Half a million pounds that treasure was worth. Made a tidy sum, I hear."

"I know! I served with him. He's the sly one!"

"Since he's been raidin' the Main, I hear them Spaniards have nicknamed him
El Dragón
. Got 'em scared senseless, never knowin' when he's goin' to strike and burn their cities and loot 'em of gold!"

"Hear tell there be a few of them pointed Spanish beards with hairs out of place since ye been sailin' them waters, Whitelaw. Learned a few tricks from Drake, eh?"

But Valentine Whitelaw didn't hear, he was too busy remembering a soft body pressed against his and the sweet fragrance of perfume that still clung to his clothes and skin. Impatiently, he glanced at the fading light. Soon, it would be dark. Already, he was late, but Walter Raleigh had been full of questions about the New World, more interested in the continent that lay north of the Indies than the Main.

"Thomas, I'm afraid I've got to leave. I have another appointment I will not miss."

"A woman, no doubt!" someone commented wryly.

"Won't be seen' Valentine for some time then."

"That beautiful, is she?"

"No, he's just back from a long voyage. No woman aboard! I'm never all that particular, myself. First pair of hips I see will do fer me," the grizzled-looking man said, eyeing a buxom serving wench with a lusty look when she passed by. Reaching out a long arm, he pulled her onto his lap; his hands slid roughly along her hip and thigh, and bussing her a juicy one on the mouth, he grinned down into her laughing face, her halfhearted protest going unheeded.

Valentine Whitelaw couldn't hide the look of distaste that crossed his tanned face. For the first time, Matt Evan's crudeness was offensive to him; even though the remarks might have
been
made in a good-natured jesting, it bothered Valentine to have Francisca referred to in the same breath as the drab sprawled indecorously across Evan's lap.

Francisca was not just any woman to ease his lusts by. Despite what he might have said about just one night aboard the
Madrigal
, he knew he would want her in his bed fore many nights to come. He had already thought about setting her up as his mistress. He could see that she had everything she needed. A fine house in the city. A coach. Clothes and jewels and servants to wait on her every whim. He would pamper her and keep her in silks and velvets, her dark red hair gleaming with pearls and her soft, pale skin scented with the headiest, most exotic perfumes he would buy for her in Arabia.

Perhaps he would even take her to Plymouth with him, since he would be spending more time in the West Country. It would be but a few hours' ride to see her whenever he wished. One day, he might even take her to visit Ravindzara. Thinking of Francisca, of having her in bed, of her mouth trembling and soft from his kisses, of her pale, slender thighs entwined around his hips, of taking her until she was breathless with desire, the image of any other woman but a redheaded, green-eyed enchantress faded from his mind. So did the idea that had been forming in his mind of late that he needed a wife, and that he might make his intentions known to Honoria Penmorley.

Realizing he still sat lost in his daydreaming while the sunset faded across the river, where a woman was waiting for him, Valentine began to excuse himself, rising from the table with a determined glint in his eye to bid a quick farewell to his friends.

Valentine hadn't gotten as far as the next table, the Turk
moving
closely behind him, when he was halted by a man he knew only slightly. The man drew him aside, slipping him a note.

"Lord Burghley wishes to see you."

"Now?" Valentine questioned in disbelief.

"Yes, sir, now. If you please. His lordship has been busy with appointments all day, and only now has he found the time to see you. If you please?" the man repeated, but
more
insistently this time, and Valentine realized the man was not likely to take no for an answer. Nor indeed did one refuse to see William Cecil when he requested your presence.

Valentine hid his frustration well as he followed the man from the tavern. For a brief moment, Valentine Whitelaw stood outside, staring with a narrowed gaze at the distant bank. The first star of the evening had risen low in the darkening skies.

"Mustafa"

"Yes, Cap'n?"

"I do not know how long I shall be," he said, glancing over at the silent courier.

"I am afraid I cannot say, sir," was all he allowed as he headed toward the steps, where a barge awaited.

"I want you to go across the river and meet Francisca. I don't want her to think I am not coming. Damn!" Valentine cursed when he saw the night watchman, carrying his halberd and horn-lantern, wander past as he roared the hour and warned the residents to light their
lanterns
and hang them outside their homes to light the way for others. " 'Tis later than I thought."

"Francisca?" Mustafa said the name curiously. "The girl from the fair?"

"Yes, I've arranged to meet her. I want you to go instead. She saw you with me this afternoon. Explain to her why I cannot come. Take her aboard the
Madrigal
, and don't take no for an answer if she resists you. I don't think she will, though," Valentine added with the assurance, or perhaps the arrogance, of a handsome man who had seldom been denied the woman he was after.

"Bring her aboard, Cap'n?" Mustafa questioned, for the captain had never had a woman aboard the Madrigal before, except, of course, the women of his family.

"Captain Whitelaw? We must not keep Lord Burghley waiting," the messenger reminded him.

"Just do it, Mustafa. I will expect to see her in my cabin when I come aboard," he warned, and with one final glance across the river, the bank now lost in darkness, Valentine Whitelaw made his way down the slippery steps to the barge that waited to carry him back upriver, but not to meet the person he'd been hoping to.

"As you wish, Cap'n," Mustafa said, bowing his turbaned head
deferentially
, but he was
more
curious than ever about this woman who had so captivated his captain.

Lily patted Merry's flank comfortingly, although she suspected she derived more comfort from the contact than he did. It had grown dark so quickly. She could scarcely see the river anymore, except where the flickering glow from the stern lanterns of ships and passing barges reflected in the blackness of the waters swirling past.
But a mist was rising, and son she wouldn't even be able to see those few beacons.

Lily glanced around uneasily. There were so many strange sounds. The river kept up a constant gurgling as the waters lapped against the hulls of the ships anchored midstream, before rushing against the bank. Every so often she would hear voices calling through the night, but most of the words remained unintelligible to her innocent ears.

In the fading twilight, she had found Valentine Whitelaw's ship, the
Madrigal
. She'd recognized the carved figurehead of the sea maid riding her bow. Under different circumstances, Lily found herself thinking, she would have liked to go aboard his ship again. She was the most beautiful ship on the Thames. But now, never...

Lily sighed, jumping nervously when Merry snorted, his warm breath tickling the back of her neck. "All right, boy, I know you don't like standing out here in the mists any more than I do," she spoke to him gently, rubbing his soft nose.

He wasn't coming. Valentine Whitelaw was not going to meet her. What a fool she had been to believe his lies. He had gotten all he had wanted under the trees. After all, he had Cordelia to hold in his arms whenever he chose. They were probably aboard his ship right now, standing on the deck watching her forlorn figure on the shore, laughing at her gullibility. Or perhaps he'd seen another comely maid and enticed her into his bed, Lily decided, her anger growing with each
shivering
breath she took.

She didn't know if she was
more
relieved or angry that he had not kept their assignation. Even though she had not been looking forward to the confrontation, despite her desire to see his shocked expression when she revealed her true identity, she did
not like being made a fool of,
and that was exactly what she was to remain here waiting for him any longer.

"Come along, Merry. Let's go," Lily whispered, and leading the big white horse over to a fallen tree stump, she climbed on his back and, with a light touch of her heels to his flank, she sent him back toward the camp.

Sir Raymond Valchamps lifted his scented pomander to his nose and eyed with increasing contempt the rabble of unwashed bodies crowded so close together in the small taproom of the inn situated on a narrow lane just beyond Traitor's Gate. It was absolutely breathtaking, he though.

And they were an angry mob, too. It wouldn't take much to incite them to further violence after the beating many of them had taken that afternoon when they'd tangled with a group of ruffians from the fair.

Sir Raymond smiled. Things had gone rather nicely for him today.

"Damn those peddlers! Cheated me out of a fair price, that one did!"

"Sold me a lame horse last week. Tried to take it back, but they said the nag wasn't lame when I bought it. Accused me of lyin'!" a
rough
-looking man said angrily, taking a long swallow from his tankard of ale.

"Heard tell they be sellin' ale that's only a few days old, yet chargin' even more than this place does! Hate to tell any o' ye'se been drinkin' it what I thinks it be made of."

"How about that, John? Them cheatin' ye out o' yer customers with stuff like that," another one yelled at the innkeeper.

"Aye, cheatin' the public, I says. Oughta run the lot of them out of London."

"Lost plenty bettin' on ye in the ring. Why'd ye let that big fair-haired fellow beat ye?"

"Cheated, he did! Bit me on the shoulder!" the man defended his loss with a guilty glance away from his friend's speculative gaze.

"Not only did he beat ye, and steal my earnings, he was sweet-talkin' and fondlin' yer daughter!"

"Lizzie? He had them big ham-fists of his on me daughter? When? I'll-"

` "What d'ye mean ye can't be payin' fer the ale ye sat here drinkin'?" the innkeeper demanded of the fancy gentleman who'd been sitting by himself in the corner.

"Exactly what I said, my good man," Sir Raymond declared, glancing around at the indignant faces glaring at him. "My purse has been stolen," he said, standing up so quickly he upended the small oak table, sending the plates the serving maid had set down when collecting his empty tankard scattering onto the dirty floor. " 'Twas the whore. The one traveling with the gypsies. Has red hair. She did it. At the fair, just a little while ago. She wanted me to buy some of the posies she was selling."