Wild Bells to the Wild Sky (58 page)

"Aye, remember her, I do," someone said.

"Smiled at me so sweetly, why, I couldn't keep her hands off my person, so bold was she."

"Wish she'd been as bold with me, eh?" someone guffawed, thinking he'd have dealt easily enough with the wench. The fancy gent probably needed his servants' help.

"Enticed me behind one of the tents for a bit of pleasure. Well? I'm a man, aren't I?" Sir Raymond demanded as several of the men nodded understandingly. "She was fair enough to catch my eye," Sir Raymond said,
unfortunately
drawing the attention of several to his eyes. "Then, before I could do
more
than put an arm around her. I was hit from behind. When I awoke, my purse was gone, as well as my rings!" he declared, his gold pomander safely tucked away inside his hat now. "My God! 'Tis an
outrage
. So weak was I, that I could only get as far as this inn. I hope you will forgive me, good sir, for drinking your ale without being able to pay for it."

"Oh, sir, never think that. 'Tis on the house. Why, after what ye've been through! They oughta be hanged! The nerve of them to do such a thing to a gentleman! Why, I never heard of such boldness!"

"Yes, quite," Sir Raymond murmured faintly, fanning himself. He glanced up in feigned surprise when two men who'd been standing in the crowded taproom, awaiting his signal, suddenly picked up a couple of torches, and lighting them, held them high over their heads much to the innkeeper's horror as he watched the flames licking against the rafters of his inn.

"Let's burn 'em out! Come on! Are ye with us?"

"Aye!"

"Burn the thieves and whores out of our town!"

"We'll take care of them gypsies!"

"I'm with you!" Sir Raymond cried out, making his way through the crowded taproom.

Sir Raymond's elegant figure became lost in the crowd that surged through the streets of Southwark, growing larger as they passed by the other inns and taverns. They neared the grounds where the vagabond band was peacefully settled around their fires while most ate their only hot meal of the day, and others were already asleep for the night beneath their carts or inside colorful tents.

The fires from the torches held to the booths and tents passed along the way spread quickly, surprising and even sobering some of the mob by the searing heat from the flames rising high over the fairgrounds.

Screams and cries filled the air. The smoke billowed in black
clouds
, choking and blinding the people as they staggered about. Animals and people began to rush madly through the mob, oblivious to the cudgels and fists being swung by many as gypsies and vagabonds met the vicious attack by the townspeople with an erupting anger of their own.

Reaching the campsites, Sir Raymond held back, watching the crowd. Woman and children were running wildly along the outskirts of the fighting, many huddling together in little groups, while other quickly gathered up their belongings and, locating their scattered animals, wasted no time in hitching them up to their carts and wagons.

Staying close to the trees, and safely out of reach of the bloodthirsty combatants, Sir Raymond made his way toward the group, searching out the figure of Lily Christian. With a sense of disbelief at his good fortune, he saw her standing alone, near a cart where a couple of oxen stood tethered to a tree by a tent.

Slowly, he moved up behind her, the loud noises masking his stealthy approach out of the trees. Pulling the knife from his doublet, Sir Raymond raised it high above his head, his arm arced to strike the death blow.

Through the haze he saw a man approaching from the crowd, yelling something to the girl, a warning, but Sir Raymond's arm was already swinging down, the knife blade glinting in the firelight as it inched closer, slicing past her dark red head to drive deep into her back, the soft flesh of her slender shoulder ripping apart as Sir Raymond stabbed deep into her body, the blood spurting from the wound splattering his chest and face.

The force of the blow spun her around to face him and Sir Raymond screamed with fear when her hair came loose in his hands.

Sir Raymond's mouth opened in horror as he stared down at the flimsy piece of dark red lace that floated to the ground at his feet. He looked up in time to see the girl's face as she fell against him. It had been a mask of death, the dark, sightless eyes staring at him in surprise.

The girl he had just murdered had not been Lily Christian. but Sir Raymond had no time to speculate upon his mistake as he himself was attacked by a knife-wielding fiend. The man's body hurled against his and sent them both flying into the dirt.

Sir Raymond cried out, feeling some of the searing pain that the girl must have felt when he'd driven his knife into her. For a moment, Sir Raymond thought he was going to die. The blade of the knife had felt so startlingly cold against his flesh; then it had become a burning sensation deep inside of him. Holding his own weapon against his chest as he tried to defend himself, Sir Raymond and his attacker rolled over. Then suddenly Sir Raymond found himself released from the death hold the other man had held him in.

Fearing another blinding pain striking him full force, Sir Raymond remained unmoving, but when the other man didn't move, he cautiously rolled away. Staggering to his feet, blood dripping from the wound in his shoulder, Sir Raymond stared down at the man who had attacked him.

Sir Raymond stared bemusedly at his knife embedded in the man's chest. Had he truly struck the blow himself, he could not have had a surer aim. Gradually, Sir Raymond became aware that the fight had gone out of the mob, and many of them were running away, nursing wounds, as they sought the safety of their homes.

Taking a handkerchief from his doublet, Sir Raymond tried to stanch the flow of blood from his wound. Odd, now that his fear of having been attacked was over, his wound seemed strangely insignificant. What bothered him the most was that Lily Christian still lived.

Moving into the shadows of the trees, Sir Raymond stared down at the two people he'd killed. He couldn't understand how he'd mistaken that woman for Lily Christian. She was wearing the same dress he'd seen Lily Christian wearing earlier in the day. Of course she had been wearing that damned veil over her head. A pity it'd been the same dark red as Lily Christian's hair.

Suddenly, Sir Raymond caught his breath as he watched Lily Christian riding into the camp astride a white horse. Quickly, she dismounted and was racing directly
toward
where he stood in the quiet of the trees, when someone called out to her and she turned, then ran in the opposite direction, out of his reach.

A young boy and girl flung themselves into her outstretched arms. Hugging them tight, she hurried to the side of a woman who was trying to kneel near a man who had been felled by a blow to the head. Another, shorter man, assisted her, then knelt beside her as he examined the large man lying unconscious on the ground.

As Sir Raymond continued to watch, Lily Christian glanced up, looking his way. Unable to control himself, he stepped deeper into the shadowy concealment of the trees just behind the cart.

Sir Raymond knew she couldn't see him, but he could see her. She might have escaped death this time but not the next time, he vowed. He would not fail again.

O mistress mine! Where are you roaming?

Shakespeare

Chapter Twenty-Two

I
t was just before dawn.
Valentine Whitelaw stood on the deck of the
Madrigal
and stared broodingly across the river, toward the distant bank cloaked in mist and barely visible through the lightening gloom.

She was gone.

While he had been waiting to meet with Lord Burghley, she had fled. And after what the Turk had told him had happened at the vagabond camp, he knew he might never have seen her again. She could have been the one lying dead, stabbed through the heart, Valentine thought, damning the circumstances that had kept him from meeting her, from being by her side when danger had struck so close.

He had waited nearly five hours before William Cecil had been able to see him. When he'd entered Cecil's chambers, that tired gentleman had been hurriedly leaving. Ordered to attend the queen at once, his lordship had given him an apologetic glance and promise that he would not be long as he'd limped along the corridor, and from the flustered look of a
member
of the queen's guard who'd been sent to escort the Lord Treasurer, Her
Majesty
was most likely in one of her towering rages and needed to be
quieted
by the comforting, calming voice of her old friend.

Valentine had sat waiting patiently. Then he'd paced the long, darkened corridor with impatient strides as the hours had slowly passed and he'd thought too often of the woman waiting for
him
.
But
believing that Turk had brought Francisca aboard the
Madrigal
, and that she was comfortably settled in his cabin, he had not grown overly concerned, just frustrated not to have been with her.

Recalling now his dismay when he'd come aboard after midnight to find his cabin empty, then his shock when he'd heard the reason why, he realized that he had yet another score to settle with Don Pedro Enrique Villasandro, captain of the
Estrella D'Alba
. The Spaniard had plagued him long enough, Valentine mused, vowing to settle that score once and for all.

The Spanish captain had been the reason for Lord Burghley's summons, and Valentine now held Don Pedro indirectly responsible for having put Francisca's life in danger and for what had not happened last night aboard the
Madrigal
. Lord Burghley, ever one to advise
caution
, was concerned about the growing animosity between the two captains and had advised a more conciliatory attitude. Lord Burghley did not wish to see a personal grudge develop into a far more serious incident between the two unfriendly nations. An official complaint from the Spanish ambassador had been lodged against Valentine Whitelaw, listing in fine detail his piratical acts against Spain and her loyal subjects.
And Drake, through his latest
exploits of plunder throughout Spain's empire in the New World, was causing irreparable harm to the already fragile negotiations.

They did not need yet another Englishman giving Philip more cause to arm Spain against England. Valentine Whitelaw knew that Cecil and the queen were having a battle of their own to maintain England's peace while trying to restrain the war-mongering voices of many members of her council, among them Walsingham's, Hatton's, and Leicester's, who were far less pacificatory toward Spain.

Cecil had gone on to
inform
him that when Don Pedro had been in England the month before, he had inquired about the whereabouts of his enemy, and through sources he would not care to divulge, they
had
learned that spies were watching Valentine Whitelaw's movements and had been asking quite a few questions along the docks about the future voyages of the
Madrigal
.

Valentine Whitelaw smiled, for Don Pedro Enrique Villasandro would not have to wonder for long. Cecil had also told him that the captain of the
Estrella D'Alba
had sailed for Spain over a fortnight ago, carrying high-placed members of the ambassador's household and other important dignitaries. Indeed, it seemed of late that all of the
Estrella D'Alba's
voyages had been on the king's business. Her passengers were more often than not traveling on diplomatic missions rather than private business. It would be most embarrassing if an Englishman were to sink a ship in which the Spanish ambassador or any member of his family were sailing. Cecil had said with a judicious shake of his head. Of course, if the
Madrigal
was attacked first, her captain would have every right to defend himself, Cecil had added, not totally lacking in understanding of the situation.

Valentine Whitelaw had been in complete agreement. And, of course, he did have his own spies too, and he would soon know where Don Pedro next planned to sail, and whether his passengers were important enough to allow the
Estrella D'Alba
to go unchallenged. If not, then perhaps they would meet sooner than he had anticipated, Valentine speculated, thinking of his next voyage

But that would have to wait. At first light, he would try to find Francisca. He had to find her. If
only
he had been there last night when that mob of townspeople had attacked the camp. Mustafa had told him of the stalls and tents set aflame, of the frightened women and children, some huddling in groups, others running blindly into the thick of the fray, and of the animals, driven into a frenzy by the fire, causing panic when stampeding through the camp.

The Turk had been deeply upset by his failure to please his captain. He'd explained that he had rowed over to the riverbank as his captain had ordered, but had found the girl gone. He'd already decided to go in search of her when he'd seen the flames and heard the cries for help. He'd hurried to the camp, arriving in time to see a group of people standing around a man and a woman who'd been wounded during the attack.

He had moved up closer to see if he could be of any assistance. He hadn't been able to see the woman's face, because of the people gathered so close, but her gown, of violet silk, had been stained with blood. Edging even closer, to peer over the shoulders of several people kneeling beside the fallen pair, he had seen the girl the captain had wanted
them
to bring aboard the
Madrigal
, and it had been the same girl, the Turk had reassured his stunned captain. There had been no mistaking the dark red hair and green eyes the captain had described to him.

For a horrible instant, Valentine Whitelaw had believed the dead girl was Francisca, for he remembered only to vividly that gown of violet silk, and he'd felt as if the knife that had mortally
wounded
her had struck him instead. His mind had filled with the image of her lying on the ground, the blood seeping from her lifeless body.

But the Turk had gone on to say that this Francisca had been kneeling beside a man, who had apparently been
wounded
trying to defend the woman who had been so brutally attacked. The dead woman had looked like one of the gypsies, her hair black, her skin dark. A silver-haired man, now holding the woman in his arms, had given orders to move the man into one of the carts. The man was not dead yet, although, from the look of the wound, the Turk suspected he soon would be. The silver-haired man had ordered everyone to pack up their belongings. They were leaving the fair and London before dawn and before their attackers returned.

The girl who'd been sitting with the wounded man's head cradled in her lap, had glanced up, her face stained with tears and darkened by the smoke from the fires still burning out of control. The man lying in her arms had moaned in pain, calling her name. It had been Francisca. His hand had grasped hers with surprising strength, for the girl had given a start of surprise and quickly bent over him, listening to his whispered words. She'd looked up at the silver-haired man pleadingly, and the Turk had heard her
asked
if she and her family were to be allowed to travel with them.

The silver-haired man had shaken his head, saying something abusive to this Francisca, which had caused the wounded man to raise his bloodied shoulders, gasping for breath as he begged the older man to let the girl accompany them. The silver-haired an had hesitated, then nodded his agreement to the man's request.

The Turk had looked discomfited while he'd continued his talk, but Valentine Whitelaw had been insistent. The Turk had tried to speak with the girl when she had gotten to her feet, but she'd stayed beside the man, comforting him. He hadn't been able to get close because of the group surrounding them. He had walked out of sight, not wishing to attract any more attention and had waited. He'd watched the carts rolling out, toward the south. Then he had returned to the ship to await his captain's arrival.

Concluding his story, the Turk had frowned. It had bothered him at the time, this persistent feeling that he knew the girl, but he kept silent, thinking the captain would think him mad. But he did tell the captain something else he'd seen, which had bothered him even more.

Standing in the trees, he had become aware of another man, a gentleman, standing nearby, and also watching the group of vagabonds
and
gypsies leaving the burning camp. Sensing the man's desire not to be seen, the Turk had lingered, now watching the man instead. To his surprise, after the last cart had rumbled down the lane, the man stepped from the trees, his face revealed by the flickering light of the flames that continued to burn, sending a reddish glow into the night sky.

The man had glanced around, searching for someone, then, when two rough-looking men had approached him, both carrying cudgels and torches that were still burning brightly, he had handed each of them a purse of money. The Turk had known it was money, because
one
of the men, less trusting than the other, had tossed down his torch and opened the purse. Pouring the gleaming contents into his palm and weighing the amount, he had nodded to the gentleman, and with a wide grin on his face, he and his friends had hurried away.

The Turk had recognized the fancy-dressed gentleman paying off the two men. It had been an acquaintance of the captain's: Sir Raymond Valchamps.

Sir Raymond Valchamps? Valentine Whitelaw couldn't get the name out of his mind as he continued to wonder why Valchamps had been at the gypsy camp, and why he had been paying off two men who had obviously been part of the mob that had set fire to the gypsies' encampment.

Valentine Whitelaw continued to stand on deck, lost in his thoughts. Quinta was not due in London for almost a fortnight. For now, Sir Rodger was content to remain in London, busy with business affairs. And by tomorrow, the
Madrigal's
cargo would have been unloaded. He would have time to search for Francisca. He had to find her, he thought again, unwilling to let her disappear out of his life after that chance sighting of her riding along the riverbank. He knew he would never be able to forget her, to stop wondering about her. The first pale streakings of dawn were lighting the
eastern
skies when Valentine, preparing to go ashore and begin his search, heard a hail from off the port side.

Much as he enjoyed his nephew's company, Valentine Whitelaw was less than pleased to see Simon waving to him wildly from a boat being rowed close to the
Madrigal
amidships.

"Valentine! Uncle Valentine! You're back!" Simon Whitelaw cried excitedly, and spying his uncle standing on the deck, forgetful of where he was as he tried to attract his uncle's attention.

Simon Whitelaw scrambled aboard, his young face mirroring his disturbing
adventures
of the last day. His doublet was dusty and wrinkled, and there was a rip in one of the sleeves. His hose hadn't fared any better, nor had his shoes, which were caked in dirt. He had a
bruise
on one thin cheek, and his eyes were bloodshot and heavy-lidded from lack of sleep.

"Good Lord, Simon! What has happened? Nothin wrong at Riverhurst, is there? I was just there yesterday morning to call on Lady Elspeth and Sir William," Valentine
exclaimed
, worried now that he'd seen his nephew's disheveled appearance.

"No. I was just there. That is how I knew you'd returned to England in time to help. I stopped there to tell the what had happened, and Mother and Sir William told me that you were back. Oh, Uncle Valentine, thank god you have returned," Simon said, his voice hoarse.

"Is there some trouble at Whiteswood? You are not having difficulties with the tenants or servants, are you?" Valentine demanded, but thought it unlikely, since they had known Simon all of his life. "What happened to your cheek? Not in a fight, were you?" Valentine asked doubtfully, for that did not sound like his nephew.

"No," Simon said, looking ashamed. "I fell from my horse. I wasn't watching where I was going. I think I fell asleep. But I'm all right. A few bruises. Kept me from falling asleep again. And everything is fine at Whiteswood. Uncle Valentine, she's gone!" Simon declared, his dark eyes full of anguish.

For a moment, Valentine Whitelaw thought he heard an echo ringing in his ears. Then, eyeing his nephew suspiciously, he wondered what game he was playing?

"Uncle Valentine? Don't you understand? She is gone. So are the others. Lily has disappeared!"