Wild Bells to the Wild Sky (73 page)

His father has requested his presence on board or, rather, had assumed that his only son would accompany him on this greatest of journeys to rid Spain and the seas of one of her most hated enemies. Francisco knew no more of the voyage than that his father intended to entrap an English privateer who had challenged his father on many occasions. The man had raided the Main and even been so bold as to attack the treasure fleet just off the coast of Spain. The devout in the coastal villages went in fear of spying the red cross of St. George flying on the mast of a ship sailing out of thin air. He had heard some of the men aboard the
Estrella D'Alba
refer to the man as El Tigre, because the man seemed to lie in wait for their captains, striking before they knew what had happened. He did not know, nor did he care to ask, what his given name was. If the man was to be feared as much as the other
heretical
Englishman, Drake, then it was indeed an honor to be aboard his father's ship and share in the glory of this Englishman's death.

Francisco clasped the heavy silver cross he wore tucked beneath his doublet, the cool feel of the silver
comforting
him. If accepted for the priesthood, he would carry God's word into a heathen England, and whether the heretics burned at the stake or drowned at sea, it was all part of God's will.

Shielding his eyes, he gazed out to sea, where he could just make out the mainmast of the
Estrella D'Alba
riding at anchor beyond the waves that rolled across the reefs and broke in
foaming
white crests that sent sea spray shooting high into the air. He couldn't spy the other
galleons
, for they'd anchored some distance apart, prepared to raise sail as soon as the word was given.

Francisco glanced around at the camp. The crew, which had rowed the small pinnace ashore the day before, were scattered along the beach beneath several palms. Some were resting peacefully in the shade, while others were jesting and
playing
games of chance in the sand with shells and driftwood they'd scavenged. The soldiers who'd come ashore with them stayed apart, their harquebuses and halberds close at hand. They seemed so calm, so unconcerned about their task ahead,
Francisco
thought almost resentfully, for he was weak in the knees and felt a quivering in his stomach that threatened to erupt at any moment.

No, he thought, he would not disgrace himself before these men, his father's men. He would, for this one time only, prove himself his father's son, he vowed. He opened his eyes to find Diego Calderon's dark eyes watching him, and forcing himself to draw in a deep breath and calm his fluttering heart, he stood tall, meeting the older man's gaze with dignity.

Diego Calderon nodded deferentially to his captain's son. He'd had his doubts when Don Pedro had given command to his son, thinking the boy a weakling, but the young man seemed willing to carry out his father's orders. Indeed, he had sounded quite authoritative when sending the scout to the other side of the island at dawn. His report to Don Pedro concerning his son's abilities to command would not disappoint his captain.

Diego Calderon scratched his head, leaving several graying strands standing on end. The scout should have returned by now with the news that
El Tigre's
ship was anchored on the other side of the island, or that it had yet to arrive. Either way, they had to send word to Don Pedro so he could plan his next strategy. If all went as previously discussed aboard the
Estrella D'Alba
, then the landing party would, upon hearing the news that the Englishman's ship was anchored beyond the reefs on the windward side of the island, split into two units. They would then cross the island and cut off any escape for the English over land, for, by then, Don Pedro with his fleet of heavily armed galleons would have rounded the island and cut off
El Tiger
's escape to sea.

But where was the scout? He'd had ample time to reach the other shore and discover if the enemy was within range. He should have been back by now.

Young Francisco Villasandro must have thought so as well.
"¿
Canto
tiempo lleva?
" he demanded, his warm brown eyes searching the forest for a sign of the scout.
"¿
Canto
dista de aqui a
-
-"
he had started to ask the older gentleman, whose experienced eye could have estimated how far the scout had to travel to reach the far side of the isle, when he was interrupted by an excited hail from the trees he'd just searched.

"¡El tigre! ¡El Tigre!
He is here! I have seen him! His ship is anchored just off shore," the scout called out, nearly tripping over his own feet in his excitement to report his news.

Lily walked along the sands, skirting the tide as it spread higher on the beach as the afternoon waned. She stopped and looked back toward the distant headland. No one had even noticed that she'd wandered off. The crew was busy loading the boat. Several hours earlier, after the discovery of the cave and the treasure, Valentine had sent half of the crew back to the boat they'd beached in the bay. They'd rowed it back out beyond the reefs, then sent it skimming through the waters around the headland and into the cove, where they'd left it anchored in the shallows so it would be easier to shove off with the added weight of the treasure.

Lily paused by the tall pine for a few minutes before sitting down cross-legged in the sand, just beyond the graves, but still in the shade. She sat there for a while in
companionable
silence, watching the sunlight glistening like molten gold across the water, the light changing constantly as the sun sank lower on the horizon. She'd forgotten how warm it could get on the island, she thought, pulling her bodice free where it was sticking to her skin. On impulse, she kicked off her slippers, leaving them half-buried in the sand. She lifted her skirts and pulled off her garters, rolling down her stockings and tossing them into the air to float down. She stretched out her legs, wiggling her toes through the hot sand.

The memories came flooding back of another time when she, Tristram, and Dulcie had raced along these very same sands, past this tall pine, bare then of the graves that marked it now, for Basil and her mother would have been laughing and calling to them from the headland. Basil would have started the fire, and their mother would have cooked their evening supper, the aromatic odors drifting on the
smoke
-scented early evening air. Then, as the fire burned low, until there was little left but glowing coals, Basil would have told them a story, his deep voice lulling them to sleep on the sand that still held the warmth from the day, the sea lapping gently against the shore like a lullaby.

Lily stood up, brushing the sand from her skirts. She gathered up the front of her skirt and petticoat and tucked the ends into her waistband, leaving her legs bared to mid-thigh, the skirts draped high and clear of the surf as she waded into the shallows. She spied a shell and reached into the clear waters to
capture it
. She held the shell to her ear and listened; she could hear someone calling to her. Glancing toward the headland, she saw Simon approaching with several of the crew, who were carrying barrels over their shoulders.

"Lily!"

Lily waved and tossed the pink-tinted shell to him. Simon caught it, examining it carefully, a grin of pleasure on his face. " 'Tis beautiful. I've never seen one quite so big as this," he said in awe.

"The meat from it is delicious. But this one is empty. Would you like it?"

"You mean it? Don't you want it? It might be quite valuable back in England."

Lily smiled, deciding not to tell him that she'd seen hundreds just like it while living on the island.

"Betsy will love it. I'd better find something for Wilfred, too, or he'll set up a howl," Simon declared.

"I'll help you find some more. I know just where to look. Where are you headed?" she asked, eyeing the sailors who'd kept walking down the beach.

Belatedly, Simon became aware that he'd neglected his duty and raised an arm to hail them, but they'd already disappeared over the headland. "We're going to get fresh water. Valentine told me to ask you if you could lead us to the pool? Do you think you remember where it is?"

"The pool? I think I can find it," she said, slightly stung by the innocent reminder of her previous confusion. "I'd like to see if our hut is still there," she said, but she was curious about something else as she fell into step with Simon, who was hurrying now to catch up to the sailors, but she decided against telling him that the pool was also the main watering hole for many of the animals of the isle. And there was one particular animal she wished to find.

She glanced back, toward the boat being loaded, her gaze searching for Valentine's tall figure. She was surprised to see one of the sailors walking along behind them, but not hurrying to catch up.

"He isn't there," Simon told her, guessing her thoughts.

"Oh?" Lily said, pretending a lack of interest.

"He climbed back up the headland. He's posted a guard there, and that fellow following us is stationed at that pine Tristram used to guard," Simon explained.

Lily eyed the sailor again. "Valentine is very cautious."

"That is why he's alive today," Simon said. "I wish he'd let me see inside that journal. 'Twas my father's, after all," Simon said wistfully.

"He has been very strange since reading it," Lily commented, for Valentine had not allowed her to see inside either. "He is just like Basil, for he would never let any of us read what he'd written there," she said, thinking of how Valentine had tucked the journal under his arm after retrieving it from the chest. Once back on the beach, and after giving his orders to his crew, he'd separated himself from everyone, and sitting on the beach, he'd read the neatly penned words filling the pages, his expression becoming grave as he'd turned the pages. For an hour afterwards, while he'd awaited the return of his crew, he'd remained withdrawn, his expression thoughtful as he'd gazed out to sea.

Unable to contain her curiosity, Lily had asked if Raymond Valchamps's name had been mentioned and if he'd been
involved
in a plot to assassinate the queen. Valentine Whitelaw had gazed up at her, a dangerous glint in his eye, then he'd nodded, but he had said nothing.

Glancing down at her bare feet and slender length of leg, Simon blushed. "Don't you need your shoes, Lily?" he advised tactfully, not wishing to say that she was drawing attention to herself.

They'd climbed the headland and were descending to the sandy beach of the bay on the other side, where the tree sailors were standing nearby, waiting for directions. But their eyes widened when they saw the display of leg revealed to their appreciative gazes.

To their disappointment, however, the skirts had fallen discreetly back into place by the time Lily had
reached the
beach below. She seemed unaware of their crestfallen faces as she walked past, her attention focused on the forest beyond. When Lily saw the group of palms, where two grew so closely together that they seemed one, she knew she'd found the old path to the hut and the pool just behind.

"The path lies here," she said, and the sailors quickly set about cutting a path through the heavy vegetation.

Lily was amazed by its thickness. Like the sea, the island had reclaimed that which had temporarily been stolen from it. The familiar cries of parrots and wild birds filled the air as the interlopers disturbed the peace of the forest.

If the sailors doubted Lily's decision to enter the forest through what had seemed an
impenetrable
tangle, they soon forgot those fears when the hut, sitting in a clearing, was sighted directly ahead.

"Coooeee, Mistress Christian, ye be a born navigator," one of the sailors exclaimed in admiration.

"Aye, a captain's daughter, she is," another one said, relief coloring his voice.

But to Lily, the scene was anything but a relief.

The hut that had given them shelter for so many years was little more than a hovel overgrown with vines. The frail walls had long since been blown in. The thatched roof had collapsed on top. To seal the destruction, a tall palm had fallen across the hut, crushing anything that had remained standing beneath its weight.

"Well," Simon said shakily, unable to find the words to describe the scene.

Lily nodded in understanding. "The first year we were on the island, a storm hit. I remember the winds were deafening and the rain fell in torrents. We were scared to death. We had to leave our hut and seek shelter behind the pool. There is a bank that rises higher on one side. When the storm was over, we came out of hiding and there was nothing left of our hut. It had blown away. For days afterward we couldn't even go near the bay because the waves were so high," Lily said, amazing Simon by their closeness to death on that particular occasion. "Later, of course, we found enough driftwood for a month."

The sailors had already made their way around the rubble that had once been the hut and found their way to the pool. It hadn't changed. The waters bubbling up
from
deep in the earth were clear and cool. The area surrounding the pool was over-grown with grasses and thick vegetation, especially the high bank that overlooked the pool on the far side.