Wild Bells to the Wild Sky (9 page)

The sounds of battle continued for nearly an hour before there was silence. Then there were several more volleys of shot fired, and that was when Master Lawson raced to the boat and pulling her from her beaching, floated her. Jumping in, he began to row out with a madman's strength.

"Lawson!" Sir Basil yelled after the young man. "Wait!" he called, thinking the man deranged and about to abandon them. "Where are you going? Come back! Don't leave us here!"

"She's not firing back! She must've gone down! I got to rescue them. See if anyone is alive!" he cried, his face determined as he put his shoulders to the rowing. "I'll be back. I promised the captain I'd look after ye!"

Magdalena sank down in the surf, buried her face in her hands and began to weep. Lily was screaming after Lawson, and Sir Basil had to grab hold of her to keep her from racing into the surf after the rowboat and trying to swim out to where the loyal sailor was rowing through the narrow channel that cut through the reefs. As he disappeared around the headland, it was the last, any of them ever saw of Master Lawson.

Sir Basil waded out to Magdalena and helped her to her feet. With her leaning against him, and with Lily held tightly in his other arm, her face still turned out to sea, Sir Basil staggered up the beach, Geoffrey Christian's family now his responsibility.

The hours passed in silence as they waited on shore. The sun sank in a fiery ball that reflected like blood against the water, then darkness fell.

Sir William Cecil shivered and pulled the fur rug closer about his knees as he studied the document spread out on the table before him, the candlelight sending a warming glow across them that did little to cheer him up. The rain blew against the windows and the cold drafts swirled into the room, apparently oblivious of his importance to the queen, he thought wryly as he shifted closer to the fire burning brightly in the hearth. It had been raining steadily in London for days now, and the storm would most likely would turn into a blizzard before they saw the sun again.

He rubbed his eyes tiredly, then glanced down again at the information Walsingham had compiled during the last couple of years against Ridolfi. Roberto di Ridolfi, an Italian banker and ardent Papist who had been in close contact with English Catholics unhappy with Elizabeth's reign. He had been interrogated by Walsingham about his frequent activities involving the Spanish embassy and the pope, as well as his connections with the French ambassador and influential Catholics in England, all known sympathizers of the Queen of Scots. He had been directly involved in the transfer of funds from secret sources on the Continent to aid the Catholic cause in England.

Unfortunately, they had not had enough incriminating evidence to hold him, and had to release him. But Walsingham had been keeping a close watch over him, and had discovered that Ridolfi had been very busy of late. More disturbing, however, had been the news that he, no longer confined to his residence, had left England for the Continent. Word had been received that Ridolfi had already met with the Duke of Alva, the Castilian grandee who commanded Philip's forces in the Netherlands and was next to meet with the pope, then Philip himself.

Cecil rested his bearded chin in the palm of his hand as he stared thoughtfully into the flames. What exactly were their plans? He didn't need to be a soothsayer to know what they were plotting
-
-the death of Elizabeth. Now he needed to know who exactly was involved and how they planned it. They had lists of suspected traitors and malcontents, those seeking personal power and a return of the ancient faith, but he sometimes wondered if that was enough. All it would take was the one fanatic they had overlooked, that they had not detected in time. Then it would be too late, and all of the spying and counterspying would have been for naught. Elizabeth Tudor would be dead and England would face invasion.

Part Two

Castaways

And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh

at
gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues talk

of court news; and we'll talk with them too, who

loses and who wins; who's in, who's out; and take

upon's the mystery of things
.
.
.

S
hakespeare

Chapter Six

January, 1578
-
-London

Whitehall Palace and the court of Elizabeth I

B
lazing
torches
cast flickering light against the rich-hued tapestries and royal portraits which adorned the walls of the Great Hall. As countless slender tapers burned low, strolling musicians and singers, jesters, jugglers, and players vied jealously for the undivided attention of generous patrons and influential courtiers. Amusing themselves with gossip, games of chance, and politics, these privileged members of court whiled away the hours awaiting their queen's pleasure.

The silver-gilt cups and tankards had been filled and refilled many times over the red wines, Rhenish wines, sack, and ale. The banqueting table had been emptied of the large platters of venison roasts, oysters, river bass, stewed and pickled vegetables, salads, pasties, and tarts when the fanfaronade of trumpets and drums announced the entrance of Elizabeth from her privy chamber, where she had dined with a select few of her favorites in attendance.

Resplendent in a French gown worked with Venetian gold and a floral border encrusted with pearls, Elizabeth swept into the great hall. A starched, lacy ruff rose behind her head and framed her bright red hair and pale-complexioned face. A gold-wrought headdress studded with pearls crowned her head, while long ropes of pearls encrusted with gold and emeralds glistened against the tight bodice of her gown. The lace-edged sleeves were slashed to expose the richly figured brocade beneath, which was of the same golden material as the elegant underskirt
revealed
in front. A feather fan sprinkled with gold dust and attached to a golden handle entwined with exotic beasts fluttered in Elizabeth's hand, its various movements foretelling her volatile changes of mood.

Surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting and an assembly of court favorites, dignitaries, and officials, she moved easily amongst the crowd thronging the hall. Her loyal subjects
knelt
before her, hopeful of her notice and a kind word or jest spoken to them personally, and perhaps even a royal favor to be granted.

A lady-in-waiting, whose exceptional beauty in a stunning gown with a border worked cunningly with sparkling gems and pearls, and far richer seeming than the queen's own regal robes, received a glare of displeasure and a punishing pinch from Elizabeth, who would not suffer competition from one who served her, and who should remain no more than a shadow while in her presence. But a jester with a ready wit and comic antics soon had a smile curving his queen's lips as she laughed heartily at his fools' tricks.

By their queen's request, the court musicians, with lutes, viols, brass, and woodwinds, began a lively tune which heralded the dancing. Elizabeth, partnered by handsome courtiers who knew the steps well and showed a fine leg, enjoyed herself until she claimed the knaves would dance her to death and she retired to recline against silken cushions at the far side of the room. There, Elizabeth held court, summoning various people to her side and listening avidly until either boredom or anger overtook her patience for one who dallied too long before her or asked too many favors of her largesse.

From the crowded gallery overlooking the hall, the less fortunate watched in awe. And each dreamed of dressing in silk and jewels, with the finest lace scented with lavender, and on bended knee or with a deep curtsy would be presented to Elizabeth.

A young gallant who would soon draw the notice of his queen now stood in conversation with several other gentlemen near a deep window embrasure, where a certain amount of privacy could be found apart from the clamor.

He was dressed in a doublet of a deep burgundy color; the sleeves slashed and gold-embroidered showed the fine Holland linen of his shirt beneath. His trunk hose of a matching shade were only slightly puffed and slashed and were ornately embroidered in colored silks and golden threads. His netherstocks, gartered in velvet at the knee, were of silk and his shoes of cordovan leather. The starched whiteness of the plain ruff of cambric about his neck contrasted sharply with the darkness of his bronzed face. His hair was black and had a natural curl in its thickness, and an unruly strand curled against the single gold earring he wore in his left ear. As was the fashion, he wore a beard, but it was no bushy swallow's tail with curling moustache or long cathedral beard as was popular with academicians, nor did it serve to mask a weak chin. Dark as his hair and as neatly trimmed, the beard drew attention to the strength of his jawline.

Every so often, with a casualness that might have been deemed arrogance by one less sure of himself, he lifted a scented, gold pomander to his nose. It was indeed a noble profile, the nose patrician in cast. But when Valentine Whitelaw smiled, his mouth softened from its hard, chiseled lines and showed even teeth that gleamed in evidence of good health. His eyes, however, were the most startling feature about him, for they were heavy-lidded, the irises a bright turquoise shade that reflected like sunlight through clear water. They were fringed with long black lashes and set beneath beautifully arched brows.

He stood taller than his companions, and the server cut of his doublet showed to perfection the wideness of his shoulders and the narrowness of waist and hips. Many an envious eye had been cast by less endowed gentlemen at the sleek muscularity of his thighs and calves, which needed no padding or tailor's tricks to enhance their masculine shape.

The gentleman standing just to his right was jostled as a group of people hurried past, too preoccupied with their conversation to realize they had rudely elbowed out of the way a rather short, elegantly dressed gentleman in their path.

"Clack-cackle, bibble-babble, gibble-gabble," the affronted gentleman muttered as he watched the group barreling though the crowd. "I swear this place has gotten as busy as Fleet Street during a royal procession, and with just as many riffraff milling about. Think I should see to my purse just in case it's been lifted. Since you've been away, Valentine, the court has tripled in size. Good Lord, I'm not acquainted with even half of this vermin," he decided as he eyed another noisy group approaching and took the precaution of taking a step backward. "You know where to reach my family should I be trampled underfoot, never to draw breath again. They will have a moment's horror at the thought that I was in Smithfield Market, thinking I'd become a swineherd rather than a courtier, so you will have to explain the circumstances of my premature death, Valentine," he beseeched his friend. "They will be overwrought at the thought."

Valentine Whitelaw found himself smiling widely at George Hargraves's nonsensical talk. "By your death, I understand completely."

"No, by the scandal caused by the rumor that I was herding swine to market," he exclaimed with so serious an expression that anyone but a good friend would have been convinced of the shaken gentleman's concern.

"D'ye know, George, I think ye've missed your calling in life," Thomas Sandrick, another well-dressed gallant standing with them, drawled. "The law isn't for you at all. 'Tis court jestering, and 'twould be one way of capturing Elizabeth's eye. Perhaps you might even manage to obtain a knighthood from your appreciative queen. Sir George Hargraves, first Earl of Doggerel, and his lady, the dancing bear!" Thomas Sandrick intoned dramatically, much to the appreciation of the other gentlemen within hearing distance.

"Well, you, my late, unlamented friend, won't live long enough to congratulate me," George threatened.

"You mean you won't name one of the little cubs after me?" Thomas demanded in outrage, a grieved look on his handsome face.

"Most likely I'll send one after you, teeth bared," George complained good-naturedly.

"I doubt seriously, however, that Walsingham acted the court jester to be rewarded his knighthood," Thomas Sandrick commented as he noticed the dour-faced Walsingham staring their way.
"Sir
Francis it is now," he reminded himself, for Elizabeth's current secretary of state, and onetime ambassador to France, had been knighted only the year before.

"Too serious by far for my tastes," George said. "That is why I shall be forced to turn down any royal appointments. Takes the humor right out of a man. Why, look at Lord Burghley, there. Did you ever see such a suffering expression?" he demanded as if resting his case, for all eyes followed his request and came to rest on William Cecil, still the queen's closest adviser, who was indeed looking a bit haggard.

"Gout," Thomas advised. "And he's becoming hard of hearing. Makes it devilishly hard to tell him any secrets," he said, winning a look of admiration from the quick-witted George.

" 'Tis a thought, becoming hard of hearing. Might not be half bad," George said, wincing as a loudmouthed individual walked past. "Lord, look at that!" he exclaimed with a loud guffaw of his own as he watched an elegantly dressed gentleman, overly anxious to be presented to his queen, trip over one of the silk pillows at her feet and fall sprawling to the carpeted floor in front of her, his face turning as bright a red as her hair as he quickly scrambled to his feet and tried to look dignified.

"Faith, but 'tis damned embarrassing the way some folks grovel," George declared before doubling over in laughter.

Valentine Whitelaw eyed his friend curiously. "I do believe, George, that life at court has had a peculiar effect on your personality. You used to be such a jovial fellow."

"Ah, Valentine," George said with a gasp, "I wish you wouldn't go to sea so damned much. I never seem to have as amusing a time when you're not here. And now that you've got your own ship and some land and a house in the West Country you never do come to London much anymore. 'Sdeath, but I nearly walked past you earlier, thinking you a stranger."

"I am sorry, George. I had no idea."

" 'Tis just that you are so difficult a fellow to get to laugh, that when you do, I know I've been especially amusing. You sharpen my wits," George said. "I suppose, though, 'tis a family trait. Basil wasn't the merriest of gentlemen."

Valentine Whitelaw was silent for a moment. "No, he wasn't, although because he did not laugh indiscreetly did not mean he was without a sense of humor."

"Of course, I was much younger then," George explained away his failure. "Hadn't quite developed my skills then. Depended more on physical pranks than on my sidesplitting witticisms. Have it finely honed now. Pity, though, Basil isn't here. 'Twould be the culmination of all of my long, hard years of study to get him to laugh uproariously," George wished aloud, then looked a bit chagrined when Thomas Sandrick jabbed him in the ribs and jerked his head meaningfully toward their friend.

"I wish he were standing here now," Valentine finally said, still finding it hard to believe that Basil had been lost at sea, along with Geoffrey Christian and his family, as well as all hands aboard the
Arion.

"How long ago was that?" Sir Charles, an older gentleman, and a longtime friend of the Whitelaw brothers, asked now.

"This time seven years ago Basil set sail with Geoffrey Christian aboard his ship the
Arion
."

" 'Sblood, was it really that long ago?"

"Yes." The only surviving Whitelaw brother answered abruptly, for those years had haunted him.

"Can't be," the gentleman declared with a shake of his graying head. "Seems like yesterday I was dining
with
him and Lady Elspeth at Whiteswood. Still go there, but it isn't the same without good old Basil there to welcome me. Not that I blame Lady Elspeth for remarrying, she did have a son to raise, and she is still a damned fine-looking woman. Suppose you don't visit quite as often as you used to even though it is your family home. A fine place, that. I can certainly understand why Sir William has been in no hurry to build a place of his own. I've heard talk, however, that Sir William has had his eye on an estate closer to
London
."

"Elspeth may have remarried but Simon is still a Whitelaw and when he is of age he will inherit Whiteswood. My fondness for Elspeth has not diminished because she married Sir William. He has treated Simon like his own son. Since I am often away at sea, I am relieved to know that both Elspeth and Simon are well cared for."

"Generous of you, Valentine. Damned generous," Sir Charles declared. "No. Can't understand it, Valentine.

"What can't you understand, Sir Charles?"

"Well, why Basil ever sailed to the Indies in the first place. We both know he wasn't one for doing much traveling. Not like you, he wasn't. He'd grumble about having to travel with Her Majesty during the summer months when she takes to the road and travels about the countryside. It suited him to travel between here and Whiteswood, but no further afield for him. That is why I cannot understand what he was doing aboard the
Arion
. Know he was a good friend of Christian's but still, I just cannot understand," Sir Charles said with a sigh. "Never told you why, did he?"

"No, he did not," Valentine answered.

"Surprised he didn't, or that you weren't on board. You used to sail with Christian, didn't you? Oh-ho, I remember now, you were with Drake, doin' a bit of adventurin', eh?" he chuckled. "You young sea dogs are a rovin' pack. France was the place for adventurin' when I was your age. Still is, if you ask me, that and Spain. Both need to feel the bite of a good English sword. But you hot-blooded young bucks have to go sailing off to godforsaken, faraway places where heathens and strange beasts are the only creatures roaming the lands. Waste of time and money," he muttered, his thoughts straying.