Wild Bells to the Wild Sky (17 page)

"Remember too, my hot-blooded one, that we are fortunate to still be alive," the man standing by the windows cautioned. "Others have been arrested. Others have gone to the gallows. Even one as powerful as Norfolk failed. When they intercepted Ridolfi's ciphers, we could have been implicated then, but it was by the will of Heaven that we have been kept apart from the actual plotting. I have lost count of the priests I have given shelter to during the past years. I cannot even remember their faces, but they have helped our cause more than a massacre would ever have. Perhaps it is our fate to lend assistance to those who would bear the arms for us. We will sustain them and their efforts."

"You speak so eloquently. You have not suffered any these past years. You have done well, my friend. You have wealth, power, position. You would not care to lose that, would you?" Raymond Valchamps retorted. "Well, you had better pray that Valentine Whitelaw doesn't find
anyone
still alive on the island in the Indies, or you and I might find ourselves exiled on the Continent, or, more likely, we will both lose our heads."

It was the end of January, and the
Madrigal
was riding at anchor in Plymouth Harbor. While her crew took on supplies, her captain crossed the Tamar, the river that bordered Devonshire and Cornwall before emptying into Plymouth Sound. The miles of tumbling whitewater cut steep ravines through the bleak moors and dense forests along the border and isolated Cornwall from the rest of the West Country.

Valentine Whitelaw traveled west. He was going home. He rode within sight of the wild Cornish coast. The roar of breakers rolling against the rocky shore far below and the strident cries of cormorants soaring high above his head filled his senses.

Every so often he would turn inland to cross one of the many rivers and creeks that fed into the sea, passing quietly through sleepy hamlets before turning back toward the coast.

He halted his journey in St. Austell only long enough to down an ale and s
ausages, leaving the apple past
ry with scalded cream only half eaten, much to the dismay of the innkeeper's attractive daughter. She had hoped to engage the handsome traveler in conversation after he had dined, despite the unfriendly attitude of the strangely quiet man who sat at the table with him.

Valentine Whitelaw's blood quickened when he sighted the fishing village of Poldreggan. On the far side of the bay, across the creek that meandered through the fertile valley that climbed inland from the scattering of cottages above the sands, was Ravindzara.

Ravindzara, named from a Madagascan word Valentine had heard used by merchants trading in clove nutmeg, the first cargo the
Madrigal
had brought home to England and made a handsome profit on. The good leaf had allowed him to reopen his mother's home. For far too long it had stood empty.

His mother, the last to bear the Polgannis name, had inherited the house on the death of her father. I had never been known as anything but the Hall. Until the Penmorley family had built Penmorley Hall it had been the largest house between Fowey and Truro, and the Polygannises had been one of the most influential families in the country.

Valentine paused on the edge of the property. In the darkness of early evening, little could be seen of the scaffolding that climbed the south face of the great hall, where a columned frontispiece was being added. Soon the old north entrance would lead into the new kitchens and servants' quarters, which would open on the original courtyard. Sweet-scented herbs would be planted. In summer, the vegetables grown in the kitchen gardens beyond the courtyard walls would be harvested and flavored with rosemary and thyme; then, with wild game from the forests and a
plentiful
bounty from the sea, they would be served on silver plate in the great chamber. One day the great hall would be flanked by wings running east and west, boldly faced with tall, diamond-paned windows that would reflect the dazzling, shimmering light of the sea. A long gallery, reached by the stone staircase that rose in broad flights from the great hall below, would connect the two wings. Terraced gardens and lawns would surround the house, and
.
.
.

Valentine Whitelaw sighed as he stared at the gray stone house in the distance; still modest in
comparison
to his visions of the future. The
Madrigal
would have to return from many a profitable voyage before work could even begin on the first part of his dream for Ravindzara.

Then he smiled, for it was enough that Ravindzara was his. He had a roof over his head, and his sister and aunt had a home to call their own.

Valentine ignored the medieval bronze door knocker centered in the great arched door and entered Ravindzara unannounced. The traceried windows, deeply recessed in the stone walls of the hall drew the eye to the richly carved oak beams of the timbered roof that climbed high above his head. A roaring fire was burning brightly in the wide, hooded hearth, spreading a welcoming warmth across the stone flooring. Several footmen had lowered the heavy chain that anchored one of the circular, bronze chandeliers to the center brace in the ceiling. They were lighting the thick candles spaced round the circle before they raised it back into position.

Valentine watched in wry amusement as a couple of maids set the long banqueting table with silver plate. At least that part of his vision for the future was true, and as he noticed the table being set for more than two places, his smile widened, for it would seem as if his aunt and sister had been prepared for his arrival at any time.

"Who left the door unlatched?" the footman nearest the entrance complained as he felt the cold draft swirling around his legs.

" 'Tis the master!" a sharp-sighted maid exclaimed, brushing down her apron with nervous hands as she watched him with a bold eye as he strode across the hall.

"Tom, Willie, Zeke," Valentine greeted the footmen, then smiled at the maids who curtsied as he passed. "Are my aunt and sister in the parlor?"

"Aye, sir, that they are," Zeke, the oldest of the trio, answered importantly.

"Told ye he'd remember," Tom whispered. "Never forgets. A real gentleman, he be."

"Well o' course he be a gentleman. Wouldn't be master o' this hall if he wasn't," Willie declared, impressed that the master had remembered his name.

"What I wants t'know is what be that fella's name?" Zeke said with a wink as he elbowed his friends, drawing their attention to the Turk, who was following Valentine Whitelaw up the broad flight of steps like a swiftly moving shadow.

"What I wants t'know is who's goin' to be askin'?" Tom demanded.

"What I wants t'know is who wants t'know that bad?" Willie guffawed, side-stepping his friend's swinging foot as they scuffled.

"Enough o' that," Zeke said authoritatively, halting their rowdiness before things got out of hand. "We got another candleholder to light before the master comes back down to sup. Good thing ol' Ettie made extra pasties or ye might not be gettin' any, Willie," Zeke declared, hiding his grin as he moved off.

"Me?"

"Looks like they be havin' to set an extra place at the table," Tom speculated, wondering if he too would come up short on a pasty tonight.

Zeke glanced back at the table. "Maybe," was all he said.

With growing anticipation, Valentine sought his aunt and sister. "Aunt Quinta! Artemis!" Valentine called out as he entered the parlor.

But as he entered the low-ceilinged, oak-paneled chamber, his favorite in the old hall, he halted in surprise.

"Valentine!" his aunt and his sister chorused when they saw him hesitating in the doorway. Quinta, a tall and thin, dark-haired women in her mid-fifties, rose quickly and hurried to his side to embrace him. Dressed in a flowing, brightly colored silk ropa lined and trimmed with sable, Quinta Whitelaw was an attractive, if somewhat eccentric, woman. The fashionable ropa had undergone a transformation under her nimble fingers; it was now an exotic caftan with full sleeves and braided fastenings. A jeweled cap stuck with an ostrich feather was set at a rakish angle on top of her head where her smoothly braided hair offered no concession to the tightly curled hairstyles of the fashionable ladies of London.

"Aunt Quinta," Valentine said, kissing her cheek. "Hello, Artemis."

He held out his hand to his sister as she limped slowly across the room. He enfolded her in his arms. "You are well?" he inquired, looking deeply into the blue eyes that were a shade paler than his own. Her hair was as black as his and fought to escape the braid she had coiled like a dark crown across the top of her head.

"How could I possibly feel anything other than well knowing that Basil is alive," she answered him, her eyes glowing with happiness. "Oh, Valentine. We have heard the miraculous news."

Until that moment the gentleman who had been enjoying the warmth of the fire had remained seated, but now he stood, nodding slightly to his host.

"Last week, when I arrived from London, I came to pay my respects to your aunt and sister. I am afraid that I assumed you had already returned to the Hall and told your family the news about Basil. I came to wish you well on your journey. When I discovered you had yet to arrive, well, I could hardly leave without sharing the heartening news with them," Sir Rodger Penmorley explained.

"Rodger," Valentine coolly greeted his neighbor, then noticing for the first time the lovely woman who had remained seated in the chair next to him, bowed slightly. "Honoria."

"Valentine," she said with a slightly haughty yet polite nod, her almond-shaped eyes barely meeting his gaze before she had turned her perfect profile away.
Sitting demurely before the fire, her hands quiet in her lap. Rodger Penmorley's sister was all that a well-bred,
virtuous
young woman should be.

"We were quite shameless in our insistence that poor Rodger tell us all that he had heard concerning Basil," Artemis confided, her pale cheeks flushed rosily. "Except for my unhappiness that you will be sailing again to rescue Basil, I am so happy. I do not think I shall be able to eat or sleep until you and Basil have returned."

" 'Twould seem as if our prayers have been answered," Quinta said, her penetrating glance meeting her nephew's gaze for a moment before she turned back to her guests. "It is time we sat down to dine."

"We really must not intrude upon Valentine's first night here," Rodger protested, for although they met with an appearance of cordiality, there had been a longtime rivalry between the two families, and especially between the two youngest sons. The most recent of which had been for the hand of Cordelia Howard.

"I insist you stay and dine with us," Valentine said. "If you will forgive me, I will be but a few minutes in changing," he started to excuse himself. "I am splattered with mud."

"Certainly. I know how hard a ride it is from London," Sir Rodger allowed.

"Actually, I rode only from Plymouth. The
Madrigal
is anchored there. She is taking on supplies in preparation for our journey."

"I am surprised. I would have thought you would have preferred Falmouth. 'Tis closer to the Hall," Sir Rodger questioned, still referring to Ravindzara by its former name.

"I had business with several people in Plymouth," Valentine said rather noncommittally.

"Ah, yes. I believe Sir
Humphrey
Gilbert is a supporter of yours, is he not? Should you ever need
—
well
.
.
.
perhaps another time. I look forward to our conversation over dinner, for I am most interested in hearing about your voyage to rescue Basil," Sir Rodger said, and Valentine believe
d
he spoke sincerely, for Basil and Sir Rodger had always gotten along quite well. They had been friends at court for a number of years. And although Rodger Penmorley had been slightly younger than Basil, their common background and preference for intellectual pursuits had drawn them together in conversation while other courtiers had danced around them.

"I will return shortly to escort my favorite ladies to the hall," Valentine said as he took his leave of them.

He hadn't gotten far along the corridor, just to the first row of windows when he heard quickly approaching steps from behind and turned to find his aunt hurrying to catch up to him.

"My dear, I do not wish to detain you, but I must know how Elspeth and Sir William fared when you broke the news to them. I did not wish to speak in front of Sir Rodger and Honoria. You did tell them, did you not?" Quinta asked.

"Yes. I would have faced a thousand cannon rather than have to tell them what I did," Valentine admitted.

"A difficult situation, my dear. Simon?"

"He does not know."

"No?"

"What if
-
-"
But Valentine could not continue with the thought.

"What if Basil did not survive? It would not be fair to the boy to get his hopes up if it all comes to naught," Quinta spoke aloud Valentine's worst fears. "I only wish Artemis could have been spared. She adored Basil. He was like a father to her. It will destroy her if-
-
no! I will not even think that. Basil must be alive. He must, Valentine," Quinta declared. "To have this hope given to us after so many years. It would be too cruel otherwise. Now, I have detained you long enough. Your guests will be starved, and you must be. We will await you in the parlor. My dear, I know you will leave us very soon. Please remember, for your own sake, that whatever you find on that island was destined. Remember that, please," she warned, afraid that he might not accept the truth that he would discover there.