Wild Bells to the Wild Sky (34 page)

"He did."

"Whom did he name as guardian?"

"Basil," Valentine said quietly. "Geoffrey never foresaw the possibility of the tragedy that caused them all to be thought dead at the same time."

"So, Hartwell Barclay will become the children's guardian. Is there nothing that we can do? He must understand, Valentine, that he must treat the children well. Dulcie is, after all, a Whitelaw. We cannot allow the man to mistreat her, or any of the children. He may gain legal custody of them, but we are responsible for their welfare."

Valentine smiled, but Artemis could not see his expression in the darkness. "I will make it very clear to Hartwell Barclay that no harm must ever befall those children."

"What if he won't take Dulcie?"

"Dulcie is Magdalena's daughter. She has a right to live at Highcross. Besides, Lily, for now, is the legitimate heir to Highcross, and I doubt very seriously that she would allow Hartwell to send Dulcie away. I imagine Hartwell Barclay will have more on his hands than he suspects," Valentine predicted. "Believe me, I have come up against these children's ingenuity before, especially Lily Christian's. They are cunning little devils, and if Hartwell Barclay thinks he will have an easy time of it, then he is sorely mistaken," Valentine said with a chuckle, little realizing exactly how accurate a prediction that had been.

PART THREE

The Gathering Winds

This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath,

May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.

S
hakespeare

Chapter Thirteen

January, 1581-
-
Kent

East Highford Village, five miles south of Highcross Court

T
he
village of East Highford
was nestled along the east bank of Little Highford River, which meandered through the Kentish countryside before joining the River Eden. To the west lay the Weald with its dense forests. To the east were the rolling hills and pasturelands of the North Downs. Farther south, toward the Channel, was Romney Marsh with its lonely villages isolated by dangerous marshlands and mists, and unfriendly smugglers suspicious of strangers.

East Highford was not an exceptional village. Grouped around the village green was a church dating back to Norman times, a tithe barn, a couple of conical-roofed
c
oasthouses, and a bustling inn. The narrow, cobbled High Street that led to the market square was flanked by half-timbered cottages and shops. Beyond the village proper, across the stone bridge that spanned the sluggish waters of Little Highford, and past the outlying farms, was the great manor house, Highcross Court.

It was St. Agnes's Eve, and the skies overhead were dark with clouds that promised snow by evening. Earlier in the season rain had flooded the barren fields and even the waters of Little Highford ran swiftly. A cold north wind gusted against the figures hurrying along the village lane and sent them more quickly about their tasks, anxious to reach the comfort of their homes and the warmth of a hearth. The uneven cobblestones were treacherous, and many a carelessly placed foot slipped. A loud burst drenched those foolhardy enough to have lingered, sending them scurrying for cover as the icy rain fell in windblown sheets.

A bell jingled erratically over the door of a shop where a couple of buffeted figures now entered, accompanied by a shower of raindrops that splattered into a widening puddle just inside the door. It was a shop crowded with sundry items. One could find a bolt of taffeta sarcenet or coarse woolen; garden tools and seeds for spring planting; bottles of vinegar; ink and parchment; devotional primers; sweetmeats and salt; pewter spoons and trencher plates; sand for scouring pots; a sparkling-looking glass; assorted pieces of furniture; and, it was rumored, the proprietor was a moneylender should the need arise.

"Surprised I am to be seein' so many hearty souls about. 'Tis such a foul day," the proprietor commented cheerfully as he glanced past the customer he was serving to greet the latest arrivals. He shivered as the cold draft swirled around the small room and threatened to extinguish the only light; the flickering flame of a candle in a lantern suspended from the low-ceilinged crossbeams. On so dreary a day, little light penetrated the small, diamond-paned windows set beneath the deep overhang of the floor above.

Peering into the gloom, the proprietor, Benjamin Stubbles, said upon recognizing one of the women removing the hood of her cloak, "Oh, 'tis ye then, mistress? A long ride ye've had. And how are ye this rainy day?" he inquired with genuine interest, momentarily ignoring the buxom woman whose demands he'd been trying to satisfy for the best part of an hour while other customers waited impatiently.

"I am fine, thank you, Master Stubbles," the young woman responded with a smile that warmed his heart. “I came to collect those items I left with you earlier in the week," she explained.

"Why, bless me, mistress, I had indeed forgotten tomorrow was
the
day."

"They are not finished then?" she said, unable to mask the disappointment in her voice.

"Oh, they are indeed, mistress. Yes, indeed. They
look mighty fine. Young L
ane has worked her best on the one in particular. I might say most proudly, mistress." Benjamin Stubbles beamed, thinking of the fine embroidery his granddaughter had spent the evening stitching.

"I am so pleased, and so will
-
-"

"If
you could spare me a brief moment of your time, Master Stubbles. I was here first," the old harridan interrupted icily, her glance no warmer when encountering the young woman's, especially when she noticed her own son's eyes lingering on that delicate-featured face.

It was sinful indeed for anyone to be as beautiful as Lily Christian, the older woman thought, eyeing with disapproval the dark red curls that glowed in the candlelight like wine. Ann Fordham glanced down at her own daughter standing docilely beside her and gritted her teeth. Why couldn't her own dear daughter's skin be as smooth as alabaster, as was Lily Christian's? Not a pockmark to be seen on that heart-shaped face. And why did her own Mary Ann have such an appetite and, unfortunately, have to bear proof of it in so many of the wrong places? She wondered in despair, knowing that Lily Christian's cloak concealed a slender shape well-rounded in all the proper places.

"Good afternoon, Mistress Forham," the object of her disfavor greeted the woman politely, even though she had been well aware of the woman's critical gaze.

"Mistress Christian," Ann Fordham replied haughtily, glancing away uneasily from those green eyes that stared at her as if amused.
Daughter of Asmodeus, more likely
, the flustered woman thought as she remembered the previous Sunday's sermon upon the seven temperts of the soul. And catching her son's eyes straying again toward so great a temptation, she pulled his ear, even though he stood taller than she. “It would do you well, sirrah, to remember the sermon of Sunday last, warning against the vices the devil would tempt us with. You must beware of those who would paint themselves and lead a God-fearing man astray. You must cast out such thoughts or be lost," Ann Fordham warned her son, suddenly seeing Lily Christian as far more than her daughter's rival for an eligible male. It was no secret in the village that Ann Fordham's aspirations of marrying off her only daughter to Hartwell Barclay, master of Highcross Court, had been ruined when Lily Christian had returned to claim her rightful inheritance.

Otho Fordham turned a bright red, mortified that his mother might be reading his mind, or even be aware of such wickedness, for the sight of Lily Christian always resulted in sleepless nights full of lustful thoughts, which remained painfully unsatisfied.

Thinking her son well-reprimanded, Ann Fordham returned her attention to her task at hand. "I would like these items immediately. As I told you, Master Stubbles, the new parson is coming to dine this eve," she said loud enough for both her son and Lily Christian to hear, a self-satisfied smile curving her thin-lipped mouth.

"An honor," Benjamin Stubbles murmured.

"But surely not an unexpected one, Master Stubbles. After all, I am the widow of the former parson, and as such 'twas my right to welcome the good reverend to East Highford. Not that the same courtesy was extended to my dear husband and myself when first we arrived in East Highford. As I remember, the Reverend John Henderson could not even await our arrival, but was already aboard Geoffrey Christian's ill-fated ship and sailing to heathen ports, leaving his devoted parishioners without proper guidance," she declared with a condemnatory glance at Geoffrey Christian's offspring.

"Surely, madam, if we be truly faithful, we would remember the good reverend's teachings and remain true to our lessons for at least a Sunday or two without singing psalms in church," Benjamin Stubbles responded as he measured a length of lace.

"Really! I will remember your mocking comment, Master Stubbles, to the Reverend Buxby. I warrant he will remember it, too. They say the Reverend Samuel Buxby is a distant cousin of the Earl of Hadrington. A most auspicious relationship, I should think. Indeed, it has been said that the Reverend Buxby made quite an impression with the local authorities in the Hadrington witch trials. He was most instrumental in gathering the testimony needed to indict the witches for the bewitchment and death of the earl's wife. I understand that the Reverend Buxby was most unrelenting in his examination of the witches. Harlots that they were, they soon enough confessed to all charges, including the still birthing of several babies in the village. Devil's work, 'twas, and the judge quickly convicted them and rightly sentenced them to hang. A most grievous affair. Fortunately the earl has fully recovered from the dreadful experience, and I hear he has remarried. A lovely young woman, I am told. The only daughter of a most influential London merchant with court connections."

"How fortunate for the earl," Master Stubbles replied.

"The Reverend Buxby found it most curious when I told him of the sheep that died so suddenly on the Carson's farm. He also thought it unusually strange about Mary Langley's stillborn son," she confided with a knowing look.

Benjamin Stubbles frowned. "Nothin' unusual in that. I don't s'pose ye told him that Mary Langley has never yet, in all the years she and Daniel have been wed, and that's been a score, given birth to a healthy babe. Too thin and nervous, she is, and always has been. S'pose next ye'll be blamin' the beer not brewin' properly on witchcraft," he muttered beneath his breath, winking at Lily Christian.

Ann Fordham sniffed, outraged by the man's attitude. "You would be wise to hold that irreverent tongue of yours, Master Stubbles, lest you find yourself under suspicion one of these fine days," she warned, her censorious glance including Lily Christian before it moved on to linger briefly on a man standing hear the door. "Thieves, gypsies, harlots, and drunkards, Master Stubbles, have been tempted by Satan because they have turned a deaf ear to the pulpit. They are all destined to a heretic's fate. Mark my words upon that! Indeed, it might serve as a lesson well learnt if a cross were burnt into the left cheek of every heretic to serve as a constant reminder to those who would sin," she continued, eyeing Lily Christian's soft cheek as if she already saw it so branded.

"I will give yer kindly intended advice full consideration when next I sip my ale at the Oaks, Mistress Fordham. I am certain that we can all benefit from following yer fine example. Now, was there anything else?"

Apparently mollified, Ann Fordham pointed to a fine display of colorful ribbons. "We must have a length of red-
-
no, no, the brighter one," she said, gesturing impatiently as Benjamin Stubbles reached for the satin ribbons. "
And
the yellow. Yes, that one. Perhaps a pale blue one, too. No," she said, changing her mind. "I want the peacock blue. 'Twill bring out the blue in Mary Ann's eyes. We want her looking her prettiest this eve," she said, pinching her daughter's cheek to bring out a rosier glow.

"Ah, now 'tis indeed a special eve fer fair young maids," Benjamin Stubbles said as he snipped the ribbons to the exact measurement requested, Ann Fordham's eagle eye watching closely lest he try to cheat her. "And will ye be pullin' the pins out and sayin' a paternoster, Mistress Mary Ann? Don't be forgettin' now, to stick the pins in your sleeve so ye dream of the lad ye hopes to marry," he warned a blushing Mary Ann, who cast a guilty glance toward the man who had moved in closer from the door and now stood nearer Lily Christian.

"How very opportune of ye to have invited the good reverend to dine with ye on St. Agnes's Eve. 'Twill not hurt young Mistress Mary Ann's divinin' any to have the good reverend on her mind tonight. I believe he is unwed?" Benjamin Stubbles continued conversationally as he added the ribbons to Ann Fordham's purchase.

"Of course! Why do you think I recommended him in the first pla
-
-" Ann Fordham began hotly, then, seeing his grin, she said, "I believe that is so."

"And, ye Rom? Ye haven't taken a maid to wife yet, have ye, lad?" he asked the handsome young man. "Shame on ye, lad, when three of the fairest in the village, nay, in all of Kent, are standin' within arm's reach of ye. If only I were a wee bit younger." he said with a twinkle in his eye as the young maid who'd followed Lily Christian into the shop, and now stood beside her mistress, grinned at him.

"I'm still fleet of foot, Ben Stubbles," he said softly, but his eyes never turned away from Lily Christian's face.

"Bah! Such arrogance! There's none who'd have ye, Romney Lee, and that's the truth," Jane Stubbles declared as she came down the narrow flight of stairs, a length of fur-lined velvet draped over her arm. "Ye be too pretty, lad, for there's no maid who'd wish to wed one prettier than she," Jane said with a wide grin spreading across her pert face. "But, if I hadn't already had the banns read with Hugh Moore, I might just see if I couldn't outdistance ye."

A devilish gleam come into the dark blue eyes of Romney Lee. With his finely featured face and well-mannered ways, he gave the appearance of being a gentleman, if one didn't look too closely at the darned jerkin and hose, but everyone in the village knew he was part gypsy. Although he traveled the countryside from Rye in the south to York in the north and some said even to as far a distance as the moors of the West Country, he always returned to East Highford. Most said it was because his sister was married to the miller and Romney Lee knew he could always find a place to sleep under her roof. But others suspected it was because of the proximity of the marshlands he was named for. There were still some bands of gypsies, outlawed during Queen Mary's reign, that roamed the wild marshes. His mother and her family had lived there before they'd fled to the Continent, and speculation had it that half the smugglers and ruffians along the coast were Romney Lee's cousins.

Romney Lee was a man of many trades, although he had never been heard to admit to being anything other than a rover. Quick-witted, with a keen eye, and light-fingered some would swear, he journeyed with a vagabond band from fair to fair, never staying longer than a week in any one place.