Wild Bells to the Wild Sky (39 page)

The queen had been all that the children had expected from the stories Basil had told them. Dressed in black velvet and white satin studded with pearls and rubies and red satin bows, with a lacy ruff starched high about her face and a crown of gold set with precious gems glittering atop her red curls, Elizabeth was awe-inspiring.

The parrot had squawked excitedly and, frightened of the people crowded in the Great Hall, had flown from Lily's shoulder and across the room with a flapping of wings. Not content to scatter the milling crowd, he had disgraced himself over several important heads as he swooped toward the queen. Landing on the arm of her throne, he had started to giggle and declared in a loud, censorious voice,
"Praaack!
Pirates! Lift a leg, mate! A scary bunch!
Praaack!
My, aren't we a beauty, my pretty one."

An uncomfortable stillness had fallen over the room as Elizabeth had sat staring in disbelief at the parrot perched beside her. Eyeing her glittering gown curiously, he had tried to steal one of the gleaming pearls before ruffling his feathers in annoyance as he strutted on his royal perch.

The silence in the Great Hall had become unbearable by the time Elizabeth had started to laugh. Her courtiers, apparently as well-trained as the parrot, started to laugh with her, but more likely out of relief than amusement. The laughter grew louder when the monkey, dressed in his green velvet doublet and cap, scampered with a jingling of bells onto her lap, his long tail curling around her arm as he stared around him at the startled faces and began to scold them.

Elizabeth's sharp-eyed gaze had found the familiar face she'd been searching for and with a sly smile curving her lips she had beckoned Valentine Whitelaw and the three children standing so uncertainly by his side to approach her.

Overly anxious not to lose his golden opportunity of gaining Elizabeth's attention, Hartwell Barclay quickly stepped forward and bowed deeply. He felt the heat rising in his face as he heard the ripping noise and felt the cool draft caressing the flesh of his inner thigh along the ragged edge where the seam of his hose had torn. Swallowing, he slowly straightened, hoping no one else had heard the sound and praying that he would remain beneath Elizabeth's notice, for if he had to bow again
.
.
.

To Hartwell Barclay it had seemed an eternity that Elizabeth had conversed with Valentine Whitelaw and the children, who seemed to be getting along splendidly with their queen, for her laughter rang out continually, especially when the parrot began to mimic it. for the first time in almost an hour, Hartwell Barclay breathed easier when Elizabeth rose to retire to her privy chamber. she had requested Valentine Whitelaw accompany her for a private conversation, and had been about to leave when she spied the chagrined-looking Hartwell Barclay starting to back away. His knees pinned together to maintain his modesty, he was talking mincing steps and for the first time in his life trying not to be the center of attention.

"Master Barclay, is it not?" she inquired softly, her dark eyes gleaming with what was either malice or humor.

"Your Majesty," he replied with a sickly looking grin and bowing only slightly this time.

"I trust you will take good care of my young subjects. Guard them with your life, good sir, for I wish to see them at court again. Naturally, as their
guardian, you will escort them
, and I will hold you responsible for their welfare."

"Your wish is my command, madam," he replied grandly.

Hartwell Barclay had sighed with relief when she had started to walk away, but then she had paused. Crooking her finger, she had called him to her side and whispered in his ear, "You would do well to get that tear repaired before you catch your death of cold, Master Barclay. And I would have a serious word with my tailor, were I you, lest he cut your hose to small next time as well. And with far worse consequences."

For at least a quarter of an hour Hartwell Barclay had remained standing where Elizabeth had left him, unable to take a step and feeling as if every person in the hall was eyeing the exposed flesh on the inside of his thigh. and as Hartwell Barclay stood there feeling little different from the monkey dressed up in that ridiculous green velvet cap and bells, he began to savor his resentment of that Spanish Papist's brats.

The insolent little beggars might have befooled everyone else including the queen, but not him, not Hartwell Barclay. And he was, after all, their guardian. He was the one they would have to answer to in future, not these perfumed fools. And Valentine Whitelaw's warnings hadn't frightened him, he thought with so odious an expression that George Hargraves, who was standing next to his friend, wondered what the big gent had smelled.

With a smugly complacent look, much like a fat cat's with cream on his whiskers, Hartwell Barclay anticipated their return to Highcross Court, where he would see that the children lived to regret they had ever returned to England. At least for now, he had decided, the children were more useful to him alive.

Three years
, Lily sighed, pulling her cloak closer against the cold as Merry entered the stable yard of Highcross Court. Poor little Dulcie. She could never seem to get warm enough. they had nearly lost her at Christmastide. She had caught a chill, which had developed into a chest fever. Lily still could not understand how the window in Dulcie's bed chamber had been left open, nor indeed how Dulcie had been allowed to wander the grounds on so stormy a day. Hartwell Barclay's explanation had been that he'd had no idea the foolish child would take him seriously when he'd told Dulcie that Tristram had been playing hide and seek out of doors, especially when he knew Tristram had gone into the village with her.

If only Maire had still been at Highcross. She would never have let such a thing happen. But there had been a lot of changes at Highcross since last summer, when Tristram had almost broken his neck in a fall from the steeply pitched roof of the west wing. Hartwell Barclay had blamed Maire Lester for the accident, declaring that she had been at fault for ever having related the story about Geoffrey Christian having accomplished the same climb. But Lily remembered it as having happened differently. For it had been Hartwell Barclay who had told the story in the first place, his words daring Tristram to prove himself Geoffrey Christian's son.

The near tragedy, or so Hartwell Barclay had claimed, had proven to him that Maire Lester's services wo
uld no longer be required. Dulc
ie was old enough now to no longer need a nursemaid. She would also now have her own bedchamber no longer sharing a bed with her sister. And it was about time Tristram was sent away for proper schooling, where he would be well disciplined, Hartwell Barclay had proclaimed. So Maire Lester had been discharged and sent packing to her sister's somewhere in the West Midlands.

Although Lily was anxious to greet their guests, she suddenly felt that same sense of foreboding that she experienced every time she thought of entering Highcross. She was frightened, and yes, should she have spoken of her fears, what would she have claimed? Hartwell Barclay had never threatened them or abused them. There were many in the village who would claim he was a decent, God-fearing man who had unselfishly accepted the burden of raising his wards. They were still bound by the law to Hartwell Barclay. It would only worsen their situation should she speak against him. She had no proof that he was trying to injure them. She was not even certain herself that he intended them harm. It was just a feeling. There was nothing she could do, except keep a more careful watch over Tristram and Dulcie.

It was Fairfax who finally lifted her down from Merry's back. For Hollings, as was his custom, was in no hurry to lend a hand, and by the time the groom came sauntering across the yard with his usual surly expression, Lily had gathered her courage to enter the hall.

"Lily?" Tristram questioned hurriedly as he watched the groom approaching. "If I take him inside, Dulcie will see him. She's probably looking out the window right now." Tristram glanced toward the row of windows flanking the entrance to the hall. "But I'm not going to leave him out here with him."

"Here, hold him still." Lily pulled a blue ribbon from her hair and wrapped it around the pup's neck and tied it with a big bow. "If Dulcie sees him, then you can present her with her present right now," Lily declared with a smile, but it faded when she saw Tristram's painful attempt at a grin, his bruised face, now that it was swelling, looking worse than ever.

"Well, well. What have ye got there?" Hollings asked, eyeing the pup. "Looks like he'll make a good ratter, unless he stumbles into a nest of them and they get him first, that is," he said with a harsh laugh. "Little small right now, but we could make a tidy sum with this one in the bear gardens. Once he's full grown, he could worry one o' them beasts half to death before he gets clawed into two."

"You leave him alone! He isn't going to be doing any ratting or fighting. He's Dulcie's dog!" Tristram said angrily.

"Good Lord! What got its fangs into ye,
Master
Tristram?" Hollings demanded with a sly grin. "Ye been sneakin' around that ol' toothless hag's garden again,
Master
Tristram? Pickin' a lily flower fer the young mistress here, eh?" he snickered.

"Reckon yer good friend over t'Smithy didn't fare much better'n that no good son of his," Farley said with a widening grin. "Both be pick
in' teeth and straw out
a their clothes thanks to
Master
Tristram, and Fairfax here."

Hollings's thin cheeks turned ruddy with his anger, but with Fairfax standing so close he didn't dare try to wipe that stupid grin from Farley's face. "Reckon ye'll be comin' to see me tonight, Tillie, seein' how ye'll be needin' a man to keep ye warm, and from where I'm standin' ain't none around exceptin' meself," he said as he quickly stepped to the far side of the cart and started to lead the oxen toward the stables.

"Can ye be seein' to these, Tillie dear?" Farley asked, tight-lipped as he handed the packages to a speechless Tillie.

"Farley, I've never been in his bed!" she squeaked in denial as Farley stomped off toward the stables, leaving Fairfax to lead Merry.

"Not to worry, Tillie. Reckon Farley knows ye got at least that much sense," Fairfax said with a gleam in his bright blue eyes as he quickened his step to follow his brother into the stables.

Tillie watched until he'd disappeared inside. She waited a moment, but there was only silence. She heard a grunting noise coming from within, then Fairfax reappeared to close the doors, his smiling nod sending her hurrying to catch up with her mistress, who had just disappeared inside the great hall.

The wounds invisible

That love's keen arrows make
.

Shakespeare

Chapter Fifteen

F
or
once the great hall
seemed welcoming. Several wall sconces had been lit, a fire was burning in the great hearth, and the enticing aromas of a meal in preparation filled the room.

"I think we're in the wrong place," Tristram whispered, glancing around in surprise, for they hadn't even had a Yule log to burn at Christmas. "I wish it were like this all the time," he added with an appreciative sniff, his stomach growling it's agreement, for he'd never gotten his piece of gingerbread.

"It used to be like this when Mother and Father were alive. When you become master of Highcross we can have a fire in the hearth even in summertime if we wish," Lily told him, hoping to cheer him up, but her words seemed to have just the opposite effect on her brother.

"I'm never going to be master of Highcross, Lily. No one believes that I'm Geoffrey Christian's son."

"Well, then, I'll give Highcross to you. 'Tis rightfully yours, Tristram." Lilly spoke aloud the thought that had been in her mind for some time now. "As our father's only son, you deserve to inherit Highcross. He would've wanted it that way."

Tristram looked at his sister incredulously, his lip trembling slightly. "You truly mean that, Lily? but even if I did become master of Highcross, the villagers would never accept me. They will always thing of me as a bastard," he said dejectedly.

"Don't ever let me hear you say that again. It isn't true!" Lily told him angrily. "What do we care what they think? I don't, and they don't like me any better than you," Lily added contemptuously. Curious, she looked around the empty hall. "Our guests must be in the great chamber. It was probably colder in here than outside when they arrived. For once even Hartwell must have seen the need to light a fire down here. He does have his pride."

"I'm surprised the hall isn't full of smoke. We haven't used the hearth since last winter. You'd think the chimney would be full of birds' nests. I bet he grumbled about having to light this one," Tristram guessed with a widening grin that cause
d
him to wince.

"We may be able to get the pup into your room before anyone sees him," Lily told him, thinking she would have time to reach her own bedchamber and change her damp and muddled gown before anyone, especially Valentine, saw her. She wanted to look her best.

"Come on," Lily said, pulling Tristram and the puppy after her toward the stairs. "If we hurry we can get down the corridor without anyone seeing us."

Lily, her arms full of the packages Tillie had handed over to her before rushing toward the kitchens, and Tristram, half bent over with his fingers hooked underneath the pup's ribbon collar, had nearly reached the stairs when a stout woman with a quarrelsome look in her eye came stomping through the screens leading to the kitchens and servants' wing.

"I see ye be back. I thought I saw Tillie scamperin' through, nothin' more on her mind than that ruttin' Farley Odell and trackin' up the floors. I hope ye haven't ruined this hall. the master has guests, and I-
-
" The cook, who was warming to her subject, paused, dumbfounded as she stared at the pup. Forgetful of the dough sticking to her hands she clapped her hand across her open mouth

Sputtering, she demanded, "What's that flea-bitten cur doin' in here? Does the master know? Ever since ye three brats showed up here there's been nothin' but trouble. All I had to worry about before was fixin' the master's meals. Now he's more tightfisted than ever and there's hardly a crumb left over fer the rest of us. And I bet ye be the one behind this latest bit of mischief," she muttered, a wrathful gleam coming into her eye as she stared at Lily, hoping to make the girl cower, but Lily returned her stare defiantly.

"I brought the pup inside. 'Tis my gift to Dulcie," Tristram declared, stepping forward to take the blame.

"Oh, it is, is it?" she questioned, then becoming aware of his bruised face, she nearly choked. "Well, the fat's in the fire now. Wait till them Whitelaws see yer face! Whatever will they think? Not likely ye walked into a door. The poor master will have a lot of explainin' to do, especially once that sharp-tongued Whitelaw lady sets her eyes on ye. The lame one is always askin' questions about how he's treatin' the little dears. Are they in good health? Are they happy? Do they need anything? Nearly split a gut, she did, when she learned about ye fallin' off the roof, and Lord help us, but when she caught sight of that sickly little sister of yours thought she was goin' to faint. Never heard such carryin' on over a child. If she cares that much, she oughta take the brat off the master's hands. Good thing the master's plannin' on sendin' ye away to school. About time someone taught ye some manners, and they'll beat it into yer thick skull until it cracks," she warned him, a satisfied smirk on her face when she saw his frightened expression. "And that would leave just ye, Mistress Lily, and I'm sure the master has plans fer ye, too!"

"Be quiet," Lily said softly. "You forget that
I
am mistress here, and Hartwell Barclay is merely my guardian. Soon he will not even be that, and I may find it necessary to hire a new cook."

"Well! Aren't we the bold one now that them nosy Whitelaws be here. Well, ye just wait. We'll see, missy, we'll see," the cook said, but Lily could see that it was mostly bravado, for she had given the woman something to think about.

"I’m not going! I'm not!: Tristram yelled heatedly, forgetting the pup wiggling impatiently at his heels as he raised his fist to the woman "And I'll tell the queen that Hartwell Barclay set those boys on me in the village. We've been to London and the court. I've had an audience with the queen," he said proudly. "I might even tell the captain that 'twas Hartwell who did this to my face if he tries to send me away. And when Lily gives me Highcross, I'll send you to the devil!"

A loud, wheezing gasp came from the top of the stairs, where Hartwell Barclay and his guests now stood. They were staring down in stunned amazement at the confrontation between the angry, bloodied boy and the red-faced cook.

Lily and Tristram stared up at the horrified expressions. Hartwell Barclay, standing with arms akimbo, had turned purple in the face. Quinta Whitelaw and Artemis seemed unusually pale. Lily's heart had skipped a beat when she caught sight of the tall gentleman standing behind them, but she had quickly realized it wasn't Valentine. It had taken her a second to remember the man. It was Sir Rodger Penmorley. With a sinking of her heart, Lily looked for the ever-graceful Honoria, but that fair maid was not to be seen, and Lily was left to wonder why Sir Rodger Penmorley was at Highcross in the company of Quinta and Artemis.

He'd done it now, Tristram thought as he stared up at those disapproving faces, his hands falling limply to his sides. The pup, seizing his chance, began to race around the hall in widening circles, his frenetic barking echoing through the silence.

With a quick sniff, hungry bark, and spinning of paws on the hard floor, the pup shot behind the cook and through the screens. He had hardly disappeared into the kitchens for more than an instant when he reappeared, a tasty-looking leg of mutton clutched in his jaws.

"Why, ye thief! Stop him! That's meant fer the master's breakfast tomorrow!" the cook hollered as she raced after him her waving hands sending clumps of dough flying through the air.

But the pup thought it all a game and continued to race around the room, halting only to drop the leg of mutton long enough to bark encouragement to the breathless woman before picking it up again and racing away, his tail wagging excitedly.

"Good Lord!" Quinta Whitelaw said as she stared in bemusement at the ruckus below.

"A puppy! A puppy! Is it yours, Tristram?" Dulcie cried out as she ran down the stairs, her dark brown eyes dancing with merriment. Since her illness, there was an almost ethereal quality about her. Dressed in a pale yellow gown, her black hair tied with a yellow ribbon and flowing free, she seemed like a well-dressed sprite as she flew down the stairs.

"Oh, Dulcie, please, be careful!" Artemis called after her young niece.
If she should miss her step
.
.
.
"Rodger, please, do something," she pleaded, glancing at Sir Rodger Penmorley, who was standing beside her, his hand steadying her at the top of the steep staircase.

But Dulcie had safely reached the bottom step and now stood laughing in amazement at the puppy's antics. "What's his name, Tristram?" she asked, clapping her hands together in excitement as she hopped up and down.

"I don't know. I never thought to name him, besides he's your, Dulcie," Tristram told her, almost sorry now the pup wasn't his.

"Mine?"

"I wanted to give him to you tomorrow on your birthday," Tristram explained with a shrug. "But I guess now is as good a time as any," he went on, thinking there wasn't too much Hartwell Barclay could do to him with the Whitelaws here.

"Mine, really?" Dulcie asked breathlessly, glancing toward the puppy just in time to hold out her arms to him as he catapulted into her, knocking her to the floor and standing above her licking her face as she giggled.

"Oh, don't, Dulcie! Don't let him get so close, dear. The dog might bite," Artemis called out as she hurried toward the top step, unmindful of her lameness for once.

"Be careful, Artemis," Sir Rodger cautioned, his arm now locked around her slender waist as he guided her down the stairs. " 'Tis just a playful pup, and unless I'm mistaken, 'twill grow into a very big, playful dog one of these days," he warned as he recognized the breed.

"A mastiff!" Hartwell Barclay stammered in disbelief. "Here at Highcross? Out of the question. Impossible! However will we feed it?"

Quinta Whitelaw eyed Hartwell Barclay's plump, silk-clad legs and smiled slightly. "How very perceptive of you, Hartwell, to realize that a dog would make an admirable companion and protector for a young girl, especially now that Dulcie has that cavernous room all to herself. What absolute
.
.
.
brilliance
.
.
.
you display at times," she declared before sweeping down the stairs with a splendid rustling of silken skirts.

"He's wonderful! My very own dog! Oh, thank you, Tristram! Thank you!" Dulcie cried, hugging the puppy around its thick neck. Struggling to her feet, she flung herself against Tristram while the pup raced around in circles chasing its tail.

Staring up into Tristram's face, she was about to give me a kiss when she became aware of his bruises and gave a frightened squeal of horror. Much to Tristram's dismay, Dulcie started to cry, drawing everyone's attention to his sorry-looking countenance.

"Good Lord!" Quinta said again. In the confusion she had momentarily forgotten her first sight of Tristram's face, but now the blackened eye, swollen lip, and bloodied doublet left her in little doubt of what must have happened in the village.

" 'Ere, I ain't laid a finger on the boy! Came swaggerin' in here lookin' like that, he did! Most likely got that fat lip 'cause of his smart mouth, but 'twasn't me who done it! No sirree!" the cook was quick to say as she made a sneaky grab for the leg of mutton despite the pup's warning growl. Wait until she got a handful of that Tillie's hair, the cook muttered beneath her breath as she made her way back to the kitchens, convinced Highcross wasn't a safe place for decent folk anymore. She’d make certain Tillie was kept busy cleaning up after that creature, she vowed.

"Horrible woman. Quite impertinent. You really should dismiss her, Hartwell," Quinta commented.

"Tristram, your face," Artemis said, her hand reaching out to comfort him, but Tristram was not in the mood for coddling and stepped out of reach of them all.

"Obviously the boy has been defending a point of honor. Regrettable, but often necessary," Sir Rodger spoke understandingly, his arm keeping Artemis from embarrassing the boy with her well-intentioned mothering.

"Yes, sir, I was, but I'd rather not say anything further about it. What's done is done," Tristram said in a husky voice, relieve that at least someone seemed to understand. But if he didn't get up to his room soon, he was afraid he was going to start to cry and disgrace himself before them all.

"Of course, very gentlemanly of you. We understand completely," Sir Rodger murmured thoughtfully as he caught the glistening of tears in the boy's eyes.

"Do we indeed?" Quinta regarded, raising her eyebrow at the man, for Sir Rodger seemed to be assuming quite a lot nowadays.

"I intend to know what happened, Rodger," Artemis disagreed. "I shall lodge a complaint with the proper authorities about this. How dare anyone raise a hand against Tristram! He's a-
-
"

"He's a bastard!" Tristram said his threatened tears over-flowing. "That is what the fight was about! he cried, and dodging past them he raced up the stairs.

"Good Lord," Quinta said softly this time as she watched his forlorn figure disappear

"And you, Hartwell Barclay," Artemis said turning an indignant eye on that flustered gentleman, "I am surprised you would allow such a thing to happen,"

"B-But I don't even know what happened! And I hardly see why I should be held accountable for the boy's ruffianism. A more churlish-natured lad I've yet the misfortune to encounter. If you knew what I have to put up with from him, why-
-
" Hartwell Barclay began eager to proclaim his innocence in his affair, besides, the lad probably deserved it
.