Wild Bells to the Wild Sky (47 page)

Farley Odell sniffed. "I'd like to see you do as well. Nor am I hearin' ye complainin' any about the share of the profits ye've pocketed for
our
day's work," he reminded him.

Romney Lee smiled. "Now, d'ye really think they'd be comin' just to see your pretty face if it weren't for my sweet-talkin' them up to the booth? I ought to be taking more than I am. Damned generous of me, actually. I've been thinking that you might do better in future to wrestle in the ring with that ox of a brother of yours. In between serious matches, that is. Perhaps we could get a bear cub for you to tangle with."

"Why, ye
-
-"

"Farley, please!" Lily interrupted, stepping between them. The Odells and Romney Lee had never gotten along, and the situation had been growing worse of late. "Romney?" she questioned. She hadn't missed the instinctive movement of his hand toward his wrist.

"Only for you," he murmured, the look in his dark eyes when he gazed at Lily causing Farley Odell more unease than the knife the gypsy carried strapped to his forearm.

"Down, Ruff!" Tristram ordered, trying to keep the dog's nose out of the box where Tillie had
careful
folded their cloaks and placed the masks.

"His name is Raphael, Tristram," Dulcie corrected him, patting the big dog.

"Ruff! Ruff!
Praaack! Bong! Bong!"
Cisco chimed from Lily's shoulder.

"I wonder how Fairfax did?" Farley said. "I think I'll head over that way and see," he decided.

"Lock up the booth, first," Romney told him, his hand sliding under Lily's elbow.

"I'll do it, Rom," Lily protested as Farley puffed out his chest. "Go on, Farley."

"Thank you, Mistress Lily," Farley said quickly, a smug grin spreading across his face when he saw the gypsy opening his mouth to object.

"Can I come with you, Farley?" Tristram asked.

"All right by me. Mistress Lily?"

Lily nodded her agreement. "But don't stay too long, or you'll miss dinner, and I don't want you anywhere near the bull bating. You had horrible nightmares last time you watched it."

" 'Tis just goin' to be meat pie again, Lily," Tristram complained.

"I haven't the time or the money to make anything else, Tristram. 'Tis good and hearty
-
-"

"-
-
and cold," Tristram said glumly.

"I did a bit of barterin' today and managed to find enough for a baked custard," Tillie offered shyly.

"Well, aren't ye the one?" Farley beamed proudly. "We definitely won't be late," he said, wondering if there was any left, for Tillie ate enough for a whole troop of soldiers nowadays.

"Keep an eye on him, will you, Farley?" Lily requested, although she feared she was wasting her breath.

"Right, mistress. Come on, Master Tristram."

"I've told you before, Lily Francisca, you are to
o
kind-hearted," Romney Lee said, eyeing her thoughtfully. "You've gotten too
thin
. I've seen you giving your share of food to the woman," he said when Tillie had walked around to the front of the booth to place the box of cloaks on the stage. "You should let me deal with the Odells. They take advantage of your kindness. Everyone does," Romney added beneath his breath. "Including me."

"You? You've done more than enough for us. I am the one indebted to you, Rom," Lily reminded him. "If you hadn't helped us escape from Highcross that morning, well, I hate to th
ink what might have happened. B
ut the Odells are my responsibility. Farley and Fairfax have worked at Hi
ghcross since they were boys. T
hey have always been loyal to my family. Have you forgotten that Tillie is going to have a baby? 'Tis her first one, Rom. She's scared. Except for Farley and Fairfax, I'm the only person she has. She needs the food more than I do," Lily said climbing back up the steps.

"Where are you going?"

"I want to get this puppet of the witch. He's a bit worse for wear since we behead him so many times a day," she said, taking the puppet down from where it was hanging in the row with the others.

Romney Lee shook his head. "You always refer to the witch as a 'he. 'Most are women."

Lily stared down at the wooden head with its pale thatch of hair and one blue eye and one brown eye, a strange expression on her face. "I don't know why I know the witch is a man, except perhaps because Basil always referred to the witch as a he. And I suppose he reminds me of someone I have never cared for," Lily said, looking away from that lifeless stare as she hurried down the steps.

"Careful!" Romney said, reaching out to steady her when she nearly lost her footing. "I can't have anything happen to my best performer."

"How can anything happen to me when you are forever keeping an eye on me?"

Romney laughed as he closed and locked the doors that opened in front and back of the booth. "I am merely protecting my property," he said with a wicked grin as he checked to make certain everything was secure. "There are to
o
many rogues wandering around this fair for you to go about unguarded. One can't even leave the booth open anymore. The old spirit is gone. No more honor among us," he sighed. "But no one who knows me would dare to steal from me."

"I do have Raphael," Lily protested.

"Him?" Romney Lee asked incredulously as he eyed the big, clumsy dog with its comical ruff and the velvet-clad
monkey
sitting astride its back. "A most frightening appearance and about as ferocious as a lamb. All he does is cost money by eating our food."

"He's my watchdog! Raphael is brave!" Dulcie cried angrily, staring up at Romney in dislike.

"Ah, now I meant no harm, Sweet Rosalinda. With that silly face, he does bring in a fair amount during the procession," Romney allowed, reaching out to pull a strand of her long dark hair.

Dulcie jerked away from him and moved between Lily and Tillie, the latter giving the little girl plenty of room when her dog followed, pushing his head between them.

Romney Lee laughed. "I don't think she likes me, nor does her dog," he said. "I usually have a way with pretty little girls and wild beasts."
"Don't listen to him, Raphael. I think you're wonderful," she whispered in his droopy ear, patting him on his head affectionately.

Lily put her arm around Dulcie's thin shoulders. "She means no offense. She just doesn't understand your teasing."

"As long as her sister never takes a dislike to me, that is all I am concerned about," Romney warned. "Are you taking Merry out this evening? I do not like it. You shouldn't ride alone, Lily Francisca."

"Merry has to have exercise. I just take him for a run along the riverbank. Besides, no one can catch us. We race like the wind," she said, dismissing his fears with a smile as their figures became lost in the crowd and they were no longer visible to Sir Raymond Valchamps, who stood alone, watching them.

Lord Burghley stared down at
the
clutter of papers scattered across the table. Some things never changed, he thought a trifle sadly as he felt the warm breeze wafting in from the windows. Glancing toward the fading twilight, he knew a sudden longing to be strolling along a garden path, breathing the sweet scents of a summer's evening and hearing his grandchildren's laughter drifting to him from the terrace. He shifted his gouty foot, wincing slightly with the pain.

Even had he the leisure, there would be no long walks for him this eve, he realized, returning his attention to the parchment opened before him. It had been of particular interest to him. It was a report concerning Don Pedro Enrique Villasandro, captain of the
Estrella D'Abla
. It seemed that the good captain had been making inquiries as to the whereabouts of Valentine Whitelaw. Lord Burghley frowned. Their bold Englishman had been an unusually sharp thorn in the Spaniard's side ever since he'd become captain of his own ship and since Valentine Whitelaw had learned of the Spaniard's part in his brother's death.

A slight smile crossed William Cecil's aging face as he remembered back to another time, when Basil Whitelaw and he had engaged in many a diverting conversation. He and Sir Basil had been of similar mind concerning their philosophies of life. How he missed those times of reasonable, rational thought. Theirs had been calm voices h
eard even by the belligerent. B
ut now one had been silenced, and the constant threat of war seemed to loom ever larger in the minds of those less patient with diplomatic measures. Such a pity Sir Basil had been lost to them for there were too few voices speaking out and cautioning against rash acts.

Perhaps it was his own guilt or his suspicions aroused because of the assignment Sir Basil had been carrying out for the government, but he had never felt completely satisfied with the explanation of his friend's death. An old score to be settled between Geoffrey Christian and this Spaniard? No, 'twas too coincidental. Often, he and Sir Francis had speculated on the possibility that Sir Basil had indeed discovered something in Santo Domingo. He shook his head. Idle speculation, that was all. they had no proof-and what good could it possibly do them now to have in their hands what information Sir Basil had gathered ten years ago?

There was a knock on the door and he bid enter the man he'd been expecting for close to an hour.

"Well?"

"He didn't make contact."
Lord Burghley raised an incredulous brow. "The cipher was not passed?"

"No, m'lord. I never lost sight of the man. I followed him to the fair. I watched him. Never once did I lose sight of that cursed blue bonnet with the scarlet feather. One time, m'lord, I thought he was about to make contact, but no one came close to him. There was some kind of commotion by one of the booths, some woman fainted, but I kept my eye on the courier, and he never received as much as a nod from anyone. I'm sorry, m'lord," the agent said.

Lord Burghley shook his head. "I do not understand. We know there was a missive from the pope to Mary Stuart. Well, perhaps tomorrow. You have someone watching the man now? Good," he said when the young man nodded.

"I followed him to the ambassador's residence. He stayed but a few minutes, then left. I then followed him to his lodgings on the wharf, where one of my men is stationed. If he leaves, we will know."

"Make certain the Spanish ambassador's residence remains under constant
surveillance
. I want to know of everyone who arrives there, whatever time of the day or night. Have you placed an agent on that priest we tracked from
.
.
.
let me see, yes, from the Tramorgans'?" he asked, checking the name of the Catholic family where the priest had stayed when first he'd arrived after entering England surreptitiously two days ago. Their agents had been awaiting his arrival in the small coastal village where he'd been set ashore.

"Yes. He's traveling north."

"Fine, Keep me informed on his movements. And don't lose him."
"No, m'lord," the man said, then was gone.

Due to Sir Francis Walsingham's diligence, or some might have said fanaticism, for he had a deep Puritan streak in him, they had agents sending them information from France, Spain, Germany, the Netherlands, and even Rome. Sir Francis's
foresight
in placing agents in the seminaries had paid off handsomely, for they now knew beforehand when to expect certain priests to arrive in England. From the time they set foot on English soil, they were watched and every move detailed in reports sent to the government.

Slowly the net was being drawn in, and soon they would have quite a catch. There would be many to share in a traitor's death at Tyburn, William Cecil thought without pleasure,
carefully
folding up the dispatches, ciphers, and incriminating lists of names before preparing to retire for the evening.

Valentine Whitelaw stood on the
Madrigal's
quarterdeck, his gaze raking the skyline of the city. He saw church spires instead of ships' masts. He heard the ringing of bells rather than the roar of
cannon
. The haze hanging low over the city came from hearth fires, not the smoke of battle. It was good to be home, he thought. The
Madrigal
, riding at anchor, had returned safe from yet another profitable voyage.

Valentine glanced up at the creaking masts, the sails taken in and furled. And they would remain that way until he sailed for Ravindzara. He would not leave England again until Artemis had given birth. He had promised her, and himself, that he would be nearby. His nephew, or niece, a Penmorley, he thought with a disbelieving shake of his head. He had nothing against Sir Rodger, and as long as Artemis was happy, then he was happy.

"Joke?" Mustafa asked, having come silently to his captain's side.

Valentine laughed softly. "Not really. Just questioning the fates."

"Not good to do that, Captain. No one can understand why things happen the way they do," Mustafa said quietly. "One must accept what happens."