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The Maiden's Abduction

Page 2

by Juliet Landon


  it could be anything other than pleasurable. But Bard had presented

  her with a convenient means of escape from a bleak future, that was

  all; he was not suitable husband material. How long he would stay by

  her once he discovered the state of her mind was anyone's guess, but

  Cecily had said to take one step at a time without elaborating on the

  speed.

  The attire which had caused so much selfconsciousness in York could

  hardly have been more suitable for the small town of Scarborough on the

  North Sea coast of Yorkshire; though it was by no means a sleepy place,

  it bore no comparison to the ever-wakeful minster city where ships

  swept up the river and docked with well-oiled smoothness against the

  accommodating quay side In the dusk, they passed with quickened steps

  the gibbet upon which an unidentifiable grey body swayed heavily in the

  sea breeze and then, looming ahead across a deep ditch and rampart,

  appeared the great square tower in the town wall through which they

  must pass.

  "Newburgh Gate," Bard told them.

  "I'll go through first with the packhorse; you follow."

  "Just in time, young man," the gatekeeper told him.

  "Sun's nearly down."

  Bard thanked him and gave him a penny as the massive door was slammed

  into place behind them and barred for the night. He led them through

  the main street littered with the debris of market day, where they

  slithered on offal by the butchers' shambles and scattered a pack of

  snarling dogs. Veering towards the eastern part of town, they glimpsed

  the grey shine of a calm sea and heard its lapping between the houses,

  smelt the mingled scents of fish and broth through the open doors and

  felt the curious stares of the occupants.

  "You didn't tell me their name," Isolde called to Bard.

  "Brakespeare," he said over his shoulder.

  "John and Elizabeth. And a little 'un. At least, he was little

  thirteen years ago."

  "When you were ten? That's when you last saw them?"

  "Aye, must have been."

  "Then he'll not be so little, will he?"

  Bard smiled and said no more. Blithely, he had told Isolde of his

  cousin, John Brakespeare, merchant of Scarborough, giving her the

  impression that they were in constant, if sporadic, communication. But

  his promise of a warm welcome was founded only on hope after so long a

  silence: his father was not a man to foster family connections which

  his own behaviour had done so little to justify, and for all Bard knew

  they might have gone to live elsewhere.

  The house he remembered as a ten-year-old was still there at the base

  of a steep-sided hill where a conglomeration of thatched and slated

  houses slithered down towards the harbour and the salt-smelling sea.

  As a merchant's house, it was one of the largest to have direct access

  to the quay, stone-tiled and narrow- fronted but three storeys high,

  each tier slightly overhanging the one below. Its corner position and

  courtyard allowed it more windows on its inner face than its outer, as

  if shying away from the full force of the wind. Dark and bulky boats

  were tethered at the far side of the cobbled quay, and lanterns swung

  and bobbed further out on the water, the black masts of ships piercing

  the deepening sky like spears.

  The echo of the horses' hooves in the courtyard attracted the immediate

  attention of two well-built lads who emerged from the stable atone

  side. Clearly puzzled by the intrusion, they waited.

  "Hey, lad!" Bard called.

  "Is your master at home?"

  The taller of the two glanced at the other, frowned, and regarded the

  waiting group without a word. Isolde was treated to a longer

  scrutiny.

  "D'ye hear me? Where's your master, John Brake- speare, eh?"

  The lad came forward at last to stand by Bard's side and, though he

  wore the plain dress of a servant, spoke with authority.

  "How long is it since you were here in Scarborough, sir?"

  Nonplussed, Bard sensed the relevance of the question

  "Thirteen years, or thereabouts. Am I mistaken? John Brakespeare no

  longer lives here?"

  "Indeed he does, sir. I am John Brakespeare and this is my younger

  brother Francis. How can I be of service to you?"

  Bard let out a long slow breath and dismounted.

  "I beg your pardon, John. Your father...?"

  "Died thirteen years ago. And you, sir?"

  "Bardolph La Vallon at your service. Your cousin, lad."

  "Francis!" With a nod, John Brakespeare sent his brother off towards

  the largest of the iron-bound doors, but it opened before he reached

  it, silhouetting a man's large frame against the soft light from

  within. His head almost touched the top curve of the door frame and,

  when he stepped outside and laid an arm across the younger lad's

  shoulder in a protective gesture, the contrast with Bard's lightweight

  stature was made all the more apparent.

  John Brakespeare was clearly relieved by this telepathy.

  "Silas?" he said, stepping backwards.

  Whilst being blessed with the deep voice and vibrant timbre of a harp's

  bass strings, the man called Silas had the curtest of greetings to

  hand.

  "Bard. Well, well. What the hell are you doing here? So you've lost

  your wits, too?"

  "Brother! You here? What?"

  "Aye, a good word, that. What. And who's this?" He glanced rudely,

  Isolde thought, towards herself and Cecily.

  That in itself was enough. Stooping from the saddle,

  she grabbed at the reins of the packhorse, dug her heels sharply into

  the flanks of her tired mare and hauled both animals' heads towards the

  entrance of the courtyard, pulling them into a clattering trot as she

  heard Cecily do the same. She got no further than the cobbled quay

  outside before she heard Cecily yelp.

  "Let go! Let go, I say! I must follow my mistress!"

  Grinding her teeth in anger, Isolde came to a halt and turned to face

  the arrested maid, the bridle of whose horse was firmly in the hands of

  Bard's large and unwelcoming brother.

  "Let her go, sir! Mistress Cecily comes with me!" she called.

  "Mistress Cecily stays here."

  Pause.

  "Then I shall have to go without her."

  "As you please." He led Cecily's horse back into the courtyard

  entrance without a second look, heedless of the rider's wail of

  despair.

  "From the frying-pan into the fire," Isolde muttered in fury, once

  again reversing direction to follow her maid.

  "From one interfering and obnoxiously overbearing host to another. And

  this one a La Vallon, of all things. What in God's name have I done to

  deserve this, I wonder?" She was still muttering the last plaintive

  enquiry when her bridle was caught and she was brought back to face the

  indignation of the younger La Vallon.

  "Where are you off to, for pity's sake?" Bard demanded.

  "We've only just got here and you fly off the handle like--' " I did

  not ask to come here," she snapped, attempting to yank the reins out of

  Silas La Vallon's hands without success.

  "And it's quite clear we ar
e not as welcome as you thought we'd be.

  There must be an inn somewhere in Scarborough. If it's my horse you

  want, Master La Vallon--' she leapt down from the wrong side of the

  saddle to avoid him '--you can take it. I'll take my panniers and my

  maid.

  Medwins do not willingly keep company with La Vallons. "

  "You brought her here against her will, brother, did you?"

  "Of course I didn't," Bard said.

  "She's tired, that's all."

  "That is not all," Isolde insisted, attempting to unbuckle a pannier

  from the wooden frame of the packhorse.

  "Oh! Drat this thing!" Her hair, still loose and unruly, had snagged

  on the prong of the buckle and was holding her captive in a position

  where she could not see how to loose it. Indifferent to the loss she

  would sustain, she pulled, but her wrist was held off by a powerful

  hand.

  "Easy, lass! Calm down!" Silas La Vallon told her, holding her with

  one hand and lifting the taut strap with the other.

  "There, loose it now. See?

  "Twould be a small enough loss from that thatch," he said, studying the

  wild red mass glowing in the light from the doorway, 'but a pity to

  waste it on a pannier. Now, come inside, if you will, and meet the

  lads' mother. She's probably never seen a real live Medwin before.

  Take the panniers inside, lads. "

  Refusing to unbend, and smarting from the man's initial rudeness, she

  pulled her mop of hair back into some semblance of order with both

  hands, attempting to present a more dignified appearance before it was

  too late. In doing so, she had apparently no notion of the effect this

  had on at least three of the male audience, revealing the beautiful

  bones of her cheeks and chin, the lovely brow and graceful curve of her

  long neck, back and slender arms, the pile of brilliant hair that

  refused to be contained. Her dark lashes could not conceal the quick

  dart of anger in her eyes as young John Brakespeare dropped one side of

  the pannier and then the other with a crash, bouncing open the lid and

  spilling its contents.

  "Thank you, but no. Your wife is clearly not expecting guests, and I

  would be the last one to impose--' Young Francis Brakespeare, silent

  until now, exploded with laughter and nudged the elder La Vallon

  impudently.

  "Eh, he's my mother's cousin, lady, not her husband. He's never stood,

  still long enough to get himself wed, hasn't Silas."

  "I doubt if standing still would make a scrap of difference," Isolde

  bit back at him, striding over to rescue the last of the contents from

  the cobbles.

  "Your hero has a far greater problem than that, young man." She stood

  to face Silas, her arms draped with old clothes.

  "Now, despite your cousin's disappointment at not seeing a Medwin,

  after all, I bid you good evening, sir. I pray she will recover soon

  enough.

  Cecily, come! "

  "Mistress... wait!" A lady's voice called from the doorway.

  "Please stay." From the other side of Bard's horse, a woman of

  Isolde's height stepped through the doorway into the courtyard and so,

  after all that, it was not the combined mass of the two La Vallon

  brothers that prevented Isolde's departure, but the genuine appeal in

  the woman's invitation that was the very nature of sincerity. Her

  hands were held out towards Isolde and her perplexed maid, and

  instantly their reaction was to go with her and to be led into a

  candle-lit hall where the air smelled warmly of lavender, beeswax,

  spices and new-baked bread.

  "Dame Brakespeare?" Isolde said.

  "Elizabeth," the woman replied, smiling.

  "You must be tired after such a long ride."

  Isolde did not pause to think how Dame Elizabeth knew the length of her

  journey, only that she could not, of course, have been Silas La

  Vallon's wife, for she was some years older than he, with two growing

  sons. Nevertheless, she was darkly attractive, her figure still

  shapely and supple, her dark eyes lit with a gentle kindness, like her

  voice. Her gown of soft madder-red linen hung in folds from an enamel

  link-girdle beneath her breasts and the deep V of her bodice was filled

  with the whitest embroidered chemise Isolde had ever seen. Her hair,

  except for dark tendrils upon her neck, was captured inside a huge

  swathed turban of shot blue-red silk that caught the light as she

  moved, changing colour, and Isolde was sure it must have been wired or

  weighted heavily.

  "Dame Brakesp-Elizabeth," Isolde corrected herself, 'may I present

  Mistress Cecily to you? She's been with me since I was born. " As the

  two women made their courtesies, Isolde took one more opportunity to

  extricate themselves from the situation.

  "Dame Elizabeth, we cannot impose ourselves upon you like this. You

  see, I am Sir Gillan Medwin's daughter, and had I known that Bard's

  brother lived here, I would never have agreed to come."

  Silas La Vallon surged into the hall, bringing his brother and cousins

  with him like a shoal of fish.

  "And Bard would not have come, either, if he'd known I was here. Would

  you, lad?" His initial surprise had turned to amusement.

  Flushing with the effort of protest. Bard rose to the bait.

  "Probably not, brother. Last time I heard of your whereabouts you were

  a freeman of York, a merchant, no less. But you can understand why I

  didn't spend time looking for you, surely? What do you do here at

  Scarborough?"

  "I visit my cousins. What does it look like?"

  In the light of the hall, Isolde could see more clearly than ever that

  Silas La Vallon had little in common with his younger brother except

  excessive good looks. It was, she thought, as if their mother had used

  up her best efforts on the first-born and from then on could manage

  only diluted versions. Whereas Bard was tall and willowy, Silas was

  tall and powerful, wideshouldered, deep-chested and stronger of face.

  His chin was squarer than Bard's, the crinkles around his eyes

  supplanting his brother's beguiling air of innocence with an expression

  of extreme astuteness, which was only one of the reasons why Isolde

  found it impossible to meet them for more than a glance.

  Unlike his brother's stylish level trim, Silas's hair fell in silken

  layers around his head where his fingers had no doubt combed it back

  against its inclination, and somehow Isolde knew that the look other

  men strived for was here un contrived for his whole manner, despite the

  well-cut clothes, exuded a complete lack of pretension. Bard's

  cultivated seduction techniques drew women to him like magnets: his

  brother's scorn of any such devices would leave many women baffled.

  And hence the unmarried state, she thought sourly. She found herself

  praying that Bard had not mentioned her father's abduction of their

  sister: things were bad enough; that would only make them worse.

  Dame Elizabeth was more forthcoming about the reason for Silas's

  presence at her home, and the glance she sent him was a clear rebuke

  for teasing his brother with a false picture. She explained to

>   Isolde.

  "Silas was my late husband's apprentice, you see, and I continue his

  business as a Scarborough merchant." She accepted Isolde's

  astonishment with composure.

  "Yes, we're a select breed, but not unknown. There are several women

  among the Merchant Adventurers of York, but only myself at Scarborough.

  Now that Silas is a merchant in his own right, we assist each other as

  merchants do. He's been like a second husband in so many ways." She

  felt the sudden jerk of attention at the last phrase and stammered an

  explanation.

  "I mean, in putting trade my way, and..."

  But it was too late. Silas's arm was about her shoulders, hugging her

  to his side with a soft laugh.

  "Alas, brother, she's as fickle as the rest. She'll not let me near

  her. Besides, she has these two wolfhounds to keep me at bay." He

  ruffled the hair of the elder one, who dodged away from the

  affectionate hand and, keeping his eyes on Isolde, smoothed it down

  again.

  "I shall take over the business eventually," John said.

  "Your father would be very proud to know that," Isolde replied,

  gravely.

  The courtesy of the gentle Brakespeare family was far removed from that

  of the Frydes in York, for all the latter's status and conspicuous

 

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