The echo of the horses’ hooves in the courtyard attracted the immediate attention of two well-built lads who emerged from the stable at one 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 Brakespeare, 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 are 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, Iso
lde 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, wide-shouldered, 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 uncontrived, 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 wealth and, sensing the two women’s unease and extreme tiredness, Dame Elizabeth insisted that further questions should be left until they had refreshed themselves. ‘I always keep at least one room for guests,’ she said, leading them out of the hall towards a flight of stairs. ‘It’s a large house, but we seem to fill it with ease nowadays.’
‘Your sons are a credit to you, Dame Elizabeth,’ Cecily said, following the lantern across a landing wide enough for several makeshift beds.
The proud mother threw a smile over her shoulder. ‘I was carrying my little Francis when I lost my husband. A pity they never met; they’re so alike. A great comfort. And Silas, of course. He’s something between a father and an older brother to them, but I agree with you, Mistress Isolde, that one La Vallon at a time is more than enough for any woman. I’ll try to keep him out of your way, if I can. Ah, here we are. Thank you, Emmie.’
A genial maid was laying out linen towels on the large canopied bed. She swiped a flat hand across the coverlet, bobbed a curtsy, and stepped through the door which was little more than a hole cut into the panelling. Their shadows closed about them, and dissolved as they met the light from within that revealed a pot-pourri of floral colours spilling over the bed and on to the ankle-deep sheep’s fleece at one side. After their days of mental and physical discomfort at York, the contrast was almost too much for Isolde, and her impulse was to embrace her hostess, who patted her back and assured them that hot water would be brought up and that supper would be ready as soon as they were.
Side by side, Isolde and Cecily sat upon the rug-covered chest at the end of the bed and looked about them at the details of comfort: the tiny jug of marigolds, the embroidered canopy of the bed, the cushioned prie-dieu in the corner and its leatherbound book of hours. Isolde placed a hand upon her cheek, still confused.
Cecily placed a finger to her lips. ‘Keep your voice down,’ she whispered. ‘These walls are like paper.’
Isolde nodded. She had no intention of making the La Vallon brothers party to her thoughts. ‘Did you know that there was an elder brother?’
‘Yes, I knew. He was sent off when you were about six.’
‘Doesn’t appear to think much of his brother.’
Cecily’s greying eyebrows lifted into her close-fitting head-dress. ‘No, and nor do I. He was no more sure of a welcome here than we were, and he had no business putting you in this position. Or any of us,’ she added. ‘And we can’t stay more than one night. We must leave here tomorrow. One La Vallon is bad enough, but two of ‘em is dangerous, and that’s a fact.’
‘I’d have left tonight if I’d had my way.’
‘Tomorrow. First thing.’ Cecily held up the finger again. ‘Now, don’t you go being rude to that Silas. That would embarrass Dame Elizabeth and her sons.’
Isolde’s face tightened as she poked one toe at the basketwork pannier. ‘Monster! Did you notice his short jerkin? Hardly covered his bottom.’
The finger crooked and touched Isolde’s chin. ‘So, you had time to notice his bottom, did you? Come in!’ she called to the door. ‘Wait! I’ll open it for you.’ A maid waited outside to escort them to the hall.
Accordingly, Isolde’s eyes were held well away from glimpses of heavily muscled buttocks to pay increasing attention to the array of food which, after their unsavoury days in York, was a feast worth sharing, even with monsters. The hall had been set with tables and was now busy with servants who arranged white linen cloths, pewter plates, silver knives and tall glass goblets. One man, older than the rest, stood at the huge silver-covered dresser, letting wine chortle merrily out of casks into pewter ewers, while the younger Brakespeare threw soft tapestries over the benches behind the table.
‘We don’t stand on ceremony at suppertime,’ Dame Elizabeth said, coming across to meet them.
Ceremony or not, it was the best meal Isolde had had in weeks, only slightly marred by being seated next to an over-attentive John Brakespeare on one side and an unnecessarily possessive Bard on the other, whose hand seemed unable to find its way from her knee and thigh to the table. Finally, in exasperation, she took his hand forcibly in hers and slammed it heavily upon the table, thrusting a knife between its fingers. By some mischance, this was noticed by the elder La Vallon who, at that moment, had leaned forward from three places down the table to speak to his brother. But although she sensed the exchange of significant looks between them nothing was said, to Isolde’s intense relief.
Under the watchful eyes of the steward, dish after dish was presented to the table, for the family had now swollen to include Dame Elizabeth�
��s father and the other members of her household. Served by two apprentices and four kitchen servants, this made a household as large as the Frydes’, a surprising revelation which gave Isolde some indication of Dame Elizabeth’s success as a merchant. There was cabbage, onion and leek soup served with strands of crispy bacon, chicken pasties, cold salmon and fresh herrings in an egg sauce, mussels, whelks, cockles and oysters, cheeses, figs and raisins, manchets of finest white flour and crusty girdle breads yellowed with saffron for dipping into spiced sauces. It was the first time Isolde had eaten fresh herring.
‘They come from Iceland,’ John told her. ‘Silas brings them.’
She would have liked to ask where Iceland was, but instead she mopped up the thick almondy sauce and wondered reluctantly which morsels to leave on her plate for the sake of politeness. The wine was of the finest, and her inclination was to watch the pale honey-coloured liquid bounce again into her glass from the servant’s ewer, but something warned her to beware, and she place a hand over the rim, at the same time becoming aware of someone’s eyes upon her, drawing her to meet them. From a corner of her eye, she noticed Dame Elizabeth lean towards her aged father, the servants’ white napkins, the glint of light on glass and silver, but her eyes were held by two steady dark-brown ones beneath steeply angled brows, and for a timeless moment there was nothing in the room except that. No sound, no taste, no touch, no delicious smell of food. Then she remembered to breathe and found it difficult, for her lungs had forgotten how until her glance wavered and fell, her composure with it, and the bold stare she had practised so often upon younger men too far away to recall.
She turned to Bard, but he saw the signs of weariness there and took her hand. ‘Bed, I think. Enough for one day, eh? We’ll sort out what’s to be done tomorrow, shall we?’
Juliet Landon Page 2