Juliet Landon

by The Maiden's Abduction

  She lay in bed waiting, listening and counting the bells and then, near dawn, she tiptoed into Cecily’s little room and slid beside her nurse’s warm softness to be cuddled into sleep. Cecily left her to sleep on, and later was able to report that a message had come from the Duchess to summon Silas to the Princenhof without delay. He had taken Pieter with him and left a message that Isolde was to admit only the tailor, who had failed to appear yesterday. Bard had gone earlier to Paulus Matteus’s office.

  ‘We’ve got to go, Cecily. We can’t stay. Pack our bags.’

  ‘Tch! Oh, love…come on, now. There’s no reason—’

  ‘Yes, there is. There’s a very good reason. I’ll not stay.’

  A grey sky lowered heavily over the town, the stiff breeze sending a vibration of black waves across the canal, firming Isolde’s resolution and darkening her unhappiness. Jealousy, now augmented by the knowledge of Silas’s illicit trading, held her in the very depths of its clutches, deafening her to reasoned argument and blinding her to the comforts, the prestige of her position and to the friendships she had already made. The fire Silas had lit now raged out of control, consuming her in the process. Her love, the first she had ever experienced, tore mercilessly at her tender heart, shaking her with a pain she believed only distance could alleviate.

  The errant tailor emerged from the skiff at the water gate, looking the epitome of obsequiousness, his face already flushed with apologies and his arms loaded with boxes which he struggled to balance across the short step from boat to dry land. His tall auburn-haired companion removed all but one from the tailor’s arms, strode easily across the steps and followed him through the gate where Mei, clattering down the path to meet them, greeted them as one.

  ‘Ah, Meester Johannes, a good day to you. You were expected yesterday, you know. Anyway, no matter, the mistress is in her chamber. I’ll take you up. You have a new assistant, ja?’ She turned to smile at the tall man.

  ‘Er…well, not exactly. This…er…’ He followed Mei, who clearly was more interested to know what was in the boxes than the identity of the man who carried them, while he himself was more concerned about his client’s reaction to the clothes. Would she be placated by the new undergowns?

  One would have thought, from the look of astonishment on his client’s face, that Meester Johannes had been accompanied by the patron saint of tailors rather than the kind stranger who had helped him off the boat with the boxes, but as soon as the door was closed upon the disappointed Mei he began to understand the reason for the stranger’s insistence. His client threw herself into the man’s arms and burst into tears.

  ‘Allard,’ she sobbed. ‘Oh, you’ve come at last!’

  Meester Johannes put the boxes down and waited, noticing that the man called Allard was not in the least taken aback.

  ‘Dearest one. You knew I’d come. I came as fast as—’

  ‘How did you know? Did you get my—’

  ‘Father wrote to me. It’s taken me—’

  ‘No, how did you know I was in Brugge?’

  ‘I went to York and found out—’

  ‘You must take me home, Allard. Now. This minute. See, my bags are packed already.’

  ‘Now? Where’s Silas? Has he made you unhappy, love? He’s not injured you, has he?’

  ‘Not injured, no. But I must go home now, before he returns.’ She clung to him, barely able to believe that her prayers had been answered, and in the first jumbled hail of questions managed to discover that Allard had come from Sluys that morning and boarded the same skiff as the tailor. No, he had not eaten much, but that was not unusual.

  All the same, he was perplexed. ‘I had hoped to speak to Silas, Issy. Could we not wait a while?’

  ‘No!’ Isolde pleaded. ‘No, Allard. He’ll try to persuade me to stay.’

  ‘But the dresses…all this…’ He waved a hand. ‘How could all this have made you so unhappy? Silas is not a bad chap. We used to—’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Well, of course I do. We’re the same age. We used to fish together, climb trees for conkers, and—’

  ‘And go whoring?’

  ‘Er, well, not so much of that. That was Bard’s pastime, I remember.’ He looked at her sharply. ‘Is that the problem? The La Vallon problem?’

  She gulped and nodded.

  ‘You’ve fallen for him, then?’

  She looked away. ‘No! I hate him. He’s a La Vallon, isn’t he?’

  ‘He’s a man.’ Allard caught Cecily’s eye and began to understand. The fine clothes. The well-appointed room. Tears. Jealousy-hatred-love: all one word. ‘Where’s Silas now?’ he said, preparing for the snarl.

  ‘With the bloody Duchess!’

  Another peep at Cecily, then the flick of an eyebrow. ‘I see. I didn’t think he’d be tarred with his father’s brush. Where’s her cloak, Cecily?’

  ‘Ahem!’ Master Johannes picked up his boxes with resignation.

  But Allard detained him. ‘Don’t go yet, sir. We’ll need you to get out again. Now, this is what we do.’

  With four horses in the stable, it was not difficult. Mei was quite convinced by their need to visit the tailor’s workroom; the mistress was well chaperoned; they’d be back by midday. Much to Master Johannes’s disgust, their bags were stowed into his largest box and he was well paid to have the horses returned the next day from Sluys, where they hoped to find a ship bound for England. Allard sounded optimistic.

  On a page of her white paper, Isolde left a message for Silas.

  Silas, do not mind my going. I cannot be your mistress. It is not comfortable for my heart. I am leaving the Little Thing because I do not wish to be reminded. Please return her for me, with my thanks. And do not seek me, I beg you. I will care for your sister, God willing. God keep you safe. Isolde.

  Until they reached the seaport of Sluys, Isolde had quite forgotten that it was Master Caxton’s intention to sail that day for England; she had been intent on answering her brother’s questions about all that had happened since leaving home, and before. To find her friend standing on the quay with his nose in a book while the small sturdy ship completed its loading was at first a fright, and then a godsend. If anyone could secure the three of them an instant place on board, he could. Although London was not their chosen destination, Isolde thought, beggars could not be choosers.

  Predictably, he was amazed to see Isolde. ‘Dear lady, you said nothing of your intention last night. And Silas not here to see you off?’

  ‘A last-minute decision, Master William, to accompany my brother. My father has sent for me, and I must go to him.’

  Allard Medwin, student of medicine at Cambridge, and William Caxton, student of everything, took a liking to each other from the start, striking up an instant rapport as if they had known each other for years. At Caxton’s word, the master of the ship vacated a small cabin for Isolde and Cecily, asking no questions, taking the fee Allard offered, and hoisting sail out of Sluys with an eye to the freshening wind.

  The two women looked back across the flat grey horizon of Flanders with different degrees of misgiving which were not the same as those they had brought exactly one week ago. But if Isolde had hoped to make use of her elder brother’s sound common sense during the voyage, and to unload upon him those sorrows which were still so new to her, her disappointment was tripled, for he had found in Caxton an intelligence that had not come his way in six years at Cambridge. The other disappointment was Cecily’s predictable malaise, and the third was the early September gale that screamed through the rigging night and day, lashed the cabins, washed the decks and rolled the passengers from wall to wall, keeping them confined to their cabins on a diet of cold food, cooking being out of the question in such conditions.

  On the few occasions she was able to communicate with Allard not once did he grumble that he was being obliged to suffer another voyage so soon after the first, having the kind of nature that looks for the advantages wherever they might be found, even whi
le tending poor Cecily. To her constant distress his advice was, ‘Just drink the ale, mistress. The food is so wretched anyway, you’re probably better off without it.’

  Huddled in blankets to keep relatively warm and dry, Isolde was soon fatigued by the effort of staying where she put herself, preferring to be wedged in the cabin while losing track of the days and nights, caring for her maid’s needs. Far from regretting her impulsive flight, she almost revelled in the possibility that the ship might go down and she with it, for she could see nothing beyond her arrival in a strange city and a life without Silas. Longing for his arms, his mouth, his irresistible maleness, she managed to keep in touch with her own need to control her life after being swept too fast into a position where she was a tool to be bargained with, a mistress of convenience, an unschooled woman to be put aside whenever the more experienced one clicked her fingers. Alternating between anger, despair and humiliation, she rode out the storm in semi-isolation with misgivings that rose to panic each night at the thought that she may already be carrying a babe in her womb. He had said it would be his. But no; it would be hers.

  The knocking on her cabin door roused her from dark thoughts. ‘Isolde!’ Allard called. ‘Come and look. We’re through the worst now. Here, let me help you.’ He placed an arm around her, supporting her across the wet deck to where Caxton stood talking to the master, pointing towards the horizon. It was the first time she had seen either of the two men for some days, and so it was with surprise that she noticed the sling around the printer’s arm.

  ‘Master William,’ she said. ‘You’re injured? What happened?’

  He was pale and clearly unwell. ‘I slipped on deck,’ he said, trying to smile. ‘Broke my arm. The good doctor here has splinted it. If I begin to ramble, don’t mind me, it’s the brandy.’

  ‘Then you should be resting, sir. Thank God the sea is calmer.’ A huge wave came up to soak them with its white spume, but by now they paid it little attention.

  ‘I had to come out to catch the first sight of land. Look, the dark line across there: cliffs, then the white breakers below. See?’

  ‘Oh…’ Isolde shaded her eyes to focus them. ‘Oh, yes, I see. This is the south coast, then, where we approach London.’

  The master smiled at her rudimentary reckoning. ‘Nay, mistress, I hope not. Those are the east-coast cliffs of Flamborough and Scarborough. We’ll be in harbour before nightfall, God willing.’

  ‘What?’ Isolde stared at him, sure she had misheard. ‘You didn’t say Scarborough, surely?’

  ‘Aye, that’s it. We’ve made good time with that bit o’ breeze.’

  She looked from the master to Allard, then to Caxton. ‘But I thought we were bound for London. Isn’t that where you wanted to go, Master William? You said you were going to London, not Scarborough.’

  ‘Yes, dear lady. I am going to London,’ Caxton said, smiling over her head at the master. ‘But Silas Mariner offered me a place on his ship which was ready to sail with a cargo of my books for his English clients. He said I could sail with them, if I wished, since it’ll be quicker to ride down to London from here than to wait for another ship to cross. There wasn’t one due for another week.’

  Isolde’s heart leapt, making her suddenly breathless. Silas’s ship? Scarborough? Then those boxes packed with books and black astrakhan furs were right here under their feet. What audacity. And unwillingly she had escaped on her lover’s ship, bound for his chosen destination, with his friend and smuggled cargo.

  Back in her cabin, she held on to the bunk where Cecily lay and buried her head in her arms, trying to control the shaking of her body and the spasms that forced torrents of tears from her aching eyes. Combined relief and frustration fought within her, confusing every attempt at lucidity. Then she splashed cold water onto her face, combed and plaited her hair and set about tidying the cabin, packing their belongings once more into bags. A seagull mewed from the rigging, sending her its mournful welcome.

  Cecily moaned and turned her head. ‘Get that cat out of here,’ she said.

  Chapter Ten

  For the fourth time that morning, Dame Elizabeth Brakespeare peered out of her counting-house window overlooking the quay at Scarborough, where groups of men clutched at their headgear and tightened their faces against the driving rain. Ships of all shapes and sizes swallowed or disgorged their cargo on to men, resembling worker ants, who balanced along planks to load carts for quick transport to the warehouses. There was a frown on her otherwise serene face as she turned away. ‘Searchers,’ she said. ‘I’m sure of it.’

  At fifteen, John Brakespeare topped his mother’s height by at least an inch, fulfilling his late father’s thirteen-year-old prediction that he would be a giant of a man. Already his voice had deepened to correspondingly masculine proportions. ‘Not the usual customs men, Mother?’

  ‘No, they’re strangers here, and it’s obvious by their nosing about that they’re on to something. They stayed last night up at the Ship.’

  ‘How d’ye know?’

  She smiled at last, with a lift of her brows, and John knew to ask no more. In a small port like Scarborough, everyone knew who stayed at the Ship. ‘Has everything gone, John?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. Everything.’

  ‘Then we have no cause for concern, have we?’

  ‘Silas is not due, then?’

  ‘I don’t know, dear. Do we ever? We can only hope that they finish checking on us all before he arrives.’

  John sniffed. ‘He puts us in danger, Mother. Especially you.’

  Dame Elizabeth linked her arm into her son’s. ‘It’s himself he puts in danger, John, not us. This is his house now, remember, and the roles have been reversed. I am his employee, and although I’m called merchant, he’s the owner, and it’s his goods that’ll be forfeit if he’s discovered, not ours.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘That’s why we arranged it that way, so as to make him responsible. Silas would never take risks with us, John, you know that.’

  John covered his mother’s hand with his own. ‘I wish you’d marry again, Mother. Would you not consider it?’

  The smile this time was almost a laugh. Modestly, she hung her head. ‘How could I marry and carry on Silas’s business, love? He needs me to be here, not in another man’s house. And it earns a good living, doesn’t it? And you and Francis learning the trade. It would have to be an exceptionally understanding man who’d turn a blind eye to what we do. Do you mind so much?’

  ‘I don’t mind taking the risks for Silas, no. Without him we’d be nowhere, would we? I mind for you, that’s all. You’d look well with a husband.’

  His smile was so like his late father’s, catching at Elizabeth’s heart and starting the ache that thirteen years had barely begun to lessen. ‘Yes, dear. So I would. Now, go and give Francis his instructions, if you will. He’s downstairs in the big warehouse.’

  The group of men had now moved further along the quay, waiting for a rowing boat to reach the steps. They had their job to do, their own methods, their successes and failures, and they knew of the lengths to which some merchants went to evade customs duty on goods from abroad. Even the most respectable of them was guilty of some deception now and again, when they believed they could win. Busily, Dame Elizabeth turned to her lists.

  Later in the afternoon the high tide brought a drop in the wind, and the rain that had lashed against the windows now sprayed a fine veil across the harbour, lifting the seagulls sideways. John Brakespeare clattered up the stairs to the counting-house and, placing his head close to his mother’s stiff white linen hood, opened the window to let in a blast of air.

  She clamped her arms on to her papers. ‘John! Oh, no!’

  ‘Look!’ he said. ‘Look out there. What d’ye see?’

  White sails bulging with wind and heading for the shelter of the harbour. Men already swarming in the rigging. ‘It can’t be,’ she whispered.

  ‘It is. It’s Silas’s little cog. It’s his, I tell you.’ He slam
med the window and latched it, grabbing her woollen shawl and holding it ready. ‘Come on.’

  ‘Those men,’ said Dame Elizabeth, wrapping herself closely. ‘Where are they? I must warn him to have a care. This is ill timed, John. Quickly, you run on ahead. I’ll lock up.’

  The three searchers had watched the arrival of the cog with as much interest as Dame Elizabeth and the boys who stood by her side, searching the deck with their keen eyes for the one they hoped to see.

  ‘No,’ Francis said. ‘He doesn’t use this one himself much, does he, Mother? But there’s Master Summerscale, and there are some passengers; no Silas this time. But wait…’ he grabbed her arm ‘…aren’t those the two women who came with Silas’s brother last month? You know, the lady from York and her maid?’

  ‘Good heavens,’ said John, beaming.

  ‘That’s strange,’ said Elizabeth.

  No one would have guessed at her consternation as she waited at the end of the gang-plank to greet the passengers, her welcoming smile acting as a kind of proof to the beady-eyed searchers that this was what she had expected and little else. It could not have been a better diversion. ‘Welcome back!’ she called.

  Allard came first, carrying Isolde, then Caxton, supported by a burly seaman, and then Cecily in the arms of the master, Summerscale. In turn each of the passengers clung to the Brakespeares as if they had expected to be met, which was far from the truth but comforting when their legs still felt the ground heaving beneath them.

  ‘Dame Elizabeth!’ Isolde almost fell into her arms, her face contorting with joy. Or was it pain?