“No! I said no.”

Silas leaped to his feet, his voice biting with exasperation. “In God’s name, woman, will you listen to what I have to say before you—”

Before three words were out, Isolde was up and facing him, eye to eye. “No, in God’s name I shall do no such thing, sir! I do not need you to make any plans for me, nor do I need your assistance to reach York.” Her eyes were wide open and furious.

Silas stuck his thumbs into the girdle that belted his hips. “There now, wench, you’ve been wanting to let fly at me ever since you got here. Feeling better now?”

“You mistake the matter, sir. I haven’t given you a moment’s thought.” She stalked toward the door, but in two strides he was there before her, presenting her with the clearest challenge she had ever faced. The look that passed between them was one of unbridled hostility on her part and total resolution on his.

The Maiden’s Abduction
Juliet Landon

www.millsandboon.co.uk

JULIET LANDON

lives in an ancient country village in the north of England with her retired scientist husband. Her keen interest in embroidery, art and history, together with a fertile imagination, make writing historical novels a favorite occupation. She finds the research particularly exciting, especially the early medieval period and the fascinating laws concerning women in particular, and their struggle for survival in a man’s world.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Epilogue

Chapter One

A crust of rooftops edged the distant horizon and, beyond them, a narrow sliver of shining sea suspended the last light of day above the dark, wine-rich tide that wafted its own unmistakable scent across the moorland. The three riders halted, held by its magic.

‘Is that it?’ Isolde whispered. ‘The sea? That shining?’

The young man at her side smiled and eased his weight forward out of the saddle. ‘That’s it. Wait till tomorrow, then you’ll see how big it is. Can you smell it?’ He watched her take a deep lungful of air and hold it, savouring its essence.

She breathed out on a laugh and nodded. ‘So that’s Scarborough, then. What a trek, Bard.’

‘I told you we’d get there in one day. Come on.’

‘Only just.’ Isolde turned to look over her shoulder, searching the rosy western sky and darkening wind-bent hawthorns. ‘You don’t think they’ll—?’

‘No! Course they won’t. Come.’

The third rider pursed her lips, holding back the retort which would have betrayed to her mistress a certain distrust of Bard La Vallon’s optimism. A pessimist she was not, but this wild goose-chase to Scarborough was hardly the answer to their problem, such as it was.

For one thing, she did not believe Isolde thought any more of La Vallon than she had about any of the other bold young lads who sought to make an impression month after month, year after year. Nor was it a yearning to see the sea that had drawn her all the way from York in one day, though she was as good in the saddle as any man. Mistress Cecily stayed a pace or two behind them on the stony track, caught by the pink halo shimmering through Isolde’s wild red curls, as fascinated by the girl’s beauty after nineteen years as she had been at her birth. The stifled retort gained momentum at each uncomfortable jolt of the hardy fell pony beneath her. Of course they’ll come after us, child, once they discover which direction we’ve taken.

As if in reply to her maid’s unspoken words, Isolde called to her, holding a mass of wind-blown hair away to one side, ‘They’ll think we’ve gone back home, Cecily, won’t they?’

‘Course, love. That’ll be their first thought. Unless…’

‘Unless what?’

Sensing that the matronly Mistress Cecily was about to contribute some unnecessary logic to the serenity of the moment, Bard drew Isolde’s attention to the Norman castle silhouetted against the sea over to the left of the town, making Cecily’s reply redundant.

It had been this same Bardolph La Vallon whose untimely interest in Isolde had caused her father, Sir Gillan Medwin, to pack her off in haste to York and there to remain in the safekeeping of Alderman Henry Fryde and his family. No explanation for this severe reaction was needed by anyone in the locality, for the feuding between the Medwins and the La Vallons spanned at least four generations, and the idea of any liaison between their members could not be evenly remotely considered. As soon as the days had begun to lengthen in the high northern dales and the sun to gain strength above the limestone hills, the reprisals had begun again: the stealing of sheep and oxen, the damming of the river above Medwin’s mills, the firing of a new hayrick and, most recently, the near-killing of a La Vallon tenant.

On discovering that his daughter Isolde had actually given some encouragement to the younger La Vallon, Sir Gillan had acted with a predictable and terrifying swiftness to put a stop to it, not only because of the enmity, but also because the likelihood of Bard La Vallon’s reputation as a lecher exceeding his father’s was almost a certainty. Between them, Rider La Vallon and his younger son had fathered a crop of black-haired and merry-eyed bairns now residing with their single mothers in Sir Gillan’s dales’ villages. How many were being reared as La Vallon tenants, heaven only knew, but Sir Gillan did not intend his daughter to produce one of them. Though his second wife had died scarcely seven weeks earlier, in the middle of June, he was willing to lose his only daughter also, for her safety’s sake.

Mistress Cecily sighed, noting how the slice of silver in the distance had narrowed, darkening the sky still more in sympathy with her concerns.

‘Nearly there, Cecily. Hold on,’ came Isolde’s assurance.

‘Yes, love.’

She had not expected the young swain to come chasing after them, nor did she believe that Isolde had cared one way or the other until she had come to realise what lay behind her father’s choice of Henry Fryde as her guardian, a choice that took the form of Henry Fryde’s twenty-three-year-old son Martin. Then, Isolde’s need for any form of rescue as long as it came quickly was justifiable: even the motherly Cecily had no quarrel with that. So, when two days ago young Bard had appeared behind them in the great minster at York during one of the Mercers’ Guild’s interminable thanksgiving ceremonies, the hand that had clutched hers had made her wince with the pain of it.

‘He’ll take us away from here, Cecily,’ Isolde had whispered to her that night, in bed.

‘Back home, you mean? He’d not—’

‘No, not back to my father. I’d not go back there now. You’ll never guess what he’s done. Bard told me today.’

‘Who’s done? Bard, or your father?’

‘My father. I think he’s taken leave of his senses,’ she added.

‘Why, what is it?’

‘Bard says he’s taken his sister.’

Cecily frowned at that, unable to overcome the confusion. ‘Felicia?’ she ventured.

‘Yes, Bard’s younger sister, Felicia. Father’s taken her.’

‘Where to?’

‘Home. To live with him. He’s abducted her, Cecily. And do you know what I think?’ She was clearly set to tell her. ‘I think he intended it when he sent me here to York because he knows that Rider La Vallon will stop at nothing to get her back. No one’s ever done anything quite as extreme as that, have they? He must have known that if I were there, they’d do their utmost to get me. And heaven help me if they did. I’d be a mother by this time next year, would I not? All the same, I think it’s an over-reaction, taking a La Vallon woman just because Bard showed an interest in me. He’s old enough to be her father, after all.’

‘She’s twenty-one.’

‘Young enough to be his daughter, Cecily.’

‘Mmm, so you think going off with Bard La Vallon will make everything all right, do you? I don’t.’

‘No, dearest.’ In the dark, Isolde softened, kissing the ample cheek of her nurse and maid, the one who had helped her into the world and her mother out of it at the same time. ‘But it’s a chance to take control of my life, for a change, and I’ll not let it slip. He sent me here to be groomed for marriage to that lout downstairs. You know that, don’t you?’

‘Yes, that’s fairly obvious.’

‘And would you marry him, dearest?’

The snorts of derision combined to render them both speechless for some time and, when they could draw breath, it was Isolde who found enough to speak. ‘Well, then, the alternative is to get out of this awful place just as soon as we can.’

The question of ethics, however, was one which could not easily be put aside. Cecily manoeuvred her white-bonneted head on the pillow to see her companion by the light of the mean tallow candle. ‘But listen, love. That young scallywag was the reason your father sent you away in the first place, and you surely wouldn’t disobey your father so openly, would you? And what of Alderman Fryde? Think of the position it will put him in. After all, he’s responsible for you.’

There was a silence during which Cecily hoped Isolde’s mind was veering towards filial duty, but the answer, when it came, proved determination rather than any wavering. ‘Alderman Fryde,’ Isolde said, quietly, ‘is one of the…no, the most objectionable men I’ve ever met. I would not marry his disgusting son if he owned the whole of York, nor shall I stay in this unhappy place a moment longer than I have to. Did you see Dame Margaret’s face this morning?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘He’s been beating her again. The second time this week. I heard him.’

‘You shouldn’t have been listening, love.’

‘I didn’t have to listen. And that chaplain was smirking all over his chops, and I know for a fact that he’s been telling Master Fryde what I said to him in confession about Bard.’

‘No…oh, no! He couldn’t. Wouldn’t!’

‘He has, Cecily. I know it. He’s a troublemaker.’ There was another silence until Isolde continued. ‘Bard has a cousin at Scarborough.’

‘A likely story.’

‘I believe him. He says we’ll be able to stay there awhile and see the sea. He says they’ll be pleased to see us.’

‘The cousin is married?’

‘Yes, with a family. I cannot go home, Cecily dearest, you know that.’ She had heard disapproval in the flat voice, the refusal to share the excitement for its own sake. Cecily liked things cut and dried. ‘I cannot. Not with Bard’s sister a prisoner there and my father fearful for our safety. God knows what he’s doing with her,’ she whispered as an afterthought.

‘Never mind what he’s doing with her, child. What d’ye think young La Vallon’s doing with you? Has it not occurred to ye once that he’s come all this way to avenge his sister? I don’t know how your father can explain the taking of a man’s only daughter, even to prolong a feud, but allowing yourself to be stolen doesn’t make much sense either, does it? You were talking just now of him being fearful of your safety, but just wait till he finds out who you’re with, then he’ll fear for sure. As for being a mother within the year—’

‘Cecily!’ The pillow squeaked under the sudden movement.

‘Aye?’ The voice was solid, uncompromising.

‘We haven’t got that far. Nowhere near.’

‘No where near?’

‘No.’

‘Then that’s another thing he’ll have come for; to get a bit nearer.’

Isolde’s smile came through her words as she nipped out the smoking candle. ‘Stop worrying,’ she said. ‘I’m nineteen, remember?’

‘And well in control, eh?’

‘Yes. Goodnight, dear one.’

At last, Cecily smiled. ‘Night, love.’

There had been no need to request Cecily’s help for there had never been a time of withholding it but, even so, it was to the accompaniment of the maid’s snores that Isolde’s thoughts raced towards the morrow with the city’s bells and the crier’s assurances that all was well.

Apart from regretting the theft of Master Fryde’s horses, all had been well, and since the Frydes believed she was visiting the nuns at Clementhorpe, just outside the city, there seemed to be no reason why anyone should miss her for some time. They had dressed simply to avoid attention taking a packhorse for their luggage and food from the kitchen which, to the Fryde household, had all the appearance of almsgivings to be passed on to the poor. It had not been a difficult deception, their clothes being what they were, unfashionable, plain and serviceable, reflecting a country lifestyle whose nearest town was Schepeton, which usually had more sheep than people.

Until they had reached York, neither of them had had any inkling of what wealthy merchants’ wives were wearing, nor of the mercers’ shops full of colourful fabrics that Isolde had seen only in her dreams. Ships bearing cargoes of wine, spices, flax, grain, timber and exotic foods sailed up the rivers past Hull and Selby as far as York, but Isolde had so far been kept well away from the merchants’ busy wharves. Nor had she been allowed a chance to complete her metamorphosis from chrysalis to butterfly, for the money that her father had given her was, at Master Fryde’s insistence, placed in his money chest for safekeeping, and now a few gold pieces in her belt-purse was all she had. The faded blue high-waisted bodice and skirt was of good Halifax wool, but not to be compared to the velvets and richly patterned brocades that had so nearly been within her reach, had she stayed longer. Her fur trims were of coney instead of squirrel and the modest heart-shaped roll and embroidered side-pieces into which she had tucked her red hair for her arrival in York was a proclamation to all and sundry that she was a country lass sadly out of touch with fashion. Her longing for gauze streamers, jewelled cauls, horns and butterflies with wires was still unfulfilled, her eyebrows and hairline still unplucked for want of a pair of tweezers and some privacy.

Leaving the outskirts of York in the early-morning sunshine, she had tied up her hair into a thick bunch, but Bard had soon pulled it free to fly in the wind and over her face, laughing as she had to spit it out with her scolding. Her dark-lashed green-brown eyes, petite nose and exquisite cheekbones reminded Bard of his main reason for coming and, leaning towards her, he whispered in her ear, ‘When do I get to kiss that beautiful mouth, my lady? Must I die of lust before we reach Scarborough?’

If he had mentioned love instead of lust, her heart might have softened, but she was not so innocent that she believed the two to be synonymous, nor did Bard La Vallon melt her heart or occupy her thoughts night and day as the lasses back home had described. Lacking an extensive vocabulary, they had defined the state of being in love more by giggles than by facts, giving Isolde no reason to suppose that 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 self-consciousness 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 quayside. 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 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, 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, 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?’

‘We must go early,’ she said with some urgency.

‘Go?’

‘Yes. Go back, Bard. Just go. Early.’

He blinked, but kept his voice low to her ear. ‘He’ll probably be going off tomorrow, sweetheart. Let’s wait and see, shall we?’

She sighed, too weary to argue.

The warmth of the summer evening and the clinging heat of Cecily’s ample body next to hers overrode Isolde’s tiredness and forced her out of bed towards the window that chopped the pale moonlit sky into lozenges. Only the wealthiest people could afford to glaze their windows, and even the strips of lead were expensive. The catch was already undone; as she knelt upon the wooden clothes-chest to push it open wider, men’s voices rose and fell on the still night air, below her on the quay. She leaned forward, easing the window out with one finger, recognising Bard’s voice and its deep musical relative.

‘Has it not occurred to you, lad?’ Silas was saying, impatiently.

‘She was with that—’

‘I know who she was with. I have a house and servants in York who keep me informed of what’s happening while I’m away. But have ye no care for Elizabeth and her lads? Have you any right to put her entire household at risk by chasing down here with her? God’s truth, lad, you’re as thoughtless as ever where a bit of skirt’s involved.’

‘That’s not fair, Silas. He’s not all that dangerous, surely?’

‘Have you ever met him?’

‘No. I saw him in the minster, though.’

‘Then you’ll have to take my word for it that Elizabeth had better not be on the receiving end of his attention. Nor must she know exactly who the lass was staying with, or she’ll be worried sick.’

‘Who will?’

‘Elizabeth, you fool. Who d’ye think I mean? It’s her safety I’m concerned about. Your lass has little to lose now, has she?’

‘I wouldn’t say that.’

There was a silence in which Isolde knew they were laughing.

‘You must leave tomorrow, Bard, at first light.’

‘But I’ve told her—’

‘I don’t care what you’ve told her. You leave at dawn and get back to York. I won’t have that maniac chasing down here to reclaim either the girl or his bloody horses, just because your braies are afire.’

‘Silas, it’s not just—’ Bard protested.

‘Ssh…all right, all right. I suppose you can’t help it if you take after Father. If I’d stayed longer I might have been the same, God knows.’

‘But what the hell are we going to do in York, Silas? Can we stay at your house?’

‘I’ll help you out, lad. I’ve thought of a plan. Foolproof. But you’ll have to trust me, both of you.’

‘I do, Silas, but I can’t vouch for Isolde.’

A breeze lifted off the water and sent a dark line of ripples lapping at the harbour wall and Isolde’s skin prickled beneath her hair.

‘Come inside. I’ll tell you about it.’

She waited, then tiptoed back to the bed and sat on its soft feathery edge until her mind began to quieten.

Chapter Two

I solde’s resentment, dormant only during the short bouts of sleep, surfaced again at the first screeching calls of the seagulls that swooped across the harbour, rising faster than the sun itself. From a belief that she was taking control of her life, she now saw that, after only a matter of hours, it was once more in someone else’s hands. The two La Vallons, to be exact. Not a record to be proud of. In her heart, she had already made up her mind that a protracted stay at the Brakespeares’ house was impossible, a decision that Bard’s brother had endorsed in no uncertain terms, but to be packed off so unceremoniously back to York like a common servant—a bit of skirt, he had said—was humiliating to say the least. First a thorn in her father’s side, next a potential trophy for a halfwit, and now an embarrassment.

Well, she would return to York with the remnants of her dignity, but not to stay. There was Allard at Cambridge, for instance, the older brother who had never once failed to mention on his visits home how he wished she’d go and keep house for him. A student of medicine in his final year at the university, he lived in his lodgings where time to care for himself properly had dwindled to nothing. Allard would welcome her and Mistress Cecily, for hers was as kind an older brother as anyone could wish for. Sean, their fifteen-year-old half-brother, was like him in many ways, studious and mentally absent from much of what went on around him, too preoccupied with copying books borrowed from the nearby abbeys to remember what day it was. Isolde did not know whether Sean had been distressed by his mother’s recent death or whether he had merely put a brave face on it for his father’s sake. He was not one to disclose his state of mind, as she did, and she had often wondered whether his books took him away from a world in which he felt at odds. If she regretted leaving anyone, it was Sean. Who would wash his hair for him now? Or his ears and neck, for that matter? Should she return home, after all?

If she had thought to impress them by her dawn appearance, fully dressed and ready to begin her exodus unbidden, the wind was removed from her sails by the sight of a household already astir, well into its daily preparations and not a hint of surprise at her eagerness to be away. The plan outlined to Bard last night by his overbearing brother no doubt concerned what he was to do at York, once they arrived, and was of no real interest to her at that moment. So when he drew her forward into a small and comfortable parlour hung with softly patterned rugs and deep with fresh rushes, she was not best pleased to be joined by Silas La Vallon, especially in the middle of a kiss that was neither expected nor welcome.

A servant followed him with a tray of bread rolls, cheese, ale, a dish of shrimps and a bowl of apples, one of which Silas threw up into the air, caught it without taking his eyes off the hastily separating pair, and noisily bit, enjoying Isolde’s confusion as much as Bard’s almost swaggering satisfaction.

Isolde scowled and took the mug of ale which the servant offered, observing Silas’s ridiculous sleeves that dripped off the points of his elbows as far as his knees. His thigh-length gown was a miracle of pleats and padding that accentuated the width of his great shoulders, and in place of last night’s pointed shoes he wore thigh-length travelling boots of softly wrinkled plum-coloured leather edged with olive-green, like his under-sleeves.

With a mouth full of apple, he invited her to sit and, with another ripping crunch at the unfortunate fruit, sat opposite her and leaned against the patterned rug.

Feeling the discomfort of his unrelenting perusal, she turned her attention to Bard and, with a businesslike coolness, said, ‘What is all this about, Bard? We’ve a fair way to go, remember, and Mistress Cecily has barely recovered from yesterday.’

Bard swung a stool up with one hand and placed it near hers, sitting astride it. ‘Yes, that’s one of the reasons why Silas has agreed to help us out, sweetheart,’ he said, taking one of her hands. ‘We think it would be for the best if Mistress Cecily was given time to recover while I take the horses back to York alone.’

Without taking a moment to consider, Isolde countered, ‘Oh, no. We shall not stay here. I’m resolved to leave immediately.’

Silas intervened, having no qualms about getting straight to the point and being less daunted by Isolde’s fierceness. ‘No, not to stay here, mistress. We all know you can’t do that.’

‘Thank you,’ she murmured, throwing him a murderous glance.

‘I shall take you and your maid to York by ship, I’ve—’

‘That you will not!’

‘I’ve got to go there to unload some cargo, and I’ve—’

‘No!’

‘I’ve told Bard that it’ll take a few days, four at most, depending on the wind, to get up-river past Hull to York. Then I’ll drop you off with your maid and baggage, and you can—’

‘No! I said no.’

Silas slapped the half-eaten apple hard on to the bench at his side and leapt to his feet, his voice biting with exasperation. ‘In God’s name, woman, will you listen to what I have to say before you—?’

Before three words were out, Isolde was up and facing him, eye to eye, Bard’s comforting hand thrown aside. ‘No, in God’s name, I shall do no such thing, sir! I do not need you to make any plans for me, nor do I need your assistance to reach York. I am quite aware that your first concern is for Dame Elizabeth and that you are using Mistress Cecily’s fatigue to pull the wool over my eyes. You care no more about her than you do about me, so don’t take me for a fool, either of you. And if Alderman Fryde should come to Scarborough to search for me it’ll be a miracle worth two of St. William’s, because he doesn’t have the wit to look beyond his own pockets. The first thing he’ll do is send home to see if I’m there.’ Her eyes were wide open and, this time, furiously unflinching.

Fascinated, Silas stuck his thumbs into the girdle that belted his hips. ‘There now, wench, you’ve been wanting to let fly at me ever since you got here, haven’t you? Feeling better now?’

‘You mistake the matter, sir. I haven’t given you a moment’s thought.’ She swung away from him and stalked towards the door, but in two strides he was there before her, his head up, presenting her with the clearest challenge she had ever faced. The look that passed between them, so unlike the enigmatic exchange at suppertime, was of unbridled hostility on her part and total resolution on his, but, having no notion of the form this might take, and not willing to try it out there and then, she appealed to Bard for help.

‘Well? Don’t sit there grinning! Tell him to move.’

Bard went to her, having difficulty with his grin. ‘Nay, he’s bigger than me, sweetheart. Come, you haven’t heard the whole argument yet, and what you say is not correct, you know. We both care greatly for your safety, and that’s why Silas’s plan is a sound one. I can reach York much faster than the three of us, without a chance of you being seen by anyone. Silas can smuggle you ashore at York and I’ll meet you there and then you can make up your mind what to do, whether to stay or go on. And Mistress Cecily won’t have to suffer another day in the saddle.’

‘No, she’d be seasick instead. She’d prefer that, I’m sure.’

‘No, she won’t,’ Silas said. ‘We’re only going down the coast and the sea’s as calm as a millpond. The river doesn’t make anyone seasick.’

‘And what about the horses? You can’t make good speed leading three.’

‘Silas is lending me a lad.’

‘Then what, when you’ve got them to York? You take them back to Fryde’s, do you, and apologise?’

‘Isolde!’ Bard’s tone was gently scolding. ‘Course not. I leave them where his men will find them, tied up outside the Merchant Adventurers’ Hall, most likely. He’ll not know where they’ve been or how they were returned, will he?’

On the face of it, the plan seemed to be reasonable enough, but nagging doubts showed in her eyes and in the uneasy twitch of her brows. These two were La Vallons. Silas must know of Felicia’s abduction by now, for surely Bard had told him, unless he had been informed of it beforehand, as he had been about her own arrival in York. What he had not known, apparently, was that Bard would bring her to Scarborough, and that had unnerved him more than anything else, otherwise he would by this time have made some remark about her father’s wickedness and his own sister’s welfare. Since they had not thought fit to brandish this latest Medwin villainy before her, nor even to hint at her own vulnerability, she could only assume that her association with Bard was protecting her from reprisals. The elder brother was clearly the dominant of the two but, judging from the conversation they’d had last night on the quay, there was no enmity between them. Silas was willing to help his brother since this also relieved his own concerns for his cousin, whatever they were. She could hardly blame him, though the thought kept alive a flame of pique which she could put no name to.

Her silence was watched carefully and, when Bard opened his mouth ready to hurry her decision, a frown from Silas quelled the opening word.

‘You are La Vallons,’ she said at last. ‘And I am a Medwin. I would be a fool to trust you, would I not?’

It was Silas who answered her. ‘My brother is prejudiced and would deny any foolishness as a matter of course. For myself, I think you may not have been offered too many options these last few weeks, but that doesn’t make you a fool. A few days at sea, a change of air, would give you some time to make a better decision. I can recommend it, mistress.’

‘The company is not what I would have chosen.’

‘There are books to read on board. Your maid will be with you. Plenty to see. We shall be there before you notice the company.’

‘You’ll be there at York, Bard?’

‘I’ll be there, sweetheart. Trust me. I promise I’ll be there waiting.’

She sighed heavily, turning her head. ‘My panniers are packed. You intend sailing today, sir?’ she said to the bowl of apples, taking one to caress its waxy skin.

‘We sail immediately. The tide will be at its height in half an hour and the captain is waiting. Bard is packed and ready to be away.’

‘I see. So it was already decided.’

Neither of the brothers denied it. She was right, of course.

Having seen nothing of Scarborough in the daylight, Isolde was almost on the point of changing her mind about leaving so soon, and the surprise at what lay beyond the windows and doors of the merchant’s large house turned to a sadness that Bard took, typically, to be for his farewell. It had not been so difficult to see him go, only to believe, with regard to his reputation, that he was trustworthy. Now that she was alone with Cecily, she could think of few reasons why she had agreed to place a similar kind of trust in his disagreeable brother, who saw no need to keep up any pretence of liking her.

Despite the sadness and doubting, her spirits were buoyed up by the nearness of Dame Elizabeth’s house to the harbour, the vast expanse of sparkling sea beyond, the swaying masts of ships and the brown water that reflected every shape and threw it crazily askew. Houses lined the quay in an arc on one side, enclosing the harbour on the other side by a wall of stone and timber that extended from the base of a massive natural mound at one side of the town. It was on top of this mound that the Norman castle perched, which they’d seen against the evening sky. Now it was being mobbed by screaming seagulls, some of which came in to land at Isolde’s feet with beady, enquiring eyes and bold, flat-footed advances.

‘I’m going,’ she told them, on the brink of tears. ‘I’m going and I’ve only just arrived.’

The breeze that had brought a welcome coolness into her bedchamber overnight had now lifted the sea into more than Silas La Vallon’s hypothetical millpond, causing Cecily to clutch at her skirts, her head-dress and shawl all at the same time. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing, love,’ she said.

No, dear Cecily. I have not the slightest idea what I’m doing.

Silas La Vallon’s ship was also a surprise to her, for she had thought he meant one of the squat northern cogs that piled cargo up and down the rivers, one-masted, cramped, and serviceably plain. She had seen them at York, loaded with bales of cloth and smelly commodities, and it had been a measure of her temporary madness that she had agreed to sail with him even in one of those. But this was not a cog; it was a four-hundred-ton carrack, a three-masted beauty that sat proudly on the high tide outside Dame Elizabeth’s door almost, a towering thing with decorated castles fore and aft, swarming with men and more ropes than a ropemaker’s shop.

The men grinned and nudged and pulled in their stomachs, then got on with their swarming as she and Cecily were led aboard and introduced to the master, whose aquamarine eyes sparkled with intrigue in a skin of creased and burnished leather. And she looked hard and with genuine regret at the three who stood waving and calling last-minute instructions on the quayside. The two boys watched in fascination the men who hauled in unison, the sails that squeaked upwards, cracking and billowing, the majestic swing of the bow, and it was only Dame Elizabeth who noticed the quick brush of fingers across one cheek as it received her wind-blown kiss.

Or perhaps there was another who saw, who came to lean on the bulwark by her side to wave, then to point out the Brakespeares’ house and its adjacent warehouse, King Richard’s House over there, the old Roman lighthouse, and there, over to the left, the town gate through which Bard would already have passed.

‘Yes, I see,’ she said, straining her eyes to scan the road.

The town nestled closer on to the hillside as they passed beyond the harbour entrance and out into the open sea, holding itself steady as the ship took its first pulling lunges into the swell like a swimmer lengthening his stroke. She felt the lurch as the sails cracked open and the corresponding rush of exhilaration in the pit of her stomach, as though she stood on a live beast, and found ever more to see as the distance between them and the land increased, the prominent headland at one side with never-ending cliffs on the other. Below the cliffs were beaches where white-edged surf broke and mended again, then raced in upon the rocks further along, determined to smash uninterrupted.

‘We didn’t see any of this on our way here,’ she said.

‘You’d not have seen the cliffs or the rocks because you were above them,’ Silas told her. He turned round and pointed across the deck. ‘That’s what you’d have seen.’

The water was a pure shimmering blue, bouncing sunlight and seagulls into the clear morning air, and Isolde was spellbound.

‘You can eat your apple now,’ he said.

It was still there, in her hand, and so she did, but was unable to hear her own crunching for the multitude of creaks and groans underfoot and the crashing roar of waves hurtling past. Nor did she taste a thing.

He left her alone after that, as if, having made sure she would not jump overboard, he could relax his guard. That was the cynical view she took of things, which was, perhaps, an inefficient tool to guard against the wayward thoughts to do with his nearness as he had leaned across her to point; the tiny red mark on his chin where he had cut himself shaving, the way the cuffs of his white cotton shirt clung to his beautiful hands. Silly, inconsequential things. Irritably, she brushed back the memory of his intimidating manner, despite her own defence, but it returned with masochistic glee to taunt her with every detail of their argument.

Finally, she went aft towards the shallow stairway, where a cabin was built high on to the stern of the ship, its sloping roof decorated with gold-painted finials and cut-work edgings. It was large enough only for a wide bed built above a cupboard, a shelf that served as a table over their luggage, and two large boxes in a corner. Cecily was sitting upon one of them, hugging a basin to her chest and groaning. Her face was grey. Isolde took a blanket and wrapped it around her maid’s shoulders, helping her outside to the deck. ‘Deep breaths, love,’ she said. ‘Stay in the corner and go to sleep.’

Food and wine were brought to them mid-morning: cold meats and mussels, delicious patties and cherries, none of which Cecily could look at but which Isolde devoured to the last crumb. The wind was strengthening and the sea bore dark patches, and the high head-dress swathed with a fine veiling was no longer an appropriate statement of restored dignity. It would have to come off again. She took Cecily back to the cabin, wondering why the crew needed to carry a supply of live chickens and two piglets from Scarborough to York.

The glass-paned window that looked out directly over the ship’s wake began to streak with rain long before Isolde noticed it, for the constant pitching and tossing had made Cecily’s first voyage memorable for all the wrong reasons, and Isolde was disinclined to leave her so wretchedly helpless. When she did emerge from the cabin to replenish her lungs with fresh air, the deluge of fine rain made her screw up her face and draw her cloak more tightly across her shoulders as she made her way across the slippery deck to the bulwarks.

‘Where are we?’ she asked one of the crew as he turned to watch, holding out a hand to steady her. ‘Where’s the land?’

The man looked out into the bank of cloud as he pointed. ‘Over there, lady. It’ll be hidden for a bit until this lot clears.’

She sat on a wet wooden crate for safety. ‘I thought we’d be staying within sight of it, going south.’

‘Nay.’ He smiled. ‘If we had a northerly, now that’d be different: that’d blow us due south in record time. But we don’t get northerlies in summer, do we? So we have to fill our sails with whatever we can catch, and then go from side to side, see? Like that.’ He zigzagged with his hand. ‘Your old maid taken bad, is she?’

That sounded like a perfectly reasonable explanation, and it satisfied Isolde, who knew little either of geography or navigation. Once again, she settled herself against Cecily’s unhappily sleeping bulk, covered herself with blankets, and began an examination of the leatherbound books on the shelf above her. Silas La Vallon had an interesting collection, though she had not thought his taste would run to stories about King Arthur, La Belle Dame sans Merci, the Legend of Ladies, or a Disputation between Hope and Despair, which proved to be not quite the help she had expected. The possibility that these might have been selected for her benefit flashed through her mind, but was dismissed. Darkness came before supper that evening, and the bucking of the ship and the consequent swinging of the lantern made reading difficult. And Silas La Vallon, to please her, kept well out of sight.

Sleeping had been a fitful and precarious business, noisy with shouts and pounding feet, howling wind, clattering sails and the constant rush of water all around them. Using the close-stool had in itself been an unexpected peril, especially when trying to manoeuvre Cecily on and off it, and, by first light, Isolde had realised that sleep and ships were incompatible.

After watering her maid with some of their precious ration, then suffering the inevitable consequences only moments later, Isolde clutched a blanket tightly around herself and left the cabin in an attempt to reassure herself that land did exist. A fine line of blue stretched across the horizon below the clouds. ‘There!’ she called to the master. ‘Look! Is that it?’

He came through the door beneath the forecastle where she understood his cabin to be and joined her, cheerily. ‘That’s a bit o’ blue sky, mistress. We might get a bit o’ sun later, and a good westerly, by the feel o’ things.’

‘But that will blow us away from Hull, won’t it? I thought we’d have been within reach of Hull by now.’

‘Eh…no. We shan’t be seeing Hull today.’ He laughed, not bothering to explain. ‘I’ll send ye some food up, mistress, seeing as you’re awake already. Did ye not sleep so well?’

‘Not much,’ she said, frowning.

‘Aye, well. It’s always worse on’t first night. Better tonight, eh?’

Disappointed, she returned to the cabin and made an effort to straighten it, and when the cabin boy brought the tray tried with her most beguiling smile and a toss of her glorious red hair to bedazzle him. ‘Who does this ship belong to?’ she said, sweetly, taking the tray from him.

‘Master Silas Mariner, mistress. He’s the owner.’

‘Silas Mariner? Ah, easier to say than La Vallon, yes?’

‘Yes, mistress.’

‘And where did you berth before you went to Scarborough?’

Like a man, he took the full force of her green eyes, smiled, and said, ‘Sorry, mistress. If I want to keep my job, I have to keep my mouth shut.’ He bowed, and closed the door quietly.

It was mid-day when Isolde tried yet again to elicit some information regarding direction, distance, time of arrival—anything concerning land or the lack of it. She made another attempt mid-afternoon, and again in the evening, by which time Master Silas Mariner-La Vallon had failed to return to his cabin in the forecastle before she appeared on deck.

‘I realise that you are doing your best to avoid me, Master La Vallon,’ Isolde said, as he turned to make a polite bow, ‘and I am grateful for that. However, there is a problem which I need to discuss.’

‘You are mistaken, mistress. I was not avoiding you but waiting for you. And I am aware of your problem. My crew are well trained. They have to be.’

The fear and anger that she had tried since dawn to contain took another leap into her chest, making her feel as if she had bumped into something solid. Her legs felt weak, but she allowed herself to be led over coils of rope and across the drying deck into his cabin, which was not the master’s, after all. It was larger than hers, but wedge-shaped, the table piled with papers and instruments, ledgers, quills and inkpots.

As the cabin dipped and rose again, she held on to a wooden pillar and waited until he had closed the door before turning to him. Her voice held more than a hint of panic, which she had not intended. ‘For the fiftieth time of asking, sir, where are we?’ The words seemed to come from far away, adding to the sense of unreality that had dogged her all day, and, in the exaggerated pause between question and answer, she saw that he, too, had discarded the earlier formal attire for the barest essentials of comfort. His shirt, a padded doublet of soft plum-coloured leather and tight hose were his only concessions to the North Sea’s cutting edge.

‘I will show you,’ he said. He brought forward a roll of parchment from a pile on the table and weighted its corners with a sextant, a conch shell, a glass of wine and one hand. ‘There…’ he pointed to the eastern coastline ‘…there is Scarborough, and this is where we are now, down here, see?’ His finger trailed southwards, passing Hull, where Isolde had expected to enter the estuary of the River Humber in order to reach York on the Ouse. His finger stopped some distance from the coast of Norfolk, nowhere near land.

Isolde felt herself trembling, but pulled herself up as tall as she could despite the tightness in her lungs. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I don’t see. I don’t see at all. What’s happened? Have we been blown off course by the storm? Is that it?’

Silas allowed the roll to spring back, and she knew by his slow straightening, his watchful air, his whole stance, that he was preparing for her reaction. His shaking head confirmed that there was more to come. ‘No, mistress, there was no storm last night. That was just weather. We are on course.’

‘On course for where? Hull is behind us now.’

‘Yes. We are heading for Flanders. We always were.’

The room swam.

‘No,’ she said, breathless now. ‘No, sir. You may be, but I am not heading for Flanders. Turn this ship round immediately. Immediately! Do you hear me?’ She whirled, heading for the door, the master, anybody. But once again he was there before her, and this time, with no one to witness, he caught her in a bear hug and swung her round to face him, wedging her against the door with his body. All the defences that she had been taught, which were supposed to be crippling to an attacker, were useless, for her feet were somewhere to the side, her hands were splayed above her head, and the shock had numbed her. Worse still, the reality which had been hovering out of reach all day now descended with cruel precision, wounding her, making this new and frightening restraint all the more unbearable.

She fought him with all her strength, refusing to call for help. This was his ship. These were his men. No one would interfere. She was more alone than she had ever been before, and her anger roared in her ears. ‘I was a fool to trust you,’ she snarled, twisting in his grip. ‘I was a fool. You and your confounded brother. I should have seen what was happening. This is for Felicia, isn’t it? And I walked straight into the trap. Fool…fool…what an idiot!’

‘If that’s what you want to believe, believe it,’ he said, drawing her hands slowly down to the small of her back. ‘It makes little difference what you believe, except that you’re going to Flanders.’

‘I’m not going anywhere with you!’

‘You’d have gone anywhere with my brother.’

‘I would not! I had no intention of staying in York with him: I was using him to get away from that place, that’s all. Otherwise I would never consort with a La Vallon.’

‘You’ll consort with the La Vallons whether you like it or not, wench.’ He lifted her easily, as he would have done a child. ‘And you’re wrong again. My brother is no part of my plans.’

‘I don’t believe you. Put me down! No…oh, no!’ The soft bed hit her with a thud from behind and then, as she rolled away, the panelled wall cracked into her forehead. Stunned and utterly confused, she felt him pull her back and capture her wrist, tucking her other arm safely behind his back where she felt only a broad expanse of silky leather. Immediately his long legs and body were sprawled across her, holding her immobile and shaming her by their closeness. His brother had never been as close to her as this. Never.

With closed eyes and clenched jaws, she waited for what she was sure would happen next, though she had no details to guide her. When all she experienced was the deep rocking of the ship nosing its way through the water and the rhythmic thud-thud on the sides, she opened them, warily.

He was leaning on one elbow and looking down at her face, his eyes wandering over hair and skin and finally coming to rest in hers. ‘Well?’ he whispered. ‘You think I’m about to rape you?’

She gulped. ‘Aren’t you?’

To her relief, he did not smile. ‘No. You’ll come to me without that.’

His sentiment was so totally absurd that it was not worth an answer, and she looked away disdainfully. The memory of his regard at supper had scarcely left her, and the details of his contact over the last twenty-four hours had imprinted themselves upon almost every one of her waking thoughts. But the idea that she would ever give herself to him willingly after this unforgivable treatment was quite ridiculous. She would take the first opportunity to free herself.

She squirmed, and felt his legs tighten their hold. ‘This is unworthy of you, sir. Let me go now. You must know that this is not the way to avenge your family for the abduction of your sister. You knew—?’

‘About Felicia and your father? Of course I knew. Even before Bard told me.’

So. That was what she had thought. ‘And he plotted with you to do the same?’

‘No, he didn’t. I’ve told you, Bard is not part of my plans. He never has been.’

Her green eyes flashed like sunlight over mossy waters. ‘Rubbish! Don’t tell me he’ll be standing there on the quay at York waiting for you to deliver me, as you said you’d do.’

‘He will. He’ll wait and wait, and then he’ll begin to ask questions, and he’ll discover that I’m not due at York. We called there before Scarborough, so the cargo we’re carrying is for Flanders. Poor Bard.’ His tone was anything but concerned, and Isolde was tempted to believe him.

‘I believed you before, but I’ll not do it again, sir.’

‘That’s sad. Now I shall have to resort to more believable methods.’

She realised what he was about to do, and, when she thought about it later, knew that she could have made it more difficult for him, though not impossible. But his eyes held her every bit as surely as they had done before, and she could already feel the warmth of him on her skin, see his head blotting out the last of the dim light in the recessed bunk. Her eyelids closed under the infinitely slow exploration of his lips upon her face, and even then she wondered why she was doing nothing to resist it. Bard’s kisses had always held more than a hint of selfishness, intended to impress but never to close her mind, as she felt his brother’s doing.

Slowly, and with practised skill, he kept her mouth waiting until she moved her head to follow him, luring her on towards the sublime capture, the first taste of his mouth on hers. And with restraint, without even hinting that this moment was, for him, the assuaging of an ache that had threatened to devour him, he left the full impact of it until she moaned and softened under him, until he felt one hand move impatiently across his back. Then he released her wrist and slid an arm beneath her back to gather her up to him as he had done during that long look which had so puzzled and intrigued her.

The reality of it far surpassed anything either of them could have imagined in the hours since they had met, and there had been plenty of imagining on both sides. Yet there was a part of her that remained on an even keel, despite the weightlessness of her mind and the amazing sensations of her body. A part that reminded her of what she was about. Between his kisses came the cautionary voice, urging her to resist before it was too late. La Vallon. The enemy. Abduction. Flanders. Revenge. Obedient to the warning, she pushed at his shoulder, then his chin, tearing her mouth away. ‘No…no…no!’

He gave her a chance to offer reasons, but she could remember nothing that would have convinced him of her unwillingness except a turn of her head and more denials. His voice was husky with wanting. ‘It’s no wonder my brother came after you so fast, maid, if that’s how it was with him, too.’

It was, she thought, a particularly insensitive remark for him to have made, and she was at once angered and sobered by the need to rebut it. How could he kiss her so and believe that her response was common to both brothers? If she had been able to read his mind, she would have seen there the instant regret of one who had been as much shaken as she. But by then it was too late.

She turned back quickly to wound him. ‘I see. So it’s that too, is it? To prove that you can so easily take what he wants from under his nose. Well, well. With a ship and a crew of this size and a woman as naïve as me, who couldn’t? But don’t think you’ll ever have my co-operation, Master Silas Mariner. Now let me go back to Mistress Cecily. She needs me.’

He twisted a hand into her hair. ‘It was you, remember, who brought up Bard’s name, not once, but twice. If you find comparisons hard to bear, then think on the boyish pecks he gave you while I try to win your co-operation.’ His kiss this time was intended to teach her the difference between a man and a boy, but she had already discovered that, and needed no further demonstration of the power and scope of his artistry. For the next few moments she needed all her strength not to cry out or to fight for survival, and there were tears of anger in her eyes at its conclusion.

‘Let me go,’ she croaked. ‘Let me go back to—’

‘You’re not going anywhere. You’ll stay here tonight, where I can guard you.’

‘Against what? Jumping overboard? Cecily needs me, I tell you.’

‘She doesn’t. The ship’s physician is with her. You’re staying with me.’

‘And what d’ye think that lot out there will be thinking, after this?’

‘My master and crew are paid to sail the ship. They do as they’re told and keep their mouths shut.’

‘I cannot stay here…please.’

‘Hush, now, maid. You’ve had a long day and you need to sleep. I shall not harm you.’ He removed her shoes and straightened her skirts, then pulled blankets over them both, enclosing her against the bend of his body, stroking back her hair and caressing her back with tender hands.

She had hardly slept last night and, after a nerve-racking day, she was exhausted. Now, within the safety and comfort of his arms and the rocking of the ship, there were no more choices to be made or decisions to be met. Nevertheless, she summoned her iciest tones to fire a last salvo over her shoulder, to where his smile was already settling in. ‘You can’t do this, you know. You simply cannot do this.’

She heard the smile broaden. ‘Remind me, maid, if you will. What is it that I cannot do?’ His voice almost melted her.

‘You cannot insist on sleeping with a woman who dislikes you, for one. Nor can you take her somewhere she doesn’t want to go.’

‘Forgive me.’ He grinned, sweeping his fingertips down her neck. ‘But we merchants are an optimistic bunch. A law unto ourselves. Remind me again in a year, will you?’ He yawned. ‘And start calling me Silas.’

She woke once during the night, taking some time to recall where she was and why the large shape at her side was clearly not Cecily’s. Then she remembered, and tried to sit up and take her bearings. The ship rolled, throwing her on to him, and she was instantly enclosed by strong arms that flung her back with a soft thud, his body bearing down on her as the cabin tipped in the opposite direction.

She tasted the silkiness of his hair against her lips, the warm musky smell of his skin, and was reminded of her duty to maintain anger. ‘You planned it, didn’t you?’ she whispered. ‘Right from the start, you knew what you were going to do.’

His reply touched her lips, with no distance for the words to go astray. ‘Course I planned it. Course I knew what I was going to do. Don’t blame yourself, lovely thing, there was nothing you could have done to prevent it. It would have made no difference whether you’d agreed to come or not; I would still have taken you.’

The last words merged into the kiss that he had tried, without success, to delay, and Isolde had neither the time nor the will to withhold her co-operation, as she had sworn to do. Even in half-sleep, the nagging voice returned with its doubts, forcing her to declare them. ‘I don’t want to go to Flanders,’ she whispered, settling once more into his arms. It was all she could think of.

‘Then go to sleep, maid,’ he murmured.

‘Ships do not turn round easily in mid-ocean,’ Silas laughingly told her the next morning. ‘They’re not like horses. They’re not even like rowing boats.’

Isolde had not seriously thought they were, but daytime resistance was obviously going to be more potent than any other, and he must not be allowed to think for one moment that he was going to get away lightly with this flagrant piracy, for that was what it was.

Mistress Cecily, recovered enough to sit in a corner of the deck and sip some weak ale, was even less amused by the idea of Flanders than Isolde was, but then, her sense of the absurd was presently at a low ebb, her only real concern being to place her two feet on dry land any time within the next half-hour. Which bit of land was of no immediate consequence as long as it stood still.

For Isolde’s sake, she tried to take an interest, but this was predictably negative. ‘They’ll not speak our language, love. How shall we make ourselves understood? And what’s your father going to say? And Master Fryde? There’ll be such a to-do. We should never have…urgh!’

There was one thing guaranteed to halt the miseries of conjecture, albeit a drastic one, but there was something in what she said, even so. What was her father going to say?

Chapter Three

A tall graceful woman stood outside the stone porch of an elegant manor house, her eyes focussed to search along the valley where a river snaked a silver trail in the morning sunshine. Up on the far distant hillside, tree-darkened and just out of view, her father would be about his daily business, her mother perhaps doing exactly what she was doing, no doubt feeling helpless to intervene and wondering if the feuding could get any worse. God forbid.

She was about to go back inside when the clatter of hooves caught her attention, and she waited to watch the mounted party sweep through the stone gatehouse and into the courtyard, vaulting down from their saddles in a flurry of muted colours, tawny, madder, ochre and tan. One particular figure came to the fore and stood, looking across to where she waited, as if to check that she was still there.

He was a large and powerful man, old enough to be her father, certainly, but still a handsome creature whose deep auburn hair was now tinged with grey at the temples where it swept off a high forehead in thick waves. His eyes, like mossy stones, narrowed at the sight of her in warning rather than in recognition, and the woman held it as long as she dared, then turned away, hiding any trace of emotion.

‘Mistress Felicia!’

She carried on walking across the busy hall with veils flowing and head held high, ignoring the plea.

‘Mistress!’ A young lad caught up with her. ‘Please…’

Out of pity, she stopped.

‘Mistress Felicia…’

‘Mistress La Vallon, if you please,’ she snapped. ‘I have not lost my identity along with my honour. Yet.’

‘I beg your pardon. Sir Gillan says that he expects you—’

‘In the solar. Yes, I dare say he does.’

Stony as ever, her expression gave him no hope. She was very lonely, but her manner was proud for a woman in her position. The lad persisted, for he was of the same age, or thereabouts. ‘Mistress, please…I dare not take him that as a message. Shall I say…?’

‘Yes,’ she replied, relenting for his sake. ‘Say I’ll come. Eventually.’ She was a La Vallon in a Medwin household. They must be reminded of it.

The chaplain and two others were with him when she entered the solar, her beauty making them hesitate in mid-sentence and struggle to stay on course. Sir Gillan glared at her. ‘At last,’ he said. ‘Did you keep your father waiting so long for your presence, lady?’

‘Frequently, my lord,’ she replied, crossing to the window.

The two men coughed discreetly behind their hands, hoping that there would be no scene this time. It was a frail hope, the news being so disturbing.

‘I have news of your family,’ Sir Gillan said. ‘Does it interest you?’

Felicia came, picking up her long skirts and throwing them over one arm, a trace of eagerness in her large brown eyes at last. ‘From my father? He’s agreed a ransom?’

‘No, lady. He has not. I haven’t demanded one. The news partly concerns your rake of a brother, but you must be well used to his escapades by now, surely. He’s disappeared, it seems.’

‘Ah…with Isolde?’ The eagerness changed to a triumph she could scarcely conceal.

Sir Gillan flared again, forbidding her to say a word in her brother’s favour, and Felicia knew better than to flout him on this, knowing how he wanted only the best for his daughter. ‘That’s what we’re presuming, since a messenger arrived from York only a moment ago to say that Isolde has also disappeared. How’s that for revenge, eh? Makes you feel good, does it?’

Her concern at that news was obvious to all four men. ‘No, my lord. Not revenge, surely? Bard and Isolde are—’

‘I know my daughter, lady, and I know all about your brother. Whatever form his interest takes, it will not be to her advantage. We can all be sure of that. Revenge or not, your father must be laughing.’

‘He might. My mother won’t.’ She tried to hold his eyes, but could not.

The chaplain came forward with a stool for her to sit on, placing himself nearby to speak to her on the same level. ‘Mistress La Vallon, you are in a difficult position, I know, a position with which we symp—’

‘Get on with it, man!’ Sir Gillan barked.

‘Sympathise. But you presumably hold no grudge against Sir Gillan’s daughter?’

‘No, none at all.’

‘Then perhaps you could tell us if you think our trust in Alderman Fryde of York was misplaced. Does your father know him still?’

‘I believe so.’

‘And Master Fryde carries merchandise for the La Vallons, does he?’

Felicia sent him a scathing glance with an accompanying, ‘Ich! Of course he doesn’t, Sir Andrew. Fryde doesn’t have ships of his own, and we have a merchant in the family with two.’

At this reminder, Sir Gillan sat more erect. ‘Your brother Silas? A merchant already? Where? At York, is he?’

‘Yes, but you need not think that Silas would have anything to do with Alderman Fryde, my lord. Far from it. Neither he nor my father can stand the man. My father would never have sent his daughter to such a man.’

Angrily, Sir Gillan stood up. ‘Of course not. He guards his womenfolk more carefully, does he not, lady?’

Felicia had the grace to blush. She had gone too far. ‘I did not mean that, my lord. I meant that, according to my father, Master Fryde has changed for the worse since his election to the council. He expects to be sheriff at the next election in January. Did you know that?’

‘No, I didn’t. I wondered if he and your father were…perhaps…?’

‘There is no collusion there as far as I’m aware. From what I hear, anyone who colludes with Master Fryde needs a deep purse. He comes expensive, and my father does not seek the friendship of such men, whatever else he does.’

Glances were exchanged. They knew well what else Rider La Vallon did, particularly to swell the population hereabouts. One of the men took up the questioning. ‘So, have you any suggestions, mistress, as to where your brother and Mistress Isolde might have gone, presuming, of course, that they are indeed together? Her honour is now at—’ He jumped and frowned as his ankle was kicked by the seated chaplain.

‘Her honour is at stake, is it?’ said Felicia in her most sugary tones. ‘Then she and I have more in common than ever I had thought.’ Her eyes were downcast, unwilling to meet Sir Gillan’s glare. ‘But I have no idea where they might be.’

‘Enough!’ he snapped. ‘Go, both of you. It’s late, but you should be able to reach York some time tomorrow. Give the bloody man hell and tell him to get my daughter back into safekeeping or he can say goodbye to any sheriff’s office. I’ll bring the roof down on him: incompetent, self-seeking little toad. And I thought he was trustworthy. He promised me he’d take care of her, dammit!’

The two men bowed and left the room, leaving the chaplain still complacently seated until Sir Gillan bellowed at him, ‘And you can draft a letter to Allard in Cambridge. I can’t go to York, but he can. Time he made himself useful.’

The chaplain pulled forward his scrip, to take out his quills and ink, but was halted before he could reach for the parchment.

‘Not here, man! Go and do it in the hall. Tell Allard he’s to go to York and put the fear of God into Fryde. He’s to deputise for me. Understand?’

The discomfited chaplain hesitated, unwilling to leave Felicia in the sole company of his volatile employer. But he was given little choice in the matter.

‘Well? Go on. I’m not going to eat her!’

The door closed, leaving Sir Gillan Medwin with a scowl on his brow that reached only as far as the top of his captive’s exaggerated head-dress. ‘Take that contraption off your head, woman, and come here.’

Obediently, she went to stand before him and suffered him to unpin the huge inverted and padded horseshoe netted with gold and swathed with gauze, and to shake her hair free of its embroidered side-pieces. She would not help him, but kept her eyes lowered. ‘My lord,’ she said, ‘it took me almost an hour to put that on.’

‘So what would they talk about at dinner, d’ye think, if I let you walk out of here unmolested? Eh?’ He took a deep fistful of her black hair and drew her face tenderly towards his own. ‘And do not sail quite so close to the wind, wench, with your talk of honour and such. Do you understand me?’

‘Yes, my lord.’ Slowly, she raised her arms and linked them around his head, drawing his lips close to hers until they met. Then, as if time had run out on them, as if their bodies, stretched to breaking point, could bear the delay no longer, their mouths locked, searching desperately. Breathless, laughing with relief, and with barely enough space to reassure each other, they clung as long-lost lovers do. Felicia cupped his face in her hands to taste him again. ‘Dearest…beloved…the pretence. I cannot keep it up…truly… I cannot.’

His laughter brought a flush to her cheeks. ‘That problem, wench, is quite the reverse of mine. Just feel…’ He took her hand and guided it.

Her attempt at shock was unconvincing. ‘Sir Gillan, not only have you stolen your neighbour’s daughter, but now you make indecent suggestions to her. Are you not—?’

‘Ashamed? Aye, that I cannot keep my mind on its business for love of you. How long is it since you put your spell on me?’

‘Years,’ she whispered. ‘Too many wasted years, God help us. Come, sweetheart, we must put Isolde first. My brother’s morals are not of the purest, as you well know. We must see what’s to be done about that first.’

He held her close, smoothing her hair. ‘Good, and beautiful, and caring. How did Rider La Vallon manage to spawn a woman like you?’

‘Ah…’ she caught his hand and kissed it ‘…he’s not what you believe, dear heart. You used to fish together as lads, did you not? And ride, and fight, and go whoring too, I believe? Admit it!’ She laughed, shaking the hand.

He did, sheepishly. ‘A long time ago.’

‘Not all that long ago. He’s never been malicious, Gillan. He’d never approve of putting Isolde in danger. Nor would Bard. There has to be another explanation.’

‘I hope to God you’re right, my love. She’s only a wee lass.’

‘She’s a woman, Gillan. Like me,’ Felicia said.

For want of a more original approach, Isolde repeated her concern. ‘What’s my father going to say? Have you thought about that?’

‘No, I cannot say I’ve given it too much thought.’ Silas La Vallon braced his arms like buttresses against the ship’s bulwarks and smiled, but whether at her question or at the appearance of land Isolde could not be sure. ‘I’ll concern myself with that when I have his reply in my hand.’

‘Reply? You’ve sent him a message?’ Yelping in alarm, the seagulls swooped round the rigging.

‘I sent him a message. Yes.’ He continued to study the horizon.

Isolde bit back her impatience. The man’s composure was irritating, as was his complete command of the situation, his refusal to respond to her disquiet. ‘Then since it probably concerns me, would you mind telling me what it contained? Or was it to do with the price of Halifax greens?’

Slowly, he swung his head to look at her, taking his time to drink in the reflection of the sea in her blazing green eyes and the fear mixed with anger. He knew she feared him, and why. ‘I dare say it can do no harm,’ he said. ‘I told him I’d keep you as long as he keeps Felicia, that’s all.’ The slight lift of one eyebrow enhanced the amusement in his eyes at her dismay, and at the temper she was already learning not to waste on him. She was silent. Fuming, but silent. That was good. ‘Well, maid?’ he teased her. ‘What d’ye think he’ll say to that? You know him better than me.’

‘Don’t call me that,’ she said.

‘Maid? Why ever not? Are you telling me—’ his smile was barely controlled and utterly disbelieving ‘—that you’re not a maid? That young brother of mine—?’

‘No! I’m telling you nothing of the sort,’ she snapped in alarm, trying to push herself away from the bulwarks to avoid him, but too late. His arms were now braced on each side of her and the information for which she had pressed him had now swirled away on another current.

‘No, maid, or you’d be lying. You’ve not been handled all that much, have you?’

‘You are impertinent, sir! Let me go!’

‘I’ll let you go, but not too far. Once we reach land, you’ll be safer staying close to me.’

‘Safer?’ She glared at him in open scorn. ‘Safer than what? You are a La Vallon and I am a Medwin; I’ve seen how safe that can be.’

The sea breeze lifted the dark silky overhang of hair from his brow, revealing a fine white scar that ran upwards like a cord and unravelled into his hair. ‘Safe,’ he repeated. ‘You have little to fear from me, I assure you. I shall treat you well as long as you abide by the rules.’

‘What rules?’

‘Hostage rules. You don’t need me to explain them, do you?’

No, she needed no explanation. Hostage rules were an unwritten acceptance of enforced hospitality; one person’s good behaviour against another’s safety. She had no doubts that, if need be, he would demand full payment, whatever that was. And so would her father. But what the latter would say in response was predictable. He would come to rescue her; she was convinced of that.

That, at least, was what her daytime voices assured her. It was all their doing: men’s responsibility. The night voices hummed to a less strident tune when, over the rocking of the waves, her fears became confused with strange emotions that were all the more disturbing for being unidentifiable. Unnerved, and indignant at his too-familiar closeness, she had taken her pledge of non-co-operation to its limits but had found it to be insignificant against his arms, which were too strong, his kisses too skilled. Bristling, she had had to yield to his demands which, fortunately, had left her still intact but without any real defence against such an artful invasion. She had slept in his arms because he had given her no choice, but what if her father should come here to Flanders to claim her and return Felicia to the La Vallons? What then?

‘No, sir,’ she replied, unsmiling. ‘Spare me rules, I beg you. You’d be hard-pressed, I’m sure, to remember any.’

Refusing her provocation, he smiled again, taking her shoulders and turning her to face the sea, holding her chin up with one forearm. He pointed to a narrow strip of land lying on the horizon beneath a bright eastern sky. ‘See, there’s where we’ll come in. That’s Sluys.’

‘Slice?’

‘Sluys. The harbour. That’s where the cargo will be taken off and put on a barge for Brugge. We shall go ahead either by horseback or by boat. Which d’ye think Mistress Cecily would prefer?’

Isolde had to smile at that. ‘That’s all you can offer?’

‘Afraid so. It’s not far. The boat is flat calm; rivers and dykes, you see. Brugge is ringed with them. You’ll like it. Friendly people. You can go and put your head-dress on again, if you wish.’ His arm tightened across her, conveying his excitement.

Though she understood his suggestion to be for her own sake rather than his, the need for some dignifying accessories came before pique, and by the time she and her ineffectual maid emerged from the cabin she was able to present an outward appearance of composure that was convincing to almost everyone. Except for the foreign tongue that had been Cecily’s first concern, Isolde did not know what to expect but, having taken York in her stride despite her unfashionable appearance, she assumed that Flanders could be no better, for all the Flemish weavers she had encountered in England had been plain, well-scrubbed and homely creatures of no particular style.

The stately journey by barge from Sluys through the port of Damme and on towards Brugge gave her no reason to revise this impression, having been thoroughly stared at by everyone from small children and dockers to the brawny lightermen and their mates at every lock. Even their dogs had stared. And if the idea to escape had crossed her mind while her captor was otherwise engaged, it was quickly extinguished by three of the crew who hovered with decided intent.

Staring in her turn, she allowed the unintelligible burble of voices to isolate her and to focus her attention instead towards the prettily gabled houses packaged into tidy rows, the sparkling crispness of the ironed-out landscape, the willows and windmills that lined the waterway. The plunging and roaring of the wind-tossed carrack could not have been more different from this overwhelming sense of peace in which the sound of voices rose and fell with the swish of the barge through the water. Horizontal lines were reflected and multiplied, and even the clouds obediently followed the lie of the land. She could have asked for advance notice of this, had she not been too proud, but not even Master Silas could have described the tranquillity she inhaled like a healing balsam, or the hypnotic cut of the boat through sky-blue satin like newly sharpened shears. He could, however, understand the Flemish language.

Cecily leaned towards Isolde, pale and frowning. ‘What are they saying?’ she whispered loudly. ‘Why are they staring? Is it your head-dress again?’

‘Probably.’ Isolde shrugged, glancing at the array of white wimples over plaits coiled like ship’s ropes.

One matron, with a starched head-dress that looked ready to sail at any moment, leaned towards Silas with a grin that showed more gum than teeth. Indicating Isolde, she spoke, and he smiled a reply in Flemish.

Defensive, Cecily leaned from Isolde’s other side. ‘What?’ she said.

‘The dame says that my lady is very beautiful,’ Silas told her without a glance at Isolde. ‘And I agree with her.’

Regardless of the fact that the woman had hold of the wrong end of the stick, the compliment was enough to convince Mistress Cecily that the Flemings were, after all, people of discernment and should be treated with generosity, whether they were foreign or not. Accordingly, she removed herself unsteadily from Isolde’s side, gestured to Silas to change places, and began a conversation with the starched lady by signs, gestures and like-sounding words as if she had known her for years.

Isolde was not so easily won, but saw no discreet way of removing the arm that came warmly across her back. ‘You must not let them believe that,’ she said. ‘I am not your lady nor anyone else’s.’

‘That’s Brugge,’ Silas replied diverting the rebuke with a finger that pointed towards the towers and spires appearing on the skyline. ‘See, here are the first houses, and soon we’ll be right in amongst them. And windmills, see. Dozens of them.’

‘Did you hear what I said?’

‘No, maid, I’m afraid I didn’t. But I heard what the old crone said and it sounds as if her understanding is better than yours in some areas. Now, let me show you that tallest tower…that’s the great belfry.’

‘I cannot believe this is happening,’ she said in some irritation.

‘They’re going to have to lower the mast to get under the bridge. Mind your head-dress.’

‘I’m dreaming this.’

‘There we go. Look, those smaller boats are called skiffs. That’s how the people of Brugge get about. Turn back and look…the children are waving.’

‘I shall wake any moment now.’

‘You are awake. Wave to them.’

‘No, I’m being abducted. This cannot be happening. Wake me,’ she insisted.

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