Читать книгу The Maiden's Abduction - Juliet Landon - Страница 7

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.