The Maiden's Abduction

by Juliet Landon

  The Maiden's Abduction

  by

  Juliet Land

  Makes any time special

  Historical Romance . rich, vivid and passionate Silas 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.

  "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, 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, 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.

  THE MAIDEN'S ABDUCTION

  Juliet Landon

  MILLS &-BOON' ^
  Chapter One

  A crest 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're tort 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 'we 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 hairns 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 swam 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-bonne ted 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 dye 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."

  "Nowhere 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 alms

  givings 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-wasted 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.

&nbs
p; Her longing for gauze streamers, jewelled cauls, horns and butterflies

  with wires was still unfulfilled, her eyebrows and hairline still un

  plucked 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