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
Q^y^s^Q
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 Hared 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 sheriffs
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, dye 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 dye 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.
The Maiden's Abduction Page 6
