The Maiden's Abduction

by Juliet Landon

  "He is going to London, but he can hardly be expected to ride with a

  broken arm, can he?"

  "Other men do," he called, from a distorted greenish- pink angle.

  "Well, he's not like other men," came the defensive reply.

  John reappeared, grinning cheekily.

  "No, he's not, is he? We've noticed that, haven't we, Mother?"

  "Exactly what dye mean by that, John Brakespeare? And take that grin

  off your face."

  He leaned his arms across his knees, filling the square of light with

  his frame.

  "Has it not occurred to you that Cousin Silas sent Master Caxton here

  for a purpose? That he could easily have had him put ashore at the

  port of London before sending the ship up here to Scarborough? It

  would not have taken more than a couple of days to do that, you know.

  Would it?"

  "No doubt Silas had his own good reasons, John."

  "Yes!" John clambered down, letting the sun pour into the room.

  "I'm sure Silas had his own good reasons. I'm also glad he sent

  Mistress Isolde back."

  "John... come back here!" John was on his way out.

  "Listen! Silas did not send Isolde back. And you must not pester her

  with your attentions."

  "Mother, I'm not pestering her. I'm simply being attentive, that's

  all. It'll give Silas a thing or two to think about when he gets

  back;

  it's time somebody took the wind out of his sails. "

  Dame Elizabeth watched him bounce away and turned, tight-lipped, to

  straighten her papers. If anyone could take the wind out of Silas's

  sails, it was not likely to be young John.

  Chapter Eleven

  Q^znr^Q

  }V ith time to herself at last, no demands on her emotions, no

  expectations, no restrictions to her freedom, Isolde came close to

  regaining control of the life which had been hers until so recently.

  One by one the constraints fell away, each new day bringing with it a

  peace that contrasted strangely with the glamour of Brugge, the hint of

  danger and intrigue, the competition that had so disgusted Hugo van der

  Goes. Here, there was no braiding and parading, no need to impress or

  to keep up the dreadful pretence of being secure in a man's love.

  Each day came with the sharp scent of September that lifted a veil off

  the sea and held it high above the corn-sheared fields, ripening the

  glorious brightness and drawing foraging bees into the harvest- laden

  air to bumble the late-summer blooms and fill the hives. Each day she

  took upon herself the tasks that had been hers at home, already quite

  certain in the way that women have that something had already taken

  possession of her body and that she was no longer one alone, but two.

  Her courses were two weeks late. Dame

  Elizabeth had said it could be the voyage, the shock, her emotions, but

  Isolde knew, and was doubly thankful that she had called a halt, just

  in time, to the humiliating bargaining.

  Purposely, she refrained from discussing Silas and his affairs, though

  from her upstairs window she searched each speck of white on the wide

  horizon and was torn between relief and grief that he was apparently

  making no mad dash across the ocean to claim what he'd insisted was his

  alone.

  The messenger who had ridden to inform her father had returned days ago

  with a message to say that he would come to escort her home. He had

  given no indication when that would be, and from her seemingly innocent

  enquiry about the La Vallon woman, she learned that she was still

  there. Well, that would soon right itself, for surely their fathers

  would review the situation once it was known that she was home again.

  Yet she was by no means as sure as Silas had been that her father would

  want a La Vallon brat to foster, and at such times of doubt she took to

  walking barefoot along the sandy coastline towards the rocks below the

  cliffs where, from Silas's ship, she had seen the breakers washing them

  with foam. Here, she could allow her losses and gains to fight it out

  while she called into the eternal wind what she dared not even whisper

  elsewhere.

  "Silas ... Silas ... Silas were aware that the printer and his

  affectionate hostess regretted the empty years with only Silas's

  version of their virtues to go on, and Caxton's promise to return was,

  they all knew, not merely to recoup the joys of old Master Abbotson's

  company.

  The house by the quay seemed desolate without them. With an eye to the

  main chance, young Master Brakespeare lost no time in stepping into the

  breach left by the two loved ones, and though his duty to his mother

  was never stronger, his infatuation with Isolde was beyond his

  restraint, as yet. Still in the dark about the mysteries of sexual

  attraction, he tried everything he could think of to engage her

  interest; flattery, attentiveness and a tendency to appear round every

  corner being the backbone of his repertoire. Finally, Isolde herself

  was driven to frenzied attempts to evade him:

  his friendship she could tolerate, but not this.

  Telling no one where she was going, she sauntered to the far end of the

  busy quay and down on to the wide expanse of sand that curved like a

  sickle towards the shallow outcrop of rocks on the headland, slipping

  off her shoes and the ribbon that bound her hair. The tide was far

  out, no more than a silver thread underlining a hem of grey tissue, and

  the constant buffeting of the wind in her ears tore at the sea's

  distant murmur, at the mewing of the gulls and at the thoughts that

  wrapped an ache inside her breast.

  The sand was hard and cool beneath her feet as she dragged a strand of

  bladder-wrack behind her towards warm pools like satin pockets, or

  mirrors to reflect the clouds. Clambering upwards, she perched like a

  hidden sentry, watching, willing, daring, despairing, placing a hand

  over her womb in the sudden realisation that the part of him there,

  inside her, was a solace to her emptiness, not a penance for her

  weakness.

  Far out on the glittering edge of water, women pushed triangular nets

  on poles along the sea-bed to catch millions of grey shrimps and the

  occasional careless crab. Towards the town, children scampered, their

  voices lost in the distance, and a lone figure in a white shirt walked

  beside his horse, taking bites out of something in his hand. He

  stopped to throw it far out to sea with a powerful bend of his body and

  a familiar flick of the arm, an image so heartstoppingly familiar that

  Isolde was riveted, her heartache tearing a sob from her throat before

  she could catch it. Her face crumpled, and she held it together with

  her two hands, trembling with black despair and forcing herself to look

  again through the tunnel of her hair.

  He was tall and well built. His -white shirt billowed in the wind and

  flattened itself against his chest and shoulders, tearing open a wide

  expanse of body and forearm. Black hair whipped across his face and,

  as he stopped to examine the distant rocks, he held it back with a

  quick slide of his fingers that shaded his eyes and focussed t
hem. The

  rocks were grey, brown, green and draped with seaweed, but there, over

  there by that deep shadow, was a hint of red that fluttered, and two

  pink arms holding it back. But for that, her camouflage would have

  been perfect.

  "Thank you, faithful Cecily." He laughed, throwing himself into the

  saddle. The horse bounded forward.

  The motionless figure on the rocks came alive in the blink of an eye,

  suddenly erupting in a flurry of moss colours that had, until that

  moment, been a part of the landscape. The red mass of hair lifted and

  streamed behind her as she leapt, barefoot, from rock to rock on to the

  sand, her howls reaching him before he could see that they were not

  laughter, like his.

  He dismounted and ran, catching her in his arms as she leapt at him,

  burying her primitive wails into the cool skin of his throat, wrapping

  her slender form close to him with a ravenous greed too powerful for

  words. He rocked her and let her weep unhindered until he carried her

  to the flat slabs of stone, when her first words became recognisable

  as, "Where's your ship?"

  He settled her inside his arms, enclosing her with his long legs, and

  pushed back the wild tangle to find her wet eyes. She clung to him,

  wiping her tears on his shirt.

  "It's at York, sweetheart. I met your father there. He's come for

  you."

  "He's here at Scarborough?"

  "Yes, love. We came together by road."

  The grimace of weeping became a laugh.

  "To rescue me?"

  "To rescue you. We're coming in twos now, you see."

  "Oh, Silas!"

  Their kisses were breathless and almost childlike in an effort to taste

  every reachable surface, quickly, before it disappeared. But now

  something else slipped through the kisses, almost colliding upon their

  lips.

  "I love you... love you... love you! Ah, beloved."

  "I love you, Silas. I've been so unhappy without you. Why didn't

  you--' " You'd not have believed me, would you? You doubted me, my

  motives. I should have told you, sweetheart. Forgive me, but you must

  have known that I love you. I adore you. "

  "I was so angry. I didn't give you a chance to explain. Forgive me,

  love?"

  "Angry about what? Explain what?"

  "About the Duchess. When she came the night before I left."

  "That wasn't the Duchess, love." His eyes twinkled into hers and he

  kissed first one eyelid and then the other.

  "You thought it was... oh.

  God! "

  "It wasn't?"

  "No, it was Ann-Marie, bringing me a message. You saw her?"

  "I saw, yes. But why would Ann-Marie bring you a message at that time

  of night? Was it to do with Bard?"

  "No, Bard was in bed. It was more serious than that." He sighed, and

  kissed her again.

  "I'll tell you. She'd been sent by the Duchess to tell me that young

  Fryde had been trying to get his revenge, as I suspected he would. He'd

  sent a message to the Duke, telling him that the Duchess and I had been

  lovers in York before her marriage and suggesting that we still

  were."

  "Oh ... no! She was warning you to flee?"

  "No, not at all. There was no reason why I should. Apparently the

  Duke sent for young Fryde to appear at the Princenhof and to repeat his

  accusations in front of the Duchess.

  He had no option but to go, but he didn't dare repeat it to her face

  because he only had his father's word for it, and he dared not drag his

  father into it. What a fool the lad is! But the Duke was just as

  angry as if he had done, and he's thrown young Fryde and his two pals

  into the Steen--that's the big stone gaol, love. He's likely to be

  there for some time. "

  "So the Duchess wanted you to know that?"

  "She wanted me to know that the Duke was going to send for me the next

  morning to hear my side of the story. She had already denied it,

  naturally, and she wanted to be sure that I knew to do the same. She

  sent Ann-Marie because she knows that Ann-Marie's the only one who

  knows the troth and has my interests at heart."

  "So you denied it."

  "Certainly I did, for her sake as well as my own, and yours."

  "And he believed you?"

  "It's in his own interests to believe me. He relies on me for messages

  to get safely and secretly to their destinations. He's far more

  inclined to take my word against young Fryde's any day, and he's well

  aware of Fryde's corruption amongst the Merchant Venturers. As soon as

  I heard you'd gone with Allard and William, I went straight to Antwerp

  where my carrack was berthed and came across to York; there the

  Venturers told me that Fryde's affairs were being investigated in great

  detail, both within the company and by the city council. The message I

  took to them from the Duke has instructed them that Fryde is now

  forbidden to trade in Flanders for good. He's ruined, sweetheart. He's

  getting a taste of his own medicine, at last. And not before time."

  "His poor wife."

  "Don't grieve for her: she's left him."

  "Left, Silas? Oh, where?"

  "Gone back to her parents. Best decision she could have made."

  "Is it, Silas?"

  He knew what she was asking him. He had come with her father from

  York, having met him quite by chance at the Merchant Venturers Hall.

  They had talked, amicably, with no trace of the feuding that had dogged

  their ancestors, and Sir Gillan proudly admitting that it was Felicia

  and her mother who had engineered a meeting between him and Silas's

  father that had ended in laughter and reminiscences instead of

  recriminations. Yet Felicia stayed with Sir Gillan, as Silas had known

  that she would. He would have to explain before she could see for

  herself.

  She took his cleft chin between her fingers and slowly nibbled her lips

  towards his, "Answer me, Silas Mariner. Is it best for a woman to

  return to her parents, as I intended to do? Or is there another

  way?"

  His reply was prevented for some time, and when he raised his head as

  if to listen, she mistook his words of warning for a reply.

  "The tide's turned, love," he said.

  Her hair stood on end.

  "What?" she whispered.

  "Look. The shrimpers are coming back. The tide's moving in. We must

  move, too." A quick glance at her eyes showed him how her emotions

  were on a knife edge, and instantly he picked her up, holding her fast

  against his chest with a fierceness which would have been impossible

  for her to misunderstand.

  "God's truth, woman!" he whispered.

  "Are you doubting me still? I've not come all this way just to take

  you back to your father. Did you think I had? You're mine! You

  always were and you always will be." A sharp whistle brought the bay

  stallion back to him and, making a pad for her of his shirt, he sat her

  before him on the saddle, holding her securely with one arm. It was

  what she had dreamed of.

  With the wind at their backs, he told her of the love Felicia and Sir

  Gillan had always had for each other and of how she h
ad confided only

  in her mother and to himself on a solitary excursion to York. Her

  socalled abduction had been a desperate attempt to resolve an

  impossible situation in the light of his father's predictable refusal

  to release his daughter.

  "So the decision to send me to York was to spare my embarrassment, or

  theirs? Didn't my father think I'd understand?"

  Silas kissed her forehead.

  "Probably not," he murmured.

  "But nor did he want you getting all cosy with Bard, nor would he have

  sent you to Fryde if he'd known what he was getting up to. He didn't

  know about Elizabeth's husband, who was my father's brother's son."

  "Yes, I knew he was your cousin, but I didn't know what had happened

  until Elizabeth told me. But does my father intend to take me home,

  Silas?"

  "He did, but not any more. They understood the message I sent them

  from Brugge, as I knew they would, but he believed it had not worked

  out when he received yours a few days ago. But I've asked his

  permission to woo you, sweetheart. That's been missing, hasn't it? And

  it's upset you, I know. It was undignified. So, when I've wooed you

  properly, then I shall ask you to marry me, because your father's