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 dema
nds 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.
Juliet Landon Page 5
