Juliet Landon Read online

  “No! I said no.”

  Silas leaped 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 furious.

  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. Feeling better now?”

  “You mistake the matter, sir. I haven’t given you a moment’s thought.” She stalked toward 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 was one of unbridled hostility on her part and total resolution on his.

  JULIET LANDON

  The Maiden’s Abduction

  JULIET LANDON

  lives in an ancient country village in the north of England with her retired scientist husband. Her keen interest in embroidery, art and history, together with a fertile imagination, make writing historical novels a favorite occupation. She finds the research particularly exciting, especially the early medieval period and the fascinating laws concerning women in particular, and their struggle for survival in a man’s world.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  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 mus
t 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.