The Maiden's Abduction. Juliet Landon

woke once during the night, taking some time to recall where she was and why the large shape at her side was clearly not Cecily’s. Then she remembered, and tried to sit up and take her bearings. The ship rolled, throwing her on to him, and she was instantly enclosed by strong arms that flung her back with a soft thud, his body bearing down on her as the cabin tipped in the opposite direction.

      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,