The Maiden's Abduction. Juliet Landon

      ‘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.