The Maiden's Abduction. Juliet Landon

it was too late. In doing so, she had apparently no notion of the effect this had on at least three of the male audience, revealing the beautiful bones of her cheeks and chin, the lovely brow and graceful curve of her long neck, back and slender arms, the pile of brilliant hair that refused to be contained. Her dark lashes could not conceal the quick dart of anger in her eyes as young John Brakespeare dropped one side of the pannier and then the other with a crash, bouncing open the lid and spilling its contents.

      ‘Thank you, but no. Your wife is clearly not expecting guests, and I would be the last one to impose—’

      Young Francis Brakespeare, silent until now, exploded with laughter and nudged the elder La Vallon impudently. ‘Eh, he’s my mother’s cousin, lady, not her husband. He’s never stood still long enough to get himself wed, hasn’t Silas.’

      ‘I doubt if standing still would make a scrap of difference,’ Isolde bit back at him, striding over to rescue the last of the contents from the cobbles. ‘Your hero has a far greater problem than that, young man.’ She stood to face Silas, her arms draped with old clothes. ‘Now, despite your cousin’s disappointment at not seeing a Medwin, after all, I bid you good evening, sir. I pray she will recover soon enough. Cecily, come!’

      ‘Mistress…wait!’ A lady’s voice called from the doorway. ‘Please stay.’ From the other side of Bard’s horse, a woman of Isolde’s height stepped through the doorway into the courtyard and so, after all that, it was not the combined mass of the two La Vallon brothers that prevented Isolde’s departure, but the genuine appeal in the woman’s invitation that was the very nature of sincerity. Her hands were held out towards Isolde and her perplexed maid, and instantly their reaction was to go with her and to be led into a candle-lit hall where the air smelled warmly of lavender, beeswax, spices and new-baked bread.

      ‘Dame Brakespeare?’ Isolde said.

      ‘Elizabeth,’ the woman replied, smiling. ‘You must be tired after such a long ride.’

      Isolde did not pause to think how Dame Elizabeth knew the length of her journey, only that she could not, of course, have been Silas La Vallon’s wife, for she was some years older than he, with two growing sons. Nevertheless, she was darkly attractive, her figure still shapely and supple, her dark eyes lit with a gentle kindness, like her voice. Her gown of soft madder-red linen hung in folds from an enamel link-girdle beneath her breasts and the deep V of her bodice was filled with the whitest embroidered chemise Isolde had ever seen. Her hair, except for dark tendrils upon her neck, was captured inside a huge swathed turban of shot blue-red silk that caught the light as she moved, changing colour, and Isolde was sure it must have been wired or weighted heavily.

      ‘Dame Brakesp— Elizabeth,’ Isolde corrected herself, ‘may I present Mistress Cecily to you? She’s been with me since I was born.’ As the two women made their courtesies, Isolde took one more opportunity to extricate themselves from the situation. ‘Dame Elizabeth, we cannot impose ourselves upon you like this. You see, I am Sir Gillan Medwin’s daughter, and had I known that Bard’s brother lived here, I would never have agreed to come.’

      Silas La Vallon surged into the hall, bringing his brother and cousins with him like a shoal of fish. ‘And Bard would not have come, either, if he’d known I was here. Would you, lad?’ His initial surprise had turned to amusement.

      Flushing with the effort of protest, Bard rose to the bait. ‘Probably not, brother. Last time I heard of your whereabouts you were a freeman of York, a merchant, no less. But you can understand why I didn’t spend time looking for you, surely? What do you do here at Scarborough?’

      ‘I visit my cousins. What does it look like?’

      In the light of the hall, Isolde could see more clearly than ever that Silas La Vallon had little in common with his younger brother except excessive good looks. It was, she thought, as if their mother had used up her best efforts on the first-born and from then on could manage only diluted versions. Whereas Bard was tall and willowy, Silas was tall and powerful, wide-shouldered, deep-chested and stronger of face. His chin was squarer than Bard’s, the crinkles around his eyes supplanting his brother’s beguiling air of innocence with an expression of extreme astuteness, which was only one of the reasons why Isolde found it impossible to meet them for more than a glance. Unlike his brother’s stylish level trim, Silas’s hair fell in silken layers around his head where his fingers had no doubt combed it back against its inclination, and somehow Isolde knew that the look other men strived for was here uncontrived, for his whole manner, despite the well-cut clothes, exuded a complete lack of pretension. Bard’s cultivated seduction techniques drew women to him like magnets: his brother’s scorn of any such devices would leave many women baffled. And hence the unmarried state, she thought sourly. She found herself praying that Bard had not mentioned her father’s abduction of their sister: things were bad enough; that would only make them worse.

      Dame Elizabeth was more forthcoming about the reason for Silas’s presence at her home, and the glance she sent him was a clear rebuke for teasing his brother with a false picture. She explained to Isolde. ‘Silas was my late husband’s apprentice, you see, and I continue his business as a Scarborough merchant.’ She accepted Isolde’s astonishment with composure. ‘Yes, we’re a select breed, but not unknown. There are several women among the Merchant Adventurers of York, but only myself at Scarborough. Now that Silas is a merchant in his own right, we assist each other as merchants do. He’s been like a second husband in so many ways.’ She felt the sudden jerk of attention at the last phrase and stammered an explanation. ‘I mean, in putting trade my way, and…’

      But it was too late. Silas’s arm was about her shoulders, hugging her to his side with a soft laugh. ‘Alas, brother, she’s as fickle as the rest. She’ll not let me near her. Besides, she has these two wolfhounds to keep me at bay.’ He ruffled the hair of the elder one, who dodged away from the affectionate hand and, keeping his eyes on Isolde, smoothed it down again.

      ‘I shall take over the business eventually,’ John said.

      ‘Your father would be very proud to know that,’ Isolde replied, gravely.

      The courtesy of the gentle Brakespeare family was far removed from that of the Frydes in York, for all the latter’s status and conspicuous wealth and, sensing the two women’s unease and extreme tiredness, Dame Elizabeth insisted that further questions should be left until they had refreshed themselves. ‘I always keep at least one room for guests,’ she said, leading them out of the hall towards a flight of stairs. ‘It’s a large house, but we seem to fill it with ease nowadays.’

      ‘Your sons are a credit to you, Dame Elizabeth,’ Cecily said, following the lantern across a landing wide enough for several makeshift beds.

      The proud mother threw a smile over her shoulder. ‘I was carrying my little Francis when I lost my husband. A pity they never met; they’re so alike. A great comfort. And Silas, of course. He’s something between a father and an older brother to them, but I agree with you, Mistress Isolde, that one La Vallon at a time is more than enough for any woman. I’ll try to keep him out of your way, if I can. Ah, here we are. Thank you, Emmie.’

      A genial maid was laying out linen towels on the large canopied bed. She swiped a flat hand across the coverlet, bobbed a curtsy, and stepped through the door which was little more than a hole cut into the panelling. Their shadows closed about them, and dissolved as they met the light from within that revealed a pot-pourri of floral colours spilling over the bed and on to the ankle-deep sheep’s fleece at one side. After their days of mental and physical discomfort at York, the contrast was almost too much for Isolde, and her impulse was to embrace her hostess, who patted her back and assured them that hot water would be brought up and that supper would be ready as soon as they were.

      Side by side, Isolde and Cecily sat upon the rug-covered chest at the end of the bed and looked about them at the details of comfort: the tiny jug of marigolds, the embroidered canopy of the bed, the cushioned prie-dieu in the corner and its leatherbound book of hours. Isolde placed a hand upon her cheek, still confused.

      Cecily placed a finger to her lips. ‘Keep your voice down,’ she whispered. ‘These walls