The Maiden's Abduction. Juliet Landon

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      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.’

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