The Maiden's Abduction. Juliet Landon

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 must 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.

      The echo of the horses’ hooves in the courtyard attracted the immediate attention of two well-built lads who emerged from the stable at one side. Clearly puzzled by the intrusion, they waited.

      ‘Hey, lad!’ Bard called. ‘Is your master at home?’

      The taller of the two glanced at the other, frowned, and regarded the waiting group without a word. Isolde was treated to a longer scrutiny.

      ‘D’ye hear me? Where’s your master, John Brakespeare, eh?’

      The lad came forward at last to stand by Bard’s side and, though he wore the plain dress of a servant, spoke with authority. ‘How long is it since you were here in Scarborough, sir?’

      Nonplussed, Bard sensed the relevance of the question. ‘Thirteen years, or thereabouts. Am I mistaken? John Brakespeare no longer lives here?’

      ‘Indeed he does, sir. I am John Brakespeare and this is my younger brother Francis. How can I be of service to you?’

      Bard let out a long slow breath and dismounted. ‘I beg your pardon, John. Your father…?’

      ‘Died thirteen years ago. And you, sir?’

      ‘Bardolph La Vallon at your service. Your cousin, lad.’

      ‘Francis!’ With a nod, John Brakespeare sent his brother off towards the largest of the iron-bound doors, but it opened before he reached it, silhouetting a man’s large frame against the soft light from within. His head almost touched the top curve of the door frame and, when he stepped outside and laid an arm across the younger lad’s shoulder in a protective gesture, the contrast with Bard’s lightweight stature was made all the more apparent.

      John Brakespeare was clearly relieved by this telepathy. ‘Silas?’ he said, stepping backwards.

      Whilst being blessed with the deep voice and vibrant timbre of a harp’s bass strings, the man called Silas had the curtest of greetings to hand. ‘Bard. Well, well. What the hell are you doing here? So you’ve lost your wits, too?’

      ‘Brother! СКАЧАТЬ