The Maiden's Abduction. Juliet Landon

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ herself and Cecily.

      That in itself was enough. Stooping from the saddle, she grabbed at the reins of the packhorse, dug her heels sharply into the flanks of her tired mare and hauled both animals’ heads towards the entrance of the courtyard, pulling them into a clattering trot as she heard Cecily do the same. She got no further than the cobbled quay outside before she heard Cecily yelp.

      ‘Let go! Let go, I say! I must follow my mistress!’

      Grinding her teeth in anger, Isolde came to a halt and turned to face the arrested maid, the bridle of whose horse was firmly in the hands of Bard’s large and unwelcoming brother. ‘Let her go, sir! Mistress Cecily comes with me!’ she called.

      ‘Mistress Cecily stays here.’

      Pause.

      ‘Then I shall have to go without her.’

      ‘As you please.’ He led Cecily’s horse back into the courtyard entrance without a second look, heedless of the rider’s wail of despair.

      ‘From the frying-pan into the fire,’ Isolde muttered in fury, once again reversing direction to follow her maid. ‘From one interfering and obnoxiously overbearing host to another. And this one a La Vallon, of all things. What in God’s name have I done to deserve this, I wonder?’ She was still muttering the last plaintive enquiry when her bridle was caught and she was brought back to face the indignation of the younger La Vallon.

      ‘Where are you off to, for pity’s sake?’ Bard demanded. ‘We’ve only just got here and you fly off the handle like—’

      ‘I did not ask to come here,’ she snapped, attempting to yank the reins out of Silas La Vallon’s hands without success. ‘And it’s quite clear we are not as welcome as you thought we’d be. There must be an inn somewhere in Scarborough. If it’s my horse you want, Master La Vallon—’ she leapt down from the wrong side of the saddle to avoid him ‘—you can take it. I’ll take my panniers and my maid. Medwins do not willingly keep company with La Vallons.’

      ‘You brought her here against her will, brother, did you?’

      ‘Of course I didn’t,’ Bard said. ‘She’s tired, that’s all.’

      ‘That is not all,’ Isolde insisted, attempting to unbuckle a pannier from the wooden frame of the packhorse. ‘Oh! Drat this thing!’ Her hair, still loose and unruly, had snagged on the prong of the buckle and was holding her captive in a position where she could not see how to loose it. Indifferent to the loss she would sustain, she pulled, but her wrist was held off by a powerful hand.

      ‘Easy, lass! Calm down!’ Silas La Vallon told her, holding her with one hand and lifting the taut strap with the other. ‘There, loose it now. See? ‘Twould be a small enough loss from that thatch,’ he said, studying the wild red mass glowing in the light from the doorway, ‘but a pity to waste it on a pannier. Now, come inside, if you will, and meet the lads’ mother. She’s probably never seen a real live Medwin before. Take the panniers inside, lads.’

      Refusing to unbend, and smarting from the man’s initial rudeness, she pulled her mop of hair back into some semblance of order with both hands, attempting to present a more dignified appearance before 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 СКАЧАТЬ