The Maiden's Abduction
by
Juliet Land
Makes any time special
Historical Romance . rich, vivid and passionate Silas leapt to his feet, his voice biting with exasperation.
"In God's name, woman, will you listen to what I have to say before
you?"
Before three words were out, Isolde was up and facing him, eye to
eye.
"No, in God's name I shall do no such thing, sir! I do not need you to
make any plans for me, nor do I need your assistance to reach York."
Her eyes were wide open and, this time, furiously unflinching.
Fascinated, Silas stuck his thumbs into the girdle that belted his
hips.
"There now, wench, you've been wanting to let fly at me ever since you
got here, haven't you? Feeling better now?"
"You mistake the matter, sir. I haven't given you a moment's
thought."
She swung away from him and stalked towards the door, but in two
strides he was there before her, presenting her with the clearest
challenge she had ever faced. The look that passed between them, so
unlike the enigmatic exchange at suppertime, was of unbridled hostility
on her part and total resolution on his.
THE MAIDEN'S ABDUCTION
Juliet Landon
MILLS &-BOON' ^<s
Chapter One
A crest of rooftops edged the distant horizon and, beyond them, a
narrow sliver of shining sea suspended the last light of day above the
dark, wine-rich tide that wafted its own unmistakable scent across the
moorland. The three riders halted, held by its magic.
"Is that it?" Isolde whispered.
"The sea? That shining?"
The young man at her side smiled and eased his weight forward out of
the saddle.
"That's it. Wait till tomorrow, then you'll see how big it is. Can
you smell it?" He watched her take a deep lungful of air and hold it,
savouring its essence.
She breathed out on a laugh and nodded.
"So that's Scarborough, then.
What a trek, Bard. "
"I told you we'd get there in one day. Come on."
"Only just." Isolde turned to look over her shoulder, searching the
rosy western sky and darkening wind- bent hawthorns.
"You don't think they'll?"
"No! Course they won't. Come."
The third rider pursed her lips, holding back the're tort which would
have betrayed to her mistress a certain distrust of Bard La Vallon's
optimism. A pessimist she was not, but this wild goose-chase to
Scarborough was hardly the answer to their problem, such as it was.
For one thing, she did not believe Isolde thought any more of La Vallon
than she had about any of the other bold young lads who sought to make
an impression month after month, year after year. Nor was it a
yearning to see the sea that had drawn her all the way from York in one
day, though she was as good in the saddle as any man. Mistress Cecily
stayed a pace or two behind them on the stony track, caught by the pink
halo shimmering through Isolde's wild red curls, as fascinated by the
girl's beauty after nineteen years as she had been at her birth. The
stifled retort gained momentum at each uncomfortable jolt of the hardy
fell pony beneath her. Of course they'll come after us, child, once
they discover which direction we 'we taken.
As if in reply to her maid's unspoken words, Isolde called to her,
holding a mass of wind-blown hair away to one side, "They'll think
we've gone back home, Cecily, won't they?"
"Course, love. That'll be their first thought. Unless..."
Sensing that the matronly Mistress Cecily was about to contribute some
unnecessary logic to the serenity of the moment. Bard drew Isolde's
attention to the Norman castle silhouetted against the sea over to the
left of the town, making Cecily's reply redundant.
It had been this same Bardolph La Vallon whose untimely interest in
Isolde had caused her father. Sir Gillan Medwin, to pack her off in
haste to York and there to remain in the safekeeping of Alderman Henry
Fryde and his family. No explanation for this severe reaction was
needed by anyone in the locality, for the feuding between the Medwins
and the La Vallons spanned at least four generations, and the idea of
any liaison between their members could not be evenly remotely
considered. As soon as the days had begun to lengthen in the high
northern dales and the sun to gain strength above the limestone hills,
the reprisals had begun again: the stealing of sheep and oxen, the
damming of the river above Medwin's mills, the firing of a new hayrick
and, most recently, the near-killing of a La Vallon tenant.
On discovering that his daughter Isolde had actually given some
encouragement to the younger La Vallon, Sir Gillan had acted with a
predictable and terrifying swiftness to put a stop to it, not only
because of the enmity, but also because the likelihood of Bard La
Vallon's reputation as a lecher exceeding his father's was almost a
certainty. Between them, Rider La Vallon and his younger son had
fathered a crop of black-haired and merry-eyed hairns now residing with
their single mothers in Sir Gillan's dales' villages. How many were
being reared as La Vallon tenants, heaven only knew, but Sir Gillan did
not intend his daughter to produce one of them. Though his second wife
had died scarcely seven weeks earlier, in the middle of June, he was
willing to lose his only daughter also, for her safety's sake.
Mistress Cecily sighed, noting how the slice of silver in the distance
had narrowed, darkening the sky still more in sympathy with her
concerns.
"Nearly there, Cecily. Hold on," came Isolde's assurance.
"Yes, love."
She had not expected the young swam to come chasing after them, nor did
she believe that Isolde had cared one way or the other until she had
come to realise what lay behind her father's choice of Henry Fryde as
her guardian, a choice that took the form of Henry Fryde's
twenty-three-year-old son Martin. Then, Isolde's need for any form of
rescue as long as it came quickly was justifiable: even the motherly
Cecily had no quarrel with that. So, when two days ago young Bard had
appeared behind them in the great minster at York during one of the
Mercers' Guild's interminable thanksgiving ceremonies, the hand that
had clutched hers had made her wince with the pain of it.
"He'll take us away from here, Cecily," Isolde had whispered to her
that night, in bed.
"Back home, you mean? He'd not--' " No, not back to my father. I'd
not go back there now. You'll never guess what he's done. Bard told
me today. "
"Who's done? Bard, or your father?"
"My father. I think he's taken leave of his senses," she added.
"Why, what is it?"
"Bard says he's taken his sister."
Cecily frowned at that, unable to overcome the confusion.
"Felicia?"
she ventured.
"Yes, Bard's younger sister, Felicia. Father's taken her."
"Where to?"
"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,
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-bonne ted 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 dye 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."
"Nowhere 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 alms
givings 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-wasted 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.
&nbs
p; Her longing for gauze streamers, jewelled cauls, horns and butterflies
with wires was still unfulfilled, her eyebrows and hairline still un
plucked 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