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 selfconsciousness 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 quay side 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 atone
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 Brake- speare, 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?"
"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! You here? What?"
"Aye, a good word, that. What. And who's this?" He glanced rudely,
Isolde thought, towards 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 ar
e 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, wideshouldered, 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 un contrived 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