the tall man.
"Er ... well, not exactly. This.-.er..." He followed Mei, who clearly
was more interested to know what was in the boxes than the identity of
the man who carried them, while he himself was more concerned about his
client's reaction to the clothes. Would she be placated by the new
under gowns
One would have thought, from the look of astonishment on his client's
face, that Meester Johannes had been accompanied by the patron saint of
tailors rather than the kind stranger who had helped him off the boat
with the boxes, but as soon as the door was closed upon the
disappointed Mei he began to understand the reason for the stranger's
insistence. His client threw herself into the man's arms and burst
into tears.
"Allard," she sobbed.
"Oh, you've come at last!"
Meester Johannes put the boxes down and waited, noticing that the man
called Allard was not in the least taken aback.
"Dearest one. You knew I'd come. I came as fast as--' " How did you
know? Did you get my--' "Father wrote to me. It's taken me--' " No,
how did you know I was in Brugge? "
"I went to York and found out--' " You must take me home, Allard. Now.
This minute. See, my bags are packed already. "
"Now? Where's Silas? Has he made you unhappy, love? He's not injured
you, has he?"
"Not injured, no. But I must go home now, before he returns." She
clung to him, barely able to believe that her prayers had been
answered, and in the first jumbled hail of questions managed to
discover that Allard had come from Sluys that morning and boarded the
same skiff as the tailor. No, he had not eaten much, but that was not
unusual.
All the same, he was perplexed.
"I had hoped to speak to Silas, Issy.
Could we not wait a while? "
"No!" Isolde pleaded.
"No, Allard. He'll try to persuade me to stay."
"But the dresses... all this..." He waved a hand.
"How could all this have made you so unhappy? Silas is not a bad chap.
We used to--' " You know him? "
"Well, of course I do. We're the same age. We used to fish together,
climb trees for conkers, and--' " And go whoring? "
"Er, well, not so much of that. That was Bard's pastime, I
remember."
He looked at her sharply.
"Is that the problem? The La Vallon problem?"
She gulped and nodded.
"You've fallen for him, then?"
She looked away.
"No! I hate him. He's a La Vallon, isn't he?"
"He's a man." Allard caught Cecily's eye and began to understand. The
fine clothes. The well-appointed room. Tears.
Jealousy-hatred-love: all one word.
"Where's Silas now?" he said, preparing for the snarl.
"With the bloody Duchess!"
Another peep at Cecily, then the flick of an eyebrow.
"I see. I didn't think he'd be tarred with his father's brush. Where's
her cloak, Cecily?"
"Ahem!" Master Johannes picked up his boxes with resignation.
But Allard detained him.
"Don't go yet, sir. We'll need you to get out again. Now, this is
what we do."
With four horses in the stable, it was not difficult. Mei was quite
convinced by their need to visit the tailor's workroom; the mistress
was well chaperoned;
they'd be back by midday. Much to Master Johannes's disgust, their
bags were stowed into his largest box and he was well paid to have the
horses returned the next day from Sluys, where they hoped to find a
ship bound for England. Allard sounded optimistic.
On a page of her white paper, Isolde left a message for Silas.
Silas, do not mind my going. I cannot be your mistress. It is not
comfortable for my heart. I am leaving the Little Thing because I do
not wish to be reminded. Please return her for me, with my thanks.
And do not seek me, I beg you. I will care for your sister. God
willing.
God keep you safe. Isolde.
* * ^
Until they reached the seaport of Sluys, Isolde had quite forgotten
that it was Master Caxton's intention to sail that day for England;
she had been intent on answering her brother's questions about all that
had happened since leaving home, and before. To find her friend
standing on the quay with his nose in a book while the small sturdy
ship completed its loading was at first a fright, and then a godsend.
If anyone could secure the three of them an instant place on board, he
could. Although London was not their chosen destination, Isolde
thought, beggars could not be choosers.
Predictably, he was amazed to see Isolde.
"Dear lady, you said nothing of your intention last night. And Silas
not here to see you off?"
"A last-minute decision, Master William, to accompany my brother. My
father has sent for me, and I must go to him."
Allard Medwin, student of medicine at Cambridge, and William Caxton,
student of everything, took a liking to each other from the start,
striking up an instant rapport as if they had known each other for
years. At Caxton's word, the master of the ship vacated a small cabin
for Isolde and Cecily, asking no questions, taking the fee Allard
offered, and hoisting sail out of Sluys with an eye to the freshening
wind.
The two women looked back across the flat grey horizon of Flanders with
different degrees of misgiving which were not the same as those they
had brought exactly one week ago. But if Isolde had hoped to make use
of her elder brother's sound common sense during the voyage, and to
unload upon him those sorrows which were still so new to her, her
disappointment was tripled, for he had found in Caxton an intelligence
that had not come his way in six years at Cambridge. The other
disappointment was Cecily's predictable malaise, and the third was the
early September gale that screamed through the rigging night and day,
lashed the cabins, washed the decks and rolled the passengers from wall
to wall, keeping them confined to their cabins on a diet of cold food,
cooking being out of the question in such conditions.
On the few occasions she was able to communicate with Allard not once
did he grumble that he was being obliged to suffer another voyage so
soon after the first, having the kind of nature that looks for the
advantages wherever they might be found, even while tending poor
Cecily. To her constant distress his advice was, "Just drink the ale,
mistress. The food is so wretched anyway, you're probably better off
without it."
Huddled in blankets to keep relatively warm and dry, Isolde was soon
fatigued by the effort of staying where she put herself, preferring to
be wedged in the cabin while losing track of the days and nights,
caring for her maid's needs. Far from regretting her impulsive flight,
she almost revelled in the possibility that the ship might go down and
she with it, for she could see nothing beyond her arrival in a strange
city and a life without Silas. Longing for his arms, his mouth, his
irresistible maleness, she managed to k
eep in touch with her own need
to control her life after being swept too fast into a position where
she was a tool to be bargained with, a mistress of convenience, an
unschooled woman to be put aside whenever the more experienced one
clicked her fingers. Alternating between anger, despair and
humiliation, she rode out the storm in semi- isolation with misgivings
that rose to panic each night at the thought that she may already be
carrying a babe in her womb. He had said it would be his. But no; it
would be hers.
The knocking on her cabin door roused her from dark thoughts.
"Isolde!" Allard called.
"Come and look. We're through the worst now.
Here, let me help you. " He placed an arm around her, supporting her
across the wet deck to where Caxton stood talking to the master,
pointing towards the horizon. It was the first time she had seen
either of the two men for some days, and so it was with surprise that
she noticed the sling around the printer's arm.
"Master William," she said.
"You're injured? What happened?"
He was pale and clearly unwell.
"I slipped on deck," he said, trying to smile.
"Broke my arm. The good doctor here has splinted it. If I begin to
ramble, don't mind me, it's the brandy."
"Then you should be resting, sir. Thank God the sea is calmer." A
huge wave came up to soak them with its white spume, but by now they
paid it little attention.
"I had to come out to catch the first sight of land. Look, the dark
line across there: cliffs, then the white breakers below. See?"
"Oh..." Isolde shaded her eyes to focus them.
"Oh,
yes, I see. This is the south coast, then, where we approach London.
"
The master smiled at her rudimentary reckoning.
"Nay, mistress, I hope not. Those are the east-coast cliffs of
Flamborough and Scarborough.
We'll be in harbour before nightfall. God willing. "
"What?" Isolde stared at him, sure she had misheard.
"You didn't say Scarborough, surely?"
"Aye, that's it. We've made good time with that bit o' breeze."
She looked from the master to Allard, then to Caxton.
"But I thought we were bound for London. Isn't that where you wanted
to go. Master William? You said you were going to London, not
Scarborough."
"Yes, dear lady. I am going to London," Caxton said, smiling over her
head at the master.
"But Silas Mariner offered me a place on his ship which was ready to
sail with a cargo of my books for his English clients. He said I could
sail with them, if I wished, since it'll be quicker to ride down to
London from here than to wait for another ship to cross. There wasn't
one due for another week."
Isolde's heart leapt, making her suddenly breathless. Silas's ship?
Scarborough? Then those boxes packed with books and black astrakhan
furs were right here under their feet. What audacity. And unwillingly
she had escaped on her lover's ship, bound for his chosen destination,
with his friend and smuggled cargo.
Back in her cabin, she held on to the bunk where Cecily lay and buried
her head in her arms, trying to control the shaking of her body and the
spasms that forced torrents of tears from her aching eyes. Combined
relief and frustration fought within her, confusing every attempt at
lucidity.
Then she splashed cold water onto her face, combed and plaited her hair
and set about tidying the cabin, packing their belongings once more
into bags. A seagull mewed from the rigging, sending her its mournful
welcome.
Cecily moaned and turned her head.
"Get that cat out of here," she said.
yes, I see. This is the south coast, then, where we approach London.
"
The master smiled at her rudimentary reckoning.
"Nay, mistress, I hope not. Those are the east-coast cliffs of
Flamborough and Scarborough.
We'll be in harbour before nightfall. God willing. "
"What?" Isolde stared at him, sure she had misheard.
"You didn't say Scarborough, surely?"
"Aye, that's it. We've made good time with that bit o' breeze."
She looked from the master to Allard, then to Caxton.
"But I thought we were bound for London. Isn't that where you wanted
to go. Master William? You said you were going to London, not
Scarborough."
"Yes, dear lady. I am going to London," Caxton said, smiling over her
"But Silas Mariner offered me a place on his ship which was ready to
sail with a cargo of my books for his English clients. He said I could
sail with them, if I wished, since it'll be quicker to ride down to
London from here than to wait for another ship to cross. There wasn't
one due for another week."
Isolde's heart leapt, making her suddenly breathless. Silas's ship?
Scarborough? Then those boxes packed with books and black astrakhan
furs were right here under their feet. What audacity. And unwillingly
she had escaped on her lover's ship, bound for his chosen destination,
with his friend and smuggled cargo.
Back in her cabin, she held on to the bunk where Cecily lay and buried
her head in her arms, trying to control the shaking of her body and the
spasms that forced torrents of tears from her aching eyes. Combined
relief and frustration fought within her, confusing every attempt at
lucidity.
Then she splashed cold water onto her face, combed and plaited her hair
and set about tidying the cabin, packing their belongings once more
into bags. A seagull mewed from the rigging, sending her its mournful
welcome.
Cecily moaned and turned her head.
"Get that cat out of here," she said.
Chapter Ten
-For the fourth time that morning, Dame Elizabeth Brakespeare peered
out of her counting-house window overlooking the quay at Scarborough,
where groups of men clutched at their headgear and tightened their
faces against the driving rain. Ships of all shapes and sizes
swallowed or disgorged their cargo on to men, resembling worker ants,
who balanced along planks to load carts for quick transport to the
wareheuses. There was a frown on her otherwise serene face as she
turned away.
"Searchers," she said.
"I'm sure of it."
At fifteen, John Brakespeare topped his mother's height by at least an
inch, fulfilling his late father's thirteen-year-old prediction that he
would be a giant of a man. Already his voice had deepened to
correspondingly masculine proportions.
"Not the usual customs men.
Mother? "
"No, they're strangers here, and it's obvious by their nosing about
that they're on to something. They stayed last night up at the
Ship."
"How dye know?"
She smiled at last, with a lift of her brows, and John knew to ask no
more. In a small port like Scarborough, everyone knew who stayed at
the Ship.
"Has everything gone, John?" she asked.
"Yes. Everything."
"Then we have
no cause for concern, have we?"
"Silas is not due, then?"
"I don't know, dear. Do we ever? We can only hope that they finish
checking on us all before he arrives."
John sniffed.
"He puts us in danger. Mother. Especially you."
Dame Elizabeth linked her arm into her son's.
"It's himself he puts in danger, John, not us. This is his house now,
remember, and the roles have been reversed. I am his employee, and
although I'm called merchant, he's the owner, and it's his goods
that'll be forfeit if he's discovered, not ours." Her voice dropped to
a whisper.
"That's why we arranged it that way, so as to make him responsible.
Silas would never take risks with us, John, you know that."
John covered his mother's hand with his own.
"I wish you'd marry again. Mother. Would you not consider it?"
The smile this time was almost a laugh. Modestly, she hung her head.