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! 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 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