Kitabı oku: «The Maiden's Abduction», sayfa 3

‘But that will blow us away from Hull, won’t it? I thought we’d have been within reach of Hull by now.’

‘Eh…no. We shan’t be seeing Hull today.’ He laughed, not bothering to explain. ‘I’ll send ye some food up, mistress, seeing as you’re awake already. Did ye not sleep so well?’

‘Not much,’ she said, frowning.

‘Aye, well. It’s always worse on’t first night. Better tonight, eh?’

Disappointed, she returned to the cabin and made an effort to straighten it, and when the cabin boy brought the tray tried with her most beguiling smile and a toss of her glorious red hair to bedazzle him. ‘Who does this ship belong to?’ she said, sweetly, taking the tray from him.

‘Master Silas Mariner, mistress. He’s the owner.’

‘Silas Mariner? Ah, easier to say than La Vallon, yes?’

‘Yes, mistress.’

‘And where did you berth before you went to Scarborough?’

Like a man, he took the full force of her green eyes, smiled, and said, ‘Sorry, mistress. If I want to keep my job, I have to keep my mouth shut.’ He bowed, and closed the door quietly.

It was mid-day when Isolde tried yet again to elicit some information regarding direction, distance, time of arrival—anything concerning land or the lack of it. She made another attempt mid-afternoon, and again in the evening, by which time Master Silas Mariner-La Vallon had failed to return to his cabin in the forecastle before she appeared on deck.

‘I realise that you are doing your best to avoid me, Master La Vallon,’ Isolde said, as he turned to make a polite bow, ‘and I am grateful for that. However, there is a problem which I need to discuss.’

‘You are mistaken, mistress. I was not avoiding you but waiting for you. And I am aware of your problem. My crew are well trained. They have to be.’

The fear and anger that she had tried since dawn to contain took another leap into her chest, making her feel as if she had bumped into something solid. Her legs felt weak, but she allowed herself to be led over coils of rope and across the drying deck into his cabin, which was not the master’s, after all. It was larger than hers, but wedge-shaped, the table piled with papers and instruments, ledgers, quills and inkpots.

As the cabin dipped and rose again, she held on to a wooden pillar and waited until he had closed the door before turning to him. Her voice held more than a hint of panic, which she had not intended. ‘For the fiftieth time of asking, sir, where are we?’ The words seemed to come from far away, adding to the sense of unreality that had dogged her all day, and, in the exaggerated pause between question and answer, she saw that he, too, had discarded the earlier formal attire for the barest essentials of comfort. His shirt, a padded doublet of soft plum-coloured leather and tight hose were his only concessions to the North Sea’s cutting edge.

‘I will show you,’ he said. He brought forward a roll of parchment from a pile on the table and weighted its corners with a sextant, a conch shell, a glass of wine and one hand. ‘There…’ he pointed to the eastern coastline ‘…there is Scarborough, and this is where we are now, down here, see?’ His finger trailed southwards, passing Hull, where Isolde had expected to enter the estuary of the River Humber in order to reach York on the Ouse. His finger stopped some distance from the coast of Norfolk, nowhere near land.

Isolde felt herself trembling, but pulled herself up as tall as she could despite the tightness in her lungs. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I don’t see. I don’t see at all. What’s happened? Have we been blown off course by the storm? Is that it?’

Silas allowed the roll to spring back, and she knew by his slow straightening, his watchful air, his whole stance, that he was preparing for her reaction. His shaking head confirmed that there was more to come. ‘No, mistress, there was no storm last night. That was just weather. We are on course.’

‘On course for where? Hull is behind us now.’

‘Yes. We are heading for Flanders. We always were.’

The room swam.

‘No,’ she said, breathless now. ‘No, sir. You may be, but I am not heading for Flanders. Turn this ship round immediately. Immediately! Do you hear me?’ She whirled, heading for the door, the master, anybody. But once again he was there before her, and this time, with no one to witness, he caught her in a bear hug and swung her round to face him, wedging her against the door with his body. All the defences that she had been taught, which were supposed to be crippling to an attacker, were useless, for her feet were somewhere to the side, her hands were splayed above her head, and the shock had numbed her. Worse still, the reality which had been hovering out of reach all day now descended with cruel precision, wounding her, making this new and frightening restraint all the more unbearable.

She fought him with all her strength, refusing to call for help. This was his ship. These were his men. No one would interfere. She was more alone than she had ever been before, and her anger roared in her ears. ‘I was a fool to trust you,’ she snarled, twisting in his grip. ‘I was a fool. You and your confounded brother. I should have seen what was happening. This is for Felicia, isn’t it? And I walked straight into the trap. Fool…fool…what an idiot!’

‘If that’s what you want to believe, believe it,’ he said, drawing her hands slowly down to the small of her back. ‘It makes little difference what you believe, except that you’re going to Flanders.’

‘I’m not going anywhere with you!’

‘You’d have gone anywhere with my brother.’

‘I would not! I had no intention of staying in York with him: I was using him to get away from that place, that’s all. Otherwise I would never consort with a La Vallon.’

‘You’ll consort with the La Vallons whether you like it or not, wench.’ He lifted her easily, as he would have done a child. ‘And you’re wrong again. My brother is no part of my plans.’

‘I don’t believe you. Put me down! No…oh, no!’ The soft bed hit her with a thud from behind and then, as she rolled away, the panelled wall cracked into her forehead. Stunned and utterly confused, she felt him pull her back and capture her wrist, tucking her other arm safely behind his back where she felt only a broad expanse of silky leather. Immediately his long legs and body were sprawled across her, holding her immobile and shaming her by their closeness. His brother had never been as close to her as this. Never.

With closed eyes and clenched jaws, she waited for what she was sure would happen next, though she had no details to guide her. When all she experienced was the deep rocking of the ship nosing its way through the water and the rhythmic thud-thud on the sides, she opened them, warily.

He was leaning on one elbow and looking down at her face, his eyes wandering over hair and skin and finally coming to rest in hers. ‘Well?’ he whispered. ‘You think I’m about to rape you?’

She gulped. ‘Aren’t you?’

To her relief, he did not smile. ‘No. You’ll come to me without that.’

His sentiment was so totally absurd that it was not worth an answer, and she looked away disdainfully. The memory of his regard at supper had scarcely left her, and the details of his contact over the last twenty-four hours had imprinted themselves upon almost every one of her waking thoughts. But the idea that she would ever give herself to him willingly after this unforgivable treatment was quite ridiculous. She would take the first opportunity to free herself.

She squirmed, and felt his legs tighten their hold. ‘This is unworthy of you, sir. Let me go now. You must know that this is not the way to avenge your family for the abduction of your sister. You knew—?’

‘About Felicia and your father? Of course I knew. Even before Bard told me.’

So. That was what she had thought. ‘And he plotted with you to do the same?’

‘No, he didn’t. I’ve told you, Bard is not part of my plans. He never has been.’

Her green eyes flashed like sunlight over mossy waters. ‘Rubbish! Don’t tell me he’ll be standing there on the quay at York waiting for you to deliver me, as you said you’d do.’

‘He will. He’ll wait and wait, and then he’ll begin to ask questions, and he’ll discover that I’m not due at York. We called there before Scarborough, so the cargo we’re carrying is for Flanders. Poor Bard.’ His tone was anything but concerned, and Isolde was tempted to believe him.

‘I believed you before, but I’ll not do it again, sir.’

‘That’s sad. Now I shall have to resort to more believable methods.’

She realised what he was about to do, and, when she thought about it later, knew that she could have made it more difficult for him, though not impossible. But his eyes held her every bit as surely as they had done before, and she could already feel the warmth of him on her skin, see his head blotting out the last of the dim light in the recessed bunk. Her eyelids closed under the infinitely slow exploration of his lips upon her face, and even then she wondered why she was doing nothing to resist it. Bard’s kisses had always held more than a hint of selfishness, intended to impress but never to close her mind, as she felt his brother’s doing.

Slowly, and with practised skill, he kept her mouth waiting until she moved her head to follow him, luring her on towards the sublime capture, the first taste of his mouth on hers. And with restraint, without even hinting that this moment was, for him, the assuaging of an ache that had threatened to devour him, he left the full impact of it until she moaned and softened under him, until he felt one hand move impatiently across his back. Then he released her wrist and slid an arm beneath her back to gather her up to him as he had done during that long look which had so puzzled and intrigued her.

The reality of it far surpassed anything either of them could have imagined in the hours since they had met, and there had been plenty of imagining on both sides. Yet there was a part of her that remained on an even keel, despite the weightlessness of her mind and the amazing sensations of her body. A part that reminded her of what she was about. Between his kisses came the cautionary voice, urging her to resist before it was too late. La Vallon. The enemy. Abduction. Flanders. Revenge. Obedient to the warning, she pushed at his shoulder, then his chin, tearing her mouth away. ‘No…no…no!’

He gave her a chance to offer reasons, but she could remember nothing that would have convinced him of her unwillingness except a turn of her head and more denials. His voice was husky with wanting. ‘It’s no wonder my brother came after you so fast, maid, if that’s how it was with him, too.’

It was, she thought, a particularly insensitive remark for him to have made, and she was at once angered and sobered by the need to rebut it. How could he kiss her so and believe that her response was common to both brothers? If she had been able to read his mind, she would have seen there the instant regret of one who had been as much shaken as she. But by then it was too late.

She turned back quickly to wound him. ‘I see. So it’s that too, is it? To prove that you can so easily take what he wants from under his nose. Well, well. With a ship and a crew of this size and a woman as naïve as me, who couldn’t? But don’t think you’ll ever have my co-operation, Master Silas Mariner. Now let me go back to Mistress Cecily. She needs me.’

He twisted a hand into her hair. ‘It was you, remember, who brought up Bard’s name, not once, but twice. If you find comparisons hard to bear, then think on the boyish pecks he gave you while I try to win your co-operation.’ His kiss this time was intended to teach her the difference between a man and a boy, but she had already discovered that, and needed no further demonstration of the power and scope of his artistry. For the next few moments she needed all her strength not to cry out or to fight for survival, and there were tears of anger in her eyes at its conclusion.

‘Let me go,’ she croaked. ‘Let me go back to—’

‘You’re not going anywhere. You’ll stay here tonight, where I can guard you.’

‘Against what? Jumping overboard? Cecily needs me, I tell you.’

‘She doesn’t. The ship’s physician is with her. You’re staying with me.’

‘And what d’ye think that lot out there will be thinking, after this?’

‘My master and crew are paid to sail the ship. They do as they’re told and keep their mouths shut.’

‘I cannot stay here…please.’

‘Hush, now, maid. You’ve had a long day and you need to sleep. I shall not harm you.’ He removed her shoes and straightened her skirts, then pulled blankets over them both, enclosing her against the bend of his body, stroking back her hair and caressing her back with tender hands.

She had hardly slept last night and, after a nerve-racking day, she was exhausted. Now, within the safety and comfort of his arms and the rocking of the ship, there were no more choices to be made or decisions to be met. Nevertheless, she summoned her iciest tones to fire a last salvo over her shoulder, to where his smile was already settling in. ‘You can’t do this, you know. You simply cannot do this.’

She heard the smile broaden. ‘Remind me, maid, if you will. What is it that I cannot do?’ His voice almost melted her.

‘You cannot insist on sleeping with a woman who dislikes you, for one. Nor can you take her somewhere she doesn’t want to go.’

‘Forgive me.’ He grinned, sweeping his fingertips down her neck. ‘But we merchants are an optimistic bunch. A law unto ourselves. Remind me again in a year, will you?’ He yawned. ‘And start calling me Silas.’

She woke once during the night, taking some time to recall where she was and why the large shape at her side was clearly not Cecily’s. Then she remembered, and tried to sit up and take her bearings. The ship rolled, throwing her on to him, and she was instantly enclosed by strong arms that flung her back with a soft thud, his body bearing down on her as the cabin tipped in the opposite direction.

She tasted the silkiness of his hair against her lips, the warm musky smell of his skin, and was reminded of her duty to maintain anger. ‘You planned it, didn’t you?’ she whispered. ‘Right from the start, you knew what you were going to do.’

His reply touched her lips, with no distance for the words to go astray. ‘Course I planned it. Course I knew what I was going to do. Don’t blame yourself, lovely thing, there was nothing you could have done to prevent it. It would have made no difference whether you’d agreed to come or not; I would still have taken you.’

The last words merged into the kiss that he had tried, without success, to delay, and Isolde had neither the time nor the will to withhold her co-operation, as she had sworn to do. Even in half-sleep, the nagging voice returned with its doubts, forcing her to declare them. ‘I don’t want to go to Flanders,’ she whispered, settling once more into his arms. It was all she could think of.

‘Then go to sleep, maid,’ he murmured.

‘Ships do not turn round easily in mid-ocean,’ Silas laughingly told her the next morning. ‘They’re not like horses. They’re not even like rowing boats.’

Isolde had not seriously thought they were, but daytime resistance was obviously going to be more potent than any other, and he must not be allowed to think for one moment that he was going to get away lightly with this flagrant piracy, for that was what it was.

Mistress Cecily, recovered enough to sit in a corner of the deck and sip some weak ale, was even less amused by the idea of Flanders than Isolde was, but then, her sense of the absurd was presently at a low ebb, her only real concern being to place her two feet on dry land any time within the next half-hour. Which bit of land was of no immediate consequence as long as it stood still.

For Isolde’s sake, she tried to take an interest, but this was predictably negative. ‘They’ll not speak our language, love. How shall we make ourselves understood? And what’s your father going to say? And Master Fryde? There’ll be such a to-do. We should never have…urgh!’

There was one thing guaranteed to halt the miseries of conjecture, albeit a drastic one, but there was something in what she said, even so. What was her father going to say?

Chapter Three

A tall graceful woman stood outside the stone porch of an elegant manor house, her eyes focussed to search along the valley where a river snaked a silver trail in the morning sunshine. Up on the far distant hillside, tree-darkened and just out of view, her father would be about his daily business, her mother perhaps doing exactly what she was doing, no doubt feeling helpless to intervene and wondering if the feuding could get any worse. God forbid.

She was about to go back inside when the clatter of hooves caught her attention, and she waited to watch the mounted party sweep through the stone gatehouse and into the courtyard, vaulting down from their saddles in a flurry of muted colours, tawny, madder, ochre and tan. One particular figure came to the fore and stood, looking across to where she waited, as if to check that she was still there.

He was a large and powerful man, old enough to be her father, certainly, but still a handsome creature whose deep auburn hair was now tinged with grey at the temples where it swept off a high forehead in thick waves. His eyes, like mossy stones, narrowed at the sight of her in warning rather than in recognition, and the woman held it as long as she dared, then turned away, hiding any trace of emotion.

‘Mistress Felicia!’

She carried on walking across the busy hall with veils flowing and head held high, ignoring the plea.

‘Mistress!’ A young lad caught up with her. ‘Please…’

Out of pity, she stopped.

‘Mistress Felicia…’

‘Mistress La Vallon, if you please,’ she snapped. ‘I have not lost my identity along with my honour. Yet.’

‘I beg your pardon. Sir Gillan says that he expects you—’

‘In the solar. Yes, I dare say he does.’

Stony as ever, her expression gave him no hope. She was very lonely, but her manner was proud for a woman in her position. The lad persisted, for he was of the same age, or thereabouts. ‘Mistress, please…I dare not take him that as a message. Shall I say…?’

‘Yes,’ she replied, relenting for his sake. ‘Say I’ll come. Eventually.’ She was a La Vallon in a Medwin household. They must be reminded of it.

The chaplain and two others were with him when she entered the solar, her beauty making them hesitate in mid-sentence and struggle to stay on course. Sir Gillan glared at her. ‘At last,’ he said. ‘Did you keep your father waiting so long for your presence, lady?’

‘Frequently, my lord,’ she replied, crossing to the window.

The two men coughed discreetly behind their hands, hoping that there would be no scene this time. It was a frail hope, the news being so disturbing.

‘I have news of your family,’ Sir Gillan said. ‘Does it interest you?’

Felicia came, picking up her long skirts and throwing them over one arm, a trace of eagerness in her large brown eyes at last. ‘From my father? He’s agreed a ransom?’

‘No, lady. He has not. I haven’t demanded one. The news partly concerns your rake of a brother, but you must be well used to his escapades by now, surely. He’s disappeared, it seems.’

‘Ah…with Isolde?’ The eagerness changed to a triumph she could scarcely conceal.

Sir Gillan flared again, forbidding her to say a word in her brother’s favour, and Felicia knew better than to flout him on this, knowing how he wanted only the best for his daughter. ‘That’s what we’re presuming, since a messenger arrived from York only a moment ago to say that Isolde has also disappeared. How’s that for revenge, eh? Makes you feel good, does it?’

Her concern at that news was obvious to all four men. ‘No, my lord. Not revenge, surely? Bard and Isolde are—’

‘I know my daughter, lady, and I know all about your brother. Whatever form his interest takes, it will not be to her advantage. We can all be sure of that. Revenge or not, your father must be laughing.’

‘He might. My mother won’t.’ She tried to hold his eyes, but could not.

The chaplain came forward with a stool for her to sit on, placing himself nearby to speak to her on the same level. ‘Mistress La Vallon, you are in a difficult position, I know, a position with which we symp—’

‘Get on with it, man!’ Sir Gillan barked.

‘Sympathise. But you presumably hold no grudge against Sir Gillan’s daughter?’

‘No, none at all.’

‘Then perhaps you could tell us if you think our trust in Alderman Fryde of York was misplaced. Does your father know him still?’

‘I believe so.’

‘And Master Fryde carries merchandise for the La Vallons, does he?’

Felicia sent him a scathing glance with an accompanying, ‘Ich! Of course he doesn’t, Sir Andrew. Fryde doesn’t have ships of his own, and we have a merchant in the family with two.’

At this reminder, Sir Gillan sat more erect. ‘Your brother Silas? A merchant already? Where? At York, is he?’

‘Yes, but you need not think that Silas would have anything to do with Alderman Fryde, my lord. Far from it. Neither he nor my father can stand the man. My father would never have sent his daughter to such a man.’

Angrily, Sir Gillan stood up. ‘Of course not. He guards his womenfolk more carefully, does he not, lady?’

Felicia had the grace to blush. She had gone too far. ‘I did not mean that, my lord. I meant that, according to my father, Master Fryde has changed for the worse since his election to the council. He expects to be sheriff at the next election in January. Did you know that?’

‘No, I didn’t. I wondered if he and your father were…perhaps…?’

‘There is no collusion there as far as I’m aware. From what I hear, anyone who colludes with Master Fryde needs a deep purse. He comes expensive, and my father does not seek the friendship of such men, whatever else he does.’

Glances were exchanged. They knew well what else Rider La Vallon did, particularly to swell the population hereabouts. One of the men took up the questioning. ‘So, have you any suggestions, mistress, as to where your brother and Mistress Isolde might have gone, presuming, of course, that they are indeed together? Her honour is now at—’ He jumped and frowned as his ankle was kicked by the seated chaplain.

‘Her honour is at stake, is it?’ said Felicia in her most sugary tones. ‘Then she and I have more in common than ever I had thought.’ Her eyes were downcast, unwilling to meet Sir Gillan’s glare. ‘But I have no idea where they might be.’

‘Enough!’ he snapped. ‘Go, both of you. It’s late, but you should be able to reach York some time tomorrow. Give the bloody man hell and tell him to get my daughter back into safekeeping or he can say goodbye to any sheriff’s office. I’ll bring the roof down on him: incompetent, self-seeking little toad. And I thought he was trustworthy. He promised me he’d take care of her, dammit!’

The two men bowed and left the room, leaving the chaplain still complacently seated until Sir Gillan bellowed at him, ‘And you can draft a letter to Allard in Cambridge. I can’t go to York, but he can. Time he made himself useful.’

The chaplain pulled forward his scrip, to take out his quills and ink, but was halted before he could reach for the parchment.

‘Not here, man! Go and do it in the hall. Tell Allard he’s to go to York and put the fear of God into Fryde. He’s to deputise for me. Understand?’

The discomfited chaplain hesitated, unwilling to leave Felicia in the sole company of his volatile employer. But he was given little choice in the matter.

‘Well? Go on. I’m not going to eat her!’

The door closed, leaving Sir Gillan Medwin with a scowl on his brow that reached only as far as the top of his captive’s exaggerated head-dress. ‘Take that contraption off your head, woman, and come here.’

Obediently, she went to stand before him and suffered him to unpin the huge inverted and padded horseshoe netted with gold and swathed with gauze, and to shake her hair free of its embroidered side-pieces. She would not help him, but kept her eyes lowered. ‘My lord,’ she said, ‘it took me almost an hour to put that on.’

‘So what would they talk about at dinner, d’ye think, if I let you walk out of here unmolested? Eh?’ He took a deep fistful of her black hair and drew her face tenderly towards his own. ‘And do not sail quite so close to the wind, wench, with your talk of honour and such. Do you understand me?’

‘Yes, my lord.’ Slowly, she raised her arms and linked them around his head, drawing his lips close to hers until they met. Then, as if time had run out on them, as if their bodies, stretched to breaking point, could bear the delay no longer, their mouths locked, searching desperately. Breathless, laughing with relief, and with barely enough space to reassure each other, they clung as long-lost lovers do. Felicia cupped his face in her hands to taste him again. ‘Dearest…beloved…the pretence. I cannot keep it up…truly… I cannot.’

His laughter brought a flush to her cheeks. ‘That problem, wench, is quite the reverse of mine. Just feel…’ He took her hand and guided it.

Her attempt at shock was unconvincing. ‘Sir Gillan, not only have you stolen your neighbour’s daughter, but now you make indecent suggestions to her. Are you not—?’

‘Ashamed? Aye, that I cannot keep my mind on its business for love of you. How long is it since you put your spell on me?’

‘Years,’ she whispered. ‘Too many wasted years, God help us. Come, sweetheart, we must put Isolde first. My brother’s morals are not of the purest, as you well know. We must see what’s to be done about that first.’

He held her close, smoothing her hair. ‘Good, and beautiful, and caring. How did Rider La Vallon manage to spawn a woman like you?’

‘Ah…’ she caught his hand and kissed it ‘…he’s not what you believe, dear heart. You used to fish together as lads, did you not? And ride, and fight, and go whoring too, I believe? Admit it!’ She laughed, shaking the hand.

He did, sheepishly. ‘A long time ago.’

‘Not all that long ago. He’s never been malicious, Gillan. He’d never approve of putting Isolde in danger. Nor would Bard. There has to be another explanation.’

‘I hope to God you’re right, my love. She’s only a wee lass.’

‘She’s a woman, Gillan. Like me,’ Felicia said.

For want of a more original approach, Isolde repeated her concern. ‘What’s my father going to say? Have you thought about that?’

‘No, I cannot say I’ve given it too much thought.’ Silas La Vallon braced his arms like buttresses against the ship’s bulwarks and smiled, but whether at her question or at the appearance of land Isolde could not be sure. ‘I’ll concern myself with that when I have his reply in my hand.’

‘Reply? You’ve sent him a message?’ Yelping in alarm, the seagulls swooped round the rigging.

‘I sent him a message. Yes.’ He continued to study the horizon.

Isolde bit back her impatience. The man’s composure was irritating, as was his complete command of the situation, his refusal to respond to her disquiet. ‘Then since it probably concerns me, would you mind telling me what it contained? Or was it to do with the price of Halifax greens?’

Slowly, he swung his head to look at her, taking his time to drink in the reflection of the sea in her blazing green eyes and the fear mixed with anger. He knew she feared him, and why. ‘I dare say it can do no harm,’ he said. ‘I told him I’d keep you as long as he keeps Felicia, that’s all.’ The slight lift of one eyebrow enhanced the amusement in his eyes at her dismay, and at the temper she was already learning not to waste on him. She was silent. Fuming, but silent. That was good. ‘Well, maid?’ he teased her. ‘What d’ye think he’ll say to that? You know him better than me.’

‘Don’t call me that,’ she said.

‘Maid? Why ever not? Are you telling me—’ his smile was barely controlled and utterly disbelieving ‘—that you’re not a maid? That young brother of mine—?’

‘No! I’m telling you nothing of the sort,’ she snapped in alarm, trying to push herself away from the bulwarks to avoid him, but too late. His arms were now braced on each side of her and the information for which she had pressed him had now swirled away on another current.

‘No, maid, or you’d be lying. You’ve not been handled all that much, have you?’

‘You are impertinent, sir! Let me go!’

‘I’ll let you go, but not too far. Once we reach land, you’ll be safer staying close to me.’

‘Safer?’ She glared at him in open scorn. ‘Safer than what? You are a La Vallon and I am a Medwin; I’ve seen how safe that can be.’

The sea breeze lifted the dark silky overhang of hair from his brow, revealing a fine white scar that ran upwards like a cord and unravelled into his hair. ‘Safe,’ he repeated. ‘You have little to fear from me, I assure you. I shall treat you well as long as you abide by the rules.’

‘What rules?’

‘Hostage rules. You don’t need me to explain them, do you?’

No, she needed no explanation. Hostage rules were an unwritten acceptance of enforced hospitality; one person’s good behaviour against another’s safety. She had no doubts that, if need be, he would demand full payment, whatever that was. And so would her father. But what the latter would say in response was predictable. He would come to rescue her; she was convinced of that.

That, at least, was what her daytime voices assured her. It was all their doing: men’s responsibility. The night voices hummed to a less strident tune when, over the rocking of the waves, her fears became confused with strange emotions that were all the more disturbing for being unidentifiable. Unnerved, and indignant at his too-familiar closeness, she had taken her pledge of non-co-operation to its limits but had found it to be insignificant against his arms, which were too strong, his kisses too skilled. Bristling, she had had to yield to his demands which, fortunately, had left her still intact but without any real defence against such an artful invasion. She had slept in his arms because he had given her no choice, but what if her father should come here to Flanders to claim her and return Felicia to the La Vallons? What then?