greedily.
His possession of her was both the release and the capture for which
they had both waited so long. Intoxicated with the effort of
restraint, Silas eased himself with infinite care past the point where
her body convulsed and softened again, past her almost soundless gasp
that mingled shock with ecstasy, past her mewing cries towards the slow
voyage that would lead them to the inevitable destination. From a
distance, they both heard her calling to him, over and over, but Isolde
was lost as soon as the voyage began and she was unable to define the
incredible sensation of holding the one she loved inside her,
possessing him while being possessed, fusing him to her.
Blissfully, she lay on the tide and let it take her on, further and
further, savouring every detail of the new experience and loving Silas
for his blend of tenderness and domination.
Even as a complete novice, she became aware of a growing urgency deep
inside her that raged quickly out of control, and, not understanding
its significance, she cried out to him in panic.
"Silas... oh, no!"
Pushing at him, she fought to take over, but was held without mercy by
his arms and the relentless rhythm of his loins that knew better than
she how to ride out the storm.
Sensing her consternation, and knowing that there was no time for
explanations, he guided her, exhilarated, through the whirlpool for
which she was so unprepared and out into calmer waters, joining her in
a shout of triumph.
Never having received the slightest indication that there was anything
other than sheer exhaustion which brought to an end this incredible
activity, Isolde was confused by what had happened, not least the
massive tide of emotion that had shaken them both.
"What was it?" she whispered.
"You didn't tell me, did you? Why didn't anyone tell me?"
Silas raised his head from her shoulder, indicating by his unsteady
voice that he was struggling with laughter.
"Sweet, wonderful Isolde.
They don't tell you about that because. hah! " He buried his face in
her neck, kissing gently.
"Because, sweet thing, no one's come up with a good enough explanation.
Yet. Could you describe it?"
"Weller ... no."
He moved his lips upwards and over her chin.
"So that's why they don't even try." He took her mouth and lingered
playfully, remembering her animosity and her fear of him and wondering
at the fierceness this experience had brought her, a passion that had
excelled all his expectations. She was rare, exotic, responsive and
finely tuned. He'd be damned if he'd let her go, whoever they sent to
claim her.
Chapter Eight
On Gillan Medwin, Isolde's father, had been optimistic in his hopes
that the two men would reach York the day after his bidding. They did,
but only by taking the shortest route and the briefest of rests for
their horses. As it was, the city gates were ready to close on the
last few breathless travellers who had no wish to beg for shelter in
the suburbs. John Thatcher and James Broad- bank were not quite of
this ilk, being well dressed under a fine layer of dust, well-mounted
and well-spoken. The badge that decorated the harness of their strong
beasts was also repeated in the embroidery on their saddle-cloths, a
leather bottle with a halo of honey bees to signify the sweet fermented
honey drink that no poor man could afford. Medwin:
mead-friend. One did not close the gates too soon on men such as
this.
"God speed, sirs. Come a long way, have you?" said the man at the
Walmergate Bar.
"Aye, man, direct us to Alderman Fryde's house, if you will."
"Keep straight on, sir, till you reach the minster, then turn left into
Stonegate. You'll not miss Master Fryde's | house. It's the biggest."
| James Broadbank nodded and passed him a half| penny, wondering if
Fryde's supper table would match | the size of his house. James was a
pleasant-faced man ;
of thirtyish, with an honest nature that could not conceal a certain
pleasure in his mission that offered a night or two away from home.
Duty to his master came first, but visits to York were rare and, with
any luck, this business might take a few days.
John Thatcher, older, quieter and more sober in every respect, was Sir
Gillan's steward, who did not intend to stay in the great city a moment
longer than was necessary, or heaven only knew what they'd get up to in
his absence. Or what his flighty young second wife would get up to,
more particularly. He was lean, and nimble, and efficient. This
matter would be cleared up in no time. They soon saw that the
gatekeeper had not exaggerated: Fryde's house was indeed the largest,
hanging over the cobbled street in tier upon tier, every window glazed
and polished, its large courtyard even now being swept up before a pair
of horses had reached the stables.
A lad ran up to hold their bridles before the two men had chance to
declare themselves.
"God speed, sirs. Master Frith will take you in.
Supper's being served. I believe the master is expecting you. "
James Broadbank quirked an eyebrow at his companion.
"Is he?" he whispered.
"Course not. How could he be?" Thatcher frowned. '
"Lead on. Master Frith, if you please. The water pump will wait upon
our appetites."
For a private town house, the merchant's hall was large and full enough
for them to have slipped into one of the benches at the far end
unnoticed, but Master Frith the hall-steward was there to do his duty,
and, despite the clamour of diners, the discordant blast of musicians
tuning up and the yapping of hounds, he announced and seated them
midway along one side, where bottoms shifted to give them room. Their
own formal greeting was a formality unheard by Master Fryde at the top
table, or by any of his companions whose shouts to each other passed
for conversation. At one side, Mistress Fryde watched the arrival of
the newcomers with some interest and, seeing her husband's
preoccupation, beckoned Master Frith to her, receiving his whisper with
a nod and an instruction.
The supper, alas, was not as great as Master Broad- bank had hoped, nor
was it palatable. Thin, greasy gruel bobbed with rock-hard dumplings
in which the strong taste of sage and rancid meat fought for dominance.
The manchet bread was of hard brown rye and, in John's case, necked
with blue mould, his knife balking at the task of dissection.
"God's truth!" James growled.
"Is this what York's wealthy merchants eat?"
John Thatcher snorted, pushing away his wooden bowl and reaching for a
spitted bird so small he thought it must have been a sparrow. It
was.
"Well, James. If we can't have food, we shall have to make do with
music. We'll find a tavern later on."
"And a pie shop. You don't think he'll invite us...?"
"Nah! Course he won't. Shh!"
They would have been content to listen, clap, sing or even to stamp a
l
ittle in time to the troupe's rhythm, which reflected Master Fryde's
acceptance of second- best to save money. At best, they were noisy and
rhythmic; at worst, their zeal had more boisterousness and vulgarity
than musicality, though the master of the house appeared to appreciate
the performers' gradual decline through coarseness into indecency, an
appreciation shared even by Broadbank himself, if his bellows of
laughter were anything to go by. Thatcher preferred to watch Mistress
Fryde, whose attempt to leave the table with her lady had been
physically prevented by her husband. Few would have heard what he said
to her, but it was a command she dared not disobey, 1 and she lowered
herself to the bench in acute embarrassment.
There were two women in the troupe whose dancing consisted of taking a
dagger in each hand and balancing, upside-down, on the points, with
their feet where their heads should have been. To begin, they had
pulled their skirts between their legs but, to the growing crescendo of
stamping, the skirts gradually fell, assisted by anyone who could
reach, until the women were completely revealed from feet to waist, the
balancing on daggers overlooked in favour of the display.
Eventually they fell, and were pounced on by the rest of the troupe in
a tangle that sent the hall wild with delight, except for Mistress
Fryde, who pretended deep conversation with her lady.
John Thatcher gripped his friend's arm and yanked him up.
"Come on!
We've come here to do business, not to wait on this kind of
performance. Hey! " He called to a servant who passed with an ale
flagon.
"Tell your master there are two who come from Sir Gillan Medwin. We'll
await him in the courtyard." They made their exit unnoticed,
unsatisfied and, in Thatcher's case, disgusted. If this was how a
future sheriff kept his house, then God help the city of York, he
muttered to himself.
They had not long to wait in the darkening courtyard. A hound yelped
in pain, a door slammed, and Alderman Fryde, accompanied by a younger
man, appeared at the top of the stone steps that led to the great
iron-bound and studded door, giving him the advantage of a greater
height from which to address his two visitors.
"How the hell did you arrive without me knowing?" he barked.
Standing, he had little height but plenty of breadth, a mass of
quivering jowls making a solid pedestal for his ruddy sweating face.
Lank locks of greasy hair fell on to his shoulders from beneath a
ridiculously large and lop-sided turban.
John Thatcher would not reply directly to his question.
"If I'd known the like of your hospitality. Master Fryde, we'd not
have bothered arriving here at all. It was not difficult, I assure
you, but nor is it difficult to get into a whorehouse."
The young man at the host's side gave a yelp and stepped down one step,
his hand on the hilt of his sword.
"By God, sir!" But he stopped halfway when he saw that the two men
were not intimidated.
"Yes?" Broadbank said.
"Know about God, do you?"
"We've come to take Mistress Isolde Medwin back to her father,"
Thatcher continued.
"I presume you've found her by now, though I see she's not being forced
to watch that display as your lady wife is, thank God."
Fryde's colour deepened like a ripening strawberry, his lips
compressed.
"A new troupe. I'd no idea they were lewd. I shall turn them out."
He threw a command to the young man on the steps.
"Get them out, Martin! And get your mother here to tend the guests.
Your pardon, sirs, she should have been--' " Mistress Fryde will not be
required, sir. Sir Gillan sent us only to retrieve his daughter. She
will be safer at home, after all. "
"At this time of night?" Fryde blustered, clutching at the stone
banister to steady himself as he waddled precariously downwards.
"Really, there's no need."
"She is with you, I presume?"
"Weller she will be, soon enough." His blend of pompous dignity and
agitation were almost comical.
"No need to be alarmed."
The two men met him at the base of the steps.
"You are saying, I take it, that Sir Gillan's daughter is still
missing. Is that correct?"
Thatcher said.
Fryde took a deep breath to make himself taller.
"Well, the horses she took from my stables were returned only--' "
When? "
"Two days? Yes, on the day I sent the message to
Sir Gillan. They were left outside the Merchant Venturers Hall and
I've not been able to discover how they got there, except that it
indicates she must still be here, somewhere in York. But no message.
Nothing. I've got men searching, asking, but no trace yet. We're
doing our best. " His smile was nervously apologetic.
"I'm sure Sir Gillan will be relieved to know you're doing your
best."
Thatcher's tone was loaded with sarcasm.
"Your concern is obvious.
Does the city council know of your massive efforts to recover the lady?
Are they assisting you? "
"Eh?" Fryde quivered.
"No ... er, not yet. There's no need for anyone to be alarmed. A
girlish prank... eh?" He smirked.
"Mistress Isolde is a woman, sir," Thatcher snarled, 'as I'm sure you
must be aware. And while you're sitting cosily at your board, watching
whores show off their private parts before your entire family.
Mistress Isolde, daughter of your friend, is no longer in your
safekeeping but who knows where or in what danger. And you are, I
believe, expecting to be elected sheriff next year. Well, sir, they'll
be a tolerant lot if they're impressed by your efficiency over this
business, believe me. "
The man almost fell over himself on the bottom step, his attempts to
placate the two visitors now wearing thin.
"Look here, I've told you the matter's being taken care of. I have men
searching night and day."
"Where?"
"Eh?"
"Where are they searching, exactly?"
"Look, my man, don't take that tone with me. Go back to Sir Gillan and
tell him that--' " We shall do no such thing. Master Fryde. The first
thing we'll do is alert the sheriff and obtain his assistance, since
you've not already done that, I take it? "
Martin Fryde stepped forward again to forestall his father's negative
reply, his florid face and unruly lips reminding Broadbank vaguely of a
pile of uncooked sausages. His pale prominent eyes were cold and
angry.
"You've heard what my father said. The matter's in hand, but perhaps
if Mistress Medwin had been better disciplined by her father none of
this would have happened to embarrass our parents in the first place.
She was here only a week or so, yet her behaviour was anything but
dutiful, sir. My lady mother's had a time of it, I can tell you."
She appeared at that moment at the top of the steps, and in the dim
light both men could see the magenta and green bruising along one cheek
and around one eye.
It was to spare her a place in the discussion that
John Thatcher brought the fruitless interview to an end. Even so, he
would not allow this spotty young whipper-snapper to have the last word
about Isolde Medwin.
"Do not speak to me of discipline, young man, after the performance
I've seen in your father's supper hall. Sir Gillan will be more
appalled to hear of that than of his daughter's attempt to remove
herself from such influences. Mistress Fryde is to be pitied of the
time she's had of it. Sir Gillan will be in touch with you, no
doubt.
And with the city council. " He and Broadbank turned together and
there was no reply either of the Frydes could make that would have
altered the ugly mood of the debate.
Both Thatcher and Broadbank knew, of course, more than Fryde did about
Isolde's friendship with Bard La Vallon, and had already decided that
it was this young man who was responsible for Isolde's disappearance
and also for the return of the horses. Though they had no intention of
doing Fryde's investigation for him, they were duty-bound to do their
utmost for their master, and so, at first light on the following day,
they made enquiries along the wharf that ran parallel to Coney
The Maiden's Abduction Page 19