‘You mean you’d have left the kitchen lass alone?’
‘Oh, for pity’s sake! Kitchen maids are fair game for anyone, and she wasn’t exactly unwilling. You know what I’m talking about. I even asked you point blank, but you skirted the question time and again until I’d made a fool of myself. Did that give you some pleasure?’
‘No, Bard. Forgive me. I should have made it quite clear to you how things were but…well…you see, the situation is new to me, too. And I still find it difficult to see myself as your brother’s mistress when I disliked him so at first. Don’t take it too hard, please. These are not exactly the most normal of circumstances, are they? And you’ll do better with a Matteus than you would with a Medwin. Think of all those diamonds.’ She watched the lift of his eyebrows.
‘I would have liked a Medwin, Isolde, but perhaps I’m too greedy. Ann-Marie told me that Silas relies on her father for trade, but he doesn’t, does he?’
‘Oh, dear. She told you that? The minx. No, it’s nowhere near the truth. And did you tell her a few of your…er…exaggerations?’
‘Well, yes and no. I told her what I believed at the time.’
‘Which was?’ Isolde’s heart sank.
‘That you couldn’t stand the sight of Silas.’
‘And?’
‘That you were in love with me.’
‘Desperately, of course.’
‘Yes, of course desperately. You see, you should have said.’
‘So it looks as if you’re going to have to explain to her that things have moved on.’
‘You couldn’t pretend…?’
‘No, dear Bard.’ She hung a brace of cherries over his protruding ear. ‘If you think I can pretend to loathe Silas whenever she’s around, forget it. Life’s difficult enough as it is. Go back to her and explain my fickle nature. She’ll believe it. Then sweet-talk her as you used to do with me.’
‘You remember?’
‘Of course I remember. How could I not? But for you I’d not be here. Nor would you.’
‘That’s true. But what makes you think she’ll believe you to be fickle? You are friends, are you not?’
Isolde could afford to be generous. She could also imagine quite clearly how sick she would feel if Silas were to reject her in favour of another woman. ‘Yes, love. We are friends. I’d even go so far as to tell her of your worthiness, in case she’s missed anything.’
‘Heavens, lass. She saw me for scarce an hour, but she makes up her mind faster than any woman I’ve ever met.’ He removed the cherries and ate them with some complacency.
‘A good eye, has Ann-Marie,’ Isolde whispered, her eyes glinting, understanding only too well the other woman’s line of reasoning. ‘Ah, Myneheere Matteus. You must go already?’
‘Alas, lady, it’s going to be a race against the curfew, as it is. I don’t want to be dragged before the burgomaster in the morning to explain myself. I’ve just been reminding Silas of the pageant on Saturday and Sunday. I’d like you to be my guests, watch the preparations from the burgomaster’s house.’
‘The same one you’d rather not be dragged before?’
‘The very same, Mistress Isolde,’ he beamed.
But for the approaching hour of curfew, Isolde would have persuaded him to stay longer, if only to delay the time when her last obstacle would yield, an event which Silas believed she feared and which Bard believed had already happened, while Cecily believed she should have been less precious about it from the start. She herself believed that the fear he suspected was more a natural reticence to yield her last possession to a La Vallon, of all people.
The curfew bell had long since died away with the last lingering light when, through her pillow, Isolde heard the sound of Silas’s door closing. With a sigh, she turned over, sliding a hand over her breast as he had done and nothing that the gesture lacked the assurance of his, for it did nothing to remind her of the strange ache she had felt then. She was half asleep when his hand returned to brush lightly over the sheet and then, as she half-turned towards him, to slip searchingly on to the bare warmth of her waist and rest in its valley.
‘I thought you’d forgotten,’ she said, sleepily.
‘Forgotten this?’ he said quietly, his deep voice rumbling against her ear. His hand moved upwards over her breast, neck and face, deep into her hair. ‘Nay, lass. This is something no one could forget.’ His hand delved into the loose tangle of her curls, cupping her head in his palm and lifting it to meet his own so that, even if she’d been so minded, she could not have evaded the path of his lips that followed her throat down to where his hand had been a few moments before. ‘Nectar,’ he whispered into the soft mound of her stomach. ‘Thou art like honey, Isolde. Like a ripe, luscious plum filled with sweetness. Will you give yourself to me? Can I have you now? All of you?’ As he spoke, his hand slid softly into the cleft between her thighs, changing the word on her lips into a gasp.
‘Link your arms around my neck. Hold on.’
She was lifted high up into the darkness against his naked chest and carried along the passageway to his cool room where the bed, scented with lavender, was peeled back in readiness for them.
‘We don’t want Mistress Cecily charging in thinking you’re having nightmares,’ he growled, laying her down. ‘And, talking of intruders, look who’s come to join us.’ A fragile body leapt on to the sheet beside her but was scooped up and deposited on the rush matting. ‘Thank you, Little Thing, but she won’t need your assistance. Stay there and dream of big gazehounds.’
They lay as they had done on the ship that had brought them here, almost able to experience again the rocking and the rhythmic whoosh of the sea as it speeded past, and Isolde was content to succumb to the slow caress of his hands, which now had licence to roam without hindrance. In a blissful state of surrender, she absorbed the wholeness of him along her body, exploring the taut muscles, the swell of his shoulders and thighs, the startling hardness of his arms and back which previously she had only guessed at. She listened, smiling, to his soft-spoken praises of her first evening as his lady, to his pride in her elegance and wit, her adroit handling of the merchant’s story, her exquisite social graces. Quite a step, he teased her, from their first tempestuous meeting.
She whispered into his neck, feeling the dense forest of hair above her nose. ‘I hated you on sight. You didn’t want me there, did you?’
‘I wanted you here, maid, like this. From that moment I wanted you in my bed here, under me. You knew it at the table, didn’t you?’ He pulled her under him with a hand beneath her hips, and for a brief moment let her feel the full weight of him on her body and the sensation of his skin almost enclosing her. ‘You did well to fight me off, sweet maid, but now the time of reckoning has come. I’ll take no more delays.’
‘Silas…you know…?’
‘Shh, of course I know. It’s all right. We’ll go slowly…slowly…like this.’ Matching his hands and lips to his words, he gently coaxed her body’s responses as if by magic, stroking and fondling in leisurely forays over surfaces which, until now, she had thought of as only functional, never as a source of delight or pleasure. Seduced by his lingering touch, she allowed herself to be rolled on to her stomach to expose her back to the caress of his lips on her neck and shoulders while his hands explored as if to make good the times she had held him away. When she could bear the suspense no longer, she swung round to reach for his hand, taking him by surprise.
‘Kiss me…please…kiss me again.’ Her plea was intercepted and, with every sense craving fulfilment, she came alive against his mouth, consumed by her own hunger. Pressing and lacing herself around him, she sought new experiences of her own devising without knowing how they would be received or how to restrain them, and it was almost with relief that her frenzy provoked Silas into taking control again, wrapping her in his arms and kissing her until she was breathless. Then, with masterly skill, he stoked the flames of her desire with the penetrating caress of his hand between her thig
hs that brought her to the very brink of rapture, until she felt helpless, like a boat adrift. She opened herself 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?’
‘Well…er…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
Sir 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 Broadbank 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, flecked 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 little 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, 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—’
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