Juliet Landon

by The Maiden's Abduction

  ‘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?’

  ‘Well…er…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 Broad-bank 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 Street. From a series of encounters and clues, they managed to glean the information that a young man answering to Bard’s description had indeed gone aboard a northern cog full of lead and timber down river to Hull and then, presumably, to Flanders. But, no, he had had no young woman with him. This was an inconclusive state of affairs they had no wish to relate to Sir Gillan, nor did they trust Master Fryde with this information after witnessing what had doubtless provoked Isolde’s hasty departure. Nor could they jump aboard the next ship, which might not leave for several days, on a wild-goose chase to Flanders.

  They sat in the sunshine outside the Crowned Lion on Micklegate, closing their ears against the strident shouts of apprentices and the hungry buzz of wasps around the sticky table, their problems unresolved.

  ‘Drink up,’ Thatcher said. ‘There’s nothing for it; we’ll have to leave it in the sheriff’s hands.’

  Broadbank stood, relishing the idea of Fryde’s impending disgrace. In every one of their enquiries, the name of Henry Fryde had exposed a barrage of dislike ranging from mild disgust of his cheating practices to outright hatred of his power and corruption far beyond the common shady deals in which most merchants indulged. No one had had a good word for him.

  ‘Master Thatcher!’ A call cut through the din, making both men turn. Mistress Fryde’s bruised face was shaded by a wide-brimmed felt hat, her figure swathed in the plain dull garb of a working woman, and it was obvious to the two men that she did not wish to be recognised. Her eyes, which had once been large and soft, were now bloodshot and wary, though the trust which had once appealed to her husband was still apparent in some measure. ‘Can we talk?’ she whispered, approaching them like a furtive mouse. ‘Privately?’

  The men were concerned by the risk she was taking.

  ‘Mistress Fryde,’ John Thatcher said, ‘this is not wise. Come…’ he held out a protective arm ‘…away from the noise and prying eyes. You must not be seen with us.’

  They could not have known, nor could she, how accurate their fears were, for no sooner had she parted with her information and left them than two men of the Fryde household suddenly appeared at her side to escort her back to Stonegate and directly into her husband’s forbidding presence.

  With a more exact picture of Bard La Vallon’s contacts during his brief stay in York, extracted by Mistress Fryde from both her pretty laundry-maid and one of the kitchen boys, who had been buying fish on the wharf the day of Bard’s departure, Thatcher and Broadbank were now set to return to Sir Gillan with a more credible tale. Not good news, but credible.

  The day was too far advanced to start for home, the lodgings and the widowed ale-wife too accommodating for Broadbent to balk at another night’s stay. So they lingered in the warm evening sun that shimmered on the river below the Ouse Bridge, leaning on the parapet between the buildings that clung like limpets to the sides, watching with narrowed eyes the last of the day’s activities on the Queen’s Staithe where men prepared to grease the great crane. A lone rider plodded wearily along Skeldergate, passing the Staithe and heading towards the bridge with a head of deep copper hair that glowed in the sun’s pink rays. As he turned on to the bridge, neither of the two men had any doubts about his identity, for they might have been watching Sir Gillan thirty years ago, and, if they had not greeted him first, he would probably have stopped to ask for directions.

  ‘Master Medwin? Well met, sir. Welcome to York,’ they called.

  The rider pulled up and swung himself down, covering the last few paces on foot. His horse dropped his head, snorting in relief. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I certainly didn’t expect a welcoming
party.’ A grin of recognition spread across his handsome face, creating an even greater resemblance to his father. ‘Well met indeed, Master Thatcher…Master Broadbank. You are on the same mission as myself, I take it?’

  ‘We are, sir. If it had not been too late to set off for home, we’d have missed you. As it is, the situation may yet be saved by your presence. Shall we take you to our lodgings, sir, and tell you what we know?’

  ‘Is my sister safe?’

  ‘We have no way of knowing that yet, sir. She’s been taken by the elder La Vallon. The merchant. He has a ship heading for Flanders.’

  Allard Medwin stopped in his tracks. ‘What? Ye mean Silas? She’s with him?’ The frown of incredulity misled his two companions into thinking that he was angry. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. In a roundabout manner, we had it from a lass who spent a while in Bard La Vallon’s confidence—’

  ‘I’ll wager she did. Another bairn next year for York’s taxpayers.’

  ‘And she was told that Bard’s brother had deceived him. Run off with his woman.’ The story was recounted as the two Medwin servants, unable to contain themselves, spilled out the tidings that Allard, Isolde’s student brother, had come all the way from Cambridge at his father’s summons to discover for himself.

  Early the next morning, Thatcher and Broadbank headed for home with news that was still not good, but getting better, while Allard Medwin scoured the wharves for sea-going vessels with a space for a passenger. The only one he could find bound for the port of Sluys would not be leaving until the next day, just enough time for him to light a candle at the shrine of St William, sell his horse, and stock up with some warm clothes and food for the journey, with enough left over for his lodging and the weeks ahead.

  The first of Isolde’s new gowns to arrive was perfectly timed to coincide with her second visit to the Duchess of Burgundy, where she was to offer thanks for the gift of the Little Thing. Secretly, Isolde believed the summons to be an excuse for another chat about York, but it gave her the chance to dress up at last, and she shook the magnificent fabric free of its folds like a child with a new toy. Even without this newest delight, her face was radiant after the night spent in Silas’s arms; with it, her happiness shone like a light that sparkled in her green-brown eyes against the sage, turquoise and gold of the shining silk. The large pomegranate motifs emerged as the fabric fell, linked with twisting stems and scrolling leaves, shimmering and rich. The tailor had sewn tiny bells along the hem of velvet, a green band echoed on the cuffs that reached over her knuckles in the latest fashion. Two wide velvet bands fell over her shoulders to the wide sash, the square neckline filled in by a finely-embroidered under-dress that revealed the beautiful swell of her breasts.

  Silas linked a wide collar of delicate goldwork studded with turquoise and pearls around her neck, removing at the same time the hand that flew modestly to cover the expanse. ‘I want it to be seen, sweetheart,’ he said.

  ‘Which, it or me?’

  ‘Both. Just enough to make an impression. More than that would be unfair.’ He smiled at her reflection in the mirror.

  ‘More than that would be indecent.’ She smiled back.

  ‘You look ravishing. I think I might not let you go,’ he teased.

  ‘And if you insist on dressing to show every bulge, sir, you can expect to have a queue of Ann-Maries fighting to get at you.’

  ‘Bulges, lady? Which particular bulge are you referring to, I wonder?’

  Laughing, she turned to answer Cecily’s beckoning finger to have her hair dressed. She might have had any number of bulges in mind, from shoulders to pleated chest, braguette to buttocks, thighs to calves covered in green silk brocade, patterned and plain. Under long hanging sleeves, a white embroidered shirt showed through a slit at each elbow, and a jewelled belt was hung with a gold-ornamented scabbard of finest tooled leather. Silas looked every inch the prosperous merchant, but, more to the point, he was also the handsomest creature Isolde had ever seen, masculine even in his finery, superbly healthy, lithe and strong. Last night they had not slept until dawn, when sheer exhaustion had claimed them in mid-kiss. Recalling his passion, and her own, the smile that played around her lips was not dispersed even by Mei’s tug at the most sensitive part of her scalp. He was pleased with her, of that she was quite sure.

  As before, her hair was coiled into a nest of jewelled plaits, threaded with gold cords and crowned with a plain gold circlet that dipped on to her high forehead. ‘Exotic’ was Silas’s word for her.

  Their entry into the Princenhof was less straightforward than previously, when Caxton and his assistant had met them. This time the courtyard was filled with the Duke’s courtiers and their horses, who waited for him to appear. To be ushered through the throngs that lined the stairways and corridors to the Duchess’s chamber was, to say the least, unnerving for Isolde, who could almost feel the stares upon her sumptuous attire. Protectively, Silas drew her arm through his, telling the little white gazehound in Isolde’s arms that it must not think they were taking it back, to which it replied with a frantic whipping of its tail behind her elbow.

  Unmistakeable in the dark blue figured velvet, the Duke of Burgundy was with the Duchess and her court as Silas and Isolde were shown into the room and, if they had hoped to wait quietly at one side, they soon saw that the Duke missed nothing. He turned to stare, haughtily receiving Silas’s immaculate bow and Isolde’s deep curtsy in a lingering silence that his wife eventually broke with a whisper, in English, ‘Master Mariner and Mistress Medwin of York, my lord. You remember Silas?’

  The interval gave Isolde time to regard the man whose seven-year-old marriage to Margaret of York would be celebrated during the coming weekend at the festival they called the Pageant of the Golden Fleece. At forty-two years old he was still good-looking, if a rather weak chin could be discounted. His full and sensuous mouth had dimpled corners that betokened some humour as well as the harshness for which he was famed. He was known as Charles the Bold with good cause. He was tall and well built, even forbidding in his plainness except for the glint of gold on his padded cote-hardie from the chain and pendant of the Order of the Golden Fleece. A dark fringe of hair almost touching his heavy black brows was cut straight over grey eyes, shaded by a huge velvet creation that could have nested a pair of storks. His long legs were shapely in tight blue hose that ended in extravagant points at the toe, and his waist was neatly belted by a leather girdle that flared the fur-edged pleats and slit-sides of the cote-hardie over his hips. Only one ring adorned the elegant hand that splayed its fingers over the blue brocaded velvet, a hand which Isolde had heard could wield a sword and lance with the best warriors of Europe.

  His English was near-perfect. ‘So,’ he said. ‘The first lady Silas Mariner brings to court, and she holds my hound in her arms. Do you come to take the other one too, mistress?’

  Isolde was not taken in by the censorious tone; Silas’s pressure on her fingers and his glancing smile verified what she had already suspected. ‘I have come, your Grace, to thank her Grace the Duchess for her gift, as one Yorkshire woman to another. Do I also owe thanks to you, sir?’

  The Duke’s mouth tweaked, then he stepped to one side, flourishing a hand in the Duchess’s direction. ‘To the lady first, I think.’

  The warning of what was to come would have been impossible for Isolde to miss, for there was in the Duke’s eye an expression that fed ravenously upon her beauty, unrelenting even while she placed the little creature in Cecily’s arms. She came forward to enter the Duchess’s gentle embrace, accepting her soft kiss to both cheeks. ‘Thank you, your Grace,’ she whispered. ‘It was the kindest gesture to one so far from home.’

  ‘My dear. She’s taken to you?’

  ‘Immediately.’ Isolde’s face lit with a spontaneous and ravishing smile. ‘Both of us.’ Whether the Duchess and she would have been allowed to say more at that point, Isolde never discovered, for then the Duke took her arm to draw her to his side with se
eming impatience.

  ‘Your thanks to me now, lady, since we are speaking in the English fashion.’ There was no time at all between his command and the taste of his generous mouth upon hers or his hands on her arms obliging her to wait upon his pleasure which, to Isolde, seemed unnecessarily protracted for such a small gift. His release of her was similarly reluctant. ‘Congratulations, Silas Mariner,’ he said softly in French, tasting his lips. ‘I think you and I have some business to do before the court leaves for Mechelin next week. Wait on me tomorrow, eh?’

  Isolde could look neither at Silas nor at the Duchess, yet it was Cecily’s eyes that told her the gist of the Duke’s remark to which, observed from all sides, they could show no reaction. Although under the sovereignty of France, Flanders was ruled by the Duke who, like his father, Philip the Good, selected his mistresses without secrecy. They were always honoured, as were their husbands and families; not one of them would have dreamed of refusing the rewards that went with the status. No one ever recorded the Duchess’s thoughts about the habit: they were trained in a more private warfare.

  The Duke left shortly after that, leaving the Duchess free to indulge in conversation with her friends. With the sweetest smile, she invited Silas and Isolde to the ducal banquet on the second evening of the festival, and when Isolde told her they’d be watching the earliest processions from the mayor’s house, she laughed prettily. ‘Ah, you are using the English title, my dear. You’ll have to learn to call him the burgomaster, you know. You must get Silas to teach you some Flemish. And French, of course.’

  ‘Is it difficult, your Grace?’

  ‘To speak Flemish is well-nigh impossible.’ She laughed. ‘But to understand, no, not at all. As for French, you’ll soon pick that up. You’re young.’ In her smile was a complete understanding of Isolde’s concerns, and the light squeeze on her arm lay a fraction longer than was strictly necessary. ‘Two Yorkshire women,’ she whispered. ‘How’s that for a coincidence?’ Her delicate eyebrows lifted in secret delight, her blue eyes full of conspiracy and laughter.