Isolde was tempted to follow the Duchess’s lightheartedness, and she smiled whilst inwardly applauding the woman’s courage, but as soon as the opportunity arose they took their leave and, with characteristic bluntness, Isolde’s fears were loosed. ‘What was the Duke’s remark?’ she said.
‘Which one?’
‘In French.’
‘Forget it.’
‘Silas?’
He led her down the wide staircase, refusing to elaborate, and Isolde realised that she had mistimed her enquiries.
Pieter de Hoed, who had ridden behind with mistress Cecily, took his master to one side as soon as they reached the courtyard of the Marinershuis. ‘A moment, sir, if you please.’ He led Silas to the heavy wooden gates, opening a crack just large enough to peep through. ‘Take a look, across there by the trees.’
Silas looked. ‘Who are they?’
‘They’ve followed us all the way from the Princenhof, sir. To find out where you live, I suppose.’
‘Or where Mistress Isolde lives, more like.’
‘You think they’re English?’
‘I expected it,’ Silas said, closing the gate. ‘Well done, Pieter. Tell Mei to be extra vigilant, will you?’
Isolde held her peace on the matter of the Duke’s remarks. She would not even mention it to Cecily as they strolled after the mid-day meal into the sunny garden where, at the far end, progress had already begun on the new paths and raised beds, the wattle fences and turf seats. The tailor was expected to return that afternoon with Cecily’s gown, and when men’s voices were heard in the courtyard, the two women gleefully made a beeline for the archway, sure of being confronted by beaming smiles and mountains of pale grey damask and plum-striped velvet.
Silas’s voice stopped her before they had rounded the corner; something in the tone rather than the words that warned her not to expect the tailor, after all. She waited, then, as the voices faded into the far room, she entered the passageway where Pieter stood guard. ‘Who is it?’ she whispered.
He frowned, but still managed to look pleasant. ‘Someone who says he knows you, mistress. Fry, is it?’
‘Fryde? Oh, no!’ Isolde was horrified. ‘Oh, surely he’d not come all this way. Big man, is he?’ She held out her arms to the sides, letting the full skirt of her gown fall to the floor. ‘Big jowls?’
‘Jowls. No, this one is young.’ He nipped his fingers together at the side of the mouth. ‘Big lips.’ He smiled.
The smile was not returned. ‘God in heaven, Cecily—’ she clutched at her maid’s arm ‘—what am I to do?’
‘You don’t have to do anything, child. If Master Silas can’t handle young Fryde then no one can. You could hardly be better dressed for a confrontation, could you? Pretend everything’s as it should be.’
‘I don’t need to pretend.’
‘Well, then.’ Cecily nodded to the door. ‘D’ye want me there, too?’
Isolde shook her head, assumed her most supercilious expression and asked, ‘How’s that?’ She half closed her eyes for good measure.
‘Perfect,’ said Pieter.
‘Perfectly terrifying,’ Cecily said drily.
‘Well, then.’ Picking up her skirts and the Little Thing, she swept through the door that Pieter held open for her with the words, ‘Silas, did you know that—?’ already half-delivered before coming to an abrupt halt in simulated astonishment.
‘Did I know what, mistress?’ Silas said. On one shoulder, he leaned against the white wall that reflected sunlight on to his face and dark silky hair, his demeanour suggesting that he might have been discussing the latest Venetian cargo. ‘Will it wait? You remember the gentleman, Master Fryde of York, do you?’
Martin Fryde had clearly not expected the vision in turquoise, green and gold who now stood before him; the last time he had seen her she had been very differently attired. Thrown off-balance by her magnificence, he exploded. ‘Of course she does! She’s intended for my…’ The explosion died, prematurely.
‘Intended for what?’ Silas slowly returned his attention to the visitor. ‘Your breakfast?’
Fryde ignored the wit, making a bow that was intended to impress them more for its extravagance than its lateness. ‘Your servant, Mistress Isolde. As you see, I’ve crossed the ocean to rescue you.’
Silas groaned audibly. ‘Oh, lord! This is going to get monotonous.’
‘Rescue me?’ Isolde said, before Silas could make his predictable rejoinder. ‘That’s very civil of you, sir, but I’ve already been rescued once.’
‘Twice,’ Silas muttered. ‘But who’s counting?’
‘I don’t think I’m quite ready for the next one yet.’
Fryde’s mouth tightened as he looked from one to the other for signs of levity. He had suffered as much as Bard from the voyage. His usual ruddy colouring had paled to a sickly hue that was not complemented by the magenta velvet doublet and paler cote-hardie of many pleats, and though his tall flower-pot hat was elegant enough, his rose blush was for the unwashed salt-sprayed hair of muddy blond that exposed his ears unkindly. ‘What d’ye mean? Rescued once from what?’
‘From York. Do you not remember my stay in your father’s house on Stonegate? I prayed daily that someone would rescue me, and my prayers were answered. Do you not think that was fortunate?’
The sickly complexion deepened. ‘You jest, mistress, I’m sure. That was your way, I remember, but you need have no fear of this man. My father sends you his assurances that no reprisals will be taken after your return. All you have to do is gather your belongings and return with me to my father’s guardianship, after which he will let your father know that you are safe. Imagine how anxious he must be.’
‘I don’t have to. My father knows I’m safe.’
‘Pardon? How can he know that?’
‘Because Master Silas told him so.’
‘Really. Well, Sir Gillan will hardly believe that, will he? Not when you’re in a La Vallon’s custody. We all know—’
‘Have care, sir. You are in a La Vallon house, you may recall.’ Silas spoke softly, with no hint of a threat, but the point was taken. ‘And Sir Gillan will believe it because he has my word. Which is why the lady will be staying in my protection.’
Clearly not enjoying the argument, Fryde resorted to his original complaint. ‘But Mistress Medwin was intended for me, sir. That’s why—’
‘Really? Intended by whom and for what purpose?’
‘By our fathers. They—’
Isolde broke in before he could expand the idea. ‘Oh, no! That they did not! If my father had made an agreement, he would have consulted me first. They may both have voiced a wish to each other at one time, but—’
‘There you are!’ Fryde gathered up the morsel eagerly. ‘There, you see, that’s what I meant. They did both wish it, and so did you, mistress, if your behaviour towards me in York was anything to go by.’
‘What?’ Silas collected a stool in one quick swoop and set it down behind Fryde’s legs with a crash, then drew Isolde towards him, seating her on the long bench by his side. ‘Sit down, Master Fryde. That way you can make your accusations in comfort. Now, exactly what was this behaviour you speak of? Come on, man. Say it before her so that she can have it firsthand. We need to know of these things.’
‘She’s not told you?’
‘Get on with it!’
However, Isolde did not intend to hear anything at first-hand which she would be expected to deny. ‘One moment, Master Fryde,’ she said, reverting to the expression and voice she had prepared outside the door. ‘Just one moment, if you please. If you have it in mind to suggest that my behaviour towards you in York was anything more than the most distant politeness, then I beg you will not perjure yourself. You know as well as I do, sir, that not by one word, look or gesture did I ever give you reason to believe that there could be anything between us, not even friendship, and if I had not left your father’s house when I did, I would have left it some other way, for I had no
intention of staying there another week. Now, sir, do not attempt to blacken my name or your own with lies of this nature.’
Fryde’s eyes bulged angrily. ‘Then ask yourself this, if you will. How black will the Medwin name be when it’s known in York that you’re living here with a La Vallon, unmarried and without your father’s consent? If you care as much as you say for your name, then return quietly with me to my father’s house where Sir Gillan can claim you, and no more harm done. Surely Master La Vallon will allow you some choice in the matter?’
Isolde opened her mouth to speak, but Silas was quicker. ‘That seems perfectly fair to me. You can see how the lady pines for home. I lock her up in the cellar—’
‘Attic.’
‘Most of the time without any clothes—don’t interrupt, woman—and with only a pet dog for company, so it’s quite possible that by now she’ll be glad to chase back to York to the comforts of the Fryde household. So, lady. The choice is yours. You may speak.’
‘Thank you, my lord.’ Isolde’s demure expression hid her rising laughter. ‘The truth is that I cannot decide immediately. A woman’s privilege, you see. Besides, it’s the pageant at the weekend and I’d so looked forward to seeing it, if you’ll let me out of the attic—’
‘Cellar.’
‘By then, if I promise to be dutiful?’
‘We’ll see.’
‘Thank you, my lord. So perhaps, Master Fryde, if I could give you my reply in a few days? Would one day next week be convenient?’
Fryde had already risen, not sure enough of either of them to know whether he was being made a fool of or accommodated. In the light of their deadpan faces, he gave them the benefit of the doubt. ‘Then I have no choice, mistress, but I pray you will lose your fear of this man and give a thought to the direction of your future. Think of your father’s good name as well as your own.’
‘Thank you for your advice, sir. I pray for my father daily. Now, may we escort you to your horse? In the courtyard, is it?’
‘I came by water.’
‘Ah, so we shall attend you there.’ They walked with him to the water gate, politely discussing the skyline of spires and towers and holding the boat close against the steps as he leapt aboard with unnecessary swagger. By some mischance, Pieter’s hold of the boat slipped from him before the unfortunate Fryde’s manoeuvre was completed and, despite his wild clutch at the boatman’s hand, his foot hit the slippery step below the water, shooting out and depositing him on his bottom between the boat and the bank.
‘Oh, dear,’ Silas said, tonelessly, guiding Isolde back through the door on to the pathway. ‘Pieter, I shall be forced to dismiss you if you can’t hold a boat still. Get inside, man.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Pieter said, ignoring Fryde’s dripping form. He closed the water gate upon the yells of outrage, and bolted it.
‘Now, woman. Is it to be the cellar or the attic?’
By mutual agreement, they could get no further than Isolde’s chamber before Silas swung her hard into his chest and pushed the door with his heel. His kisses were fierce and possessive, as if to reinforce their agreement to fend off allcomers, though she could not believe that, in Fryde’s case, his concern was serious. ‘What is it, beloved?’ she whispered against his cheek. ‘You don’t believe what he said, do you?’
His eyes were black with desire. ‘Of course not, sweetheart, but he does, and I’ll not give you up to the likes of that little pinprick.’
She might have smiled at the description, but the implications were more serious than that, and his mouth was now on her throat, sending the deep vibrant voice through her skin, diverting the flow of her thoughts.
He unclasped the wide golden collar from her throat and laid it on the chest, then tripped off his own doublet, unlacing her rich gown and letting it drop around her feet like a solid aquamarine. His hands roamed over the fine cotton chemise, easing it over her shoulders and beautiful breasts, his eyes gazing, singing her praises in silence.
Isolde pulled at his points to release his shirt, drawing it up over his head as his arms came around her, and she felt again the heat of his skin upon her body and the strength of him as he lifted her. Even in their urgency, the ghost of a question drifted across her mind, but she stowed it away until this voyage was in calmer waters.
Chapter Nine
Reflections from the water flickered across the raftered ceiling, dancing madly after each boat that passed and reminding Isolde of how short and ineffectual her resistance had been against this man’s siege. As insubstantial as ripples. Sated and exhilarated by his passionate loving, she could have found it easy enough to close her mind to the doubts that shadowed her, to live each day as if tomorrow did not exist, telling herself that the exclusion of the word love, which above all words would have been most comforting, was of no consequence. But the questions emerged again, persistent and carping.
She fondled the muscular neck and followed the slope of his throat down to a hollow that worked like a spring to open his sleepy eyes.
‘What is it, then? Come on, you can let them out now,’ he said.
‘Let what out?’
‘The questions, wench. They’ve been burning a hole in you since this morning, haven’t they? Eh?’ He picked up a loose half-plaited tendril and curled its end around his finger.
‘How did you know?’
His slow smile was almost her undoing. Did questions matter, after all? ‘You’re not so hard to read, sweetheart. Your green eyes are like windows. You’re concerned about the Duke, are you not?’
Isolde looked away. That, and other things. ‘Less than a week,’ she whispered. ‘Less than a week.’
He was above her in one move. ‘No, lass,’ he said, gently. ‘Calculate from the beginning and stop chastising yourself. You think I tried to make it easy for you to resist? With your fire I stoked it like the devil from the beginning, believe me. You were no push-over. You hated my guts. It could have gone either way if I’d not had a care. I’m not gloating over my conquest, but I cannot resist showing my pride for all that. Men do, you know.’
‘And the Duke. What did he say to you that could not be said in English?’
‘He wants you. It’s as simple as that.’
She flinched at his bluntness. ‘Is that the usual formula? In front of the Duchess? Just a word. No more?’
Silas rolled on to his back, pulling her into his arms and spreading her across him. ‘I don’t know what his usual formula is, sweetheart. How could I? All I know is that his mistresses are pleased to be chosen for the material advantages they gain. He’s very generous to them, as he is to their kin.’
‘So you would benefit if I became his mistress?’
‘Certainly I would.’
‘I see.’
‘No, you don’t. You don’t see at all. The conditions I set out for you yesterday don’t include anyone else, only ourselves and our immediate families. No Dukes, no painters, no printers, no merchants and their puny offspring. I thought I’d made that clear.’
‘You did.’ There was a silence. ‘But I wondered if he might be an exception you could not afford to overlook.’
‘There are no exceptions. The Duke may never have had a refusal, but he’s not too old for new experiences. You will not become his mistress. Did you fancy the idea?’
She moved further over him, nestling her face into his neck. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I didn’t. But who are all these others?’
‘Which others?’
‘The painters and printers.’
‘Memlinc, Van der Goes, that Wordy Wynkyn. They’re all straining at the leash to get at you, lass. You’d only have to blink.’
‘Oh, Silas! What nonsense.’
His hand smoothed over her hip and buttock. ‘No, it’s not. I can read them, too. But you’re going to have to watch out for real danger, love, from now on.’
‘From Martin Fryde? Surely not.’
‘He didn’t come here alone.’
Isolde lea
ned up to look deeply into his face and was met with a seriousness that made her frown. ‘How d’ye know?’
‘Three of them are staying at the English Merchants House. I know exactly where they go and who they speak to. Young Fryde will know by now that it’s no use coming back here for your answer. They’ll try some other way to get at you.’
Briefly, she leaned her cheek against his, feeling the combined thud of their hearts. ‘Silas. Don’t let them, please.’
His arms came round her, rocking and caressing. ‘As long as you stay close to me they don’t have a chance. Trust me. But be on your guard and don’t allow Mistress Cecily to go out on her own, either. This is not like Yorkshire, you know.’ His kiss was warm and reassuring and, when it ended, she flopped breathlessly on to his shoulder.
‘Doesn’t the Duchess mind?’ she said.
He chuckled, a deep vibrating sound that she could feel through her fingertips. ‘She must be used to it by now, but she’s devised her own compensations. She doesn’t suffer too much, I believe.’
‘You mean, she takes lovers?’
He made a sound that meant yes, but more than that, bringing Isolde instantly to a state of alertness. She straddled him, suddenly angry. ‘You!’ she said. ‘You’ve been her lover, haven’t you? Don’t deny it, Silas Mariner.’
Silas took her wrists and held them away. ‘I don’t intend to,’ he said, coming close to a grin. ‘Why should I?’
‘And how long did she delay?’ she snapped, struggling for possession of her arms. ‘Did she hold you off for minutes, or was it hours? Did you make love to her here, on this bed, or was it between silken sheets?’
She was pushed over and held down, fighting him in a white-hot frenzy of jealousy. She had thought the Duchess to be pure and blameless, courageous, too. She had put Silas’s obvious experience aside as being of no matter to her, yet the thought of the two of them together was far more potent than either of them singly. The affaire must have meant much to them, for they were a powerful couple. Was he being rewarded with the Duchess’s patronage as the Duke’s mistresses were? Was that why Silas was so successful?
Juliet Landon Page 17