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 jaway 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 Broad- bank 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, T 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 himT 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 claim
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
underdress that revealed the beautiful swell of her breasts.
Silas linked a wide collar of delicate gold work studded with turquoise
and pearls around her neck, removing at the same time the hand that
flew modestly to cover the expanse.
&nbs
p; "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
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 seeming 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.
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