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 Princen- hof, 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 after 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 Remish.
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
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 Princen- hof, 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 after noon 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 dye 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 first-hand. 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
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 all comers 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