Eloise had found the Cathayan art in Baghdad and had been drawn east by it. Her undying curiosity had bolstered her through the harsh journey, where she had joined with a group of Latin traders, walking through the desert, then through the vast lands of Cathay. The traders had bought the silk they came for and returned, while Eloise had stayed, finding a culture so different and refined, she could not bring herself to leave.
With Malik leaving for the day, Eloise dressed, wearing the silk gowns the women here wore. Being a foreigner, she’d found that no one expected anything from her in terms of dress or behaviour—free to choose her own path, beholden to no one or the conventions they held. Through her travels, she had learned so much, including skills in book-binding, which she utilized when she needed money. At the moment, she needed very little and could indulge her quest for learning, and there was so much here—Confucian principles, the teachings of the Buddha, and all the things she hadn't even discovered yet.
Making her way through the streets of the foreign quarter, she sought out the tea house where she normally took her morning meal. It was run by an Ottoman and provided lovely, spiced tea, different from the teas the Cathayans liked. Even with tea, there was so much to experience. The fragrance of the hot, milky liquid teased her nostrils as she blew on it.
Cambeluc was beautiful, the buildings ornate with their curved roofs, glazed green and shone when the sun hit them. The wood was also glazed, either red or green. Intricate metal chimes caught the wind. Although it was a vast city, there were times of the day when it was calm and serene. Here, traders sold anything this world had to offer, even things from the West, from where metal was valued.
Having finished her tea, Eloise walked along the street, considering the wares. The porcelain never stopped astounding her, every color in the world represented, so fine it was like they had captured mist. Some even grew translucent when filled with tea. Eloise couldn't truly fathom how such exquisite things existed, but here, no one was surprised or overly impressed.
The Cathayans loved colors, bright and shiny silks, jewels from the finest stones and silver. The Mongols were so different—heavy, dark and earth bound, whereas the Cathayans were air and mist, and brightness. As wealthy as the Mongols grew on Cathay's land and riches, they never joined with Cathayan society, drawing resources from every corner of their empire to maintain their hold. Like Malik, foreigners were used in administration to discourage power building amongst the Cathayans, but discord and distrust only grew. Malik predicted there would be trouble as the Cathayans would revolt again, building more support every year, bolstered by discord in the Mongol empire.
From what Eloise had ever read, conquest was never permanent, requiring too much energy to maintain. Even her own people, although conquerors, were now fighting their own origin, France, to claim their identity, unwanted by their now-distant relatives. Everything returned to where it belonged in the end—maybe even her, but she couldn't see it.
From what the Buddha said, nothing had permanence, as was true for the haven she had built here, with Malik. Having trouble accepting it, she fought, knowing it was a lost cause. She could not accept the terms if they left here together, and he knew well enough that he would resent her if he stayed. Their existence was doomed, but she would do nothing to hurry it along.
She had no idea what her future held. Perhaps she would go south to India. The stories from there promised a strange and vivid land. She was not afraid of being alone. If anything, she had learnt that she always met kindred people, and had done so many times on her slow journey eastward from England, letting the journey take her wherever it would. It was the people she met that had led her here, and they would likely continue to do so. So many friends she would like to meet again one day. But where her home was … ? She had grown to accept that perhaps she didn't have one. The followers of Buddha said that was fine. Or maybe she would go back to Europe, set up a book-binding business and just stay in one place. Constantinople, perhaps. Athens was nice, too, and the weather was pleasing.
Somehow she didn't see anything drawing her back to England. There was nothing there for her but painful memories. Perhaps that wasn't entirely true, but the painful memories were as of yet more powerful than the others. Admittedly that could change one day, but Eloise saw no need to encourage it along.
Chapter 5:
* * *
Crossing the great desert, Hugo had cursed the little witch's name every step of the way. He had joined with a group of traders from Constantinople, whom he'd found in Baghdad, preparing to travel east. Finding traces of her hadn't been hard as there wasn't an abundance of English noblewomen interested in philosophy.
At a price, the Mongol administration had given them small clay tablets that they hung around their necks, which gave them passage through the Mongol empire. The Mongols had particularly questioned his purpose there, recognizing that he was not a trader. One of the traders had to interpret for him, stating that he had to provide a message to a foreigner living either in Kashgar or further east—as he'd known in his bones that she wouldn't have stopped in Kashgar. Eloise Chanderling proved difficult at every turn and finding her in Kashgar would prove the easier of the options, hence the least likely.
He'd been right; she'd only stopped in Kashgar for a month, and he had to continue across the god-forsaken desert, anger and resentment dogging every one of his steps.
It was clear that Eloise headed to the center of things, which would only be Cambeluc, and once he got on the other side of the desert, that name alone would get him directions from the small and thin creatures that lived on this far end of the world. He learned to tell the Mongols from the Cathayans, initially by behavior, but subsequently by facial features.
Cambeluc was unlike any city he had ever seen, and he'd seen more than he'd ever wanted to. Like most cities, the foreigners were relegated to a section of the city, typically outside the defensive walls, comfortably sacrificed if invasion and attack came. Cambeluc was so far into the Mongol territory, in was unlikely a foreign army would come to sack the city.
Each custom in this city was strange, but there was also a mix of people—Latins, Saracens, Russians, and, of course, Mongols. The food was strange and eaten with small sticks, the language fast and nasal, and the currency was paper, given value it didn't deserve.
His inability to communicate made her difficult to find, but he knew by instinct that she was here in the city. So he wandered the foreign quarters searching for her. The foreigners in the city tended to be men, so it wasn't hard to see the women. The few Saracen women were hooded and cloaked, as they did even in the most intense heat. There were also Indian women, with their bright clothes, dark skin and large, black eyes.
Every manner of language was spoken, except French, of which he heard none, but then neither the French nor the English were great traders, so it was perhaps not surprising.
The Cathayans seemed to treasure delicacy and their wares were intricate and fine, and Hugo felt like they would break under his fingers if he touched them, and their equally small and delicate sellers gauged him wearily, probably wondering the same thing.
For days he wandered, eventually spotting yellow hair moving through the market. It was the thing he searched for because he knew she had such hair. Moving through the crowd, he tried to find it again, doing so eventually when he walked around a stall, seeing her inspecting porcelain glazed blue like the sky. Her delicate fingers suited the vase she held. With a smile, she put it down and moved on, and Hugo followed. She wore a bright yellow gown of the fashion Cathayan women wore. It shone in the sun and there were birds printed or sewn onto the material, and her hair flowed unadorned and unrestricted.
After all this time, crossing the entire world, he'd found her. He wasn't letting her out of his sight, but equally he wasn't going to make his presence known yet either, having no idea how she would react. He also questioned if it truly was her, having known instantly when he saw her, but now that he looked close
r, he noticed the woman she had grown into. Her cheeks had slendered and she had grown into her eyes. Her body was also distinctly womanly, as opposed to the last time he'd seen her when she was still very much a child. No, it was definitely her, he confirmed.
He followed her through the streets until she entered a building through a set of stairs—her domicile, he presumed. It seemed she lived on the upper story where the rooms had large windows and white, flowing curtains. It was a typical Cathayan building with dark wood and white walls, and the rounded green tiles they used.
If he were higher he could see in. Looking around, he searched for a spot, wondering if it was best to confront her in her house. Knowing the lay of the land was imperative in any campaign, so it would suit his purposes to know the layout of her house.
Climbing up onto the roof, he could see in through the large open windows. Shutters would keep the chill out at night, but the climate this time of the year was good—a little chilled, but not biting. At least it was cool enough to make the chainmail covering his torso tolerable to wear. It had been uncomfortable in Baghdad and impossible to wear in the desert, even if he felt exposed without it.
She sat at a desk, writing with a stylus fashioned in brass. The silk of her gown slid around her legs, parting to reveal more than modesty allowed. Her legs were slim and creamy, and surprisingly, unwanted tension filled him. Perhaps it was not surprising as the little witch had grown into a lovely woman and he hadn't been in the company of one, tending his needs, for months.
But then a man came, a Saracen. Hugo's attention turned to him when he entered the ground level door to her rooms. Hugo watched as the man appeared in the rooms upstairs. For a moment, Hugo considered how he could cross the space and defend her. He refused to accept that he'd come all this way to lose her right in front of his eyes. But she didn't react with fear, he realized—quite the opposite. She was pleased to see the man and came over to kiss him.
Snorting, Hugo knew it—she was a whore. The idea of her traveling across the world to study the arts of philosophy or whatever seemed too outlandish. Whoredom made much more sense, and the familiarity with this Saracen was beyond doubt. She returned to the desk and the Saracen disrobed. Hugo was about to leave, not wanting to watch further when he noted that the wardrobe the Saracen returned his robes to had others. Hugo paused. This wasn't simply a whore meeting a client—this man lived here.
Hugo watched as the man sat down on another chair where she was and poured liquid into a brass cup. They spoke and Eloise smiled. The idea struck Hugo that they might be married, but he could not see a band on her finger. Irrespective, the earl would never accept a marriage with a Saracen.
What was clear was that she no longer was a maid, and he considered what that meant. Perhaps the earl and the king wouldn't want her return if they knew, but he'd traveled over the entire world and he would drag her back so they could make a determination for themselves.
Hugo followed her the next day. She wore red this time, a material so light it caught the wind as she walked. The shawl around her shoulders were so thin he could see her skin. It was the most curious gown he'd seen, but he was not here to deliberate on her fashion.
Walking up behind her, he noted her long hair, which shone like spun gold. "Eloise," he said and she turned sharply, her mouth parted with surprise, but she was unable to articulate for a moment.
"Hugo Beauford?" she said incredulously, her eyes traveling back and forth between his. She recognized him, it seemed. Her shoulders shrank back and her fingers moved up to her mouth. "What are you doing here?"
"Your father wants a word."
Eloise looked around. "Is he here?"
"Of course not, you twit." Hugo grabbed her, taking her by surprise as he lifted her over his shoulder. "You have to go to him. He insists."
It took her a moment to realize what was happening and she started hitting his back as soon as she did. "Let me down at once," she yelled. Hugo turned around and eyed the people around to see if anyone was set to object to him taking this woman. The Cathayans eyed him and the scene they caused, but no one made a move to assist her—just as he’d thought.
Walking down the street, he tried to orient himself to the stable where the horse he'd bought was waiting. It was time to start the journey home.
Her fists beat his back, but she would soon tire herself out. The screeching didn't stop, but he ignored it, flinging her on top the horse once he'd brought it out. She scrambled to get off and he had to hold her wrists. Being a slim creature, she had little strength, but he knew she would not come willingly.
"You let me down this moment, Hugo Beauford," she demanded. "You cannot just go and grab me. It is immoral and illegal."
Hugo chuckled, tying her hands and feet together. She still fought him, but she was soon too restrained to do anything other than complain as he walked the horse through the city, heading to the road south.
"If you are going to yell all the way back to England, I might be deaf by the time we get there."
"I am not going back to England and you have no right to interfere with me!"
Hugo ignored her and kept walking.
Chapter 6:
* * *
Eloise wore herself out fighting and shouting, but it served no purpose other than to wear her out. In the end, she could only lie there, rocking with the movement of the horse walking wherever Hugo was taking her. Her mind spun—Hugo Beauford had appeared and kidnapped her. It was like a horrible dream hearkening back to the days when she’d dreamed about running into either of the Beauford brothers.
Saying that, Hugo Beauford looked nothing like she would have expected, although he was recognisable, having grown from the lanky fourteen-year-old boy she associated with him. He was a man now, and a knight by the looks of him; although that was not a surprise. His father had been as well.
"This is completely ridiculous," she said. "You cannot mean to take me back to England, cross the whole world because 'he' wants to have a word. I won't stand for it." But he ignored her. She could hear him walking. "Release me now, Hugo Beauford, or I'll … "
"You'll what? Scream? You haven't changed a bit."
He had though. His voice wasn't the high, cracking ear-sore it had been. It was deep and calm.
"You have no right to abduct me. Neither does Earl Chanderling."
"I'm not actually here on behalf of Earl Chanderling. I'm here on behalf of the king, and he can do whatever he wants—including sending me across the known world to collect you. Now be quiet. You're giving me a head ache."
Eloise grumbled, stiff from being tied to a horse. She wanted to yell and curse just to annoy him, but it really did exhaust her. It felt like it had been hours, which was nothing compared to the months of travel Hugo had intended.
"Please let me go," she pleaded, trying a different tack. He just ignored her. "I don't want to go to England."
"I really, really didn't want to go to Cathay!" he said forcefully. "What possessed you to travel all the way here?"
"I was curious."
"Curious?! This is insanity and to find you living with a Saracen, too. Your father will be interested in hearing that."
"He has absolutely no bearing on the issue. And he's not my father. You were quite good at pointing that out yourself, as I recall."
"As I said, I'm here on behalf of the king."
Eloise wished she could kick him, as nothing she said had the slightest bit of impact on him. Lying still for a moment, she tried to think of what she could say to undo the disaster that had befallen her this morning. Malik would be distressed to find her missing. She had to escape. There was no way she was going to let Hugo Beauford drag her away from her life here. "You could just say you didn't find me. Who is going to know?"
"But I did find you."
"Oh, please. Since when does your word mean anything?" She'd heard him make promises before. 'Come down, we won't hurt you.' She hadn't been stupid enough to listen to him then—she certainly wasn'
t going to now. He ignored her.
"Ugh," she complained as she lay there, thinking of a way out of this. Her head was objecting from the pressure of lying head down and her hips were sore from chafing across the saddle, but the distress and the worry had taken everything out of her and her eyes were closing, even if she didn't want them to.
Eloise woke feeling awkward and smelling horse. She tried to move, but found she was tied down. Confused for a moment, she groaned until she remembered what had befallen her and she stiffened. They had stopped. Lifting her head with great effort, she tried to see what was going on. Hugo was sitting on a bank not far away.
"Let me down," she demanded.
"I'd rather not."
"Well, this is highly uncomfortable and I need to do my business." Hugo didn't move for a moment, instead digging a spoon into a bowl of rice. "You have food. Are you going to keep that all to yourself? It will be a corpse you drag back if you refuse to share."
"He didn't specify you needed to be alive."
"You are a right cur, Hugo Beauford," Eloise said, straining against the ties that kept her fixed where she was.
Taking his time, he got up and walked around the horse, crouching at her ankles. Eloise felt his fingers graze her skin as he undid the ties holding her in place. Then he grabbed her by the hips and eased her down, lifting her like she weighed nothing. He was strong. She still resented him touching her and went to untied the knots at her wrists, letting the ropes drop to the ground. Rubbing her wrists, she accepted the bowl of rice he held out to her. "No bread anywhere. I'd slay a man for a bit of cheese,” he said.
Amongst Silk and Spice Page 3
