The Maiden's Abduction

by Juliet Landon

  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

  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 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