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
Q^z^s^Q
Iveflections 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 pushover.
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 leaned up to look deeply into his face and was met with a
seriousness that made her frown.
"How dye 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?
Writhing and snarling, she fought without inflicting the slightest
damage, and though her hands were freed, each of her blows was blocked
by the paralysing hardness of his arms until he saw tears of fury well
up into her eyes. Then he caught her, holding her immobile but unable
to disguise his own enjoyment of her rage and her futile attempts to
best him.
"Peace, my wildcat! Hush now; it was years ago, when I was a young man
going about my master's business in York."
"In York? Before her marriage? You lie, Silas Mariner."
"No, sweetheart, I do not lie. She had a reputation well before her
marriage to Burgundy. She's like her brother in that.
"Tis well known, love. I was
nattered at the time, but now we're
friends, that's all.
No more than friends; I swear it. She's probably had dozens of lovers
since then. "
"And you've had dozens since her! Let me go, damn you!"
"Not until you calm down."
"I am calm!" she yelled.
"And I hate you! I don't want you and I shall go back home with Martin
Fryde and Bard and I shall be the Duke's mistress and live in sin with
all of them!" She choked on her hot tears and made only a token
resistance when his hand slid softly down her body to gentle the dark
red plumage that she had just relegated to others.
He did not answer her confused accusations and intentions.
"Beautiful thing," he whispered, possessing her.
"Lovely, wild, passionate thing.
You are my one desire. No duchess or queen could ever hold a candle to
you, and no man shall take you from me. Not now. Not ever. I shall
not let you go. " He made it sound like poetry with the emphasis
coming on each thrust in a rhythm of new meanings that caught at her
heartstrings, subduing her anger.
Dimly, it occurred to her in the tranquil and pulsating no-man's land
when all talk had ceased, that she might not be alone in her fears,
that Silas was by no means certain of her pledges, just as she had
doubts about his reasons for keeping her, and that he intended to close
every channel by which she might elude him. This one, of course, being
the most effective and the most final.
An hour later, at supper, she remembered something.
"The English Merchants House? Is that where you store your
merchandise?"
"No," Silas said, 'not me. I have a place near the Grue. "
Isolde groaned.
"Oh, I'll never get used to these Flemish words.
Where's the Grue? "
"It's the crane that lifts cargo out of the ships. I'll take you
tomorrow. The Governor of the English House in Brugge used to be
someone you know."
She was quick to guess.
"Master Caxton? He was governor?"
"Yes, for many years. He was a mercer by trade. A man of many parts,
is our William. You want to come too. Bard?"
Bard was in philosophical mood.
"Ann-Marie is indisposed. She's expecting me to behave myself. I'll
come."
Isolde was almost ready to feel sorry for him.
"Poor Bard. You're truly netted, then?"
"Mmm ... the lady seems to think I have the makings of a good husband
and her father believes I have a good business head, so..." he flicked
a crumb off his doublet 'what more could I want? "
"Diamonds, lad?" Silas said, biting into a crispy apple.
"Nothing like a tray of diamonds to change one's mind about marriage,
is there?"
Anticipating Bard's obvious retort, Isolde intervened.
"What will you do when Ann-Marie goes to Mechelin with the court next
week. Bard?"
"I go to Antwerp with Myneheere Matteus. It's nearer Mechelin than
Brugge and I'll be able to see her and learn the business at the same
time."
"So we shall lose you."
"Yes, dear sister. You'll lose me. You might at least pretend to be
heartbroken."
They had already agreed on that, and Isolde's good- humoured silence
was this time more comfortable than ever, for she was relieved beyond
words that someone had found a way to halt Bard's interminable
roving.
At this point, she would almost have welcomed the chance to speak again
with Ann-Marie, but the lass had kept well clear for her own good
reasons, and Isolde would now have to wait until the court moved again
before offering her congratulations. Or condolences.
The alleged understanding between Ann-Marie and Silas had been quickly
dismissed as the fantasy of a young lady for a good-looking friend of
her father's, but Isolde's attempts to shrug off Silas's admitted
affaire with the Duchess was not nearly so easy, and the mental picture
of the two of them together was as vivid to her as if it had been
yesterday. Her superficial acceptance of his word that the connection
was a thing of the past appeared to convince everyone except Cecily.
"What in heaven's name is the matter with you, child?" Cecily held a
fistful of Isolde's hair in one hand, a brush in the other.
"You've snapped my head off twice now in as many brush-strokes. Is
your head sore?"
"No, my head's not sore," Isolde said.
"Plait it, Cecily, if you please."
Cecily sighed.
"What is it, lass? You're worried, is that it?"
"No, of course not. But I wish I had news from home, that's all. I'd
have thought that if Fryde could send his son, my father could have
done the same. I long to see Allard. I need his common sense,
Cecily."
"Then write."
"I have done. But he won't get my letter until a boat sails. He might
not get it at all." She tried to keep her voice steady, but failed.
"But I thought your mind was made up. You seemed happier yesterday.
You having second thoughts already? "
"God in heaven, Cecily!" Isolde snatched the vestigial plait away from
Cecily's fingers and swung round on the stool to face her maid.
"I've hardly had time to set my first thoughts in place yet, have I?"
Cecily drew up a three-legged stool and sat, taking Isolde's hand in
hers.
"I know, sweeting, I know. There, see, don't weep. It's all happened
a wee bit sudden, hasn't it? Is that it? The suddenness of it? And a
bit of jealousy, perhaps?"
"Oh, Cecily!" The floodgates opened. Isolde had never known jealousy
until now, having never been in love. She had never known of its total
unreason, its power, or its crippling pain. It seemed to make no
difference that he had taken her for his mistress when the mere sound
of his name, La Vallon, was enough to remind her of his family's
reputation, and to taunt her that she had tangled with one only to be
snared by the other. What assurance did she have that Silas differed
from his brother and father except that he had apparently graduated
from village girls to the nobility more quickly than they? And, in
spite of his promises, the whole charade was more to do with the La
Vallon revenge upon the Medwins than with love. He talked at length
about possession, but then, he was a merchant, wasn't he?
The words fell out in a disorderly array for Cecily to make of what she
could and, being Cecily, she did not find the task impossible. At
nineteen, Isolde was old enough to give herself to a man, but that was
not the only element in the equation, for she was also a dutiful
daughter whose flirtation with the younger La Vallon could hardly have
prepared her for this. It did not surprise Cecily in the least that
Isolde was emotionally unsettled: Silas La Vallon would unsettle any
woman, virgin or experienced, though Isolde was not one' of those
flighty young things with shallow perceptions. She might be fiery, and
somewhat impetuous, but her feelings ran deep. She was like her father
in that. Cecily rocked her within comforting arms and
said little: it
was not advice or platitudes Isolde needed but someone to listen, and
Cecily had always been good at that, too.
The visit to Silas's warehouse on the next day, intended to give Bard
and Isolde some insight into the La Vallon trading activities, gave
Isolde rather more information than she knew what to do with, nor did
it do anything to quell her misgivings about Silas's scrupulousness in
all things. If she had not unconsciously been searching for more fuel
to add to the raging fires of jealousy, she might have allowed him a
chance to explain before condemning him.
The Bridge of the Grue gave them a good view of the great foot-operated
crane that winched bales, casks and boxes from the bellies of ships on
to the wharf bordering the canal. A carved wooden crane of the bird
variety perched whimsically on the highest arm of the contraption to
The Maiden's Abduction Page 22
