The Maiden's Abduction

by Juliet Landon

  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

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  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