thanks to you. My chances of marriage are gone. What could I tell
anyone that they'd believe, after this?"
"That you're mine. They'd believe that, and you'd better start
believing it, too. You have a half-hour before we go. Let me have
your answer."
He had given her no chance to continue the discussion but had left her
to her own devices which, in the deserted garden, had brought her close
to tears. The maids had shown her how to keep the excess fabric of her
skirt in a bundle just below her bust, but all this preening seemed
meaningless in the light of Silas's harsh demand. She was his only
because he had stolen her; it would choke her to admit anything else.
She was watching one of the cats playing with an injured mouse when he
strode into the garden wearing a deeper tone of the same blue-grey
half-silk, gold- embroidered, white-furred, and with full sleeves that
showed a slash of white shirt at the elbows. The wide shoulders needed
no padding, nor the chest where narrow pleats radiated from the waist
and the frill that cascaded over perfectly formed buttocks. His hat
was an inverted plant-pot of velvet, its brick-red echoed again in his
tight hose that extended at the toe into long points. The choice of
colours appeared to reinforce his belief that he and she were a pair.
"Well?" he said, coming to stand before her, noting her stillness and
moistened eyes.
Isolde watched how the cat took the mouse gently into its mouth and
carried it off into a tangle of madder leaves.
"You look very grand, sir," she whispered.
"You, at least, are making some kind of statement about our
relationship."
"Isolde."
"Yes?"
"Your answer, if you please."
She allowed her eyes to wander with some purpose over his strongly
handsome face, partly to keep him waiting for every second of the
allotted time. He was an exceptionally fine-looking man. Had he gone
this far with other women? Was all this really for Felicia's sake?
"As long as my father keeps your sister, sir. That's all."
A faint smile disturbed his lips.
"Or until you change your mind."
But to that enigmatic reply she could find no answer, and so she stood
like a creature at bay while he took her chin in his hand and kissed
her, which she could have prevented, but did not.
"You'll like the Duchess," he whispered, retaining her chin.
"She'll know exactly how you feel in a strange country. Just stay by
my side, eh?"
The streets around St. John's Hospital and the imposing cathedral of
St. Salvator's were cobbled and by far cleaner than any in York, but
Isolde was thankful to be riding rather than walking. Along
Silverstreet towards the street of the mon eyers the Duke of Burgundy's
palace was but a short step, time enough for her to form an impression
of narrow streets where the signs of silversmiths, harness-makers,
lorimers and spurriers threatened to knock them out cold if they rode
too near.
In contrast to the previous day, Isolde looked beyond her fears to what
lay ahead, to the irony of meeting a woman who, like herself, was a
Yorkist in Flanders. Isolde's blue-grey gown of half-silk was called
Bridges satin by the English because of an early misinterpretation from
the correct Brugge satin, and she wondered if the Duchess had done her
part to remedy the language problem as Silas and Master William had.
Across courtyards, up flights of stairs and along galleries they swept
in stately procession, through the vast Princenhof to where Master
Caxton waited in an anteroom with his book-bearing assistant. The two
men were in conversation as Silas and Isolde were ushered in, and the
conspicuous blinking and widening of eyes revealed astonishment before
the hushed but delighted greeting.
"Mistress Isolde... Silas." Caxton's smile transfigured the otherwise
sombre face, too used, Isolde supposed, to poring over manuscripts in
poor light. His greying mouse-brown hair, thinning on top, was brushed
forward to spout over his ears like rainwater out of gutters, and his
eyes and brows had an apologetic downturn, like the corners of his
mouth, that changed to wrinkles as he smiled. Predictably, his best
serge gown reached the floor, as those of older men did, and the long
vestigial scarf draped over one shoulder was like an anchor chain to a
soft pudding-basin hat that hung behind. The hands that were held
towards hers in greeting were still stained with black at the tips, and
he laughed ruefully as they were turned over for viewing.
"Still hasn't come off," he whispered.
"D'ye think her Grace will notice?"
Isolde placed her own upon them.
"By now. Master William, she'd probably be uncertain of your identity
if they were pink."
"Ah, dye know, I'd never thought of that? Well, then." He beamed.
Yesterday, Isolde had wondered whether Master Caxton's Englishness had,
like ink stains eventually worn off, or whether he still practised the
typically English manner of greeting with kisses. She had discovered,
soon enough, that he was as English as ever and that he had no
intention of forgoing the pleasure. His lips were thin and dry, but as
eager as a boy's.
"This is such an honour, damoiselle," he said, enthusiastically.
"To have an Englishwoman, a beautiful
Yorkshire woman, with me on this occasion makes it much more
significant. Now. " he turned to his assistant '...I forget my
manners. Allow me to present Jan van Wynkyn. I'd not be here today if
it were not for him."
A tall young man in his early twenties stepped forward, heaving a large
leather-bound book easily on to one arm.
"Vat he means, damoiselle, is that if it were not for me, he'd have
been doing this a year ago." His accent was heavily German, his
diction as immaculate as his appearance except for the inevitable
stained fingers. Sweeping his large-brimmed and feathered hat off his
head with a flourish, he used it like a scoop to draw Isolde towards
him for the same greeting she had bestowed upon his employer, and had
it not been for the large book between them, the kiss he took might
have lasted even longer.
"I am agreeable for this English custom," he said, seriously.
"Vee Germans have much to learn."
"Then go and learn about it in Cologne, minen he ere Silas replied,
with the same seriousness, placing a supporting hand around Isolde's
upper arm and easing her back to his side.
Master Jan's large full-lipped mouth stretched sideways almost to his
straight fair hair, undismayed by Silas's protectiveness. He stepped
back a pace with mechanical precision, nodded once, and rounded off his
greeting to Isolde with, "Meester Caxton told me of your beauty,
damoiselle, but alas he has no way mit words."
The quip, so charmingly delivered, was received with some amusement,
and so, when the door opened in the panelling and a young page beckoned
them through, the smiles were still in place.
With no war
ning of what to expect, Isolde had thought to find the
Duchess surrounded by one or two of her ladies rather than the roomful
of quietly conversing noblemen and women who confronted them. And
though Silas had warned her of the stares she would have to tolerate,
he could surely not have meant anything like this. As she had been
bidden, she stayed close to him, and was interested to see that his
bows were being acknowledged by several of the men in the room and, if
she was not mistaken, by covert glances from the group of lovely young
women also, though their eyes were lowered in perpetual modesty. This
was not a trait Isolde intended to adopt.
The room was painted in a soft watery blue and hung with sunny
tapestries between which were windows giving views of tiled rooftops,
pinnacles and spires. At one end of the room was a high canopied chair
cushioned with green, and a tall cupboard on legs displaying an
impressive assortment of gold and silver dishes, ewers and plates. The
colourful floor was cheque red monogrammed and cyphred, and adorned by
two gold- collared gaze hounds which, with heads on paws, watched
Isolde with eyes like huge dark marbles. She smiled at them and
watched their delicate tails whip the floor in unison.
What astonished Isolde most, however, was not so much the costly
fabrics worn by every one of the women but the amazing truncated
steeples upon their heads from which floated yards of shimmering gauze
reaching almost to the ground. Pointed tents of velvet framed their
faces, the edges hanging freely to their shoulders and, instead of
showing an inch or two of hair on their foreheads, loops of gold and
velvet lay upon the smooth skin where hair should have been. Not only
had they plucked their eyebrows but their foreheads, too.
"Ah, Master Caxton!" A clear English voice rang through the low hum of
voices, and a lady disengaged herself from one group, turning towards
her guests and closing the space between them effortlessly, as if on
wheels. Her gown was of heavy red silk shot with blue, reminding
Isolde at once of Dame Elizabeth's turban. Undoubtedly, it was of the
same fabric. The Duchess's immense train was held off the floor like a
pile of bedding in her arms, and as she reached Master Caxton she
dropped it. A young woman came forward to arrange it in a swirl around
her feet and then retreated, but not before she had parted with a stare
of open curiosity in Isolde's direction.
Attention was now focussed upon Margaret of Burgundy, the sister of the
English king, Edward IV, who had been given in marriage seven years
earlier to Charles, Duke of Burgundy, in the expectation of cementing
the friendship and, naturally, continued assistance in England's
troubles with France. Four years ago Edward had had to seek temporary
refuge with his brother-in-law here, in Brugge, that much Isolde knew,
though she had never expected to meet the woman on whom so much
depended. The Duchess was petite and palely attractive, with the
natural grace of one born to the position.
Around her neck she wore a gold chain and pendant similar to the one
Isolde wore, though the Duchess's wide expanse of bosom left by the V
of white fur showed no contours of any great interest, despite the
absence of a modest chemise in the triangle.
Master Caxton dropped on one knee, kissed the Duchess's offered hand,
then rose to bring forward Jan Van Wynkyn, Isolde and Silas. The
silence and the stares intensified as Isolde's name was spoken out
loud.
"Mistress Medwin, this is an especial delight. Newly from England?
From Yorkshire? I long to hear all you can tell me. Are you being
cared for here in Brugge? With Master Silas? Ah, then you are in good
hands. "
Isolde made a deep curtsy, taking her time over it if only to allow her
steepled audience a good view of her own intricately modelled head.
That it was not of the Burgundian fashion was now clear to her, but,
rather than dwelling on Silas's reasons for suggesting it, she bravely
decided to relish the distinction. When she rose, she was smiling, but
the Duchess had already turned her attention to Silas, who was
apparently well known to her.
It was clear that neither the Duchess nor her ladies were immune to his
patent masculine presence: the coquettish tip of her head, the faintly
flirtatious glance had not been performed for Master Caxton or his
assistant.
"Master Silas," she said, "I'm relieved to see that you are safely
returned."
"Your Grace honours me by her concern. But you have recently returned
from France, I hear."
"Ah, France." She sighed and looked away for a brief moment, as if not
knowing what to say before so many ears.
"We had hoped to unravel a few tight knots with my brother and Louis,
but alas we find that they've tied them even tighter. We had to
leave."
"And his Grace the Duke?"
"Decidedly unpleased," she said, with a sad smile.
"But enough of that. What will you have to show me, Silas Mariner?"
She tapped his arm, playfully.
"I shall be glad to show you my entire cargo once it's been cleared by
customs. Next week, perhaps? Shall I send a message?"
She nodded, excitedly, then turned to Master Caxton, who had been
waiting patiently to one side.
"Now, you must not keep me waiting any longer for this book. Come, let
me see it, if you please. A romance, did you say?"
"Printed, your Grace." Master Caxton knelt again, holding the book out
to show her the title page.
"Translated into English from the French, the Recueil des His- to ires
de Troye."
"Translated by you? Remarkable! Does this mean...?"
Isolde moved back to make way for those who crowded round to see the
phenomenon. By this means, the scholarly printer was assured that word
of his books would reach those who could afford to buy them, those who
could read, and those who would appreciate them, and she had played her
part, albeit a very small one. A soft hand was laid upon her arm and
she half turned to find a young woman at her side, the same one who had
arranged the Duchess's train.
This time there was a smile which did not quite reach her eyes but
which showed the mouth and teeth to be perfect. The woman's
dark-lashed brown eyes, however, had a hardness about them that warned
Isolde of trouble, putting her instantly on her guard. Isolde smiled
in return, preparing herself for a question in the French of the
Burgundian court which she would have to ask Silas to interpret. But
there was no need.
"Yorksheer?" the young lady said.
"This ees somewhere near where Meester Silas lives, is it?" Her
English was good yet with a lilt of Flemish at the edges.
"York, the county town, is where Meester Silas has his business. He's
a merchant there, you know."
The woman's eyes roved over every detail of Isolde's dress, her hair
and the pearl pendant. Her own gown of black velvet and gold satin was
patterned with sinu
ous plant forms, catching the light with a
sumptuousness that made Isolde's grey-blue half-silk appear dowdy in
comparison. Her tall steeple head-dress was patterned with chevrons of
gold thread and seed pearls, and her deep collar was a mesh of gold
links and flowers with centres of diamonds.
"I know that," the woman said, coolly.
"How long have you known him?"
This was the time, Isolde thought, to put a few questions of her own.
"You have the advantage of me, damoiselle. You heard my name, but I
didn't hear yours."
"I am Ann-Marie Mattheus, one of her Grace's ladies. My home is in
Antwerp. Is this--' she looked point ediy at Isolde's confection of
plaits '--what the ladies of the English court are wearing these
days?"
Isolde knew it was meant to disconcert her, but she had already seen it
coming. If Ann-Marie Matteus had been with the Duchess in France at
the meeting of the English and French kings, she would know what the
English women were wearing.
Twitching her eyebrows, Isolde shook her head in mock pity.
"Then you didn't accompany her Grace to France? You'd have seen them
there, I feel sure." She lifted her arms in an extravagant gesture.
"Huge creations! But not for me, I assure you. I rarely follow the
fashion in such things unless it suits me. I find the Florentine
styles so much more flattering to anyone with a good head of hair."
The Maiden's Abduction Page 9
