The Maiden's Abduction

by Juliet Landon

  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."