The Maiden's Abduction

by Juliet Landon

  Silently, he came to stand at her back, placing his arms around her

  shoulders and his hands upon the wide sash as if to help its supporting

  role.

  "Yes, maid. I shall probably be telling you that, too, if you'll

  listen. I told you that I have fabrics better than those on the

  market, but you didn't believe that either, did you? So what do you

  think I trade in that interests the Duchess so? Did you not wonder?"

  "No, I didn't. My curiosity about you doesn't extend even that far."

  "Little liar." His hands moved carefully upwards to the full curve

  beneath her breasts and stayed there, lifting and holding.

  "To proud to ask, aren't you? Well, then, I'll tell you. I deal in

  luxury goods rather than in bulk cargo, as most other York merchants

  do. Fabrics, mostly. I'll show you later, so you can choose some for

  new gowns, and I'll have them made up for you, and anything else you

  need. But there'll be no pinnacles on your head, Isolde. Is that

  clear?"

  "Are you bargaining, sir?"

  "Silas, if you please."

  "Silas."

  "No, maid. I'm not bargaining. I don't need to, do I?"

  Suddenly, the direction of the argument had turned as, relentlessly, he

  refused to provide the answer she had foolishly expected. There was no

  vulnerable spot she could recognise, utilise, or profit by. Acutely

  aware of being disadvantaged, mentally and physically, she twisted

  herself away in a panic, but he was ahead of her even in that and she

  was held against him by an arm that refused to let go. Gentle as ever,

  he took hold of the pearl pendant as an excuse to make contact with the

  soft skin beneath it, his knuckles fitting into the hollow where the

  pear-shaped pearl had been.

  "Shh.-hush," he said into her ear.

  "We'll bargain when the time comes, lass, not before. No merchant ever

  buys what he can obtain by gift; he only has to wait." His knuckles

  caressed, closing the discussion.

  As soon as he released her she fled upstairs to where Cecily was

  tidying her clothes flinging herself upon the bed to release the

  tensions that threatened to break her. Knowing better than to ask

  questions, Cecily covered her with a shawl and left her alone with the

  jumbled thoughts and emotions and the overwhelming need to lie once

  again in his arms, to be rocked and held as she had been on the voyage.

  Last night, the first in this strange country, she had slept alone and

  fitfully, and now, when she believed he would be eager to kiss her, he

  had not done so.

  Stealthily, on bare feet, she crept from the room and along the cool

  passageway to where his chamber door stood ajar. His bed was large and

  covered with a rug of smooth blonde fur inside an alcove curtained with

  white linen.

  Slowly, she dragged one of the white pillows towards her and bent to

  inhale its scent, finally burying her face deep in its softness as a

  wave of pure longing shook her with its force. Then, controlling the

  urge to lie where he would lie, she set the pillow back, removed the

  pearl pendant and laid it upon the white surface.

  "We'll see who waits longest," she whispered.

  Chapter Five

  Oilas's Marinershuis, tucked into a snug plot beside the Arentshuis,

  could be approached from the canal at one side and, from the other,

  from a green and leafy street that led directly into the cobbled

  courtyard. Screened by buildings and trees, the gardens surrounded a

  surprisingly large brick house which had been extended so many times

  since its conception that the windows gave no positive indication of

  where the storeys were, although Silas's jest about the attics was

  based on fact.

  Through a door in the panelling of the upper passageway, Silas led

  Isolde and Cecily up a narrow flight of stairs, passing tiny

  plate-sized windows at foot level. At the top, a large room lit on one

  side by arched floor- level windows was high-beamed with a network of

  rafters, the walls lined with wooden shelves, tier upon tier, where

  logs of linen-wrapped fabrics lay like shrouded bodies in a tomb, their

  labels dangling as miniature pennants. The absence of colour was

  countered by the large central table where ledgers were piled with

  leather-bound sample books peeping with jewels of gold and silver

  threads, a quick shine of peacock and azure, the brown gleam of

  bronze.

  He took her wrist to help her up the last step, then turned to Cecily

  to do the same.

  "These are the most precious ones," he said, 'but there'll be many more

  when the new cargo arrives on Monday. "

  "They were on the ship with us?"

  "Er, no, damoiselle. They come overland from Venice and Florence and

  Lucca."

  "So what were we carrying? Not luxury goods from England, surely?"

  "No." He strode over to the table and lit the lantern for more

  light.

  "No, we carried wool and wood and various other bits and pieces. Other

  merchants use my ship to carry their merchandise, you see. Now, come

  and have a look."

  Isolde thought his reply too dismissive, but said no more. What

  merchants got up to was their own business. Between the shelves, door

  after door revealed smaller rooms and closets stacked with more bolts

  of cloth, all linen-wrapped and labelled, and when Silas opened the end

  of one and peeled back its shroud, the small room was suddenly aglow

  with a brilliant patch of red and gold.

  "Not your colour," he murmured.

  "Something a little cooler, perhaps."

  He laughed softly, as if sharing a private jest, and Isolde blushed and

  backed out.

  "These must be priceless," she said to Cecily.

  "Pricey, not priceless," said Silas.

  "Nothing here is priceless. Look over here." He led the way to

  another small door, partly hidden by a set of swinging shelves.

  Unlocked, this led into a large windowless room where shadows danced

  away from the lantern's light and revealed shelves stacked from floor

  to rafters with the dull gleam of precious objects. There were stacks

  of leather-bound and gold-clasped books, boxes and caskets of carved

  wood and ivory, bundles of quills, vellum and paper, silver and gold

  plate, chalices, knives and spoons, salts and mirrors framed with

  tortoiseshell and gold, leather purses and sets of falconers' equipment

  with gold bells and rich tassels, amber, lapis lazuli and sandalwood,

  unicorns' horns and sweetsmelling wax. Lower down there were the

  shining breastplates, gauntlets and helms of engraved armour, swords

  and polished yew bow-staves and, further round, coloured Venetian glass

  goblets with twisted stems. He opened a chest to show them bags of

  pearls and metal threads for embroidery, and Isolde then knew where the

  ones she wore had come from. Below were leather shoes and boots of

  exquisite craftmanship, rolls of soft coloured leather and a mountain

  of furs, silver and shining greys, black, brown, red and gold, striped,

  spotted and worth a king's ransom.

  Luxury goods, he had told her, yet she had not imagined anything on<
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  this scale, nor had she even known such things existed except in fairy

  tales. Unicorn's horn? What on earth was that for?

  "Detects poison," Silas said.

  "Princes and kings use it on their food to make sure they're safe to

  eat."

  "Use it? You mean someone has to try it out?"

  "Of course. It's reliable, rare, and therefore costly.

  Can't get enough of it. Look at this. " In the light of the lantern,

  he held up a glass goblet and twisted it to flash a pale mby fire, then

  replaced it on the shelf.

  "And you were eyeing the purses this morning, weren't you? Well, look,

  you can take your pick of these."

  The clutch in his hand were stiff with embroidery, metal threads and

  jewels, tassels and shining cords.

  "Shall we choose some fabrics first, then?"

  More gifts. As if it understood her inner contradictions better than

  she did, Isolde's hand searched for the pendant she had returned only

  an hour ago. The gesture and her hesitation were observed, but not

  remarked upon except by a hand over her wrist that drew her gently back

  into the main store; in the next moment, Silas was hauling out the

  heavy bolts and thudding them on to the table, peeling back their

  covers and drawing out lengths of scintillating gold tissue, cut

  velvets, taffetas, brocades and da masks until the table was a glowing

  furnace of colour, pattern and texture.

  "Mistress Cecily," Silas said, giving Isolde time to search, "I think

  you will have to resign yourself to a little refurbishment too, you

  know. Something like this pale grey damask, perhaps, or this

  plum-striped velvet. This one is from Lucca. Excellent stuff."

  Cecily winced.

  "A broadcloth, sir? Mouster de Will- ers? Something sensible?"

  Yelping with laughter, Silas held on to the table.

  "No, mistress. No broadcloth. No French stuff. No caddis or kersey,

  I'm afraid. You'll have to make do with a sensible silk or a good

  strong Levantine. I know just the thing."

  Accepting no words of protest, he draped them with silks, satins and

  velvets, cloths of gold and a cream- coloured samite.

  "Samite?" he said, holding it beneath Isolde's chin.

  "This one is perfect for you.

  Look, the coloured part is a mixture of silk and linen and the pattern

  is of gold, yes, pure gold thread. D'ye like it? Good, we'll keep

  that one, then. Now. " he hunted for another bolt 'you asked me which

  one the Duchess was wearing this morning. That was a baud eking that

  came originally from workshops in Baghdad, but all these secrets

  escape, you know. Warp of gold, weft of silk. Here's one for you,

  damoiselle." He produced a bolt from beneath a pile which, stripped of

  its cover, was undecided whether to be gold or sage-green or turquoise.

  He flung a length across the table to show off its tiny gold pattern,

  then draped it over Isolde's shoulders, smiling at Cecily's face which

  was becoming very pink and damp.

  "That all right?"

  he said.

  A mountain of fabric was growing at one side of the table, one pile for

  Isolde and one for Cecily and another of fine Italian cottons, silks

  and cobweb lawns for chemises, astrakhan lambskins from Messina and

  Siberian squirrel for trims, cloth of gold for sashes, veiling and

  spangles for hair.

  "Combs, purses, girdles," Silas said, 'ah, yes, and shoes. We must see

  the shoemaker on Monday, too. Feathers? Buckles? " He watched the

  two women do their best to repay his attentions by rolling up and tying

  the bolts of fabric.

  Protesting and laughing, Isolde bade him stop, partly because she was

  now fast becoming immune to the beauty of some fabrics which, this

  morning, would have made her gasp.

  Partly, too, because his generosity had gone far enough, even though he

  was enjoying it every bit as much as they were.

  "Paper?" said Isolde.

  "Paper, damoisellel How many reams?"

  She snuffled.

  "Not reams. A few sheets and a quill or two. Am I allowed to write to

  my father and brothers?"

  "I don't see why not. It can't make any difference now, can it? I

  shall see that you have paper, quills and ink immediately. Mistress

  Cecily, your needs?"

  "Oh, no, sir, I have no needs, really. Except..."

  "Except?"

  "Weller pins and scissors, and silk threads to match..," She waved a

  plump hand towards the mountain, blinking at its gigantic

  proportions.

  Tom between pity and the mental image of poor Cecily surrounded by a

  sea of wayward silks, velvets and paper patterns, frantically cutting

  and stitching for the next two years, Silas and Isolde were soon

  helpless with a mutual merriment that continued in spasmodic and

  uncontrollable squeaks all the way down the steep stairway.

  The view from Isolde's waterside window had intrigued her since her

  arrival, her attention held at first as much by the water itself as by

  the craft. Now the day was drawing to a quiet finale and the water had

  become darkly mysterious, disturbed only by those who slid silently

  past to reach home before the curfew.

  The low sun caught the outline of the buildings opposite, the solid

  bulk of Our Lady's Church on the left and, next to it, the house of

  some important nobleman, she assumed. To the right, the little bridge

  of St. Boniface was now deserted except for one of Silas's cats that

  walked the lowest parapet across to the grassy path on the far side.

  Assuming that it was Cecily who had entered the room and then left

  again, she remained at the window with her thoughts until the last rim

  of light had moved upwards to the tall spire of the church, and it was

  only when Cecily brought in a candle to light the others that she saw

  something that had not been in the room before. Together, they

  approached the linen chest where a dark box had been placed.

  "A casket, love? When did this appear?" Cecily said.

  "Just before you, I think. It's wood. The sides are carved, too.

  Bring those candles forward, both. of them. It is carved; feel it."

  The casket was portable, but only by a sturdy porter able to lift a

  hefty piece of carved walnut with a deep lid and bound with ornamental

  silver bands. A silver key was in the lock that clicked softly at the

  first twist, and the lid made no sound as it swung upwards on silver

  hinges.

  In silence, Isolde explored. In the centre section lay a thick layer

  of creamy paper tied with a blue ribbon, and in various blue

  leather-lined compartments were quills, a silver knife, two horn ink

  pots with silver lids, a sand-pot, a heavy silver seal and a block of

  sealing- wax with a roll of narrow linen tape. Carefully, she took the

  seal and held its base towards the light, studying its indented

  design.

  "It's a ship. Look, a three-masted ship. And an M."

  "An M for Medwin?"

  "Medwin or Mariner. It's beautiful, but I cannot accept it, can I?"

  Cecily touched two silver knobs towards the base of the carved front.

  "What's this?" she said.

  "A drawer?"


  Isolde pulled, sliding out a flat table-top covered with smooth blue

  leather and edges inlaid with silver and coloured woods. Extended, its

  silver knobs became feet that held it at an angle against the rest of

  the casket, a perfect writing-surface with a hole at each side to take

  the ink pots

  Shaking her head, she lifted out the paper to feel its surface and saw

  that the floor of that compartment was the lid of the one below, where

  private letters could be kept. A package was there, tied with more

  blue ribbon. Instinctively, Isolde knew what it contained, but was

  unable to suppress an excited gasp of laughter as the contents were

  revealed. The pearl pendant. A message on the inside of the wrapper

  was written in a large bold hand.

  "With its owner next time, if you please."

  Isolde pulled in her top lip and held it.

  Cecily watched.

  "You're keeping it?" she whispered.

  "Yes." The word fell out, uncomfortably.

  "Oh, yes. I think I might have to, dear one." She wiped one eye, then

  the other.

  "If you're weeping, love, don't drip on to that lovely clean paper."

  To Cecily, the dilemma was already solved; to refuse or to accept was a

  simple matter of making a decision and sticking to it, and when a man