The Maiden's Abduction

by Juliet Landon

  had taken liberties with her mistress's freedom, as this one had, then

  she was entitled to some compensation. Cecily knew her mistress well,

  but she had never seen her in love before, or as the victim of an

  abduction.

  Nor had either of them been so suddenly uprooted from all that was

  familiar to them. It happened, certainly, but to others, not to

  oneself. Consequently, it was hardly surprising that the accommodating

  and unsentimental Cecily was unaware of Isolde's deeper fears, which

  were to do with losing what little control she had left.

  To Isolde, the dilemma was nowhere near solved. Indeed, it had been

  easier to understand when she had felt nothing more complicated than

  anger, and some fear. She had known what to do about those. But since

  her first encounter with Silas things had changed, and now it was as if

  he knew how quickly she had begun to soften towards him, even to the

  extent of predicting the time when she would capitulate completely.

  Already he had put words into her mouth which she had, out of anger,

  used as ammunition to defend her position, issued in the one place

  where it would be broadcast most effectively. He must be well

  satisfied with that. Had she stood and yelled it from the rooftops it

  could not have suited him better. Next, she was wearing his gift,

  which had given credence to her statement, and now, trading on her

  petty gripe about her clothes, he was able to flaunt his generosity

  even more openly by getting her to wear the best of his merchandise.

  Irritably, she recalled how easily she had given way to his insistence,

  how quickly seduced by the glory of the colours, the richness of the

  fabrics and the reflection of herself in others' eyes, after which her

  simple request for paper had been transformed into this. She had never

  owned such a treasure, not should she accept it from one who was

  revenging himself on her father. Yet she could not bring herself to

  return this as she had done the pendant; to do so would reveal to him

  the course of her heart more than he knew already.

  No, it was time for her to practise a more artful game if she hoped to

  regain control of her affairs.

  Their Sunday morning visit to Our Lady's Church just across the canal

  provided her with an opportunity. Mass was another half-familiar event

  that only partly succeeded in granting her some peace of mind, because

  her mind was more bent on retaliation. Not only that, but the

  beautiful white church provided every excuse for her to dwell on

  earthly matters, and even the gossamer-light singing lured her eyes

  around the upper regions, the arches, the clerestory and vaulted

  roof.

  Behind the windows of a richly carved screen set high up on one wall

  she caught a glimpse of faces.

  Silas noted her rapt attention and whispered, "That's the oratory.

  Lodewijk van Gruuthuse had it built a couple of years ago. It leads

  from there into his house. "

  "He's next door?"

  "Yes, the house opposite your window. See his coat of arms, with the

  Order of the Golden Fleece and the two unicorns in the middle? And the

  firing cannons at each side? Underneath, too... see, where the motto

  is?"

  "It's in French."

  "Yes. Plus est en Vous. More is in you."

  Below this was a set of stone-carved lancet windows and a door with the

  same devices and fiery cannonballs exploding above them, the motto and

  symbols so in tune with Isolde's new resolution that her smile almost

  turned to laughter before she could catch it.

  Silas studied her as the singing died away, but she chose not to

  attempt an explanation.

  "Do you know him?"

  "Oh, yes. But that's not him up there; that's his family. He's away

  from home." The service ended and the congregation mingled its way

  through friends and acquaintances whose greetings put an end to her

  questions. The name of Lodewijk van Grutthuse had been introduced into

  the conversation with Master Caxton the day before as the one who had

  provided hospitality to King Edward a few years ago, when he had had to

  flee from enemies in England, but she had not realised that they were

  near-neighbours. Was there anyone not known to Silas?

  Apparently not. Before they left the church, she was introduced to a

  friendly middle-aged couple who greeted Silas with affection and Isolde

  with undisguised curiosity. The gentleman was plainly dressed, but one

  could see that the dark burgundy pleated coat was well tailored; his

  hat of smooth felt on a fringe of dark straight hair was probably the

  most inconspicuous he could find. Quietly amiable, he had about him a

  contemplative air which Isolde too-hastily assumed was because of his

  wife's quick chatter. She was Anne;

  the quiet husband was Hans, who, being successful in some respectable

  trade, was able to clothe his wife in stiff black brocade that crackled

  as she moved and a steeple head-dress that, swinging in Silas's

  direction, made him dodge in exaggerated alarm. Moving off, they

  insisted that Isolde must be taken to visit them.

  "To find out more of what I'm doing here," she muttered to Cecily.

  Silas overheard.

  "Well, she might want to," he said, 'but Hans will no doubt want to

  paint you. "

  "Paint me? With what?"

  "Hans is an artist." When Isolde stopped to stare at him, he

  elaborated.

  "Hans Memlinc. One of Flanders's most renowned artists, and one of

  Brugge's wealthiest citizens."

  "He's-an artistT As a mere nineteen-year-old, and therefore still

  distressingly short on perspicacity, Isolde asked herself how she was

  supposed to know who was who when all the names were so strange and

  when people did not dress according to their station. The man looked

  so ordinary. She said as much, but was not allowed to get away with

  it.

  "Isolde, people don't wear labels around their necks with their

  professions written upon them. It may well be usual for people to

  dress according to their wealth, but many people prefer not to."

  "Why?"

  "Because it allows them to see others' true reactions to them as people

  rather than as clothes-props. Your interest in Myneheere Memlinc as a

  person was not very great, but would it have been any different, do you

  think, if he'd been dressed like his wife in his best jewels?

  Would you have tried harder to make yourself affable? "

  Stung by his criticism, she retaliated with childish petulance.

  "I

  could not catch the names. I didn't even know how to address them.

  "

  "That's not what we're talking about, is it, Isolde?"

  No, he was right, as usual. What they were talking about was her

  too-hasty appraisal of people, and her preconceptions of what to expect

  from them.

  "I'm sorry," she said.

  His smile banished her sudden penitence.

  "Nothing's lost," he whispered.

  "Here's another one coming up for you to assess, if you like. A much

  more straightforward case, this. Ah.-.Myneheere Thommaso!"

  A keen-face
d dark-haired man in his early thirties sailed towards them

  in billowing gold and black and an excess of fabric that dripped from

  his hat and elbows as though his tailor had lost his shears. His frame

  was slight, but his posturing made up for that, and the flashes of gold

  from his hands were an example of the conspicuous wealth Isolde had

  been trying to justify only a moment before. Unlike Hans Memlinc, this

  man pretended not to notice Isolde, but greeted Silas with a

  patronising manner that made her cringe.

  "They said you were back, Meester Silas. Shall we see you on

  Monday?"

  "You would have seen me on Saturday, Myneheere Thommaso, if your

  offices had been open. I shall be there first thing; you may depend on

  it."

  "Good." Here, a slight lean forward.

  "And you made good progress in England?"

  "Excellent, minen he ere I shall tell you all tomorrow."

  "Ye ... es. Yes, of course." The man had clearly hoped to hear more,

  but was too curious to leave.

  "Ah, damoiselle} Your guest, Meester Silas?"

  "Mistress Isolde Medwin. Thommaso Portinari."

  And no doubt because his shrewish wife Maria was not too far away,

  Thommaso Portinari bestowed upon Isolde the same lack of interest of

  which she had just been found guilty. He bowed, but not before his

  dark Italian eyes had reckoned her worth in Italian currency.

  "English? I am sure Maria will be pleased to receive you, damoiselle,

  and to show you the sights whenever Meester Silas is otherwise engaged.

  She speaks your language quite well enough for that."

  Isolde curtsied, but this time said nothing at all.

  When they had moved apart, Silas said, "Well, damoiselle^. Your

  verdict?"

  She rolled her eyes.

  "I cannot wait for you to be otherwise engaged, sir, so that Maria can

  show me the sights. He's either a brothel-keeper or a bank manager."

  "The latter," Silas said, imagining the alternative.

  "No. You're teasing."

  "I am not teasing. Thommaso is the manager of the Medici bank here in

  Brugge. Bank managers, you see, have to let everyone know how

  successful they are. Artists don't. And there's the difference,

  damoiselle."

  "So why do you have to see a Florentine banker?"

  "Because I carry letters and packages and portfolios from other

  countries."

  "You run a courier service." It was more of an exclamation than a

  question.

  "I am both merchant and courier, and every one of my clients would kill

  to know what I'm carrying from whom, why, how much and where to.

  They're a nosy lot. "

  "But how can you know the details of what you carry?"

  "I don't. But they know I could make a good guess."

  "So they pay you to make good guesses?"

  "Think. D'ye think they'd trust me with their business, knowing I was

  open to bribery? Just the opposite, damoiselle."

  "But I was right, wasn't I? Sometimes, Meester Silas, they do carry

  labels around their necks, you see."

  They turned on to the little bridge that led them homewards.

  "Don't believe what the labels say," he said.

  "They write them themselves."

  Leaving aside the militant imagery of cannonballs, it was the motto

  "More is in you' that remained in Isolde's mind. Although open to a

  variety of interpretations, it had a resolute ring that suggested

  hidden resources, the very same amenity that she had identified that

  morning. Apparently, even the great Lodewijk van Grutthuse needed

  reminding of it from time to time.

  Her early-morning sin of omission was offered up for repair, however,

  when she was in the garden after the midday meal. The little plot she

  had studied from the parlour caught the midday sun but had been

  neglected in favour of the larger one nearest the courtyard, and whilst

  that one grew everything for the kitchen, there was little space for

  anyone to sit without having their toes run over by the wheelbarrow.

  This one, Isolde called to Cecily, should be a private garden, enclosed

  by a wattle fence and perhaps with a fountain of sorts that could be

  channelled into a pond, and, instead of formal pathways, a carpet of

  camomile, periwinkle, speedwell and ladies' bedstraw, with a screen of

  roses across. oh!

  Isolde swung her arm like a weathervane, her finger coming to rest in

  the direction of Silas and his guest, Myneheere Hans Memlinc, whose

  grins appeared to anticipate her surprise.

  "A mead, damoiselleT Hans said.

  "A flowery mead with a turf bench facing the sun? And a bowl of

  carnations? You must have carnations."

  "They'd have to be staked," she replied, looking where he pointed.

  "And I had in mind a three-sided turf bench, an exedra, where I could

  have a table within reach. You know, where we could eat."

  "I'm invited. Mistress Isolde?"

  "Certainly you are, sir. Do you play, or sing?"

  "Not when your host is around." The two men came forward and she could

  tell, even without looking, that she had pleased Silas by her

  cordiality.

  She placed her hands into the outstretched palms of the artist and

  sensed his understanding in their warm, dry grip.

  "I was preoccupied this morning," she began.

  "Please forgive..."

  He shook her hands gently.

  "Damoiselle, I have come here especially to ask your pardon for my

  preoccupation this morning; if I don't get my say in first, Anne will

  never believe I tried."

  Isolde sneaked a look at Silas and heaved a dramatic sigh.

  "I have something of the same problem, minen he ere she said, 'and I

  haven't yet had permission to do anything to this plot. Perhaps you

  could put in a good word for me in the right ear? You've known him

  longer than

  I.

  "

  "Blackmail? I could threaten to paint his portrait. That should do

  the trick." Already they were falling into the easy language of

  friends that gave the lie to every one of her earlier impressions, such

  as they were.

  "I have also come to ask if you would care to visit my studio

  tomorrow."

  It transpired later that Hans had also come to ask Silas if he would

  allow Isolde'to pose for him. He needed a Bathsheba. In the nude.

  "He asked you] And what did you say?"

  "I refused. Politely, of course."

  "Without consulting me?"

  "Without consulting you, maid."

  "And didn't it occur to you, sir, that I might have wanted to?"

  "Did you?"

  "I might have done."

  "Then before you decide, you had better know that the only person apart

  from Mistress Cecily who will ever see you stark naked is me. Now,

  let's talk about the garden, shall we?"

  His reply, uncompromising as ever, both excited and annoyed her and

  strengthened her resolve to make some decisions of her own, a

  development of which Silas was aware and determined to counter by

  filling each of her days with some organised pursuit.

  The tailor was the first to be summoned to the Mar- inershuis, an event

  that left little room for anything
but designs and another search of

  Silas's stock to supplement what she had already chosen. He brought

  his assistant and, together with Cecily and Mei, the five of them used

  up with ease the hours of Silas's absence in the town on his business

  affairs. The consultation led them all into the sun-filled plot for

  some refreshment, the tailor's ideas on dress and garden design being

  similarly imaginative, but when another visitor was announced, the

  tailor bowed and took his leave.

  This time yesterday, the name Hugo van der Goes had meant no more to

  Isolde than Hans Memlinc's, but since then she had been prepared for

  the tall figure who stooped on his way through the brick archway

  although it cleared his head by inches. Talk of him had syphoned

  through yesterday's conversation centring around artists and writers in

  Brugge, most of them personal friends of Silas. Hugo was spoken of

  with affection, concern and admiration but no envy on Memlinc's part,

  though they were rivals. Their description of him had been both

  friendly and exasperated by his conspicuous self-doubts: he even