doubted his ability to clear the arch, Isolde noted with some
amusement.
"Myneheere van der Goes, you are welcome, but I fear Meester Silas is
not here to see you."
The long, heavily folded face was difficult to read at the best of
times but now, when he chose the shadows and when his head was
concealed by a brimmed hat, Isolde saw little of his expression except
two large, sad eyes and full lips that seemed unsure whether to smile
or speak.
His unsureness gave her more courage.
"Will you wait a while, sir?
Silas will be back soon, I expect. " She indicated a three-legged
stool still warm from the tailor's backside, then made as if to seat
herself.
"Ah, no!" The words exploded softly, taking her by surprise.
"No?"
"Er... forgive me ... er, yes. Yes, I will, thank you, but please do
not sit just yet." He held out a hand tentatively.
"Could you, er, stand a while?"
"Of course."
Without any warning of the artist's intensity, Isolde might well have
been at a loss. With it, she stood quite still and with downcast eyes
under an examination a hawk would have been proud of, wondering how
artists could be so different, one coolly confident in his ability, the
other so uncomfortable in it. His clothes, she saw, meant even less to
him than Memlinc's did; the long faded blue gown was stained with wine
and only his white shirt collar showed that someone took care of his
laundry. He might, she thought, have been a few years older than
Memlinc, perhaps fortyish.
His manner of speech was soft and rushed as words came out in a block,
and he leaned forward with the tension of them.
"Thank you ... er ... thank you," he said, searching for a name.
"Isolde," she reminded him.
"Shall we sit now?"
"Yes ... er ... I think I knew your name. They say Silas had a ... er
I mean, he has a guest staying, and they said you were very lovely and
I had to come and see for myself."
"You are from Ghent, I believe, but you work here in Brugge."
"Yes, when my clients are here."
"I've heard about you also, you see, about the great altarpiece for
Myneheere Portinari. Are you pleased with its progress?"
His head jerked away, his eyes searching the rosy brick wall of the
Arentshuis next door as if seeing his work there. Holding his knees
with long tapering fingers, he sighed and leaned back.
"No," he said, quietly.
"No artist is ever pleased... well, perhaps some are, but very few are
really pleased with their progress. Sometimes I'd like to scrub the
whole thing and start again. God only knows what the Florentines will
say of it when it gets there." He said this to the wall, but then
turned back to Isolde with a smile that shone through his eyes.
"But I can't. Myneheere Thommaso would not be best pleased to pay for
another lot of materials."
"Or wait another two years."
The smile disappeared.
"That's the problem. There are so many ideas piling up inside--' his
hands pressed upon his chest '--and yet I cannot work any faster for
fear of spoiling what I do."
He looked at her in sudden anxiety.
"It matters, you see, that what I do is the best;
not just the best I can do, but the best. No. " he flapped a hand
'it's not competition I'm talking about. I'm not competing with anyone
but myself. I could never compete. That's degrading."
"But you are a free master of Ghent, minen he ere Your reputation is
second to none."
Hugo shook his head.
"It's what one thinks of oneself that matters, isn't it? If my work
pleases others, that's because they're easily pleased. I cannot trade
on that. My own standards must be met."
"But surely if they're paying you for time and materials, they're not
so easily satisfied, are they?"
"Surface decoration. Cleverness. Likenesses. That's what they're
after. I'm after something deeper than that, mistress. I need another
lifetime, because this one's not going to be enough." His zeal was
introvert, more to do with personal ideals than with the reaction of
others. His next remark took Isolde by surprise with a sudden
directness.
"I need a model, Mistress Isolde."
"Oh?"
He stood up to explain, feeling more at home on his feet.
"A Mary Magdalen," he said, pointing to the right side of the wall.
"Over there. She stands beside St. Margaret and behind Maria
Portinari."
"She's on the altarpiece, too?"
"Oh, yes, she's at one side and he's at the other, with their patron
saints. Mary ... Maria ... we have to have the donors on it so that
everybody knows who put up the money."
"But supposing she didn't want me to be...?"
"She'll not recognise you," he said, dismissively, as if to suggest
that Maria Portinari would scarce recognise her own mother.
"I need someone with presence. Elegance. You're the right height,
colouring, everything. Should I ask Silas first, dye think?"
That made her mind up more quickly than anything else could have
done.
"No, indeed not, Myneheere Hugo. On matters of this sort, I can decide
for myself. I would be honoured to be your model for Mary Magdalen.
When do you require me to come? " She told herself she was doing it
because he needed help, that the honour of being part of the
Portinaris' altarpiece was too great to ignore and that to stand, even
anonymously, behind the patronising Maria for all time was a delicious
way of insinuating herself into the woman's constellation. Even so,
she could not ignore the tingle of excitement at having so quickly
discovered a way of retaliating against Silas's injunction, even though
she doubted whether Saints Margaret and Mary would be shown naked.
Her concern that this agreement should be kept private was dispersed by
the artist's memory loss when Silas returned a few moments later.
The two men were pleased to see each other, though Hugo's naturally
morose disposition made the presentation of bad news far more important
than the good.
"Bouts is ill again. Looks bad this time," he told Silas.
"Again? I thought he was recovering." Silas, dressed completely in
black, stretched his long legs and followed their line with his eyes
towards Hugo's wrinkled hose.
"He was. He's back in Leuven. Doubt if he'll be painting for a
while."
Silas turned to Isolde, taking in the perfect curves of her figure on
the way.
"Dieric Bouts," he said, 'is a painter. Dutch. Lives in Leuven, not
far from here. " He was careful not to comment on his brilliance,
which he could have done.
"Been ill on and off for some time. Sad. Shall you go and see him?"
he said to Hugo.
"Yes, in the next day or so. I must go."
"Don't go," Isolde said.
"To Leuven? Why not?" Hugo said.
She saw that Silas was looking at her and she knew she'd got it
wrong.
"Not Leuven. I was spe
aking about now--you've only just arrived."
Hugo unfurled himself like a fern frond.
"Even so, I must be away."
Isolde held her breath, but he made no reference to their assignment,
which caused her some uncertainty about the artist's reliability but
relief that she would not have to explain herself to Silas.
Hugo left by the water gate, and Silas's slow amble back to the house
gave him time to ask Isolde about her morning.
"What did he come for?"
he asked. As a Yorkshireman, he saw no reason to disguise his usual
bluntness.
"To see you, I suppose. To tell you about Myneheere Bouts."
"I doubt it. I expect he came to have a look at you,
like Hans did. News is spreading fast, damoiselle. I've already
picked up three prestigious invitations to trade, if I'll take my lady
with me next time they have a gathering. You're going to be good for
business, Isolde. "
Inadvertently placing herself in the sun's full glare, she stopped and
turned to face him.
"You cannot seriously think it," she said, frowning.
"Think what?"
"You cannot believe that I intend, now that I'm here, to aid you in
your business? Have you forgotten the rules? I'm here against my
will, remember. You may be deceiving your acquaintances and friends,
but nothing has changed between us, sir. Don't rely on my cooperation,
if you please."
Having reached the corner of the house where the courtyard began, Silas
advanced, slowly backing her into the brick wall where there was no
escape from the sun's rays or from him. Her throat dried as he took
hold of her wrists and held them where, a moment ago, they had
ineffectually been pushing.
"Teh, tch!" he whispered.
"Still fierce, maid? Did the tailor not perform to your liking, eh?
Did you not find what you wanted?"
"You truly believe, don't you, that all this will make things right
between us? That new clothes will change an abduction into a friendly
visit. And now I'm supposed to show my gratitude by accompanying you
to social events here in Brugge to boost your business connections. Is
that really what hostages do, sir?" His body pressed against hers and
she felt her knees weaken with longing for him.
"What you need, my lass, is something to keep you busy. A wee
creature, perhaps? Something to lie in your arms and depend on you?"
Speechless with anger, she reacted like lightning to what she believed
he was suggesting, but her frantic pushes were held and controlled,
having done little except to provoke his laughter.
"Enough, lass." He grinned.
"I should not tease you | so, should I?
D'ye want to see what one of my clients | has sent you? " | " No! If
it's a bribe to attend you as your lady, I want none of it," she
panted.
"Well, you'd better take a look at it first, because it seems to want
you rather badly. Come, take my hand. I expect a better greeting than
this after a morning's work."
Again, she had half expected that he would kiss her and, though she was
unwilling to admit it, she experienced an emptiness that only the
warmth of his palm on hers did anything to fill. Curiosity having the
upper hand, she was led through the cool passageway into the parlour
where Cecily sat upon a cushioned bench holding something white in the
deep folds of her lap. It bounced as she held up a morsel of cooked
chicken, then yapped as Isolde drew near to look.
Tenderly, she gathered the fragile white satin body into her arms,
laughing as it reached up to lick her face and adore her with deep
liquid eyes.
"It's the same one
I saw in the Duchess's chamber, isn't it? Did she give it to you? "
"To you," Silas told her.
"She says it went looking for you after we'd gone, and she says you
must go and thank her in person before she and the Duke leave next
week."
"And you said I would?" She smiled at him, sheepishly.
"I told you we would. So now it's yours. For you to name."
She smiled at the little gazehound and then at Silas.
"I believe we had already decided on that," she said.
"Hadn't we, Little Thing?"
Chapter Six
-Falconer? " Isolde repeated, turning sideways to the mirror.
Mei nodded in approval.
"Ja ... goed! Valkenaere." She smiled.
"Doesn't sound too noble to me. Must be thousands of falconers."
"Well, don't tell Hans that," Silas joined in, lounging upon her bed to
watch the finishing touches.
"Ann de Valkenaere comes from a vastly wealthy family. She's a
chatterbox all right, but she and her dowry have been an asset to Hans.
Be polite to her, Isolde, for his sake."
She turned slowly to be viewed and to view him also, purposely
withholding any sign of agreement so that his eyes would seek it for a
fraction longer. Still in his black doublet and hose, he now wore a
long gown of black figured satin belted with a silver girdle of
enamelled discs, the only colour on an otherwise sombre-rich garb. But
the beauty of the fabrics, the brief shine of a silk lining, the narrow
edge of brown fur and the smooth tan of his skin against the
embroidered frill of white shirt caught at her heart and held it,
setting the picture into her memory for the dark hours of night. The
young gallants at the Duchess's court stood and moved in carefully
calculated poses, one leg extended, feet at an angle, hand on hip. Not
so Silas Mariner: his elegance was unstudied, his head set proudly
above great shoulders that she had held and explored, though never
beneath the shirt. His legs in tight black hose made soft valleys
along her green coverlet which, if Mei did not smooth them away, would
be left until she could lie in them.
"You may go, Mei. Thank you." Isolde adjusted the gold net that held
her coiled hair, still watching him.
"I'll be polite to her. I just find her overwhelming, that's all. But
I'll try, for Myneheere Memlinc's sake." And for yours, she would like
to have said.
"Will they mind if I take the Little Thing?"
Without answering her directly, he undid the silver- clasped pouch that
hung from his belt and drew out, very slowly, a fine leash of plaited
coloured leather with gold mounts to match the wide collar around the
gazehound's long neck. Clipping it on while trying to avoid the
appreciative tongue, he handed the end to Isolde.
"Keep it well under control," he said.
"Hans doesn't invite everyone to his studio."
His thoughtfulness was like a reproof.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Later, she was to regret once more the impulsive workings of her mind
that vanquished caution like a flame over dry under. Silas accepted
her thanks in silence, but she knew what he waited for. The stillness
of him as he made no move to leave, his deep gaze so like the ones she
had seen when a kiss was imminent, caught at her heart a second time.
It had been almost four days--years? --since his last kiss, and now it
was up to
her. A shout reached the room from somewhere downstairs but
hardly registered as she bent to lay her arms across his shoulders, to
link them behind his head and submerge herself in his dark, unblinking
eyes. Was it triumph she saw in them just before she tilted her
head?
Almost leaping out of her skin with fright, she straightened as the
door flew open with a loud crash against the wall, making the little
gazehound hurtle into her legs with a yelp. Silas was on his feet in
one swift movement, holding Isolde's arms to swing her behind him and
to face the intruder who filled the doorway to prevent both Pieter and
Mei from getting there first.
"Well! What the hell are you doing here?" Silas snapped, dismissing
his servants with a nod. They closed the door.
"Your greeting, brother, gets a mite tedious. D'ye think you could
manage a different one for a sea- crossing? And what dye think I'm
The Maiden's Abduction Page 13
