Juliet Landon

by The Maiden's Abduction

  ‘Not lies! I told you, if you remember, that it was the Florentine fashion, and so it is, and it suits you a great deal better than those ridiculous pinnacles they’re wearing. If they don’t take somebody’s eye out first, they’ll all be as bald as coots if they go on like that. I’ll not have you pulling your hair out, Isolde, and that’s why I forbade Mei to tell you about them.’

  ‘So, as it was, I was the odd one out.’

  ‘As it was, maid, you were the centre of attention. What more could you have wished for? Eh?’

  ‘And now you’re going to tell me what to wear. Is that why I was not allowed to buy myself some fabric? Do you prefer ten-year-old half-silks to Italian brocades, too? You saw their gowns?’ She swept a scornful glance over her own, then went to stand at the window, looking out into the side garden that had so far escaped the gardener’s attentions. The conversation had taken a milder turn, but nothing now could compare with the relief at his explanation of Mistress Matteus’s behaviour. What he had said made sense; she could not doubt it.

  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

  Silas’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 sweet-smelling 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 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 ruby 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 damasks 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 Villers? 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 baudekin 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, damoiselle? 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?’

  ‘Well…er…pins and scissors, and silk threads to match…’ She waved a plump hand towards the mountain, blinking at its gigantic proportions.

  Torn 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 inkpots 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 inkpots.

  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 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 wh
en 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.