Juliet Landon

by The Maiden's Abduction

  Bard was uncertain whether to laugh or to cry. His hastily made plans had come unstuck before they were dry and the wealthy minx Ann-Marie Matteus had him tied up before he could blink. He too would have liked a wooing. An hour in the garden could hardly be called a chase, and the possibility that he was the prey had never crossed his mind. He was therefore relieved when Silas charitably offered to take him to the Antwerp merchant’s office for an informal introduction to Myneheere Matteus himself. The glitter of diamonds grew brighter, but the possibility of being able to score over Silas had now grown dim in the light of the two men’s mutual trust. Bard’s eternal self-confidence, however, cheered him with the warming thought that the diamond merchant’s daughter was willing to perjure herself to get him. Vaguely, he wished Isolde had been as keen, and what a pity it was that she had not been at home to see her new friend.

  ‘Came to see me?’ Isolde laughed with Cecily as they stood side by side at the window of her room. ‘Well, whatever she came for, they’ll both get what they deserve.’ Below them, the two brothers tucked their long black legs into the skiff by the water gate and slid silently away, turning to wave to her before disappearing under the low bridge. ‘Quick, love! We’ve just enough money to pay the boat one way. We’ll have to walk back. Come on!’ Naturally, it had not occurred to her guardian that she might need money, and she had had to ask Mei to lend her a few coins to take them as far as Goldenhand Street where Hugo van der Goes had his workshop.

  Twenty minutes later, Cecily was still tugging at the long bell-rope as Isolde’s hopes and fears spilled out together. ‘You don’t think he’s forgotten, do you? He said something about visiting his other artist friend who’s ill in—where was it?’

  ‘Leuven. Ah, listen! Someone’s coming.’

  It was at this point that Isolde could happily have turned away and pretended a stroll along the canal, where houses sent mirror-images into the water, to lose their identities. The Van der Goes workshop was on the far side of a cobbled courtyard across which men in sober gowns, scribes and errand-boys beat criss-cross paths of business, disappearing up steps and through doors with sidelong looks of curiosity at Isolde and her maid. In York, or at home, it was nothing remarkable for her to venture into the town chaperoned only by her maid; here, she was being made to feel like a woman on the loose, an escapee, perhaps. Just as well, then, that Silas did not know about it.

  A young man showed them inside, wiping multi-coloured fingers down a stained leather apron and throwing a cheeky grin at Isolde. ‘Mixing pigments,’ he said in English. ‘You come to sit for the Master?’

  Isolde supposed that, because of her plain woollen dress and the absence of an escort, the lad felt able to dispense with the formality due to a lady of quality, but she saw no reason to foster the notion. ‘Myneheere van der Goes is expecting us,’ she said, looking straight ahead.

  The smell of wood, canvas, oil and burnt candles drew them along the tiled corridor from which half-open doors provided glimpses of paper-strewn rooms, a garden, and a chamber where a half-made bed spilled rumpled sheets on to the floor. This disorderly prospect might have prepared her for what was to come, had she been receptive to the signs. But she had embarked upon this venture in order to make a point, and any serious thought of backing out now would have indicated a sorry lack of conviction. So, when the lad motioned them through one half of a large double-door, then closed it behind them, Isolde’s comparison with the studio of Hans Memlinc suffered from immediate overload.

  Whereas Memlinc’s studio was orderly in the extreme, cool, light and spacious, loaded with the concentration of four apprentices and jewel-bright with unfinished panels, the workshop of Hugo van der Goes was a duplicate of the man’s mind, cluttered and restless with an abundance of everything in an orderly chaos. Picking her way over the littered floor, Isolde looked up to see a group of people standing around a large panel, quietly discussing it. The next thing she noticed was that two of them were women, stark naked, and talking as naturally as if they had been clothed. Stark naked? Well, one of them wore slippers and the other a scarf around her neck, as if she had a sore throat, both were very lovely and in their twenties and both turned to study their visitor without sharing any of her embarrassment.

  The three apprentices, the young assistant and Myneheere van der Goes next turned to look, adding to her sense of dislocation with blank stares which verified that the invitation issued on Monday had been quite forgotten by Tuesday. This was the second point at which Isolde’s resolution almost failed her. But too late. Hugo van der Goes came forward, his voice still hesitant, wondering, ‘Mistress Medwin?’

  ‘We met yesterday. You asked me if…er…’

  His eyes widened, then laughed. ‘So we did, so we did. St Margaret, wasn’t it? I remember.’

  ‘St Mary Magdalen.’

  ‘Yes, well…one or the other. It was kind of you to offer. Come…’

  She hesitated on both counts, but Hugo spoke to his friends in a gush of Flemish. She had no way of knowing if his words were accurate, and suspected, understandably, that they were probably not. He took her by the shoulders as if, here in his studio, her consent had been taken for granted, and she was turned to them, this way and that, while her eyes swivelled to watch for their reaction, half expecting to see either apathy or hostility. Not for one moment had she thought to find anything like this.

  Yet the critical appraisal of the new saint was not hostile, and even though she could understand none of their comments she could tell by the way Hugo tilted her head between his palms, then traced a line down her neck with his forefinger—which caused a visible reaction—that her audience was seriously contributing to the Master’s vision, even smiling at her human response to the fingertip. The sense of isolation caused by the unfamiliar language was nothing, though, to the consternation of confronting two very unselfconscious nude women in the company of five men probably aged between fifteen and forty. Though there was no time for her to ponder, there was at the back of her mind a hazy sense of relief that, if this state of affairs existed also at Myneheere Memlinc’s studio, she had something to be grateful for in Silas’s prohibition.

  She was as aware of Cecily’s discomfort as much as her own. Isolde herself was familiar enough with the bodies of her female friends as they bathed in the river and swam in the forest pools, but Cecily was not used to the idea that artists needed to understand the precise structure of a body beneath its clothing, and Isolde could see, from the corner of eye, that poor Cecily didn’t know where to put herself. She sent a smile of reassurance but received only a reproachful scowl in return before Cecily found a stool, tipped a cat off it, and plonked herself down in a corner.

  Hugo introduced the group to Isolde, but the names eluded her. She was asked to stand before an easel where the light fell sideways through hexagonal panes of greenish glass and from where she was unable to maintain any relationship with the others in the room, except to hear their subdued remarks and the grinding of a mortar in a pestle or the squeak of charcoal. Already speculating about the unreliability of Hugo’s memory, she was disconcerted but not surprised to find that he was not speaking entirely in Flemish, even to her, though she told herself sharply that it was she who would have to adapt, not them.

  There was a decisiveness about him here which had been lacking in the garden of the Marinershuis, and when he gave her an instruction which she did not follow, his reaction was to do it himself. Without more ado, he eased down the fur-edged shoulders of her wide-necked bodice until they rested halfway down her upper arms, pinning her elbows at her side. Then, with equal assurance, and again without considering the effect his warm fingers might have upon the skin of her bosom, he drew downwards the white chemise that modestly filled the V of her neckline until she grabbed at his hand a split second before the fine fabric was lost to view. As if she had intended to help instead of to obstruct him, he took both her hands and placed them flat on to her ribs pushing them upwards to support her bre
asts, taking not the slightest notice of the flush that burned into her cheeks and throat. Hardly daring to breathe, and certainly not daring to protest before all these worldly Flemings, she looked down at herself and prayed that the next breath would not be the undoing of her.

  Had she been alone with the other two women and the Master himself, she would have felt like part of the furniture, but with four other men standing by and a calamity about to happen, her unease was at its zenith. She wished with all her heart that she had not come, that Myneheere van der Goes had found another Mary or Margaret, and, most of all, that she had not felt it necessary to go to these lengths to make a show of control over her life. Surely there was a more comfortable way?

  If there was, it did not present itself in time to save her more distress, for Master Hugo’s command in Flemish, which was clearly for her to keep her head up, coincided with a distant clang of the bell, doors opening and closing, and a cool draught of air on her bare back. Someone had entered; the artist’s nod of acknowledgement was to someone he knew well. The visitor waited a while in silence and then, moving slowly along one side of the room, came within Isolde’s view and lounged against the wall, where he could see both the artist’s sketch and his model, and Isolde knew, without a second glance, that he was enjoying the sight of something she had been at great pains to keep hidden. Enjoying it, and revelling in her chagrin.

  Finally, when the Master stood back for longer than usual without speaking, and when she believed she could not bear the tension a moment longer, Silas moved across to his friend behind the easel to discuss in Flemish the image on the paper, not once catching her eye to convey either amusement or anger. Nevertheless, she had no doubt that she would soon have to deal with the latter.

  Without waiting for permission, she hurriedly readjusted her bodice and sought Cecily’s company before accepting the firm hand that was held out to her. ‘I believe the Master will release you now,’ he said. ‘Or do you wish to continue?’

  ‘No,’ she whispered, holding a hand to her flaming cheek.

  ‘Then I suggest you take your leave of the company. I have a boat waiting.’

  Chapter Seven

  They did not, after all, have to walk home from Goldenhand Street, which was just as well, for Isolde’s legs had ideas of their own and made no resistance when Silas picked her up in his arms to place her in the boat by his side. Only once did she catch the direct beam of his eyes, but once was enough. Their homeward journey was silent and fraught with tension, and with an underlying relief on Isolde’s part that the ridiculous appointment had concluded decently, though with only seconds to spare.

  As for Silas, he had had time in Hugo’s studio to comprehend the reasoning behind Isolde’s typically intuitive behaviour, and had correctly deduced that it was a direct response to his refusal to allow her to pose for Hans Memlinc. Not for one moment did he believe that she had wanted to pose naked, nor did he believe she had expected to expose most of her upper half, whether to easy-going artists or their models. Heaven knew she had guarded herself well until over-ruled by a determination not to be dictated to, but it had brought her little comfort, by the look of things, especially after his appearance. He tested the temperature of her discomposure with a sidelong glance: still furious, but chastened too, perhaps.

  But Silas’s real concerns were twofold. One was that, as a stranger to Brugge, its language and customs, and also as a woman open to possible reprisals from those seeking her return, she had put herself foolishly at risk by venturing out unescorted by at least one man. He was angry with himself for not having read more into Hugo’s silence on the matter yesterday. But for Pieter’s sharp eyes spotting her entering the house across the courtyard, he would not have known she was abroad. Forbidding her to leave the house would have been like a red rag to a bull. The courtyard off Goldenhand Street was also where many of the foreign merchants had their offices, including Paulus Matteus, who had received them moments before Pieter’s news.

  The second concern was just as serious, and probably accounted for Hugo’s failure to go through the proper channels, as Memlinc had. Silas had seen no reason at the time to explain to Isolde that, by giving Memlinc permission to ask her to sit for him, he would have been obliged to do the same for Van der Goes, or suffer one of his notorious self-deprecating rages which had afflicted him more and more over the last two years. Earlier this year, Hugo had entered the monastery known as The Red Cloister near Brussels for treatment and to find some inner peace, and had only recently returned to work, having dismissed himself on the excuse that he had to catch up with things. His masterly altarpiece for the Portinari family was well overdue and preyed on his mind night and day. He was a brilliant artist, but his behaviour was becoming more and more unstable, his unpredictable and violent outbursts now well known to his friends and colleagues. Only last month he had tried to strangle one of his models: that was not something Silas wanted Isolde exposed to. In short, she had been in danger from all sides.

  The obvious conclusion to the uncomfortable episode would have been, Isolde was aware, a blazing row instigated by her if not by him. When Silas said nothing that allowed her an opening gambit, she picked up the Little Thing, who bounced delightedly to greet her, and went up to her room, followed closely by Cecily. And it was the maid who turned on her mistress before the unsuspecting lass had removed her shoes.

  ‘And what d’ye think your father would say to that, then?’ Cecily hissed, closing the window that opened onto the canal. ‘It’s one thing getting into a tricky situation, young lady, but it obviously takes more sense than you’ve got to get out of it before it worsens. Just what d’ye think you’ve gained then, eh?’

  ‘Oh, don’t you start!’ Isolde snapped, unwilling to be ruffled further.

  ‘Just answer my question, Isolde Medwin. Or if you can’t find any answers, start asking a few of your own. Forget my embarrassment, if you like. I’ll recover from that. But ask yourself what you’re getting out of this charade. I can understand you wanting to have your own way, child, but that option isn’t open to you here in Brugge, remember. You’re a hostage, and you told me you’d agreed to abide by the rules.’

  ‘Rules? You knew what I was doing before we set out, Cecily, yet you chose to say nothing about the rules then, did you? If you felt so strongly—’

  ‘I didn’t say anything because I didn’t know then that you’d be standing there half-naked before a crowd of strangers, did I? Men too, God help us! Have you no shame, lass? Have you done half as much as that for the man you talk about in your sleep? Is he only good for your resentment while a bunch of goggle-eyed lads get to look at your body? Is that how love goes nowadays? Does he have to give you the moon before you show him some affection, or have your attractions gone to your head of a sudden? Well, you’ve indulged your pride and look where it’s got you. Nowhere!’ Cecily hustled about, red-faced and bursting with indignation. ‘If I’d been him I’d have dropped you in the canal to cool you off, young lady. Instead of that, he’s too much of a gentleman and probably too confused even to remonstrate with you. And I’m not surprised. He’s not the only one who’s confused.’ She stamped out, slamming the door and too far into her tirade to notice the tears that coursed down Isolde’s cheeks.

  Shaking, and almost blinded, Isolde sat with the little hound on her lap while it licked obligingly at the warm, salty drops. She thought of her maid’s description of Silas and how he must be as confused as her to see the one he called his woman exposed to the stares of strangers when she had shied away from his lightest touch, even while she burned for it. Did either of them have any idea how much that statement of independence had cost her?

  Crossing to her writing-box, she lifted the lid and paper to remove the pendant he had given her, clasping it with some difficulty around her neck and arranging the largest pearl to lie in the cleft that she knew had held his attention that morning. Then, carrying the Little Thing under one arm, she tiptoed out of the room, closing the
door quietly behind her and entering Silas’s room as softly as she had done before.

  The white bed-curtains moved in the breeze from the window and the reflection of ripples danced across the oak-beamed ceiling and down one wall. A deep mustard-and-blue silk carpet covered with intricate patterns hung on one side, matching in colour the beautiful blond fur rug over the bed. There was a stool with carved sides, a deep chest, a small table with rolls of parchment and a silver sconce of great ingenuity that held at least eight candles.

  As she had done on that previous occasion, she drew one of his white pillows to her face and, placing the little hound on the fur, inhaled its scent. Her nose was useless and tears still pricked at her eyes, so she lay with the pillow in her arms and her new pet in the bend of her lap, knowing that Silas would now have returned to Goldenhand Street. Then she slept.

  She came awake slowly as the ground beneath her began to give way; the sky darkened with threatening clouds and a chill wind cooled her body. Silas’s large frame leaned above her, carefully drawing away the pillow and scooping the Little Thing on to the floor. His fist beside her shoulder bore his weight as he lowered himself to sit by her, regarding her with serious dark eyes that, in shadow, she could not read. His voice, however, was softly teasing, deep and dark like the river pools she had just been visiting.