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
The Maiden's Abduction Page 12