The Maiden's Abduction

by Juliet Landon

  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