The Maiden's Abduction

by Juliet Landon

  look down upon the critical customs officers and expectant merchants,

  the stoic dockers and mildly insulting seamen whose seeming indolence

  was a front to cover their exhaustion. Amongst the rows of buildings

  that lined the canal with merchants' offices, Silas's warehouse was an

  elegant section stepped above its long dark windows with prettily

  carved gables and a door high up for accepting heavy goods into its

  upper storeys.

  Its cool interior was cool and well ordered. An office was occupied by

  two diligent clerks half-buried in paperwork, and another for Silas's

  clients was lined with cupboards, shelves, pigeonholed papers, books

  and rolled charts, a set of exquisite -Venetian glasses, and a large

  globe on a stand. His table was covered with a rug of glowing reds,

  browns and blues that felt like silken velvet.

  "It is silk," Silas said.

  "It's come a long way over mountains and desert, seas and rivers.

  That's why it's expensive."

  "Hmph!" Bard snorted.

  "What don't you deal in?"

  "Slaves and fish," Silas said tersely, leading them through into the

  rooms at the back of the house where two more men in leather aprons

  tied sacking-covered bales and nailed lids on boxes.

  Isolde placed the Little Thing on the tiled floor and laughed as it

  sniffed daintily at the nearest bale, then sneezed.

  "You're a gazehound," she told it, 'not a sniff- hound. Come and see

  up here. Little Thing. " They followed Silas and Bard upstairs to

  spacious floors stacked with chests and large boxes that filled the

  warm air with the pungent scent of cinnamon and cloves, ginger and

  pepper. Bags of nutmegs sat alongside bags of woad, one of which Silas

  opened to take out a handful of the hard black balls which, he said,

  would have to be soaked before they could yield their blue dye. There

  were chests of precious yellow saffron, madder roots and indigo,

  sulphur, brimstone and liquorice, alum, oak-galls and the shiny dried

  shells of beetles that dyers used for red. Reams of paper were stacked

  ready for Caxton's workshop.

  "Meester Silas!" one of the men called from below.

  "You have a visitor. Shall I send him up?"

  Silas winked at Isolde.

  "No," he called.

  "Tell him his paper all went to the bottom."

  Master Caxton's face appeared, grinning sheepishly beneath a felt hat

  with its trim turned up at the back and a jaunty feather that arched

  over the crown like the handle of a basket.

  "Rubbish, Silas Mariner," he said, mildly.

  "It comes overland from Fabriano and you're hoarding it till the price

  goes up. I know you merchants."

  The men clasped hands, smiling in the shared banter of businessmen, and

  when Isolde had once again submitted to the eager kiss of greeting, she

  stepped back to allow Bard an introduction. Their voices followed her

  down the stairway and through to the room where the men had been

  packing. Silas had not lingered here because, she presumed, the cargo

  was less interesting, and now the two men had vanished, leaving the lid

  of one long box lying half across it at an angle.

  Lifting one end of the lid, she saw inside the leather bound books and

  sheafs of unbound manuscripts that she knew to be from Master Caxton's

  printing press. Silas had said that he shipped them to England. But

  in the centre of the box, between the rows of books, were long bolts of

  linen-wrapped fabric like those stored on the upper floors at the

  Marinershuis, which seemed strange when Silas had told her that, for

  customs purposes, cargo had to be packed and labelled separately.

  Frowning, she replaced the lid and eased open the end of an untied bale

  that lay on a nearby bench. From between the springy white sheep's

  fleece, she saw the bright silver glint of a buckle, then the hard

  curve of a breastplate, the overlapping segments of arm and leg pieces.

  Quickly she closed the sacking, and moved to another one, feeling the

  tell-tale resistance of metal amongst the fleece. In another box of

  what looked like rolls of plain linen, she found buried in the centre

  the soft black astrakhan lambskins that would evade customs duty at

  whatever port they were unloaded, the very stuff of the smugglers'

  trade. Moving across to a cask, she cautiously eased up the round lid

  that should not have been loose, discovering that the wine was held

  inside the wooden casing like a layer inside a false lining: the space

  in the centre was empty.

  Isolde shook her head with disbelief. What was it he'd said they were

  carrying to Flanders? Wool, wood and other bits and pieces. So, what

  did he bring here, and what did he take back to England? Who did he

  sell to, and what else was he doing that was illegal? Did Master Henry

  Fryde have some connection with this, and was that why he must not go

  anywhere near Scarborough?

  A burst of laughter made her jump. Quickly, she gathered the Little

  Thing into her arms, nimbly mounted the stairs, and was calmly

  inspecting a pile of rugs from the east when the men came through,

  still laughing.

  "All right, William," Silas was saying.

  "So you may as well take the books yourself, if you're so bent on

  going."

  "Going, Master William?" said Isolde. A tightness in her throat

  forced the words out shakily.

  "You're not leaving us before the pageant, are you?"

  Apologetically, Caxton tilted his head.

  "Indeed I must, dear lady. His majesty King Edward has offered me a

  station by Westminster Abbey where I can set up my press, and it's the

  chance I've been waiting for. I shall set off tomorrow before the

  autumn gales begin so that I can prepare the place to receive the

  machinery. Wynkyn is going to wind things up here and have it shipped

  over, and, if all goes according to plan, we may have it working by the

  new year. Just think, Isolde, it will be the first and only printing

  press in England."

  She could not resist a gentle hug, for his expression of pride was

  endearing on one so unassuming.

  "There is no one more worthy of the honour. Master William.

  You will make it a huge success, as you have done with everything else.

  "

  "Except one." He smiled.

  "You must teach me what to do before I go."

  "Then come and dine with us, and I will."

  "Thank you. But this evening is my last in Brugge."

  "Come this evening. Is that all right, Silas?"

  "Most certainly. And bring that wordy assistant, if you must."

  Caxton grinned, knowing the reason for Silas's reluctance.

  "He likes to try his English out. He knows he's referred to as Wynkyn

  de Worde, but he doesn't mind. He knows his job, too."

  It was difficult for Isolde to conceal her discovery, the urge to

  question Silas conflicting with the cautionary voice telling her to

  wait. As it transpired, the choice was removed from her by a stream of

  visits from fellow-merchants and then by their own visit to Caxton's

  press before it was dismantled. Eventually, Isolde and Pieter de Hoed,

  wearing the newe
st extravagant creation, left the men to it in order to

  give the cook time to prepare an extended supper. She decided to speak

  to Silas in private at bedtime.

  Inevitably, bedtime came late, and the guests' departure came some time

  after curfew, though the light that still lingered in the western sky

  was enough to make both men recognisable. The evening had gone well,

  and there had been times when Isolde was able to push the worrying

  discoveries to the back of her mind, but telling herself that Silas

  knew what he was doing seemed to have effect only for a few minutes

  until the penalties for smuggling pestered her like a recurring

  nightmare. Not only that, but the discovery appeared to strengthen her

  belief that all was not as it should be with the man she loved, and now

  she wondered whether she should confront him with the knowledge or not,

  suspecting that he would brush it aside and overpower her with his

  loving. Last night he had given her no chance to re-introduce the

  subject of his past, his abundant energy sweeping her away on a tide

  too strong to resist, robbing her of the will to reverse the flow.

  The house quietened and the bells tolled out across the town, giving

  orders for the night. The water below her window rippled like dark

  satin and Isolde lined up the opening sentences of her confrontation,

  her heartbeats protesting at their feebleness. She began a turn away

  from the window when she was caught by a movement on the water. As she

  waited, a shallow skiff glided silently up to the water gate and

  stopped. Someone bent to pull the boat close to the steps, holding it

  while another figure prepared to disembark.

  Isolde whispered to Cecily.

  "Come... come here! Look, someone's coming."

  "At this time of night?" Cecily kept to one side, her head weaving

  from side to side to catch sight of the moving shadows.

  "The only people to go abroad at night are the refuse boat, physicians

  and midwives," she said.

  "And smugglers."

  "Look, she's getting out. It's a woman, love. Nay,

  it's not a midwife for young Mei, is it? You don't think. "

  "Shh... they'll hear."

  The figure was small and slender, her leap on to the steps graceful,

  and the generous lift of her skirts gave the two watchers a good look

  at the rich sheen of some exotic fabric; Her head was concealed by a

  loose hood, and the command to the boatman was high and imperious. The

  boatman sat: the woman disappeared through the water gate and out of

  their sight.

  "It is, you know," Cecily said, turning away.

  "It's the midwife." But her voice held little conviction.

  "That's no midwife. Besides, she had no bag, and Mei's not--' " Yes,

  she is. "

  "Get me a blanket, Cecily. I'm going to wait."

  "Oh, do come away, love. Don't fret about it."

  "A blanket, if you please."

  The sky blackened and the bells marked one hour, two hours, before the

  gate squeaked and, in the darkness, Isolde could just make out the

  woman's figure, this time accompanied by a man. He spoke, but not low

  enough to escape Isolde's straining ears. It was Silas. From the

  water, the figure waved once, then disappeared: the gate squeaked

  softly again and the ripples lapped like echoes upon the deserted

  steps.

  She lay in bed waiting, listening and counting the bells and then, near

  dawn, she tiptoed into Cecily's little room and slid beside her nurse's

  warm softness to be cuddled into sleep. Cecily left her to sleep on,

  and later was able to report that a message had come from the Duchess

  to summon Silas to the Princenhof without delay. He had taken Pieter

  with him and left a message that Isolde was to admit only the tailor,

  who had failed to appear yesterday. Bard had gone earlier to Paulus

  Matteus's office.

  "We've got to go, Cecily. We can't stay. Pack our bags."

  "Teh! Oh, love ... come on, now. There's no reason--' " Yes, there

  is. There's a very good reason. I'll not stay. "

  A grey sky lowered heavily over the town, the stiff breeze sending a

  vibration of black waves across the canal, firming Isolde's resolution

  and darkening her unhappiness. Jealousy, now augmented by the

  knowledge of Silas's illicit trading, held her in the very depths of

  its clutches, deafening her to reasoned argument and blinding her to

  the comforts, the prestige of her position and to the friendships she

  had already made. The fire Silas had lit now raged out of control,

  consuming her in the process. Her love, the first she had ever

  experienced, tore mercilessly at her tender heart, shaking her with a

  pain she believed only distance could alleviate.

  The errant tailor emerged from the skiff at the water gate, looking the

  epitome of obsequiousness, his face already flushed with apologies and

  his arms loaded with boxes which he struggled to balance across the

  short step from boat to dry land. His tall auburn-haired corPP3111011

  removed all but one from the tailor's arms, stride easily across the

  steps and followed him through the g^c where Mei, clattering down the

  path to meet theP' greeted them as one.

  "Ah, Meester Johannes, a good day to you. You were rejected yesterday,

  you know. Anyway, no matter, the mistress is in her chamber. I'll

  take you up. You have a n^w assistant, .70?" She turned to smile at

  the tall man.

  "Er ... well, not exactly. This ... er..." He followed ]y[gi, who

  clearly was more interested to know what was? mule boxes than the

  identity of the man who carried them, while he himself was more

  concerned about his client's reaction to the clothes. Would she be

  placated by the new under gowns

  One would have thought, from the look of astonishent on his client's

  face, that Meester Johannes had been accompanied by the patron saint of

  tailors rather uia(i the kind stranger who had helped him off the boat

  with the boxes, but as soon as the door was closed upon the

  disappointed Mei he began to understand the reason for the stranger's

  insistence. His client threw herself into the man's arms and burst

  into tears.

  "Allard," she sobbed.

  "Oh, you've come at last!"

  yieester Johannes put the boxes down and waited, noticing that the man

  called Allard was not in the least take" aback.

  "Dearest one. You knew I'd come. I came as fast as-^~ " How did you

  know? Did you get my--' "Father wrote to me. It's taken me--' " No,

  how did you know I was in Brugge? "

  "I went to York and found out--' " You must take me home, Allard. Now.

  This minute. See, my bags are packed already. "

  "Now? Where's Silas? Has he made you unhappy, love? He's not injured

  you, has he?"

  "Not injured, no. But I must go home now, before he returns." She

  clung to him, barely able to believe that her prayers had been

  answered, and in the first jumbled hail of questions managed to

  discover that Allard had come from Sluys that morning and boarded the

  same skiff as the tailor. No, he had not eaten much, but that was not

  unusual.

  All the sa
me, he was perplexed.

  "I had hoped to speak to Silas, Issy.

  Could we not wait a while? "

  "No!" Isolde pleaded.

  "No, Allard. He'll try to persuade me to stay."

  "But the dresses ... all this..." He waved a hand.

  "How could all this have made you so unhappy? Silas is not a bad chap.

  We used to--' " You know him? "

  "Well, of course I do. We're the same age. We used to fish together,

  climb trees for conkers, and--' " And go whoring? "

  "Er, well, not so much of that. That was Bard's pastime, I

  remember."

  He looked at her sharply.

  "Is that the problem? The La Vallon problem?"

  She gulped and nodded.

  "You've fallen for him, then?"

  She looked away.

  "No! I hate him. He's a La Vallon, isn't he?"

  "He's a man." Allard caught Cecily's eye and began companion removed

  all but one from the tailor's arms, strode easily across the steps and

  followed him through the gate where Mei, clattering down the path to

  meet them, greeted them as one.

  "Ah, Meester Johannes, a good day to you. You were expected yesterday,

  you know. Anyway, no matter, the mistress is in her chamber. I'll

  take you up. You have a new assistant, 70?" She turned to smile at