Isolde made a deep curtsy, taking her time over it if only to allow her steepled audience a good view of her own intricately modelled head. That it was not of the Burgundian fashion was now clear to her, but, rather than dwelling on Silas’s reasons for suggesting it, she bravely decided to relish the distinction. When she rose, she was smiling, but the Duchess had already turned her attention to Silas, who was apparently well known to her.
It was clear that neither the Duchess nor her ladies were immune to his patent masculine presence: the coquettish tip of her head, the faintly flirtatious glance had not been performed for Master Caxton or his assistant. ‘Master Silas,’ she said, ‘I’m relieved to see that you are safely returned.’
‘Your Grace honours me by her concern. But you have recently returned from France, I hear.’
‘Ah, France.’ She sighed and looked away for a brief moment, as if not knowing what to say before so many ears. ‘We had hoped to unravel a few tight knots with my brother and Louis, but alas we find that they’ve tied them even tighter. We had to leave.’
‘And his Grace the Duke?’
‘Decidedly unpleased,’ she said, with a sad smile. ‘But enough of that. What will you have to show me, Silas Mariner?’ She tapped his arm, playfully.
‘I shall be glad to show you my entire cargo once it’s been cleared by customs. Next week, perhaps? Shall I send a message?’
She nodded, excitedly, then turned to Master Caxton, who had been waiting patiently to one side. ‘Now, you must not keep me waiting any longer for this book. Come, let me see it, if you please. A romance, did you say?’
‘Printed, your Grace.’ Master Caxton knelt again, holding the book out to show her the title page. ‘Translated into English from the French, the Recueil des Histoires de Troye.’
‘Translated by you? Remarkable! Does this mean…?’
Isolde moved back to make way for those who crowded round to see the phenomenon. By this means, the scholarly printer was assured that word of his books would reach those who could afford to buy them, those who could read, and those who would appreciate them, and she had played her part, albeit a very small one. A soft hand was laid upon her arm and she half turned to find a young woman at her side, the same one who had arranged the Duchess’s train.
This time there was a smile which did not quite reach her eyes but which showed the mouth and teeth to be perfect. The woman’s dark-lashed brown eyes, however, had a hardness about them that warned Isolde of trouble, putting her instantly on her guard. Isolde smiled in return, preparing herself for a question in the French of the Burgundian court which she would have to ask Silas to interpret. But there was no need.
‘Yorksheer?’ the young lady said. ‘This ees somewhere near where Meester Silas lives, is it?’ Her English was good yet with a lilt of Flemish at the edges.
‘York, the county town, is where Meester Silas has his business. He’s a merchant there, you know.’
The woman’s eyes roved over every detail of Isolde’s dress, her hair and the pearl pendant. Her own gown of black velvet and gold satin was patterned with sinuous plant forms, catching the light with a sumptuousness that made Isolde’s grey-blue half-silk appear dowdy in comparison. Her tall steeple head-dress was patterned with chevrons of gold thread and seed pearls, and her deep collar was a mesh of gold links and flowers with centres of diamonds.
‘I know that,’ the woman said, coolly. ‘How long have you known him?’
This was the time, Isolde thought, to put a few questions of her own. ‘You have the advantage of me, damoiselle. You heard my name, but I didn’t hear yours.’
‘I am Ann-Marie Matteus, one of her Grace’s ladies. My home is in Antwerp. Is this—’ she looked pointedly at Isolde’s confection of plaits ‘—what the ladies of the English court are wearing these days?’
Isolde knew it was meant to disconcert her, but she had already seen it coming. If Ann-Marie Matteus had been with the Duchess in France at the meeting of the English and French kings, she would know what the English women were wearing.
Twitching her eyebrows, Isolde shook her head in mock pity. ‘Then you didn’t accompany her Grace to France? You’d have seen them there, I feel sure.’ She lifted her arms in an extravagant gesture. ‘Huge creations! But not for me, I assure you. I rarely follow the fashion in such things unless it suits me. I find the Florentine styles so much more flattering to anyone with a good head of hair.’
‘Really. How interesting. Are you staying here in Brugge? At the Marinershuis?’
Ah. Silas again. So, she had interests there, did she? ‘Yes, I am Master Mariner’s guest. He brought me over on his ship from York to see something of Brugge. It’s a beautiful town. I long to see more of it.’
‘So how long do you intend to stay?’
The question was blunt and to the point, and Isolde was relieved to be joined at that moment by Silas, who placed a tiny skinny monkey to sit on her armful of gown. It wore a collar studded with diamonds.
‘There,’ he said. ‘Seen one of those before?’
Isolde saw that any reply would have gone unnoticed during the meeting of Silas with Ann-Marie Matteus, for the woman’s attitude changed from hostile to winsome at the bat of an eyelid. He bowed formally but, rather than take her hand to kiss, kept his fingers on the jewelled pommel of his dagger. ‘Damoiselle,’ he said.
‘Silas,’ Ann-Marie simpered. ‘You came as soon as you returned. I’m so glad to see you again.’
‘I came here to accompany Master Caxton at the presentation of his book to the Duchess, damoiselle, that’s all. You and Mistress Isolde have met, I see.’
‘Yes. She tells me she’s staying with you. Is that so?’
‘You are asking me to verify what Mistress Isolde has told you?’
‘Ah…no, of course not.’ Ann-Marie’s face struggled into a brittle smile. ‘But is it wise, Silas? You know how people talk. I shall be pestered by people asking me what’s going on. What am I going to tell them?’
Intuitively, Isolde understood both the gist of the woman’s insinuations and Silas’s predicament, and, though she had no sympathy to waste on either of them, she did not intend to stand as pig-in-the-middle while they batted denials over her head. Even to a blind man it was obvious that the woman was doing her best to inform her of some previous relationship and that her choice of this public place was sure to cause the most immediate damage. But, whether it was true or not, the woman was not going to score at her expense, in public or in private.
‘Tell them whatever you wish, damoiselle,’ Isolde said in her sweetest tone, before Silas could draw breath, ‘but the truth saves a lot of effort in the long run. Tell them, whoever they are, to mind their own…oh, no!’ She peeped up at Silas. ‘Tell them that we have an understanding. Nothing official, yet, but our fathers have been friends for years, and…’ she made it sound like a search for the exact wording ‘…and…er, oh, yes, he’s allowed to make gifts to me. This is his latest.’ She took hold of the pearl pendant and held it forward. ‘Isn’t it a beauty? Oh, and this?’ She held out the bewildered monkey.
Ann-Marie Matteus snatched the creature from Isolde’s hand and held it tightly against her. ‘Is mine!’ she said, all smiles now gone.
‘Ah, he gave you that, did he? And do you and Master Silas have a similar understanding? He’s a very understanding man, is he not?’
The woman knew when she had met her match. Looking at neither of them, she stooped to pick up her flowing veil and train in one practised sweep, and left them.
In some concern, Silas took Isolde’s arm. ‘Do you want to go home?’ he said.
Refusing to meet his eyes, Isolde copied the same graceful gathering of her gown. ‘Home? No, indeed. I’m just beginning to enjoy myself, I thank you.’ She bent to caress the silky white ears of the little gazehound that had come to lean against her legs. ‘Why, little thing,’ she whispered, ‘you are trembling more than I am.’
That was the extent of Isolde
’s compliance. The young court louts who, according to Silas, would come buzzing, were allowed to swarm like bees around a new queen, after which the Duchess, her duties discharged, took Isolde to her green-cushioned dais, an honour which Isolde could have boasted of for the rest of her life, if she had chosen to.
The whole experience, though exciting, was akin to skating upon thin ice, and the mental agility required to avoid mention of the actual circumstances of her presence in Brugge did even more to boost Isolde’s confidence than the earlier acrimonious interview. Afterwards, she could not explain why the thought of a woman being close to Silas, any woman, should bring such a rush of ill feeling to her breast, but she would not ask him for details. No, she’d not give him so much satisfaction.
‘So, should I have congratulated the lady, then?’ Her sideways assault was easily hidden in the babble of voices as they prepared to mount in the courtyard of the Princenhof.
Silas had been particularly subdued, in the manner of one who expects an inevitable volley of questions at any moment, and now, when the first salvo appeared, his defence was over-prepared. ‘Who?’ he said, leading her towards the mare.
‘The one with the diamond-studded monkey.’
His mouth twitched. ‘No, there’s nothing I know of there that deserves congratulations except for being a troublemaker. You could congratulate her for having a father who’s a diamond merchant, but that’s about all I can think of.’
‘But you gave her the monkey, I take it?’
‘No, I didn’t. I sold it to her father. Anything else?’ He lifted her into the saddle, setting her sideways and arranging her skirts. When she made no immediate response to his invitation, he gathered the reins and held them out of reach on the mare’s neck. His chin was on a level with her elbow. ‘Well?’ he said.
It was her place to start the attack, so what right did he have to issue a challenge? Anyway, there was something else, but with Master Caxton and his young assistant looking on he knew full well that this was no time for her to develop the theme. ‘Are you going to give me the reins, or shall I be led?’ she muttered.
He was laughing, she was sure, as he handed them over, but she refused to look and, for some considerable time, had to acknowledge her own bull-headed approach to be the prime cause of her aggravated irritation.
It was Saturday, and their detour through the thronging streets soon took them into the Market Square, dominated by the massive tower of the belfry which she had seen in the distance the day before. The Cloth Hall, where good Flemish cloth was prepared for export, was pointed out to her, its façade littered with cutwork, picots, and snippets of stone lace. On this busy market day, calls and greetings came at them from all sides, waves of feathered hats and whistles of admiration which, Silas told her, were certainly not for him. Nevertheless, they were obliged to stop more than once as they threaded a path through the stalls, giving Isolde and Cecily a chance to see the sugar loaves and spices, the cross-legged tailors, the barber’s stall cheek-by-jowl with flagons of good sweet hippocras and the merry customers who reeled from one to the other. In many ways it reminded her of York, except that this was more compact and therefore appeared larger, but her eye was caught by similar sights: billowing sails of cloth hanging from lines, mirrors, leather shoes, belts and girdles, purses, carved boxes, combs and skeins of coloured wools.
Isolde winked at Cecily and together they sidled away from where the three men were being accosted yet again by acquaintances. Lengths of velvet and veiling, fine woollens and linens lapped like brilliant-coloured waves and, hypnotised by the sight, they moved nearer, eager to feel, compare and choose.
‘I’ll hold the mare,’ Cecily mouthed to Isolde over the din. ‘Go on, slide down…oh!’ Her warning was unheard.
Isolde shuffled herself forward from her sideways seat but was restrained by a firm arm from behind, holding her back. ‘What…?’ She turned, angrily.
‘No, mistress,’ Silas said, leaning towards her from his greater height. ‘It’s a long way down, and you could injure yourself. And I have far more interesting fabrics to show you, if you can wait.’
Frustrated yet again, Isolde could not believe the boast. ‘What, better than these, sir? Look at the colours. I need…’ She pointed.
‘Yes, I know you do. I intend to put the matter right, I assure you.’ He took hold of the mare’s bridle and turned her through the crowds to Bridlestreet, which linked the Market Square with the equally impressive Burg. Alone, they could have kept up a hostile silence, Isolde sulking, Silas uncompromising, but with Master Caxton and Jan Van Wynkyn still bubbling after their appointment at the Princenhof and their expectation of a midday meal at the Marinershuis, she had little choice but to resume her pseudo-sociability.
More than willing to act as tour guide, young Jan pointed out the most interesting landmarks as they approached Silas’s house from another direction, and, angry or not, Isolde was moved by the secluded nests of buildings and courtyards, bridges and glimpses of water opposite the Church of Our Lady. The sun sparkled beneath the smooth curve of St Boniface’s Bridge, and reflections shone across the water in busy green and brown willow-patterns, making Isolde squeeze her eyelids as they turned to enter their own courtyard.
‘You did not enjoy?’ Meester Jan held up his arms to lift her down from the saddle.
But before she could respond Silas’s arms enclosed her waist from behind and tipped her, slowly and gently, into them. ‘Put your arms around my neck,’ he whispered, ‘or I’ll give you to that wordy printer’s assistant. Shall I?’ he threatened.
‘No.’ She obeyed, wishing with all her heart that he would kiss her again here, before them all. But he did not. Instead, he carried her into the cool house, where all was dim after the bright daylight, and placed her upright to continue the acting-out of good relations.
The effort was almost too much for her, and by mid-afternoon, when the guests had departed, Isolde had reached the end of her tether. Almost before the sound of the hooves had died she paced back into the house across the black and white tiles, where she rounded on Silas like a whirlwind, her voice almost screeching with pent-up provocation.
‘You knew, didn’t you? You knew that woman would be there. You knew they’d all be wearing steeples on their heads, not as you said at all. You wanted to—’
‘That’s enough, Isolde.’
‘To humiliate—’
‘I said that’s enough!’ He closed the door and stood with his back to it, as he had done before, creating a barrier not to be broached. His voice, cutting but hardly raised, demanded her instant obedience. ‘Sit down, maid, if you please.’
Defiantly, she stared back, eye to eye, until a quick glint of anger gave her all the warning she needed. She sat.
‘Now,’ he said, swinging a stool beneath him, ‘you will tell me in a civilised manner, not like some screaming fishwife. Your range is most impressive, but I prefer to hear the lady you showed me this morning. She was truly astonishing,’ he said in wonderment.
Chastened, Isolde was inclined to fume in silence, but that time had passed. ‘Why?’ she croaked. ‘Why didn’t you give me some warning? You obviously knew there’d be questions, but you didn’t say I’d have to explain to a woman who clearly has some claim on you. That was the most humiliating charade I’ve ever had to play; every bit of it a complete and utter lie. How could you?’
‘I’ll tell you, if you’ll listen.’
‘No more lies. Try the truth.’
The cutting tone was resumed. ‘I have every intention of trying the truth, so you try putting your preconceptions aside and believing what I tell you, for a change. First, the woman has no claim on me, nor has she ever had. Her father, Paulus Matteus, and I have done business together for years, and he once suggested an alliance between myself and his daughter, which he foolishly mentioned to her before he discovered my inclinations. She apparently approved, but I didn’t, and she’s obviously having some trouble coping with the hurt of
rejection. Her father was at fault; he should never have mentioned it to her. That’s all there is to it. The possibility that she might have been there this morning didn’t enter my head. Yes, I knew she was one of the Duchess’s ladies; unusual for a merchant’s daughter, but a diamond merchant has…well…an advantage over a mere mercer. But it was William who invited us there, not me, Isolde. It was pure coincidence, and you handled it—’ the smile emerged ‘—with your usual courage. I was most impressed, and I have to thank you for saying to her what I could not have said. Not then, anyway.’
‘Why not? Because of her feelings? You didn’t mind mine.’
‘You had the advantage, Isolde. I’d not intentionally hurt the lass more than she is already.’
‘But she’s keeping the possibility alive in her own mind, and that casts this so-called understanding of ours into some doubt, doesn’t it?’
‘Of course not. Everyone knows what the situation is by now. You were the only one there this morning who didn’t and that’s why she was trying it on. For mischief. She knew I’d not bother telling you of something that didn’t happen.’
‘Wishful thinking. Doesn’t it embarrass you?’
‘No. She can wish all she likes. I don’t even think about it, and I want you to do the same. Forget it.’
‘I can forget it. I care not who you have an alliance with, but I do resent having to justify my presence here with a pack of lies.’
‘It’s not a pack of lies, Isolde, it’s as I told you. You are mine, like it or not.’
‘As far as the whole truth is concerned, sir—’
‘And what was the problem with the head-dress? From what I heard, there was nothing but admiration for the way you looked.’
‘Another lie. You told me, if you remember, that this was what they were wearing—’ she pointed to her head ‘—and then I find—’
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