Juliet Landon

by The Maiden's Abduction

  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 artist?’ 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-faced 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 heere. 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. ‘Eenglish? 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 p
erhaps 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, damoiselle?’ 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 heere,’ 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 Marinershuis, 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 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 heere. 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, d’ye 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.’