Juliet Landon

by The Maiden's Abduction

  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 speaking 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.

  ‘Tch, 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 tinder. 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’y
e think you could manage a different one for a sea-crossing? And what d’ye think I’m doing?’

  ‘Barging into a lady’s bedchamber?’

  ‘Like you, you mean?’ Bard looked pointedly beyond them to the deep indentation on the velvet-covered bed. ‘Did you have to bring her all this way for that? Couldn’t you have managed a quick one at Scar—?’

  Silas’s hand shot out like a bow from an arrow, gathering up a bunch of the grimy shirt beneath his brother’s chin and pushing it backwards until Bard lost his balance against the wall. He was no match for Silas’s greater strength. ‘Shut your mouth, lad,’ Silas growled, ‘or you’ll be swallowing your teeth for supper. You wouldn’t know it, but this is a lady’s bedchamber and this—’ he tipped his head towards Isolde ‘—is a lady. And this is my house. Keep a civil tongue in your head.’

  Furious still, Bard took hold of Silas’s wrist in both hands. ‘Let go!’ he snapped. It needed no examination to see that the voyage had not agreed with him in any sense, that he was desperately tired, lacking in food and ready for a thorough cleansing. His usual healthy colour had paled at the constant truancy of his stomach, and the optimistic bounce that women found so attractive was sadly deflated. Nevertheless, his eyes lit at the sight of Isolde who, flushed from breast to forehead, became instantly desirable to him though she was obviously mortified by his untimely appearance.

  She was also mystified. ‘What are you doing here, Bard? Don’t pretend you knew nothing of this plot. I’ll not swallow that kind of tripe.’

  ‘What plot?’ Bard said irritably, pulling at his neckline.

  ‘The plot to revenge your family for Felicia’s abduction, of course. What else could I mean?’

  ‘I don’t know of any plot, Isolde. I’ve come to take you back because I’ll not have big brother Silas taking my woman from under my nose. He’s duped me once, but he’ll not do it again.’

  ‘I’m not your woman,’ Isolde retorted. ‘I’m not anybody’s woman!’

  ‘You expect me to…?’ He caught Silas’s eye and glowered with burning resentment, running a hand wearily through his unkempt hair.

  Silas intervened. ‘This discussion can wait, I think, until you’ve had some attention. You smell like a drain, lad, and you’re not going to talk much sense until you’ve had some sleep and food.’

  With a look of horror, Bard clapped a hand to his mouth. ‘No, not food. A mug of ale will do. Ah, it beats me how you can stand all that sailing. The floor’s still rocking.’

  ‘When did you reach Sluys?’

  ‘Early this morning. Cargo of timber and lead. Nowhere to sleep. What a nightmare!’

  ‘Come on, I’ll find you a bed.’ Silas went to the door to call for Pieter, but Bard’s anger still boiled and bubbled over again before Silas could restrain him.

  ‘Do you realise that I’ve chased all this way after you, Isolde? I thought you’d surely be as glad to see me as you were at York. I waited there for the boat, and you all the while thinking I’d hatched a plot…and he told you…what did he tell you?’

  ‘Later,’ Silas said, thrusting him into Pieter’s arms. ‘Go on. I’ll follow. We’ll clear the matter up later.’

  ‘You were going out?’ Bard mumbled.

  ‘Still are, if you’ll do as you’re told. Go on.’ He closed the door and turned to Isolde. ‘Wait for me. I’ll get him some clothes and see him comfortable, then we’ll be off.’

  ‘He waited at York. He didn’t know, did he?’

  ‘Isn’t that what I told you?’

  ‘I didn’t believe you.’

  ‘That seems to be a habit of yours.’

  ‘Can you blame me?’ She looked away, unable to hold his eyes and intentionally making no reference to what she had been about to do when Bard interrupted. A moment or two later, and who knew what he might have seen? ‘You think it’s safe to leave him here while we’re out?’

  ‘Pieter and Mei will be here. He’ll be asleep in half an hour, anyway. I doubt he’ll wake till morning. I’m not going to lose the chance of being seen out with you, my lady, just because I have a brother visiting.’

  Misunderstanding, she bridled. ‘No, indeed. That wouldn’t do, would it? Today’s theme seems to be about men needing women, for one reason or another. Mostly to do with pride, naturally.’ She cradled the Little Thing in her arms.

  ‘You are not flattered that your conquest has traipsed all this way to get you back? Most women would be.’

  ‘Bard is no conquest,’ she flared. ‘He’s angered by your treachery, that’s all. Who wouldn’t be? But I cannot understand why you didn’t tell him in the first place. It would have saved him a journey.’

  ‘Yes…well, I must admit to being surprised at his doggedness, though I can sympathise with his infatuation.’

  ‘Thank you. Infatuation. Well, well. You know about that, do you?’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘At my age? Surely. Show me a man who doesn’t.’

  ‘And you are not annoyed that he’s turned up?’ She longed for him to say, even to imply, that he was.

  ‘Not at all. It’s inconvenient, I suppose. But his being here making cow’s eyes at you won’t alter my plans one bit unless you convince me that you want to return to England with him. Then I’ll probably have to revise the situation. Do you?’

  ‘Do I what?’

  ‘Want him to take you back home?’

  She beat her brain for something to wound him with. Quickly. ‘Well, not until I’ve seen my new gowns, anyway.’

  A smile hovered and flew away with a quick shake of his head. ‘Good try, maid,’ he said, softly, ‘but it won’t do. I told you, I’m not bargaining, and nothing’s changed since then.’

  ‘I’m sorry. That was unmannerly of me. Please forget I said it.’

  ‘I’m extremely deaf on that side on alternate Mondays,’ he said, with a smile. ‘Wait a while. We’ll be away as soon as I’ve seen to him.’

  Being reasonably certain that the English merchant known as Silas Mariner would be about his business on this Monday afternoon, Ann-Marie Matteus gave her doting father a dutiful peck and thanked him for taking her in his skiff as far as the Marinershuis and, yes, she would be ready to be collected in an hour or so. Dear Isolde, she said, would be pleased to see her new friend again in a strange town, so far from home. They had so much in common.

  Her maid, as skinny as Cecily was stout, helped her up the steps and through the gate which was not as familiar to them as they would have liked. Not recognising the young lass left alone to keep watch while Pieter and Mei were otherwise engaged, Ann-Marie demanded to speak to Mistress Isolde Medwin, and the lass, already halfway seduced by the handsome young Englishman in the kitchen, soon found her place usurped by one who would present more of a challenge, at least.

  Bard had come through the cleansing ceremony with flying colours and, until the secondary diversion, had been ready to eat before sleeping. In Silas’s shirt and hose, with points hastily re-tied, he presented less than a courtly appearance whilst resembling, in the most marked manner possible, something from AnnMarie’s wildest and most erotic dreams. Consequently, he found his tongue before she did.

  He spread his hands and assumed his most beguiling apologetic face, ready to tackle an English-Flemish explanation. ‘No Mistress Isolde. Only me. I regret…’ His hand flattened on his chest, reminding him that the shirt was almost open to the navel. He looked down at himself in mock dismay, knowing that her eyes would follow to the exaggerated but fashionable bulge, the braguette, below his waist. Then he bit his lip in pretend embarrassment, his eyes brimming with laughter and the certainty of eventual conquest.

  The inexperienced and vulnerable Ann-Marie had little immunity against masculine wiles as blatant as this. The young men at court were fops, but this one was minus the obvious trimmings and she was wide open to any semblance of solace to her wounded pride, in whatever form it was presented. ‘You are English?’ she said. ‘From England?’

  Bard s
miled his most charming smile and left the hand on his breast. ‘Ah! What a relief! I thought I might have to speak Flemish, or French, or whatever. Your English is perfect, damoiselle. Where did you learn it?’ He took her elbow and led her as if she were thistledown across the warm stone paving of the kitchen courtyard to the plot where Isolde’s benches remained in position. Still in his stockinged feet and with his hair darkly damp and unruly, he sat at a respectful distance so that she would have a good view of his calf muscles and wrists, the gleam of his skin and the sunlight in his wicked eyes.

  The young kitchen lass, not completely giving up hope, brought out the cold food and wine that he had been going to eat, and, with extra goblets for AnnMarie and her maid, it was not long before he was accepting mouthfuls like a bird from a captor’s hand, flavoured with her pity for such a frightful journey.

  ‘You came to take Mistress Isolde home? That was an act of great courage, sir, but if she is visiting your brother, why should she wish to return home? She made me believe she was content here in Brugge.’

  Bard shook his head, sadly. ‘That’s what she would say, with him by her side, isn’t it? What else could she say? That he’s abducted her?’

  ‘What? Abducted? Silas would not do anything like that.’

  ‘You don’t know my brother as I do, damoiselle,’ he said, opening his mouth for another piece of chicken. ‘It’s to do with our family’s honour, you see, and there he’s quite ruthless, as the eldest. He has to be seen to be taking some action. It was inevitable.’

  ‘What was?’

  As if reluctant to explain, he sighed and looked away, but not for long; he had seen the glint of diamonds in the golden coils of her collar. ‘Our families are enemies,’ he said, unfolding the story with a touching hesitancy and milking it for every ounce of pathos. When he had finished, he noticed a tear glistening in the corner of her eye, ready to trickle down her nose. ‘Why, what is it, dear lady?’ he said. ‘It’s not for you to weep, but me. Isolde has always been in love with me, and can’t stand the sight of my brother, yet it’s no use letting the situation worsen. I have to try to persuade him to let her go. It may take some time, but I must make the effort.’