Writhing and snarling, she fought without inflicting the slightest damage, and though her hands were freed, each of her blows was blocked by the paralysing hardness of his arms until he saw tears of fury well up into her eyes. Then he caught her, holding her immobile but unable to disguise his own enjoyment of her rage and her futile attempts to best him.
‘Peace, my wildcat! Hush now; it was years ago, when I was a young man going about my master’s business in York.’
‘In York? Before her marriage? You lie, Silas Mariner.’
‘No, sweetheart, I do not lie. She had a reputation well before her marriage to Burgundy. She’s like her brother in that. ‘Tis well known, love. I was flattered at the time, but now we’re friends, that’s all. No more than friends; I swear it. She’s probably had dozens of lovers since then.’
‘And you’ve had dozens since her! Let me go, damn you!’
‘Not until you calm down.’
‘I am calm!’ she yelled. ‘And I hate you! I don’t want you and I shall go back home with Martin Fryde and Bard and I shall be the Duke’s mistress and live in sin with all of them!’ She choked on her hot tears and made only a token resistance when his hand slid softly down her body to gentle the dark red plumage that she had just relegated to others.
He did not answer her confused accusations and intentions. ‘Beautiful thing,’ he whispered, possessing her. ‘Lovely, wild, passionate thing. You are my one desire. No duchess or queen could ever hold a candle to you, and no man shall take you from me. Not now. Not ever. I shall not let you go.’ He made it sound like poetry with the emphasis coming on each thrust in a rhythm of new meanings that caught at her heartstrings, subduing her anger.
Dimly, it occurred to her in the tranquil and pulsating no-man’s land when all talk had ceased, that she might not be alone in her fears, that Silas was by no means certain of her pledges, just as she had doubts about his reasons for keeping her, and that he intended to close every channel by which she might elude him. This one, of course, being the most effective and the most final.
An hour later, at supper, she remembered something. ‘The English Merchants House? Is that where you store your merchandise?’
‘No,’ Silas said, ‘not me. I have a place near the Grue.’
Isolde groaned. ‘Oh, I’ll never get used to these Flemish words. Where’s the Grue?’
‘It’s the crane that lifts cargo out of the ships. I’ll take you tomorrow. The Governor of the English House in Brugge used to be someone you know.’
She was quick to guess. ‘Master Caxton? He was governor?’
‘Yes, for many years. He was a mercer by trade. A man of many parts, is our William. You want to come too, Bard?’
Bard was in philosophical mood. ‘Ann-Marie is indisposed. She’s expecting me to behave myself. I’ll come.’
Isolde was almost ready to feel sorry for him. ‘Poor Bard. You’re truly netted, then?’
‘Mmm…the lady seems to think I have the makings of a good husband and her father believes I have a good business head, so…’ he flicked a crumb off his doublet ‘…what more could I want?’
‘Diamonds, lad?’ Silas said, biting into a crispy apple. ‘Nothing like a tray of diamonds to change one’s mind about marriage, is there?’
Anticipating Bard’s obvious retort, Isolde intervened. ‘What will you do when Ann-Marie goes to Mechelin with the court next week, Bard?’
‘I go to Antwerp with Myneheere Matteus. It’s nearer Mechelin than Brugge and I’ll be able to see her and learn the business at the same time.’
‘So we shall lose you.’
‘Yes, dear sister. You’ll lose me. You might at least pretend to be heartbroken.’
They had already agreed on that, and Isolde’s good-humoured silence was this time more comfortable than ever, for she was relieved beyond words that someone had found a way to halt Bard’s interminable roving. At this point, she would almost have welcomed the chance to speak again with Ann-Marie, but the lass had kept well clear for her own good reasons, and Isolde would now have to wait until the court moved again before offering her congratulations. Or condolences.
The alleged understanding between Ann-Marie and Silas had been quickly dismissed as the fantasy of a young lady for a good-looking friend of her father’s, but Isolde’s attempts to shrug off Silas’s admitted affaire with the Duchess was not nearly so easy, and the mental picture of the two of them together was as vivid to her as if it had been yesterday. Her superficial acceptance of his word that the connection was a thing of the past appeared to convince everyone except Cecily.
‘What in heaven’s name is the matter with you, child?’ Cecily held a fistful of Isolde’s hair in one hand, a brush in the other. ‘You’ve snapped my head off twice now in as many brush-strokes. Is your head sore?’
‘No, my head’s not sore,’ Isolde said. ‘Plait it, Cecily, if you please.’
Cecily sighed. ‘What is it, lass? You’re worried, is that it?’
‘No, of course not. But I wish I had news from home, that’s all. I’d have thought that if Fryde could send his son, my father could have done the same. I long to see Allard. I need his common sense, Cecily.’
‘Then write.’
‘I have done. But he won’t get my letter until a boat sails. He might not get it at all.’ She tried to keep her voice steady, but failed.
‘But I thought your mind was made up. You seemed happier yesterday. You having second thoughts already?’
‘God in heaven, Cecily!’ Isolde snatched the vestigial plait away from Cecily’s fingers and swung round on the stool to face her maid. ‘I’ve hardly had time to set my first thoughts in place yet, have I?’
Cecily drew up a three-legged stool and sat, taking Isolde’s hand in hers. ‘I know, sweeting, I know. There, see, don’t weep. It’s all happened a wee bit sudden, hasn’t it? Is that it? The suddenness of it? And a bit of jealousy, perhaps?’
‘Oh, Cecily!’ The floodgates opened. Isolde had never known jealousy until now, having never been in love. She had never known of its total unreason, its power, or its crippling pain. It seemed to make no difference that he had taken her for his mistress when the mere sound of his name, La Vallon, was enough to remind her of his family’s reputation, and to taunt her that she had tangled with one only to be snared by the other. What assurance did she have that Silas differed from his brother and father except that he had apparently graduated from village girls to the nobility more quickly than they? And, in spite of his promises, the whole charade was more to do with the La Vallon revenge upon the Medwins than with love. He talked at length about possession, but then, he was a merchant, wasn’t he?
The words fell out in a disorderly array for Cecily to make of what she could and, being Cecily, she did not find the task impossible. At nineteen, Isolde was old enough to give herself to a man, but that was not the only element in the equation, for she was also a dutiful daughter whose flirtation with the younger La Vallon could hardly have prepared her for this. It did not surprise Cecily in the least that Isolde was emotionally unsettled: Silas La Vallon would unsettle any woman, virgin or experienced, though Isolde was not one of those flighty young things with shallow perceptions. She might be fiery, and somewhat impetuous, but her feelings ran deep. She was like her father in that. Cecily rocked her within comforting arms and said little: it was not advice or platitudes Isolde needed but someone to listen, and Cecily had always been good at that, too.
The visit to Silas’s warehouse on the next day, intended to give Bard and Isolde some insight into the La Vallon trading activities, gave Isolde rather more information than she knew what to do with, nor did it do anything to quell her misgivings about Silas’s scrupulousness in all things. If she had not unconsciously been searching for more fuel to add to the raging fires of jealousy, she might have allowed him a chance to explain before condemning him.
The Bridge of the Grue gave them a good view of the great foot-operated crane that winched
bales, casks and boxes from the bellies of ships on to the wharf bordering the canal. A carved wooden crane of the bird variety perched whimsically on the highest arm of the contraption to 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 newest 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.
Juliet Landon Page 18