Silently, he came to stand at her back, placing his arms around her
shoulders and his hands upon the wide sash as if to help its supporting
role.
"Yes, maid. I shall probably be telling you that, too, if you'll
listen. I told you that I have fabrics better than those on the
market, but you didn't believe that either, did you? So what do you
think I trade in that interests the Duchess so? Did you not wonder?"
"No, I didn't. My curiosity about you doesn't extend even that far."
"Little liar." His hands moved carefully upwards to the full curve
beneath her breasts and stayed there, lifting and holding.
"To proud to ask, aren't you? Well, then, I'll tell you. I deal in
luxury goods rather than in bulk cargo, as most other York merchants
do. Fabrics, mostly. I'll show you later, so you can choose some for
new gowns, and I'll have them made up for you, and anything else you
need. But there'll be no pinnacles on your head, Isolde. Is that
clear?"
"Are you bargaining, sir?"
"Silas, if you please."
"Silas."
"No, maid. I'm not bargaining. I don't need to, do I?"
Suddenly, the direction of the argument had turned as, relentlessly, he
refused to provide the answer she had foolishly expected. There was no
vulnerable spot she could recognise, utilise, or profit by. Acutely
aware of being disadvantaged, mentally and physically, she twisted
herself away in a panic, but he was ahead of her even in that and she
was held against him by an arm that refused to let go. Gentle as ever,
he took hold of the pearl pendant as an excuse to make contact with the
soft skin beneath it, his knuckles fitting into the hollow where the
pear-shaped pearl had been.
"Shh.-hush," he said into her ear.
"We'll bargain when the time comes, lass, not before. No merchant ever
buys what he can obtain by gift; he only has to wait." His knuckles
caressed, closing the discussion.
As soon as he released her she fled upstairs to where Cecily was
tidying her clothes flinging herself upon the bed to release the
tensions that threatened to break her. Knowing better than to ask
questions, Cecily covered her with a shawl and left her alone with the
jumbled thoughts and emotions and the overwhelming need to lie once
again in his arms, to be rocked and held as she had been on the voyage.
Last night, the first in this strange country, she had slept alone and
fitfully, and now, when she believed he would be eager to kiss her, he
had not done so.
Stealthily, on bare feet, she crept from the room and along the cool
passageway to where his chamber door stood ajar. His bed was large and
covered with a rug of smooth blonde fur inside an alcove curtained with
white linen.
Slowly, she dragged one of the white pillows towards her and bent to
inhale its scent, finally burying her face deep in its softness as a
wave of pure longing shook her with its force. Then, controlling the
urge to lie where he would lie, she set the pillow back, removed the
pearl pendant and laid it upon the white surface.
"We'll see who waits longest," she whispered.
Chapter Five
Oilas's Marinershuis, tucked into a snug plot beside the Arentshuis,
could be approached from the canal at one side and, from the other,
from a green and leafy street that led directly into the cobbled
courtyard. Screened by buildings and trees, the gardens surrounded a
surprisingly large brick house which had been extended so many times
since its conception that the windows gave no positive indication of
where the storeys were, although Silas's jest about the attics was
based on fact.
Through a door in the panelling of the upper passageway, Silas led
Isolde and Cecily up a narrow flight of stairs, passing tiny
plate-sized windows at foot level. At the top, a large room lit on one
side by arched floor- level windows was high-beamed with a network of
rafters, the walls lined with wooden shelves, tier upon tier, where
logs of linen-wrapped fabrics lay like shrouded bodies in a tomb, their
labels dangling as miniature pennants. The absence of colour was
countered by the large central table where ledgers were piled with
leather-bound sample books peeping with jewels of gold and silver
threads, a quick shine of peacock and azure, the brown gleam of
bronze.
He took her wrist to help her up the last step, then turned to Cecily
to do the same.
"These are the most precious ones," he said, 'but there'll be many more
when the new cargo arrives on Monday. "
"They were on the ship with us?"
"Er, no, damoiselle. They come overland from Venice and Florence and
Lucca."
"So what were we carrying? Not luxury goods from England, surely?"
"No." He strode over to the table and lit the lantern for more
light.
"No, we carried wool and wood and various other bits and pieces. Other
merchants use my ship to carry their merchandise, you see. Now, come
and have a look."
Isolde thought his reply too dismissive, but said no more. What
merchants got up to was their own business. Between the shelves, door
after door revealed smaller rooms and closets stacked with more bolts
of cloth, all linen-wrapped and labelled, and when Silas opened the end
of one and peeled back its shroud, the small room was suddenly aglow
with a brilliant patch of red and gold.
"Not your colour," he murmured.
"Something a little cooler, perhaps."
He laughed softly, as if sharing a private jest, and Isolde blushed and
backed out.
"These must be priceless," she said to Cecily.
"Pricey, not priceless," said Silas.
"Nothing here is priceless. Look over here." He led the way to
another small door, partly hidden by a set of swinging shelves.
Unlocked, this led into a large windowless room where shadows danced
away from the lantern's light and revealed shelves stacked from floor
to rafters with the dull gleam of precious objects. There were stacks
of leather-bound and gold-clasped books, boxes and caskets of carved
wood and ivory, bundles of quills, vellum and paper, silver and gold
plate, chalices, knives and spoons, salts and mirrors framed with
tortoiseshell and gold, leather purses and sets of falconers' equipment
with gold bells and rich tassels, amber, lapis lazuli and sandalwood,
unicorns' horns and sweetsmelling wax. Lower down there were the
shining breastplates, gauntlets and helms of engraved armour, swords
and polished yew bow-staves and, further round, coloured Venetian glass
goblets with twisted stems. He opened a chest to show them bags of
pearls and metal threads for embroidery, and Isolde then knew where the
ones she wore had come from. Below were leather shoes and boots of
exquisite craftmanship, rolls of soft coloured leather and a mountain
of furs, silver and shining greys, black, brown, red and gold, striped,
spotted and worth a king's ransom.
Luxury goods, he had told her, yet she had not imagined anything on
this scale, nor had she even known such things existed except in fairy
tales. Unicorn's horn? What on earth was that for?
"Detects poison," Silas said.
"Princes and kings use it on their food to make sure they're safe to
eat."
"Use it? You mean someone has to try it out?"
"Of course. It's reliable, rare, and therefore costly.
Can't get enough of it. Look at this. " In the light of the lantern,
he held up a glass goblet and twisted it to flash a pale mby fire, then
replaced it on the shelf.
"And you were eyeing the purses this morning, weren't you? Well, look,
you can take your pick of these."
The clutch in his hand were stiff with embroidery, metal threads and
jewels, tassels and shining cords.
"Shall we choose some fabrics first, then?"
More gifts. As if it understood her inner contradictions better than
she did, Isolde's hand searched for the pendant she had returned only
an hour ago. The gesture and her hesitation were observed, but not
remarked upon except by a hand over her wrist that drew her gently back
into the main store; in the next moment, Silas was hauling out the
heavy bolts and thudding them on to the table, peeling back their
covers and drawing out lengths of scintillating gold tissue, cut
velvets, taffetas, brocades and da masks until the table was a glowing
furnace of colour, pattern and texture.
"Mistress Cecily," Silas said, giving Isolde time to search, "I think
you will have to resign yourself to a little refurbishment too, you
know. Something like this pale grey damask, perhaps, or this
plum-striped velvet. This one is from Lucca. Excellent stuff."
Cecily winced.
"A broadcloth, sir? Mouster de Will- ers? Something sensible?"
Yelping with laughter, Silas held on to the table.
"No, mistress. No broadcloth. No French stuff. No caddis or kersey,
I'm afraid. You'll have to make do with a sensible silk or a good
strong Levantine. I know just the thing."
Accepting no words of protest, he draped them with silks, satins and
velvets, cloths of gold and a cream- coloured samite.
"Samite?" he said, holding it beneath Isolde's chin.
"This one is perfect for you.
Look, the coloured part is a mixture of silk and linen and the pattern
is of gold, yes, pure gold thread. D'ye like it? Good, we'll keep
that one, then. Now. " he hunted for another bolt 'you asked me which
one the Duchess was wearing this morning. That was a baud eking that
came originally from workshops in Baghdad, but all these secrets
escape, you know. Warp of gold, weft of silk. Here's one for you,
damoiselle." He produced a bolt from beneath a pile which, stripped of
its cover, was undecided whether to be gold or sage-green or turquoise.
He flung a length across the table to show off its tiny gold pattern,
then draped it over Isolde's shoulders, smiling at Cecily's face which
was becoming very pink and damp.
"That all right?"
he said.
A mountain of fabric was growing at one side of the table, one pile for
Isolde and one for Cecily and another of fine Italian cottons, silks
and cobweb lawns for chemises, astrakhan lambskins from Messina and
Siberian squirrel for trims, cloth of gold for sashes, veiling and
spangles for hair.
"Combs, purses, girdles," Silas said, 'ah, yes, and shoes. We must see
the shoemaker on Monday, too. Feathers? Buckles? " He watched the
two women do their best to repay his attentions by rolling up and tying
the bolts of fabric.
Protesting and laughing, Isolde bade him stop, partly because she was
now fast becoming immune to the beauty of some fabrics which, this
morning, would have made her gasp.
Partly, too, because his generosity had gone far enough, even though he
was enjoying it every bit as much as they were.
"Paper?" said Isolde.
"Paper, damoisellel How many reams?"
She snuffled.
"Not reams. A few sheets and a quill or two. Am I allowed to write to
my father and brothers?"
"I don't see why not. It can't make any difference now, can it? I
shall see that you have paper, quills and ink immediately. Mistress
Cecily, your needs?"
"Oh, no, sir, I have no needs, really. Except..."
"Except?"
"Weller pins and scissors, and silk threads to match..," She waved a
plump hand towards the mountain, blinking at its gigantic
proportions.
Tom between pity and the mental image of poor Cecily surrounded by a
and stitching for the next two years, Silas and Isolde were soon
helpless with a mutual merriment that continued in spasmodic and
uncontrollable squeaks all the way down the steep stairway.
The view from Isolde's waterside window had intrigued her since her
arrival, her attention held at first as much by the water itself as by
the craft. Now the day was drawing to a quiet finale and the water had
become darkly mysterious, disturbed only by those who slid silently
past to reach home before the curfew.
The low sun caught the outline of the buildings opposite, the solid
bulk of Our Lady's Church on the left and, next to it, the house of
some important nobleman, she assumed. To the right, the little bridge
of St. Boniface was now deserted except for one of Silas's cats that
walked the lowest parapet across to the grassy path on the far side.
Assuming that it was Cecily who had entered the room and then left
again, she remained at the window with her thoughts until the last rim
of light had moved upwards to the tall spire of the church, and it was
only when Cecily brought in a candle to light the others that she saw
something that had not been in the room before. Together, they
approached the linen chest where a dark box had been placed.
"A casket, love? When did this appear?" Cecily said.
"Just before you, I think. It's wood. The sides are carved, too.
Bring those candles forward, both. of them. It is carved; feel it."
The casket was portable, but only by a sturdy porter able to lift a
hefty piece of carved walnut with a deep lid and bound with ornamental
silver bands. A silver key was in the lock that clicked softly at the
first twist, and the lid made no sound as it swung upwards on silver
hinges.
In silence, Isolde explored. In the centre section lay a thick layer
of creamy paper tied with a blue ribbon, and in various blue
leather-lined compartments were quills, a silver knife, two horn ink
pots with silver lids, a sand-pot, a heavy silver seal and a block of
sealing- wax with a roll of narrow linen tape. Carefully, she took the
seal and held its base towards the light, studying its indented
design.
"It's a ship. Look, a three-masted ship. And an M."
"An M for Medwin?"
"Medwin or Mariner. It's beautiful, but I cannot accept it, can I?"
Cecily touched two silver knobs towards the base of the carved front.
"What's this?" she said.
"A drawer?"
Isolde pulled, sliding out a flat table-top covered with smooth blue
leather and edges inlaid with silver and coloured woods. Extended, its
silver knobs became feet that held it at an angle against the rest of
the casket, a perfect writing-surface with a hole at each side to take
the ink pots
Shaking her head, she lifted out the paper to feel its surface and saw
that the floor of that compartment was the lid of the one below, where
private letters could be kept. A package was there, tied with more
blue ribbon. Instinctively, Isolde knew what it contained, but was
unable to suppress an excited gasp of laughter as the contents were
revealed. The pearl pendant. A message on the inside of the wrapper
was written in a large bold hand.
"With its owner next time, if you please."
Isolde pulled in her top lip and held it.
Cecily watched.
"You're keeping it?" she whispered.
"Yes." The word fell out, uncomfortably.
"Oh, yes. I think I might have to, dear one." She wiped one eye, then
the other.
"If you're weeping, love, don't drip on to that lovely clean paper."
To Cecily, the dilemma was already solved; to refuse or to accept was a
simple matter of making a decision and sticking to it, and when a man