Matteus had him tied up before he could blink. He too would have liked
a wooing. An hour in the garden could hardly be called a chase, and
the possibility that he was the prey had never crossed his mind. He
was therefore relieved when Silas charitably offered to take him to the
Antwerp merchant's office for an informal introduction to Myneheere
Matteus himself. The glitter of diamonds grew brighter, but the
possibility of being able to score over Silas had now grown dim in the
light of the two men's mutual trust. Bard's eternal self-confidence,
however, cheered him with the warming thought that the diamond
merchant's daughter was willing to perjure herself to get him.
Vaguely/he wished Isolde had been as keen, and what a pity it was that
she had not been at home to see her new friend.
"Came to see meT Isolde laughed with Cecily as they stood side by side
at the window of her room.
"Well, whatever she came for, they'll both get what they deserve."
Below them, the two brothers tucked their long black legs into the
skiff by the water gate and slid silently away, turning to wave to her
before disappearing under the low bridge.
"Quick, love! We've just enough money to pay the boat one way. We'll
have to walk back. Come on!" Naturally, it had not occurred to her
guardian that she might need money, and she had had to ask Mei to lend
her a few coins to take them as far as Goldenhand Street where Hugo van
der Goes had his workshop.
Twenty minutes later, Cecily was still tugging at the long bell-rope as
Isolde's hopes and fears spilled out together.
"You don't think he's forgotten, do you? He said something about
visiting his other artist friend who's ill in--where was it?"
"Leuven. Ah, listen! Someone's coming."
It was at this point that Isolde could happily have turned away and
pretended a stroll along the canal, where houses sent mirror-images
into the water, to lose their identities. The Van der Goes workshop
was on the far side of a cobbled courtyard across which men in sober
gowns, scribes and errand-boys beat crisscross paths of business,
disappearing up steps and through doors with sidelong looks of
curiosity at Isolde and her maid. In York, or at home, it was nothing
remarkable for her to venture into the town chaperoned only by her
maid; here, she was being made to feel like a woman on the loose, an
escapee, perhaps. Just as well, then, that Silas did not know about
it.
A young man showed them inside, wiping multicoloured fingers down a
stained leather apron and throwing a cheeky grin at Isolde.
"Mixing pigments," he said in English.
"You come to sit for the Master?"
Isolde supposed that, because of her plain woollen dress and the
absence of an escort, the lad felt able to dispense with the formality
due to a lady of quality, but she saw no reason to foster the notion.
"Myneheere van der Goes is expecting us," she said, looking straight
ahead.
The smell of wood, canvas, oil and burnt candles drew them along the
tiled corridor from which half- open doors provided glimpses of
paper-strewn rooms, a garden, and a chamber where a half-made bed
spilled rumpled sheets on to the floor. This disorderly prospect might
have prepared her for what was to come, had she been receptive to the
signs. But she had embarked upon this venture in order to make a
point, and any serious thought of backing out now would have indicated
a sorry lack of conviction. So, when the lad motioned them through one
half of a large double-door, then closed it behind them, Isolde's
comparison with the studio of Hans Memlinc suffered from immediate
overload.
Whereas Memlinc's studio was orderly in the extreme, cool, light and
spacious, loaded with the concentration of four apprentices and
jewel-bright with unfinished panels, the workshop of Hugo van der Goes
was a duplicate of the man's mind, cluttered and restless with an
abundance of everything in an orderly chaos. Picking her way over the
littered floor, Isolde looked up to see a group of people standing
around a large panel, quietly discussing it. The next thing she
noticed was that two of them were women, stark naked, and talking as
naturally as if they had been clothed. Stark naked? Well, one of them
wore slippers and the other a scarf around her neck, as if she had a
sore throat, both were very lovely and in their twenties and both
turned to study their visitor without sharing any of her
embarrassment.
The three apprentices, the young assistant and My- neheere van der Goes
next turned to look, adding to her sense of dislocation with blank
stares which verified that the invitation issued on Monday had been
quite forgotten by Tuesday. This was the second point at which
Isolde's resolution almost failed her. But too late. Hugo van der
Goes came forward, his voice still hesitant, wondering, "Mistress
Medwin?"
"We met yesterday. You asked me if ... er..."
His eyes widened, then laughed.
"So we did, so we did. St. Margaret, wasn't it? I remember."
"St. Mary Magdalen."
"Yes, well... one or the other. It was kind of you to offer.
Come..."
She hesitated on both counts, but Hugo spoke to his friends in a gush
of Flemish. She had no way of knowing if his words were accurate, and
suspected, understandably, that they were probably not. He took her by
the shoulders as if, here in his studio, her consent had been taken for
granted, and she was turned to them, this way and that, while her eyes
swivelled to watch for their reaction, half expecting to see either
apathy or hostility. Not for one moment had she thought to find
anything like this.
Yet the critical appraisal of the new saint was not hostile, and even
though she could understand none of their comments she could tell by
the way Hugo tilted her head between his palms, then traced a line down
her neck with his forefinger--which caused a visible reaction--that her
audience was seriously contributing to the Master's vision, even
smiling at her human response to the fingertip. The sense of isolation
caused by the unfamiliar language was nothing, though, to the
consternation of confronting two very unselfconscious nude women in the
company of five men probably aged between fifteen and forty.
Though there was no time for her to ponder, there was at the back of
her mind a hazy sense of relief that, if this state of affairs existed
also at Myneheere Memlinc's studio, she had something to be grateful
for in Silas's prohibition.
She was as aware of Cecily's discomfort as much as her own. Isolde
herself was familiar enough with the bodies of her female friends as
they bathed in the river and swam in the forest pools, but Cecily was
not used to the idea that artists needed to understand the precise
structure of a body beneath its clothing, and Isolde could see, from
the corner of eye, that poor Cecily didn't know where to put herself.
She sent a smile of reassurance but received only a reproac
hful scowl
in return before Cecily found a stool, tipped a cat off it, and plonked
herself down in a corner.
Hugo introduced the group to Isolde, but the names eluded her. She was
asked to stand before an easel where the light fell sideways through
hexagonal panes of greenish glass and from where she was unable to
maintain any relationship with the others in the room, except to hear
their subdued remarks and the grinding of a mortar in a pestle or the
squeak of charcoal. Already speculating about the unreliability of
Hugo's memory, she was disconcerted but not surprised to find that he
was not speaking entirely in Flemish, even to her, though she told
herself sharply that it was she who would have to adapt, not them.
There was a decisiveness about him here which had been lacking in the
garden of the Marinershuis, and when he gave her an instruction which
ado, he eased down the fur-edged shoulders of her wide-necked bodice
until they rested halfway down her upper arms, pinning her elbows at
her side. Then, with equal assurance, and again without considering
the effect his warm fingers might have upon the skin of her bosom, he
drew downwards the white chemise that modestly filled the V of her
neckline until she grabbed at his hand a split second before the fine
fabric was lost to view. As if she had intended to help instead of to
obstruct him, he took both her hands and placed them flat on to her
ribs pushing them upwards to support her breasts, taking not the
slightest notice of the flush that burned into her cheeks and throat.
Hardly daring to breathe, and certainly not daring to protest before
all these worldly Flemings, she looked down at herself and prayed that
the next breath would not be the undoing of her.
Had she been alone with the other two women and the Master himself, she
would have felt like part of the furniture, but with four other men
standing by and a calamity about to happen, her unease was at its
zenith. She wished with all her heart that she had not come, that
Myneheere van der Goes had found another Mary or Margaret, and, most of
all, that she had not felt it necessary to go to these lengths to make
a show of control over her life. Surely there was a more comfortable
way?
If there was, it did not present itself in time to save her more
distress, for Master Hugo's command in Flemish, which was clearly for
her to keep her head up, coincided with a distant clang of the bell,
doors opening and closing, and a cool draught of air on her bare
back.
Someone had entered; the artist's nod of acknowledgement was to someone
he knew well. The visitor waited a while in silence and then, moving
slowly along one side of the room, came within Isolde's view and
lounged against the wall, where he could see both the artist's sketch
and his model, and Isolde knew, without a second glance, that he was
enjoying the sight of something she had been at great pains to keep
hidden. Enjoying it, and revelling in her chagrin.
Finally, when the Master stood back for longer than usual without
speaking, and when she believed she could not bear the tension a moment
longer, Silas moved across to his friend behind the easel to discuss in
Flemish the image on the paper, not once catching her eye to convey
either amusement or anger. Nevertheless, she had no doubt that she
would soon have to deal with the latter.
Without waiting for permission, she hurriedly readjusted her bodice and
sought Cecily's company before accepting the firm hand that was held
out to her.
"I believe the Master will release you now," he said.
"Or do you wish to continue?"
"No," she whispered, holding a hand to her naming cheek.
"Then I suggest you take your leave of the company. I have a boat
waiting."
Chapter Seven
Q^zrys^Q
1 hey did not, after all, have to walk home from Golden hand Street,
which was just as well, for Isolde's legs had ideas of their own and
made no resistance when Silas picked her up in his arms to place her in
the boat by his side. Only once did she catch the direct beam of his
eyes, but once was enough. Their homeward journey was silent and
fraught with tension, and with an underlying relief on Isolde's part
that the ridiculous appointment had concluded decently, though with
only seconds to spare.
As for Silas, he had had time in Hugo's studio to comprehend the
reasoning behind Isolde's typically intuitive behaviour, and had
correctly deduced that it was a direct response to his refusal to allow
her to pose for Hans Memlinc. Not for one moment did he believe that
she had wanted to pose naked, nor did he believe she had expected to
models. Heaven knew she had guarded herself well until overruled by a
determination not to be dictated to, but it had brought her little
comfort, by the look of things, especially after his appearance. He
tested the temperature of her discomposure with a sidelong glance:
still furious, but chastened too, perhaps.
But Silas's real concerns were twofold. One was that, as a stranger to
Brugge, its language and customs, and also as a woman open to possible
reprisals from those seeking her return, she had put herself foolishly
at risk by venturing out unescorted by at least one man. He was angry
with himself for not having read more into Hugo's silence on the matter
yesterday. But for Pieter's sharp eyes spotting her entering the house
across the courtyard, he would not have known she was abroad.
Forbidding her to leave the house would have been like a red rag to a
bull. The courtyard off Golden hand Street was also where many of the
foreign merchants had their offices, including Paulus Matteus, who had
received them moments before Pieter's news.
The second concern was just as serious, and probably accounted for
Hugo's failure to go through the proper channels, as Memlinc had.
Silas had seen no reason at the time to explain to Isolde that, by
giving Memlinc permission to ask her to sit for him, he would have been
obliged to do the same for Van der Goes, or suffer one of his notorious
self-deprecating rages which had afflicted him more and more over the
last two years. Earlier this year, Hugo had entered the monastery
known as The Red Cloister near Brussels for treatment and to find some
inner peace, and had only recently returned to work, having dismissed
himself on the excuse that he had to catch up with things.
His masterly altarpiece for the Portinari family was well overdue and
preyed on his mind night and day. He was a brilliant artist, but his
behaviour was becoming more and more unstable, his unpredictable and
violent outbursts now well known to his friends and colleagues. Only
last month he had tried to strangle one of his models: that was not
something Silas wanted Isolde exposed to. In short, she had been in
danger from all sides.
The obvious conclusion to the uncomfortable episode would have been,
Isolde was aware, a blazing row instigated by her if not by him. When
Silas said nothing that allowed her an opening gambit, she picked up
the Little Thing, who bounced delightedly to greet her, and went up to
her room, followed closely by Cecily. And it was the maid who turned
on her mistress before the unsuspecting lass had removed her shoes.
"And what dye think your father would say to that, then?" Cecily
hissed, closing the window that opened onto the canal.
"It's one thing getting into a tricky situation, young lady, but it
obviously takes more sense than you've got to get out of it before it
worsens. Just what dye think you've gained then, eh?"
"Oh, don't you start!" Isolde snapped, unwilling to be ruffled
further.
"Just answer my question, Isolde Medwin. Or if you can't find any
answers, start asking a few of your own. Forget my embarrassment, if
you like. I'll recover from that. But ask yourself what you're
getting out of this charade. I can understand you wanting to have your
own way, child, but that option isn't open to you here in Brugge,
remember. You're a hostage, and you told me you'd agreed to abide by
the rules."
"Rules? You knew what I was doing before we set out, Cecily, yet you
chose to say nothing about the rules then, did you? If you felt so
strongly--' " I didn't say anything because I didn't know then that
you'd be standing there half-naked before a crowd of strangers, did I?
Men too.
God help us! Have you no shame, lass? Have you done half as much as
that for the man you talk about in your sleep? Is he only good for