"You have little to fear from me, I assure you. I shall treat you well
as long as you abide by the rules."
"What rules?"
"Hostage rules. You don't need me to explain them, do you?"
No, she needed no explanation. Hostage rules were an unwritten
acceptance of enforced hospitality; one person's good behaviour against
another's safety. She had no doubts that, if need be, he would demand
full payment, whatever that was. And so would her father. But what
the latter would say in response was predictable. He would come to
rescue her; she was convinced of that.
That, at least, was what her daytime voices assured her. It was all
their doing: men's responsibility. The night voices hummed to a less
strident tune when, over the rocking of the waves, her fears became
confused with strange emotions that were all the more disturbing for
being unidentifiable. Unnerved, and indignant at his too-familiar
closeness, she had taken her pledge of non- co-operation to its limits
but had found it to be insignificant against his arms, which were too
strong, his kisses too skilled. Bristling, she had had to yield to his
demands which, fortunately, had left her still intact but without any
real defence against such an artful invasion. She had slept in his
arms because he had given her no choice, but what if her father should
come here to Flanders to claim her and return Felicia to the La
Vallons? What then?
"No, sir," she replied, unsmiling.
"Spare me rules, I beg you. You'd be hard-pressed, I'm sure, to
remember any."
Refusing her provocation, he smiled again, taking her shoulders and
turning her to face the sea, holding her chin up with one forearm. He
pointed to a narrow strip of land lying on the horizon beneath a bright
eastern sky.
"See, there's where we'll come in. That's Sluys."
"Slice?"
"Sluys. The harbour. That's where the cargo will be taken off and put
on a barge for Brugge. We shall go ahead either by horseback or by
boat. Which dye think Mistress Cecily would prefer?"
Isolde had to smile at that.
"That's all you can offer?"
"Afraid so. It's not far. The boat is flat calm; rivers and dykes,
you see. Brugge is ringed with them. You'll like it. Friendly
people. You can go and put your headdress on again, if you wish." His
arm tightened across her, conveying his excitement.
Though she understood his suggestion to be for her own sake rather than
his, the need for some dignifying accessories came before pique, and by
the time she and her ineffectual maid emerged from the cabin she was
able to present an outward appearance of composure that was convincing
to almost everyone. Except for the foreign tongue that had been
Cecily's first concern,
Isolde did not know what to expect but, having taken York in her stride
despite her unfashionable appearance, she assumed that Flanders could
be no better, for all the Flemish weavers she had encountered in
England had been plain, well-scrubbed and homely creatures of no
particular style.
The stately journey by barge from Sluys through the port of Damme and
on towards Brugge gave her no reason to revise this impression, having
been thoroughly stared at by everyone from small children and dockers
to the brawny lighter men and their mates at every lock. Even their
dogs had stared. And if the idea to escape had crossed her mind while
her captor was otherwise engaged, it was quickly extinguished by three
of the crew who hovered with decided intent.
Staring in her turn, she allowed the unintelligible burble of voices to
isolate her and to focus her attention instead towards the prettily
gabled houses packaged into tidy rows, the sparkling crispness of the
ironed- out landscape, the willows and windmills that lined the
waterway. The plunging and roaring of the wind-tossed carrack could
not have been more different from this overwhelming sense of peace in
which the sound of voices rose and fell with the swish of the barge
even the clouds obediently followed the lie of the land. She could
have asked for advance notice of this, had she not been too proud, but
not even Master Silas could have described the tranquillity she inhaled
like a healing balsam, or the hypnotic cut of the boat through sky-blue
satin like newly sharpened shears. He could, however, understand the
Flemish language.
Cecily leaned towards Isolde, pale and frowning.
"What are they saying?" she whispered loudly.
"Why are they staring? Is it your head-dress again?"
"Probably." Isolde shrugged, glancing at the array of white wimples
over plaits coiled like ship's ropes.
One matron, with a starched head-dress that looked ready to sail at any
moment, leaned towards Silas with a grin that showed more gum than
teeth. Indicating Isolde, she spoke, and he smiled a reply in
Flemish.
Defensive, Cecily leaned from Isolde's other side.
"What?" she said.
"The dame says that my lady is very beautiful," Silas told her without
a glance at Isolde.
"And I agree with her."
Regardless of the fact that the woman had hold of the wrong end of the
stick, the compliment was enough to convince Mistress Cecily that the
Flemings were, after all, people of discernment and should be treated
with generosity, whether they were foreign or not. Accordingly, she
removed herself unsteadily from Isolde's side, gestured to Silas to
change places, and began a conversation with the starched lady by
signs, gestures and like-sounding words as if she had known her for
years.
Isolde was not so easily won, but saw no discreet way of removing the
arm that came warmly across her back.
"You must not let them believe that," she said.
"I am not your lady nor anyone else's."
"That's Brugge," Silas replied diverting the rebuke with a finger that
pointed towards the towers and spires appearing on the skyline.
"See, here are the first houses, and soon we'll be right in amongst
them. And windmills, see. Dozens of them."
"Did you hear what I said?"
"No, maid, I'm afraid I didn't. But I heard what the old crone said
and it sounds as if her understanding is better than yours in some
areas. Now, let me show you that tallest tower... that's the great
belfry."
"I cannot believe this is happening," she said in some irritation.
"They're going to have to lower the mast to get under the bridge. Mind
your head-dress."
"I'm dreaming this."
"There we go. Look, those smaller boats are called skiffs. That's how
the people of Brugge get about. Turn back and look... the children are
waving."
"I shall wake any moment now."
"You are awake. Wave to them."
"No, I'm being abducted. This cannot be happening. Wake me," she
insisted.
His arm tightened across her shoulders as he turned his mouth toward
her ear, overcoming the pa
dded and embroidered barrier of the
side-pieces.
"Courage," he whispered.
"Most women would have swooned times over by now, but you have
withstood--' " Every hardship! " she whispered back, disguising her
snarl beneath a smile.
"Don 't tell me I've withstood my ordeal like a man or I shall dive
overboard."
"Hardly like a man, if my memory serves me." He grinned.
"Was it so very hard to bear, Isolde?"
"That was the worst part!" she hissed, understanding his reference.
"A nightmare!"
The warmth of his soft laugh caught her cheek and she blushed, turning
her head away to hide the confusion in her eyes. But a warm firm
finger eased her back to face him.
"It was no nightmare, maid, and you know it," he softly rebuked her.
"Nor will your new life in Brugge be so, unless you refuse to be won
over by what it has to offer you. Look around, see... is it not
magical? Forget what you've left behind.
You'll be perfectly safe here. I shall not shackle you, and you'll see
more of life than ever you've seen before, and, what's more, you'll not
be hidden from view as you have been so far. It's time others were
allowed to see something of you. "
"Being stared at, you mean? Is that what I'll have to suffer?"
"Probably. I think you'll have to get used to plenty of that."
"And the language, and the food, and you?"
The finger moved gently upon her cheek, and again she felt his slow
smile.
"None of those have presented any real problems so far, have they? In
fact, quite the contrary, eh?"
She tried to hide the reluctant smile but was only partly successful.
"That's better. Now, give in to this place and enjoy it. You'll have
every comfort, I promise you. More than you had in York, and certainly
more than you'd have with my brother."
That would not be difficult. Where are we going? "
"To my house. The boat takes us right to the door."
She knew that to be an exaggeration.
"But surely no one will expect you to bring a woman back with you, will
they?"
"I'm not taking a woman back, I'm taking a lady. The Flemings know the
difference; they're a courteous people. And what my servants expect is
irrelevant;
they're paid to care for me, not to ask questions about my guests. "
"Like your crew?"
"Exactly."
"You make a habit of abducting ladies, then?"
Slowly, like an owl, he blinked at her.
"Oh, I have one in every room, two in the attic, four in the cellars
and one in the outhouse."
"So where do I go?"
"Where you will, maid."
She tried to terminate this facetiousness by looking away, but found it
impossible. His eyes, deep and percipient, reflected his understanding
of her anxieties as much as her secret thoughts, and his handsome head
beneath the intricately untidy turban reminded her of a figure she had
noticed in the Flemish Book of Hours in the room at Scarborough, an
elegant figure that commanded the page and everyone on it by his
presence. And, but for this quiet air of authority, his assurance and
advice, Isolde might have continued to dwell on her plight, to overlook
the first entrancing sights and sounds Bmgge had to offer as they slid
silently into its embrace.
The sun was still high, flooding the buildings and canals with a
palette of rose-pinks, sand, mossy-greys and slate. Glimpses of
gardens offered them the greens of trim bushes, well-behaved trees and
the bright splash of flowers on balcony and sill. Windows hung
precariously over the water or retired into rows, penetrating the tall
stepped gables high above, and, swished by the constant wake of passing
boats, the doors, gates, steps and arches appeared to lead directly
into the buildings. Bricks, new to Isolde, made an apricot-coloured
web over the walls to enclose a filigree of lancet windows, balustrades
and cut stonework that reminded her of insets of lace. Beyond all
that, massive buttresses of stone rose to assert some authority on a
grander scale. Isolde was entranced.
Silas kept his commentary to a minimum, occasionally bringing his arm
up to rest on her shoulder to point to the great towering belfry as
they passed, then to St. Donation's and the tall bristling spire of
Our Lady's Church.
"We live opposite," he whispered. His pointing hand turned to a wave
as a shout of greeting came from the bridge ahead.
"Silas! Meester Silas! Ahoy!"
They swept beneath the happily waving man and found that, on the other
side, the bridge was now lined with staring people.
"Pieter!" called Silas, waving.
"You're home!" A feathered hat waved at them as if it were alive.
"Go and tell them, then."
Isolde lost count of the bridges. One of them, more like a tunnel,
held houses suspended over the water, but the last one led them to a
high wall bathed in sunshine where the boat drew up to a step below a
wooden door arched into the mellow brickwork. Isolde looked at Silas
in surprise.
"You didn't believe me, did you?" he smiled.
"Come, we're home."
"I get the cellar?"
"No, That's only for special guests."
"So, ordinary guests...?"
"Have to make do with the upper floors. Give me your hand."
The door from the canal led them directly into a garden enclosed by the
wall, the ends of two buildings and the elegant form of another.
Sun-drenched lavender bushes, neatly squared lawns and cobbled pathways
led them round the building on the right and into a sunny courtyard
where two cats sprawled over the lips of a large yawning doorway. Tubs
of gillyflowers and marigolds, mauve-tipped rosemary and bay trees
softened the angular lines of a wooden trellis through which pink and
white roses hung like heads through windows.
They had not reached the door before they were greeted by emerging
figures dressed in tones of black, brown and plum, with white at head
and breast reflecting light onto their beaming faces.
"Meester Silas... ah... welkom... welkom!"
Pieter of the feathered hat had beaten the boat by seconds.
Silas had known, of course, in those first few moments when she had
responded with such immediacy to his surliness at Scarborough, that she
would be a handful. Even in the dim light of the Brakespeares'
courtyard he had seen the set of her jaw, the determination to take
control and the quick reversal when she saw her maid's distress. That
had hardly been because she couldn't manage without a maid. Her
decisions were impulsive, perhaps too much so. The dash from York to
Scarborough was not the well-considered act of a woman with a good
reputation, but she was no hoyden and certainly no child; her anger at
his familiarity had convinced him of that.
Wisely, though, she had chanelled her fears into a scornful anger
which, after that first understandable over-reaction, he had been
careful to deflect with some humour and more t
han a little tolerance.
And now, too soon, the second test had arrived, when she would have to
adapt to semi-confinement in a strange setting with few of the familiar
essentials to ease the transition. Naturally he would do all he could
to assist, but what followed would be a true test of her character.
And already she was making a visible effort. He would have liked more
time to warn his household and to prepare a room that would restore her
to the comforts she must have longed for but had never once lamented.
Ah, well, she would no doubt have her own ideas about how to do that.
Silas smiled to himself with a soup9on of satisfaction. To have
achieved two such master strokes at once was nothing short of
brilliant, though the possibility that Fryde might harass Elizabeth at
Scarborough was the one cloud on the horizon that turned the smile
quickly to a frown. But, no, Fryde would not link Isolde with a cousin
of the La Vallons, and by the time Alderman Fryde's enquiries were
under way his stolen horses would be back in York, together with an
advance party of Sir Gillan's men to give him hell, Silas hoped. His
mortification would be worth witnessing.