The Maiden's Abduction. Juliet Landon

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 d’ye 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 head-dress 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 lightermen 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 through the water. Horizontal lines were reflected and multiplied, and 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.