Garlands of Gold (6 page)

‘Home!’ she replied fiercely. ‘Now let me pass!’

‘That’s a lie for a start!’ his companion declared aggressively, his mood having changed in a second, and he gripped her arm. ‘You’ve a customer waiting somewhere who you think will pay you more than me and my shipmates.’ He patted his pocket, lowering his head towards her like a great bull. ‘Listen to me, girl. There’ll be no limit if you give value for money, but a knife’s blade where you least want it if you don’t!’

She gasped, terrified that she would faint with fright. ‘Let me go!’ She struggled to get her arm free, but his grip only tightened on her. That was when the third man appeared in the entrance to the passageway.

‘Bring her in here,’ he growled. ‘I’m more than ready.’

Screaming, she hit out wildly, but this third man clamped his calloused hand over her mouth and his foul stench of sweat and ale filled her nostrils as he lifted her effortlessly into the dark passageway. There he thudded her back against the wall, causing her to hit her head hard. Her frantic struggles had no effect on his powerful strength. He let his breeches fall, intent on taking her swiftly. Totally panic-stricken, she tried to claw his face, but he grabbed her wrists in one hand while with the other he threw up her skirts. Then almost in the same instant he uttered a terrible roar, falling back from her as a flashing rapier pierced his ribs.

She shrieked hysterically, not knowing what was happening, for the darkness of the passageway seemed full of men and she feared that she was to be seized again by some rival gang from another ship ready to have their dreadful sport with her. Then there was a whiff of the fine perfume that gentlemen used as the swordsman, whoever he was, spun her about and the flat of his hand thrust her with such force towards the opening of the passageway that she fell through it to land sprawling in the mud-wet snow.

Without hesitation and still gripped by terror she scrambled up and set off at a run in the direction of the Gibbons’ house, sobbing as she went. On and on she ran until at last she threw herself through the entrance and slammed the door shut behind her, shooting home the bolts and leaning her forehead against the wooden panel. Her breathing was fast and she was shaking from head to foot. Then the inner door to the hallway opened and Nanny Bobbins’ anxious voice penetrated her consciousness that she was safe.

‘Oh, my dear child! I have been so worried about you.’ Then as Saskia turned towards her the old woman’s wrinkled face registered shock and dismay at the state of her. ‘Merciful God! Whatever has happened to you?’

‘I was attacked,’ Saskia cried huskily, a shudder passing through her. ‘Three men ambushed me!’

‘Were you—?’ In her distress the old woman was unable to utter what she needed to know.

Saskia shook her head and her voice was tremulous. ‘I was not raped, although I pray that I’ll never come as close to such horror ever again.’ Then she gagged on the memory of the seaman’s rough hands on her body.

The old woman hobbled forward and put a comforting arm about her. ‘Thank Heaven that you were spared such violation! I came down to the hall bench to wait for the first sight of your return. You’ve never been this late back before. Come to my room now. I’ll make you a cup of that delicious tea that Mistress Gibbons gave me on my seventy-fifth natal day. It will help to settle your distress.’

Over the cup of tea, the leaves of which had been spooned carefully from a tortoiseshell caddy into a blue and white Delft teapot, Saskia told how and why she had stayed late at Vrouw van Beek’s house and what had followed.

‘I do not know who intervened to save me from rape,’ she concluded, ‘but I’ll be eternally grateful.’

Nanny Bobbins, sitting back in her chair with her teacup, gave a satisfied smile. ‘It was Grinling. He went to look for you.’

Saskia stared at her in astonishment, unaware that tears were still flowing down her cheeks. ‘How did that happen?’

The old woman nodded. ‘I became increasingly concerned when you failed to return. So then I told one of the servants, who was serving wine to the gathering – and goodness knows how many of Grinling’s and Robert’s friends have turned up to welcome them home! – to say that I wished to speak to him. He came out into the hall to hear what I wanted and when I told him how anxious I was about you he did not hesitate. He said the servants were busy waiting on the guests and he would go himself and look for you immediately.’

‘He left his own party to search for me!’

There came a tap on the door at that moment and Nurse Bobbins indicated that Saskia should move to a high-backed wing chair where her dishevelled appearance could not be seen from the doorway. When this was done the old woman bid whoever it was to enter.

It was one of the maidservants that put her head round the door. ‘Master Gibbons wanted you to know that he has followed
Juffrouw
Marchand safely home.’ Then she saw Saskia’s hand resting on the chair arm. ‘Oh, you know already, nurse.’

‘Yes. I’m afraid of her catching cold from being out so late. I was about to ring for you. Prepare a hot bath in my bedchamber and take towels and a robe in there for her.’

It was not until Saskia undressed in Nanny Bobbins’ bedchamber that she saw that the seaman’s blood had splashed across her skirt and soaked into her petticoats, making a crimson stain. For a few moments she almost vomited. Then the sensation passed and thankfully she slipped into the warm water of the hip-bath. There she bent her knees to slide completely under the water to wash away entirely from her whole self the horror of the seaman’s greedy hands and scratching fingernails. Emerging again, water streaming from her hair, she let her thoughts dwell on Grinling’s timely intervention in rescuing her and for the first time since she was attacked a smile touched briefly the corners of her mouth and she closed her eyes in gratitude.

In her robe she went back to the old nurse’s parlour to push all she had been wearing into the fire roaring in the tall Delft-tiled stove. Then, after a final comforting embrace from Nanny Bobbins, she made sure there was nobody to see her as she flitted across the hall to go upstairs. Then at the head of the first flight she paused to listen for a few moments. Grinling was singing and was most probably accompanying himself on the lute that was being played. Many times Nanny Bobbins had spoken of how well he sang and also of his other musical talents. Now he was in full and glorious voice. She listened with quiet joy until the song ended to cheering and applause. This was followed by the tinkling notes of the clavichord and she guessed that Vrouw Gibbons was playing, which she did well, often entertaining guests with her music.

As Saskia dressed again in readiness for her final duties of the day she resigned herself to Vrouw Gibbons’ fury at what would be considered her wilful folly in being late on the streets at night, especially since it was against the house rules and strictly forbidden. Even worse would be that she had caused Grinling to desert his guests, which was inexcusable in a host, especially when he could have detailed servants to look for her.

With a sigh she reached for a fresh pair of stockings and fastened them with their ribbons above her knees before sliding her feet into house shoes. Then she stood and shook her skirts into place before smoothing down her apron. Taking a deep breath, hoping that her dismissal was not in the offing, she went to Vrouw Gibbons’ boudoir. There she sat waiting patiently as she did every night until her mistress came to bed. At first chance in the morning she would seek Grinling out and thank him for his kindness in saving her from what would have been a terrible happening if he had not come in the nick of time.

When she heard the approaching tap of his mother’s heels, she rose from the chair, steeling herself for whatever was to come, certain it would be a searing tirade for her foolish behaviour that had caused Grinling to go looking for her. Then the door opened and to her surprise Vrouw Gibbons entered full of smiles.

‘What a delightful evening it has been, Saskia!’ the woman declared, flushed and happy. ‘It is wonderful that my dear son is safely home from his travels.’

She talked only of the party and the gift of a fine Italian painting he had brought her. Saskia soon realized that in the general jollifications Vrouw Gibbons had not been aware of her son’s short absence. When finally Saskia left the room she felt that she had had a double escape from trouble that evening.

Three

S
askia did not get a chance to thank her rescuer until several days after the event, but she had heard him singing again. It was not only in the evenings when company had gathered, but now and again he was in full song or whistling musically as he went about the house. He and Robert were coming and going all the time, being invited to the homes of friends, meeting them in alehouses, making preparations for journeying to England and generally occupying every minute of their time. Twice she would have passed Robert, but she did not want to meet those vivid dark eyes and it was easy to make a detour with so many stairs and passageways in a Dutch house.

It was frustrating for her to be under the same roof as Grinling and still miss the chance to speak to him on his own. She would look down from a gallery just in time to see him crossing the hall with Robert Harting on their way out. At other times he entered a room, closing the door after him before she could get there. More than once his mother descended on him with a swish of full skirts like a silken bat and the chance to thank him was lost once again.

She had made up her mind to make him a pomander as a small gift of appreciation for his kindly act. The perfume of a pomander, quickly inhaled, counteracted any foul odours suddenly encountered. She believed Dutch towns to be cleaner than most in Europe, but nevertheless Rotterdam had plenty of pungent places and there would be many more in England.

She had made a number of pomanders for Vrouw Gibbons, using pretty glass balls with outlets for the perfume, which were specially purchased. When they were filled she decorated them with ribbons as well as small silk flowers or other trimmings, making them a charming accessory to hang at a convenient length from the wrist.

A few days later Saskia had time to go to the market place where she purchased a medium-sized orange from a fruit stall. Then at home again she set to work, making holes in it with a pin and inserting a clove into each one until the whole fruit was fully covered without a space anywhere. Then, using a receipt from her red leather book, she took a grain of civit and two of musk, which she ground up with a little rose water. Then she worked the resulting paste into the clove-studded orange and left it to dry on a table in her room where it began to emit a fine fragrance.

It amazed Saskia that Vrouw Gibbons showed no distress over her son’s forthcoming departure, although his going away again might prove to be a permanent move. Then she began to suspect that his leaving was being used as a weapon against the woman’s own husband to persuade him to move back to England. A snatch of conversation inadvertently overheard just before a door closed confirmed Saskia’s opinion.

‘But Grinling will need an anchor in England,’ Vrouw Gibbons was saying to her husband, ‘and what better than we should be there to open a family home for him.’

‘Are you out of your mind?’ he growled impatiently. ‘Grinling is a man now – not a boy. He will want his own place and total independence.’

The door closed, but Saskia had heard enough to wonder if indeed her own time in Holland was strictly limited and travel to a foreign land awaited her. It all depended on whether Vrouw Gibbons had her way.

Later that day the opportunity to speak to Grinling came at last. Saskia was on her way to see Nurse Bobbins and caught a glimpse of him entering his workshop. She darted after him.

‘May I speak to you for one moment, Master Grinling?’ she requested eagerly from the doorway.

He grinned at her. ‘Of course. Come in.’

She entered the workshop and stood gazing about her. It had a tiled floor and a window above a long workbench that gave plenty of light with a view of the rear courtyard. The walls were covered with rows of tools, either hanging from nails or on shelves, all as neat as if forming a pattern in themselves. There were many chisels and gouges in every size and other tools that she did not recognize. Some short planks of wood were stacked in a corner. He noticed her interest as he opened up a travelling toolbox on the bench in readiness to take down the tools from the walls and pack them away for his forthcoming departure for England.

‘Yes?’ he prompted kindly, seeing how absorbed she was in looking at everything.

‘What a wonderful collection of tools!’ she exclaimed. ‘Are you taking them all with you?’

‘Yes. There are some I use most of the time and others I could not do without for various intricate tasks.’

‘You have had a splendid atelier in which to work at home whenever you wished,’ she said, still looking about her.

‘It started as a hobby room for me after my mother had become as tired of wood shavings and sawdust floating about the house as she was of binding up my cut fingers. So my father called in a wood carver to give me basic instructions and that really set me on the path I knew I wanted to follow.’ He folded his arms as he leaned back against the bench. ‘After I’ve left here I think you should have this room for making and mixing your beauty preparations.’

‘I should like it very much,’ she admitted, thinking how advantageous it would be to have space and shelves instead of trying to manage in the cramped quarters of her own small rooms, ‘but your mother may have other plans for it.’