Garlands of Gold by Rosalind Laker

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