Blythe Gifford – Innocence Unveiled (страница 4)
The men at arms, mouths full, echoed ‘Valois’ without looking up.
Katrine rested her head on cold hands. Deeds of arms, the English promised. Flanders’s soil would be soaked with blood as red as their eyepatches.
And she might never see her father again.
‘Is there word of my father? Do they want a ransom?’
‘No one cares about him now,’ he said.
He filled his spoon with fish and vegetables. ‘I didn’t ask.’
‘You promised!’ Her words exploded. The men at the closest table looked up. She lowered her voice. ‘I cannot make cloth without wool,’ Katrine said, angry at the Count, at the French, at the English, at all of them who cared for affairs of state instead of people’s lives. ‘The Count is bad for business.’
‘Catherine, hush. If anyone heard you, you might be imprisoned.’ Aunt Matilda peered anxiously at the knights breaking bread over their trenchers. ‘We all might be imprisoned.’
‘No one cares what she thinks,’ her uncle said with a shrug. ‘Her hair bears the mark of the Devil. She speaks French with a Flemish accent and has calluses on her fingers. No man of noble blood will soil himself with her.’
She winced at his words. He made her ashamed to be alive.
She pushed the pain away. ‘All the more reason for me to tend to my weaving.’ There, at least, she could do something of value.
‘Bad enough that my brother violated the God-given order of things, wielding scissors instead of the sword he was born to.’ At first, the family had tolerated her father’s dabbling in the cloth trade. He was a younger son and gold was always welcome. But with the gold and her father gone, her uncle unleashed his true feelings. ‘He let you grow up like the spawn of that weaver instead of a noblewoman.’
‘That weaver had a name.’ Giles de Vos, her father’s partner, had died childless two years ago and left his share to her. She missed him almost as much as she missed her father. ‘You welcomed Uncle Giles into your house as long as our looms turned wool into gold.’
Her uncle’s temper flared like a poked fire, lifting him out of his seat. ‘Don’t call him that! He was a common burgher.
She stood to face him, no longer caring who heard. ‘I wish I shared his blood instead of yours.’
‘Enough!’ He raised his fist.
Her aunt’s hand blocked it. ‘Mind your tongue, Catherine. Apologise.’
His hand wavered. No mealtime noises drifted up from the retainers’ table.
‘I’m sorry I offended,’ she said, to buy time. If only she could be like the smuggler, who let no word pass his lips before considering it. ‘I did not think before speaking.’
‘Now gather your things,’ her aunt said. ‘You heard your uncle. We leave this afternoon.’
Ducking her head, she held her tongue, glad to escape the room. She must leave the house unseen and return to the shop and the secretive stranger who was her last hope.
She sent up a prayer to the saint that he was still there.
Chapter Two
Renard hurried along the towpath, easily passing an uncomplaining ass pulling a boat with lowered mast beneath one of the city’s innumerable bridges. It was different, this city of weavers, with its stairstep rooflines and endless waterways. He missed the air of England.
The goldsmith who opened the door of the stone house facing the canal looked both ways before letting him in. ‘You leave today?’ he asked.
‘Tomorrow,’ Renard replied, as he mounted the stairs to the goldsmith’s private solar.
He sympathised with the man’s nervousness. It took courage to harbour an English merchant in disguise.
It would have taken more had he known he was hosting a king.
But as Renard looked at King Edward, standing at the window, he was amazed the goldsmith had not guessed. Touched by sunlight, his hair glowed like a golden halo painted on a saint. Edward Plantagenet had never needed to seek his place in the sun. The sun had sought him out. Straight, strong, vigorous—surely no man had ever looked more like a king.
Many whispered that Edward and Renard could pass for brothers, both tall, blue-eyed, energetic young warriors. But Edward’s blond good looks and restless, expansive energy blazed like noonday while Renard’s chestnut-brown hair, self-contained air and mysterious past suggested the shadows of sunset.
Renard inclined his neck, a pale imitation of a bow. ‘Your Grace.’
‘Ah, there you are. What have you found?’ Edward looked as if he needed good news.
With the King’s permission, Renard poured some wine for himself. ‘There is no wool in the city, your Grace. Every weaver listened to my offer. I could empty our warehouse in Brussels.’ Or could if he had taken any coin for his promises. ‘The people support you. Only the nobles resist.’
Renard had opposed Edward’s wild trip from the start, but the King had insisted on sneaking ashore with the official embassy to assess the situation personally. Renard had come in advance and in disguise to put his rusty Flemish to work on behalf of his king.
Edward tightened his grip on his goblet. ‘Perhaps
Renard shook his head. ‘Better if no one knows you are here.’
‘Surely the Bishop can persuade him. He has brought three others to my side already. Only Brabant and Flanders remain.’
Renard wagered that the other duchies supported the King because they were related to Queen Philippa, not because of the Bishop’s persuasive powers, but he held his tongue.
‘I leave for Brabant tomorrow.’ Renard had requested that assignment. It would force him to face his past.
Edward paced the room, tapping his finger against his wine goblet. ‘I
‘But you need the Duke’s support, too.’ Renard kept his voice calm, but he was weary of living at the King’s whim. Edward knew full well that Renard’s trip to Brabant was about more than diplomacy.
‘Yes, and I trust you’ll produce it, but if the Bishop fails here, I need an alternative. The citizens of Flanders have risen against the French before. If the Count refuses an alliance, you must create a revolt among the workers that will force him to my side.’
Renard swallowed his resentment. The King never controlled the quicksilver temperament they shared. Renard did. ‘I’m not sure I could pass as a flat-footed wool stomper to rally the rabble.’ Though living disguised among the artisans could hardly be more difficult than smuggling a king in and out of Flanders.
Edward sat down in a high-backed wooden chair near the fireplace. Suddenly, it looked like a throne. ‘I don’t expect you to rouse the ryffe and raffe personally. Find someone else who will.’
Renard bowed and sank into the chair opposite his liege, hiding a sigh. The King asked Renard to produce an uprising as if he were ordering a suit of chainmail. ‘I serve, your Grace.’
‘Just make sure the embargo holds. The longer they go without wool, the better for my cause. This should only take a few weeks, then Brabant and then you can come home.’
He longed for home, though he had nothing to return to: no family, no land, nothing that the King did not give. There had been talk of marriage, but as an illegitimate son, Renard had little to bequeath to a legitimate one.
Edward clasped his shoulder. ‘I need Flanders, whether you or the Bishop get it for me, but when you succeed, I’ll reward you with something worthy of all you have done. Something like…’ His face lit with a new idea. ‘Bishop! That’s it!’ He slapped the arm of the chair. ‘Bring me Flanders and I’ll make you a bishop.’
Renard’s heart beat in his ears and blood surged through his arms as if he had just been called to battle, but years of repressing his responses served him well. The reward was everything he could have hoped for. A secure position of power, safe from the temptations of the flesh. Once given, even a king could not take it away.
‘You honour me, your Grace.’
The King smiled. ‘Of course I do. Can’t run the country without money from the Church. Too many of them think their pope is more important than their king. I need bishops I can depend on.’
But as a bishop, Renard’s power and position would no longer depend on the King. ‘It will not be easy, your Grace.’ The King could propose a bishop, but the Pope must confirm him. ‘I am not yet of an age to be a bishop.’
Edward waved away the protest. ‘Ridiculous rule. I assumed the crown at fifteen. You can be bishop before thirty.’
‘And I have not led a life of celibate contemplation.’
Edward rose, impatient, and paced again. ‘Neither have any of the bishops I know, except perhaps Stoningham, and I’ve never quite trusted him.’
At the King’s move, Renard rose, more slowly, and leaned against the wall. Even when they were alone, Renard did not sit while his sovereign stood.
‘You are no lecher, Renard. In fact, I could use some of your self-control, but there’s no need to take up celibacy when you embrace the vows.’