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‘If you change your mind about the bath house, it’s on the fork of the river beyond the Count’s castle.’
After he left Jack, Renard pondered the idea. A bath house was a hotbed of gossip. If he kept his ears open, he would hear the city’s mood and perhaps a name or two that might be sympathetic to Edward’s cause. But instead of Jack’s respectable house, he’d visit one hidden among the taverns near the Square of Forbidden Attractions…
Where no one would ask any questions.
Renard returned to the shop after the compline bell, his jaw aching from a day of framing harsh Flemish syllables. Even a lumpy straw pallet sounded inviting.
In the markets, taverns and public baths, his height and blue eyes were remarkable, but his Flemish, though rusty, was convincing enough for him to pass as a visitor from Brussels.
And fomenting revolt might not be as difficult as he had feared. Angry about the dispute that had snatched the thread from their looms and the bread from their tables, the people were like dry kindling. The right spark might ignite a rebellion favourable to Edward and England.
Unwelcome moonlight chased him into the shadows. The man he’d seen outside the house was missing tonight, but he could not afford to be questioned by the watch. He had taken the risk of staying out past curfew, hoping she would be abed when he returned. He must avoid her questions. And her temptation.
Wrinkling his nose at the lingering scent of cabbage soup, he slipped into the kitchen, the familiar weight of his dagger moulded to his palm. The glow of uncovered embers drew him, cautiously, into the front room.
Katrine slept over her account books again. Her wimple askew, a lock of hair, reflecting red from the dying coals, escaped to caress her cheek. An ink blot stained the middle finger of her right hand, protectively stretched on top of the ledger.
He sheathed his dagger and stepped into the room quietly so she would not wake. The fire’s glow left deep shadows in the narrow room’s corners. The house did not stretch far beyond the firelight. Such a small place. King Edward needed more room than this just to pace.
Yet this was all she had. No fields, no vast estates, no serfs toiling for her outside these walls. Only a cherry tree and a bolt of cloth shielded her from starvation.
No wonder she needs the wool. Couldn’t this husband of hers take care of the woman?
He knelt before her, his face dangerously close to hers. Before he could stop them, his fingers slipped past his self-control to touch the lock of hair on her cheek. When he tried to tuck it beneath her wimple, the strands slipped through his fingers like silk.
At his touch, she woke, brown eyes weighed down by a thicket of lashes and a sleepy smile touching her lips.
A matching smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He spoke softly, the Flemish rough in his throat. ‘Do you fall asleep over your accounts every night, mistress?’
She blinked, suddenly awake, and drew away, leaving his fingers empty. ‘The business is all I have. I will do anything I must to keep it.’
He rose, abruptly, wondering what passion she had left for her husband. If she had one.
Suddenly, it seemed important to know. He had negotiated with kings. He could certainly force the truth from a simple weaving woman. ‘And your husband, will he, too, do anything he must?’
Her dark eyes looked huge in her pale face, framed by the rumpled wimple. ‘Of course.’ She hesitated over the words.
He was certain in that moment she had no husband.
The rush of blood throbbed in his loins before he could summon his control. No man possesses her.
Denial struggled with hot, sweet desire.
He clenched his jaw and felt his eyelid flinch, but he refused to break his gaze, glad to be safely towering over her again. He would resist her, but she mustn’t know that. ‘If you will do anything you must, mistress, will you do anything I ask?’ He must keep her off balance, wondering about his intentions.
A delicate flush—anger or shame?—spread beyond her cheek. She bit her lower lip with small white teeth, inflicting enough pain to steady her resolve. He had seen a knight in battle try the same trick, slashing his forearm to create a new, superficial wound to distract him from the mortal blow.
Staring back at him, her defiant eyes did not waver, but he heard the whisper of inheld breath, as if she had recognised the fire in his eyes and was burned by it. ‘What do you ask?’
Longing rushed through his blood like poison. What he would ask had no words, only the vision of wild joining.
He fought the image. Even if he permitted himself careless pleasures of the flesh, he was hiding in the belly of a country that might soon be at war with his. One unmeasured word uttered in passion could be his death. He gritted his teeth against the feeling. ‘I ask for the truth.’
She rose and slipped into the shadows surrounding the loom. Hiding.
He would not let her. ‘And the truth is, you have no husband.’
She whirled to face him, the wool of her skirt crushed in her fist. ‘I have no husband.’ Angry words. ‘Would you have dealt with me, had you known?’
Yes, but he would not tell her that. He shrugged. ‘Then why wear the wimple?’
Her slender arms crossed her chest like a shield. ‘There is little safety on the streets these days. People are more respectful of a married woman.’
‘But you are not on the streets now.’
‘I still need protection.’
‘I thought I was to protect you.’
She smiled. ‘Who will protect me from you?’
She had turned his words back on him. He had thought to keep her off balance, yet he was the one who felt dizzy. He donned a mask of disdain to blot out all traces of attraction. She must not know his weakness for her. ‘What makes you think you need protection from me?’
Her eyes widened and narrowed in an instant, but he saw his insult had hit its mark. For a moment, he was sorry for it.
‘I am glad to hear I do not.’ She patted the wrinkles from her skirt, now all brisk business. ‘When will I see my wool?’
Uneasiness rippled through him. She had recovered faster than he expected. He had thought her a simple burgher mistress but, so far, this woman was nothing that he had expected. ‘I cannot order contraband wool at the market. If it were easy, you would not need me.’
‘How long must I wait?’
‘As long as it takes.’ As long as it would take to turn the people of Flanders to Edward’s side. ‘Weeks, not days, mistress.’
‘I’ve waited months already.’ Urgency shook her voice.
‘Patience is a virtue you don’t possess.’
‘Patience is no virtue when dealing with spinsters and weavers. I have no patience for sloppy work or I will have nothing fit to sell.’
Her words intrigued him. What would it be like to be so pleased with who you were and what you did? ‘You are proud of your work, aren’t you?’
The smile that transformed her face would have, for most women, come at the mention of a paramour. ‘The Mark of the Daisy is known throughout the Low Countries.’
She sounded lovesick, he thought, irritably. ‘And what makes your cloth so special?’
‘I can recognise the best wool by touch. My spinsters deliver seven skeins a day instead of five. When my dyers are finished, the colour is fast. My weavers’ work is so tight we rarely need the fullers’ craft.’
‘Fullers?’ He followed most Flemish words, but sometimes missed the meaning. ‘What do they do?’
She cocked a suspicious eyebrow. ‘How can you deal in wool and know so little of it?’
‘Do I need to know how to grow wheat in order to trade it? Or how to take salt from the mines in order to sell it?’
‘Well, if you knew wool, you would recognise our mark. Even before I was born, we made a special fabric for the Duchess of Brabant.’
A burning numbness filled him, like a blow from a broadside sword. Duchess cloth. A scrap of indigo- dyed wool carefully wrapped around a dagger of German silver. An orphaned bastard’s only inheritance from the princess who had married a duke.
What terrible fate had drawn him to the very shop that had made the cloth his mother had worn? ‘Duchess cloth? You made that?’
‘You know it?’
He clenched his fist behind his back. ‘I’ve heard of it.’
‘I’m surprised. It was so long ago.’
‘I was born in Brabant, remember?’ His throat tightened around the words that jarred against each other. ‘Those who have seen it claim only a miracle of God or the Devil’s witchcraft could produce such an intricate design.’
She laughed. ‘Neither God, nor the Devil. Just Giles de Vos.’
He lowered his voice, afraid that he would shout to make himself heard over the blood pounding in his ears. He must ask the question as if the answer made no difference. ‘So he knew the Duchess?’
He was suddenly hungry to hear of her. No one had spoken of his mother since she had died.
‘The Duchess was a great patroness of his,’ Katrine said. ‘He wove a special length and sent it to her every year until she died twenty years ago.’
‘Nineteen.’
She looked puzzled, but did not ask him how he knew. ‘He never wove it again after that.’
‘Why?’
‘He said there is a craft and an art to weaving, and the art must come from the heart. I think he lost heart for it after she died.’
A woman’s romantic notion. The truth was certainly simpler. De Vos was a merchant. The money had stopped. ‘He didn’t even make some for your mother?’
‘My…my mother?’
‘You say your father only made this cloth for the Duchess. Surely he wove some for his wife.’
She shook her head, flinching as if in pain. ‘My mother’s not…’
Her voice cracked again. He wondered whether she had lost a mother, too.
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