understand.
‘Just think, Renard, you’ll have a bishop’s ring as big as Clare’s.’ He laughed. ‘And you won’t have to bow to me any longer!’
Renard smiled for the first time. ‘A bishop bows only to the Pope—and to God.’
Now, unable to leave the city as he had planned, Renard knew he could prevail upon the goldsmith no longer. He needed a safe, inconspicuous haven. Perhaps the weaving woman’s house would serve. In a crowded city, an empty house would be perfect for a man who wanted to hide his comings and goings. But if he were to stay there, he must learn more of the woman with the tart tongue than the name he’d overheard when he followed her from the Cloth Hall. Her house might prove a sanctuary.
Or a trap.
When Katrine returned to the wool house, no indigo- eyed stranger waited at the window. She searched the counting room, then, frantic, climbed the stairs.
‘Renard?’
No one answered her unseemly shouts.
He had threatened to find another buyer. What if he had not waited? On the top floor, Katrine faced a row of straw pallets, long abandoned by apprentices. Had he left his sack here? If so, she could be certain he’d return.
She lifted the first pallet to find only bare wood.
Blinking back angry tears, she kicked aside the next pallet and the next, spewing straw across the planks until the room’s disorder matched her mood.
She lifted the last pallet, ready to hurl it out of the window in frustration.
He was her last hope. What would she tell her father if she failed?
Her pounding heart slowed and she caught a breath, knowing straw littered the floor behind her, stable-deep. Saint Catherine, will I ever master my temper?
When she turned to clean the mess, she faced the stranger holding a dagger.
He loomed taller than she had remembered, his eyes a darker blue. She had expected to feel relief at his return, but the uncertainty in her stomach felt more like fear. Or excitement. ‘So,’ she said, lifting her chin, ‘the prodigal returns.’
Renard set down his sack and sheathed his dagger, its silver handle catching a glint of the afternoon sun. ‘You said I was to guard the house. I thought you were a thief.’
She groaned, looking at the floor, feeling the fool. Had he seen her display of temper? She had no excuse, so she would ignore it and treat him as if he were an errant apprentice. ‘I told you to be here when I returned. Where were you?’
The straw crunched as he stepped closer. He towered over her even as he stooped to avoid the rafters.
‘I do not recall, mistress, that reporting my whereabouts to you was part of our bargain,’ he said, in a tone as sharp as his dagger. ‘In fact, we don’t yet have a bargain.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘We do not yet have a bargain.’
He reached for her chin with cool, firm fingers, turning her face towards the window, as if to read her by the sun’s light. She struggled for a breath.
‘Did your other source make you a better offer?’
She blinked, betraying herself.
A lazy wink disguised his emotions. ‘Then I take it we are agreed.’
‘Yes.’ She jerked her chin from his hand and started to put the room to rights.
He knelt beside her and shoved a handful of straw into the first pallet. Astounded that he would humble himself to help, she picked up another pallet and scooped the straw inside.
They worked in silence. She tried to study him, but his face was impassive. What manner of man would help clean up the mess she had created? He deserved some appreciation for that.
‘You have my thanks,’ she said, when they were done at last. ‘Why did you help?’
‘If I am to sleep here, I must keep it in order.’
She swallowed. Sleep. Suddenly it seemed much too intimate a word. ‘I have changed my mind. It is not safe to harbour you here. You must find other lodging.’
He shook his head. His eyes were implacable. ‘You cannot change the contract now. You want your wool, don’t you?’
The air around her seemed to crackle like lightning. She was beginning to fear that this wool was going to cost much more than she had bargained for.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Then let’s break bread together to seal our agreement,’ he said.
‘I told you. I offer no board.’ The cupboards were bare.
A smile flickered across his face. ‘I bought my own. It seems only right to share.’ He paused, holding her eyes with his. ‘Please.’
Suspicious, her tongue curved around ‘no’, but her stomach growled. She had eaten nothing of the main meal. Maybe the tickle she felt was neither fear nor ex citement, but hunger.
She nodded.
Finished with the pallets, she led the way downstairs. He settled in front of the fireplace, leaning on one elbow, long legs stretched across the floor, and set out a loaf of bread, a hunk of cheese, and some beer as if the hearth were his own. ‘Join me.’
She sank to the floor, skirt flaring around her. She must put this man on the defensive or he would take over. ‘Have you any oranges?’ She smiled, waiting for his answer. Oranges were dear in good times. In bad, they would be precious as wool.
His lips twitched. ‘There is an embargo, you know.’
Pulling out his eating knife, he cut a slice of the cheese and placed it carefully on the crust of bread. Not even that was done by chance.
‘You disappoint me. I would expect an expert smuggler to supply whatever I want, no matter how costly.’
‘Bread and cheese will have to serve.’
She reached for the bread and touched his fingers instead.
Her glance tangled in his. Neither moved. Neither spoke. Warmth from his fingers crept up her arm, weaving them together. Something sweet and weak happened inside her.
Flushed with shame, she snatched her hand back and popped the bread and cheese in her mouth. He took a swig of the beer, then handed it to her. She sipped it to wash down the cheese, then tried to hide her surprise. He might be a stranger, but he had found the best brewer in the quarter quickly enough.
What manner of man had she allowed under her roof? If she were not more careful, she might lose her coin and more.
‘Tell me of yourself, Renard. You must share our Count’s allegiance to King Philip to go to such lengths to overcome the English embargo.’
‘Kings are nothing to me,’ he said finally. An upraised eyebrow teased his face. ‘What, mistress, are they to you?’
Her gaze travelled over the familiar room. A lonely grey cloud of coarse Flemish fleece floated on one woven basket handle. Hooks were bare instead of piled with hanks of carded wool ready to sell to the spinsters. Empty shelves should have been stacked with ells of cloth ready for market.
She had a sudden, fierce desire for him to see it as it was supposed to be—busy, bustling, shelves piled high with a rainbow of fine woven woollens.
‘As you can see,’ she said, finally, ‘this shop has been one of their battlegrounds.’
‘A battleground? With whose forces do you fight? Valois or Plantagenet? Philip’s or Edward’s?’
She ignored his question, as he had hers, steeling herself this time not to fear silence. The more she talked, the more lies she had to tell. Nibbling her cheese, she glanced at him from the corner of her eye. ‘I cannot