line. But Isabel felt his gaze linger curiously on her as he packed up his pens.
‘My fee for drawing up the indentures and registering them with the Mercers' Company clerk is one shilling,’ the Lynom boy said, sanding what he'd written with fluid muscles.
Alice Claver nodded. ‘Do it today,’ she said.
The Lynom boy brought copies of the documents back two days later, duly registered. Isabel received him, wondering at the discreet sympathy in his eyes until he gave her the other letter he was also carrying for her.
It was a cold, brief letter from her father: formal notice that he was rewriting his will to leave his estate to Jane, ‘my one dutiful daughter’. Isabel could see from Robert Lynom's expression that he knew what it said.
She glanced over it. Nodded curtly. Let the hand holding the letter flutter down to her side. Kept the anger and contempt and hurt boiling inside her tightly shut down. She knew what her father would want her to do, but she wasn't going to weep or run begging to him to change his mind. She wouldn't let herself be bullied. She was learning not to let her face show her feelings.
Alice Claver and Anne Pratte swept in. When Alice Claver saw the young lawyer, she held her hand out for the documents she was expecting. He smiled, bowed courteously, and passed them over. She gave them a careful reading, then grunted with satisfaction. She tucked them into her large purse. She didn't look at Isabel or ask what the letter still held loosely in her apprentice's hand was.
Alice fixed Robert Lynom with a sudden, fierce smile. Now the business was done, she had time for conversation. ‘I hear Lord Hastings has been buying in the selds. In person. From’, she gestured sideways at Isabel without catching her eye, ‘my new apprentice's father.’
Isabel looked away; perhaps she should have told Alice Claver about Lord Hastings' visit herself, but her quarrel with her father had made her forget it. However, Robert Lynom knew enough to satisfy the silkwoman. He nodded easily. ‘He has indeed,’ he said, including Isabel in his answering smile, putting away his papers in his box. ‘A cloth of green figured velvet. From Lucca, if I remember rightly. They say he paid a good price for it too.’
It was natural to discuss this new phenomenon. It was unusual for noblemen to visit the markets themselves. If they were of the blood royal, they usually placed orders through the King's Wardrobe in Old Jewry, and administrators such as Robert Lynom would find merchants to meet their requirements. Otherwise lords might send representatives to the markets to bargain for luxury goods in their place.
But unusual things had been happening since King Edward came back, and Lord Hastings, his closest adviser, was an unusual nobleman anyway. He'd survived the times of exile and poverty by living on his considerable wits; he'd gradually turned the meagre estates of his inheritance into a magnate's fabulous wealth. Now that his lord was back on the throne, Hastings was showing he wasn't the kind to stand grandly on his aristocratic dignity, willing only to live by the sword. As a mark of the King's trust, he'd recently been named Governor of Calais, and the markets were full of the rumour that he planned not just to run the garrison there but to take a personal interest in the port's trade as well. There was even talk that Lord Hastings was courting the staplers of Calais, who controlled all the exports of raw wool from England, by becoming a merchant of the staple himself. They said he had the wit and imagination to find common ground with anyone, noble or not. Remembering his merry, kindly eyes from the wedding feast (before he started staring so hungrily at Jane, at least), Isabel could believe it.
Alice Claver wanted to know more, but she didn't want to show her envy of John Lambert's deal too openly. She didn't ask the price her competitor had charged for his cloth. Instead, she asked casually: ‘And did his lordship say what he was going to do with the velvet?’
Isabel was trying to think of nothing more than enjoying the story. She would have time enough later to fret about her father; there was nothing she could do about him anyway. She leaned encouragingly towards Robert Lynom.
‘He didn't,’ the Lynom boy said briefly.
But Anne Pratte knew more. She always did. She'd quietly taken up a seat on a little footstool by the window; she had a piece of work in her hands; but she was following everything like a small bloodhound. She picked up the narrative by piping up, with gusto: ‘But there's talk, of course. They say he sent it as a gift to a lady, don't they?’
At her voice, Robert Lynom suddenly started to look excruciatingly uncomfortable. He stopped; bit his tongue; blushed. Isabel couldn't understand what was going through his head. ‘Well,’ Alice said impatiently. ‘Who to? You must know. You'll have done the paperwork, won't you? Spit it out, man.’
He mumbled something. Even his scalp was on fire. He picked up his box.
Alice Claver planted herself one step in front of him, her smile half a threat.
‘Don't leave us hanging,’ she said, more command than plea. ‘Who was the cloth for?’
He composed himself. Decided upon his choice of who to offend, and made himself smile at Alice Claver. Turning sharply away from Anne Pratte and slightly away from Isabel, he said: ‘They say – though I can't be sure they're right – to your new apprentice's sister, Mistress Shore.’
Alice Claver almost choked. ‘No,’ she said, with a mixture of shock, disbelief, envy and amusement. ‘Really?’ Then, as if remembering Isabel's presence, she clapped a friendly hand on Robert Lynom's back and ushered him out towards the door. Twittering excitedly, Anne Pratte followed; she wasn't an unkind woman usually, but the thrill of that story had eclipsed any worries she might otherwise have had about Isabel's feelings.
Isabel thought he wouldn't dare even glance back at her. He disliked market gossip, and he'd known what was in the letter her father had written her; he'd be miserably aware of having added to her worries about her family with the story they'd bullied out of him.
But he did look back, from the doorway. ‘Good day, Mistress Claver,’ he said bravely; and, in a rush, ‘My apologies. I shouldn't have …’
She met his eyes and nodded, forgiving him. And it was the memory of that moment of mutual bravery, and the gratefulness on his face, that gave her the courage to decide, once she was alone with the letter, not to think about it any more, or rage against her father, or envy Jane's beauty or aristocratic admirers. She was a Claver now. Her life was here.
If Isabel thought she'd be taken straight back to Alice Claver's inner sanctum, the silk storeroom, as soon as she'd apprenticed herself, she was undeceived that night over dinner.
The apprenticeship timetable Alice Claver outlined, with a hard look, had no space in it for musing over the finest luxuries of civilisation, or for planning vast wholesale purchase strategies. It involved mastering all the eye-straining, low-grade, repetitive, menial tasks of retail silkwork first – the jobs Alice Claver put out to the wrinkled, skinny shepster and throwster women who worked from five-foot-wide stalls huddled outside the biggest selling markets, the Crown and Broad Selds, along their frontages on Cheapside and down their side doors on Soper Lane. Not just twisting imported raw silk into threads; but throwing it into yarns ready for use, and spinning, and dyeing, and turning seams. She was to learn every stage of the process from taking the strands of raw silk gathered by Italian reelers from silkworm cocoons to selling manufactured silk, on the street, by the ounce or the pound, as sewing silk, open silk, twine silk or rough web silk, the stuff used to make loops on which to attach warp threads while weaving, so they could be separated into two sets to let the weft thread pass between them. And she wasn't just to learn these humble jobs, but to sit outside in all weathers with the hunched shepsters and throwsters
