evenly, not too tight, not too loose.
‘Let me show you how to throw the shuttle.’ She picked up a boat-shaped wooden shuttle, empty of the bobbin thread, but worn smooth by Giles’s fingers. ‘Practise first with an empty one to get the feel of it so you don’t ruin my cloth.’
He watched her, silent and intent. She forced herself to inhale, letting the air fill her chest and calm her fluttering heart. ‘Hold the shuttle in the palm of your hand, then insert the tip between the threads, flick your wrist, and catch it on the other side. Let me show you first.’
Reaching over his shoulder, she felt a chestnut curl tickle her cheek. She flicked her right wrist with the expertise of long practice. The shuttle went skimming across the warp threads and flew out the other side, the pointed prow nearly denting the wooden floor.
‘Why didn’t you catch it?’ she grumbled. Kneeling, she searched under the loom in the darkness.
‘You did not say “catch”, mistress.’ The imperial tone had returned to his voice. ‘Your words were “Let me show you first”.’
Fleece dust clung to her fingers before she found the shuttle. She rubbed her thumb over both pointed ends. Neither was damaged. ‘You might have broken the point or caused a splinter,’ she said, crawling out from under the loom and losing her dignity with a sneeze. ‘Then it would catch on the warp threads. Now you try. Flick your wrist to throw it and catch it with your other hand. Neither your fingers nor the shuttle should touch the threads. Then throw it back the other way. A master weaver can work equally well left to right or right to left.’
He took the shuttle, grasping it like a sword.
‘No, here.’ She cradled her small hand around his large one, placing his index finger on the well-worn wood. A hot flush crept up her arm at his touch, but she refused to let go. ‘Now, flick like this…’ She guided his wrist inthe familiar gesture. ‘Let go next time…and catch.’
The shuttle skimmed partway over the threads and stopped in the middle. She sighed, and reached in to pull it out.
His fingers locked around her wrist. ‘I’ll get it,’ he said.
She pulled her arm away. A bracelet of fire circled her wrist where his hand had been.
She stepped away and watched as he rescued the empty bark. Then, after flexing both wrists, he sent the shuttle skimming through the threads. Again it stopped like an arrow short of the target.
Without a word, he retrieved it. Instead of cursing at the shuttle, or at her, as her uncle did when something went wrong, or at himself, as her father would have, this man calmly threw again.
And again.
On his next try, the little boat shot safely through the threads and into his waiting hand.
Grinning, he waved it in triumph and she clapped with delight, belatedly realising the racket might wake Merkin. ‘You handle the shuttle as if you had weaver’s blood.’
A look of fierce warning wiped out his first genuine smile. He stood, the lesson over. ‘My blood is none of your concern.’
She ignored her hurt and turned to light a candle from the embers. ‘I meant it as a compliment. Particularly since you seem to know nothing of the trade.’ She touched another candle to the flame and handed it to him.
‘It is more important that I know my buyers.’
‘I thought you said the less we know of each other, the better off we both will be,’ she said, surprised to remember his exact words.
He winked again, conveniently hiding his feelings. ‘I should have said the less you know of me. You are my buyer. I must know what you need.’
His words were as tempting as his body. She was tired of lies, tired of being alone, so tired that, for a moment, she wanted to tell him everything.
She took a breath and bit her tongue. Impossible. She had lied about too much. And he was a man to fear, not to trust.
She covered the embers and let darkness hide her. ‘You know what I need. Three sacks of your best wool.’
As she mounted the stairs, leaving him to follow, she remembered the advice of the titmouse wise enough to avoid the jaws of Renard the Fox: ‘I trust none of the lies you tell. If I did, I’d surely burn in Hell.’
* * *
The Bishop of Clare, Henry Billesh, arrived in the city with full pomp and settled into a three-storey stone house near the Friday Market. Renard mingled with the foodsellers and tradesmen, arriving in the Bishop’s solar unnoticed and unannounced. For Edward’s sake, he would put aside his distaste to co-operate with the man.
It would not be easy.
‘Ah, it’s the King’s messenger boy.’ The Bishop extended his ring to be kissed.
The sapphire was bitter on Renard’s lips. ‘I have a report to share. I expect you’ve the same.’
In the midst of a starving city, the Bishop plucked a plump, golden orange from an overflowing basket and picked at the skin with a scrupulously clean, trimmed nail. ‘I can’t think of anything you might know that would interest me.’
‘You can’t be sure until you hear it. And it is the interest of the King that should concern us both.’
‘The King’s interest is mine, Renard. It is you, I understand, who have been given another motive. A bishop’s seat in exchange for Flanders, is it?’
It was Edward’s way to pit the two against each other. Edward would win either way. ‘I would have served my king regardless.’
‘You may be disappointed. When I gain the Count’s allegiance, there will be no need for your devious tricks.’
Renard bowed. ‘So we all hope, your Excellency. But the King is wise to prepare for many possibilities, including your failure.’
The Bishop frowned at the insult. ‘Just remember, even a king cannot turn a bastard into a bishop without help.’ He plucked a section of orange, turned it into the light, found it not to his liking, and discarded the rest of the bitter fruit. ‘My help.’
Renard looked at the glowing sapphire on the Bishop’s hand and wondered how high the price would be for his own. ‘I am aware of my special circumstances.’
The Bishop picked over the fruit in the basket. With the palate of a glutton, he kept the scrawny neck and sunken stomach of a hermit at the end of a forty-day fast by selecting only the choicest morsels. The rest was left for scrap.
‘Well,’ he began, ‘if anything goes wrong with these negotiations, it would be…’ the Bishop paused to examine a date before looking back at Renard ‘…difficult for me to write such a letter.’ He decided the date was worthy and popped it into his mouth.
‘I trust it will not be difficult for us to work together on the King’s behalf.’
He waited.
The silence was punctuated by the mulching sound of the Bishop chewing.
