been gone a long, long time.
The mid-afternoon bell was ringing by the time Renard returned to the city after spiriting Edward out and into the hands of the knights who would deliver him to his waiting ship.
Now, instead of moving on to Brabant, he was trapped in hiding. Some of the English knights had arrived, waiting for the Bishop before formal negotiations could begin. He must risk contact to assess the diplomatic situation.
He slipped unnoticed into a house near the Friday Market where Jack de Beauchance had rented rooms.
‘Renard!’ Jack said, clapping him on the shoulder.
‘Keep your voice down,’ he said, though his friend’s cheery words eased his mood. Curly-haired Jack had been knighted beside him on the field in Scotland.
‘Where have you been hiding since we came ashore, you fox? Are you on the King’s business again?’
‘If I were, would I tell you?’
‘Whatever you’re doing, you don’t look as if it’s going well,’ Jack said.
Renard forced a smile, disturbed that his concerns had shown on his face. Such a careless display was dangerous. ‘Look at you wearing that silly red eyepatch when you are alone in your rooms,’ he said, to change the subject. ‘Do you even sleep in that scrap of silk?’
Jack crossed his arms and arched his eyebrows. ‘Handsome, don’t you think? I promise you, the ladies like it.’
‘The ladies like you, with or without it.’ Everyone liked Jack. It couldn’t be helped. A younger son, Jack’s birthright was secure, if not his expectations. ‘Why were you sent ahead while the Bishop tarries elsewhere?’
Jack rolled his eyes to heaven in mock agony. ‘He found me with one of the junior ladies-in-waiting in a very dark corner of the garden.’
‘Let me guess. A lady the Bishop himself wanted?’
‘I don’t think she’ll have him, even with me gone.’ Jack sighed, then the momentary cloud passed and his sunny expression returned. ‘Watch this,’ he said, holding up three cloth balls.
He tossed and caught the first and second, but he stretched so far for the third that he tripped over a stool and crashed to the floor. Three soft balls plopped on his back.
Renard laughed for the first time in a week and reached out to help him up. ‘Is this part of the negotiation strategy? Get the Count to laugh so hard he will switch his allegiance?’
Jack rubbed his right knee and winced. ‘The Count hasn’t even agreed to meet with us. That may be as much of a reason as my lovely lady-in-waiting that the Bishop tarries with the Queen’s relatives.’ King Edward’s wife was related to nobility throughout the Low Countries. ‘He doesn’t want the blame for failure.’
Renard frowned. ‘That bodes ill.’ If official negotiations failed, Edward’s throne would depend on Renard’s success in fomenting a revolt.
‘He sent a few of us ahead to arrange his lodgings.’ Jack winked. ‘And to make friends among the people.’
‘By flinging gold into the streets and stealing a kiss?’ The antics of the English knights were already the stuff of legend. ‘You even managed to enjoy the Scottish Wars. This is much more pleasant duty.’
‘These women have the fairest hair and the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.’
Katrine’s eyes were brown, he thought, suddenly, wondering what colour hair her wimple hid. Her eyebrows had a reddish cast.
He turned the hardness in his loins into a hardness of soul. This time, no muscle flinched in his face. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’
‘You used to enjoy the women as much as I do.’
‘I was younger then.’ And too foolish to truly understand that his lust could get a bastard who would live in the same earthly purgatory his life had been. He would not wish that on any man.
‘It’s a shame you can so easily resist the pleasures of feminine comfort.’
‘Easily?’ he scoffed. ‘You know better. But I did not come to the Low Countries on a mission of pleasure.’
‘Neither did the rest of us, but the Bishop of Clare doesn’t let business, or his vows, interfere with his pleasures.’
‘The Bishop is a hypocrite.’ Renard spat out the words as if he could not bear the taste. He laughed then, so Jack would not think much of it.
‘You need a lady to change your mood. I met a lovely one at the bath house.’ He wiggled his eyebrows with a grin.
Renard laughed again, meaning it this time. ‘If you met her at the bath house, she is no lady.’
Jack pressed a hand to his chest in mock indignation. ‘It’s a very strict establishment. She has such red lips, such smooth skin, such blonde hair, and if you don’t like her,’ he cajoled, ‘I’m sure you could find another who would please. Come with me.’
‘I cannot risk being seen with you.’ He rose. ‘After I leave, forget I was here.’
‘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
