I have not led a life of celibate contemplation.’
Edward rose, impatient, and paced again. ‘Neither have any of the bishops I know, except perhaps Stoningham, and I’ve never quite trusted him.’
At the King’s move, Renard rose, more slowly, and leaned against the wall. Even when they were alone, Renard did not sit while his sovereign stood.
‘You are no lecher, Renard. In fact, I could use some of your self-control, but there’s no need to take up celibacy when you embrace the vows.’
‘Nevertheless, I will honour the vows I take.’ Unlike some, who broke more than they kept.
Thoughtless lust had brought him into this world without name or position. Renard refused to make the same mistake. Over a lifetime, he had battled passion as if it were a well-mounted enemy. If he could not unhorse his opponent every time, he could usually force him to withdraw from the field. As a bishop, he would be safely removed from temptation.
‘Then,’ he continued, ‘there is the matter of my station.’
The King stopped pacing and turned his piercing blue eyes on Renard. ‘I am fully aware that a bastard needs dispensation from the Pope. A letter of recommendation from the Bishop of Clare will solve that.’
He fought the urge to refuse the support of a pompous hypocrite like Henry Billesh, Bishop of Clare. After refusing to support young Edward’s ascension to the throne, the man had changed his tune only after the outcome became clear. Renard would never trust him. ‘He may be reluctant to write on my behalf.’
The King drained the last of his wine. ‘He is a man familiar with human transgression. He’ll understand yours.’
This time, he could not hold back the words. ‘But the transgression was not mine, your Grace.’
The temper they shared exploded. Edward hurled the goldsmith’s best goblet into the fire. Clattering, it bounced on to the hearth, scattering ashes across the floor. ‘You presume on our common blood! Do you forget that you possess only what I give you?’
‘Never, your Grace.’
Had Renard been born the illegitimate son of a prince, he would have had a place in the shadow of the throne. But he was the son of a princess. So the truth of his birth, and her shame, was a secret only the King shared.
As quickly as clouds passed over the sun, a hearty laugh wiped out Edward’s anger and he draped an arm around Renard’s shoulders. The laugh meant he forgave Renard’s insult. The gesture meant he forgave himself for insulting his cousin.
Smiling, the King reached for his wine goblet, surprised that it was not on the table.
Silently, Renard offered his own.
‘You are harsh on those of us who are mere mortals, my friend.’ An unusual moment of reflection stilled the King’s energy. ‘Just once, I would like to see you humbled by passion. You might find the kind of joy I’ve found with my queen.’
Renard shook his head. There was a reason lust was one of the seven deadly sins. Passion made you powerless as his mother had been when she could not resist—who? That secret, neither of them knew. ‘I shall welcome the vows.’
‘Be certain, my friend.’ Edward clasped his shoulder. ‘It is the highest honour I can give, but once bestowed, you will never be Renard again.’
Regret bit him. He had been so intent on controlling his joy, he had not even thanked his childhood friend. Power. Position. It would be everything the secret of his birth had denied him all his life. ‘Forgive me, your Grace. There is nothing I want more.’
Nothing, at any rate, that the King had the power to give. The King could award him many things, but he could never acknowledge his royal birthright.
Edward inclined his head and returned to the window, gazing across the canal as if he could see all the way to Paris. ‘There is something more I want, Renard, and you are going to make sure I get it.’
Renard silenced the growl of jealousy at the bottom of his heart. Edward already had a crown. Why did he need another?
Yet he knew the answer. Edward wanted his birthright, a birthright denied him because it came through the daughter of a king instead of through the son.
That, Renard could 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
