Innocence Unveiled. Blythe Gifford

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      Renard hurried along the towpath, easily passing an uncomplaining ass pulling a boat with lowered mast beneath one of the city’s innumerable bridges. It was different, this city of weavers, with its stairstep rooflines and endless waterways. He missed the air of England.

      The goldsmith who opened the door of the stone house facing the canal looked both ways before letting him in. ‘You leave today?’ he asked.

      ‘Tomorrow,’ Renard replied, as he mounted the stairs to the goldsmith’s private solar.

      He sympathised with the man’s nervousness. It took courage to harbour an English merchant in disguise.

      It would have taken more had he known he was hosting a king.

      But as Renard looked at King Edward, standing at the window, he was amazed the goldsmith had not guessed. Touched by sunlight, his hair glowed like a golden halo painted on a saint. Edward Plantagenet had never needed to seek his place in the sun. The sun had sought him out. Straight, strong, vigorous—surely no man had ever looked more like a king.

      Many whispered that Edward and Renard could pass for brothers, both tall, blue-eyed, energetic young warriors. But Edward’s blond good looks and restless, expansive energy blazed like noonday while Renard’s chestnut-brown hair, self-contained air and mysterious past suggested the shadows of sunset.

      Renard inclined his neck, a pale imitation of a bow. ‘Your Grace.’

      ‘Ah, there you are. What have you found?’ Edward looked as if he needed good news.

      With the King’s permission, Renard poured some wine for himself. ‘There is no wool in the city, your Grace. Every weaver listened to my offer. I could empty our warehouse in Brussels.’ Or could if he had taken any coin for his promises. ‘The people support you. Only the nobles resist.’

      Renard had opposed Edward’s wild trip from the start, but the King had insisted on sneaking ashore with the official embassy to assess the situation personally. Renard had come in advance and in disguise to put his rusty Flemish to work on behalf of his king.

      Edward tightened his grip on his goblet. ‘Perhaps I should meet with the Count.’

      Renard shook his head. ‘Better if no one knows you are here.’

      ‘Surely the Bishop can persuade him. He has brought three others to my side already. Only Brabant and Flanders remain.’

      Renard wagered that the other duchies supported the King because they were related to Queen Philippa, not because of the Bishop’s persuasive powers, but he held his tongue.

      ‘I leave for Brabant tomorrow.’ Renard had requested that assignment. It would force him to face his past.

      Edward paced the room, tapping his finger against his wine goblet. ‘I must have Flanders. Unless our trade resumes quickly, my wool growers will be just as unhappy as the Count’s weavers.’ He looked at Renard, narrowing his eyes. ‘Brabant can wait. Stay here.’

      ‘But you need the Duke’s support, too.’ Renard kept his voice calm, but he was weary of living at the King’s whim. Edward knew full well that Renard’s trip to Brabant was about more than diplomacy.

      ‘Yes, and I trust you’ll produce it, but if the Bishop fails here, I need an alternative. The citizens of Flanders have risen against the French before. If the Count refuses an alliance, you must create a revolt among the workers that will force him to my side.’

      Renard swallowed his resentment. The King never controlled the quicksilver temperament they shared. Renard did. ‘I’m not sure I could pass as a flat-footed wool stomper to rally the rabble.’ Though living disguised among the artisans could hardly be more difficult than smuggling a king in and out of Flanders.

      Edward sat down in a high-backed wooden chair near the fireplace. Suddenly, it looked like a throne. ‘I don’t expect you to rouse the ryffe and raffe personally. Find someone else who will.’

      Renard bowed and sank into the chair opposite his liege, hiding a sigh. The King asked Renard to produce an uprising as if he were ordering a suit of chainmail. ‘I serve, your Grace.’

      ‘Just make sure the embargo holds. The longer they go without wool, the better for my cause. This should only take a few weeks, then Brabant and then you can come home.’

      He longed for home, though he had nothing to return to: no family, no land, nothing that the King did not give. There had been talk of marriage, but as an illegitimate son, Renard had little to bequeath to a legitimate one.

      Edward clasped his shoulder. ‘I need Flanders, whether you or the Bishop get it for me, but when you succeed, I’ll reward you with something worthy of all you have done. Something like…’ His face lit with a new idea. ‘Bishop! That’s it!’ He slapped the arm of the chair. ‘Bring me Flanders and I’ll make you a bishop.’

      Bishop.

      Renard’s heart beat in his ears and blood surged through his arms as if he had just been called to battle, but years of repressing his responses served him well. The reward was everything he could have hoped for. A secure position of power, safe from the temptations of the flesh. Once given, even a king could not take it away.

      ‘You honour me, your Grace.’

      The King smiled. ‘Of course I do. Can’t run the country without money from the Church. Too many of them think their pope is more important than their king. I need bishops I can depend on.’

      But as a bishop, Renard’s power and position would no longer depend on the King. ‘It will not be easy, your Grace.’ The King could propose a bishop, but the Pope must confirm him. ‘I am not yet of an age to be a bishop.’

      Edward СКАЧАТЬ