Innocence Unveiled. Blythe Gifford

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. ‘Your report then,’ he said, with a weary wave of his hand. ‘Though I don’t know what you could say about the artisans that would be useful. It is not as if they hold any power.’

      ‘In this city, they do. Direct negotiation with the Count will be less fruitful here than elsewhere.’

      The Bishop licked his sticky fingers. ‘Why would that be?’

      Renard smiled. ‘Well, first of all, he’s not related to the King by marriage.’

      ‘The Queen’s many relatives have made my mission more difficult, not less.’