Innocence Unveiled. Blythe Gifford

her feet, tripping over her gown as she ran to the door.

      Her palms were red and stinging before she stopped beating against the unyielding oak.

      By the time the vesper bells rang, the household was long gone. Katrine had paced from bed to door to window too many times to count. She had winnowed the pieces of her life to a sack she could carry. A few clothes. A comb. A small round mirror of German silver from Uncle Giles, engraved with a four-petalled daisy. Her mother’s ivory triptych, blessed at the shrine of Saint Catherine.

      So few things. What mattered most was in the weaving room.

      She weighed her father’s parting gift in her palm. The bag of gold livres carried none of the sentiment of the mirror or the triptych, but it must pay the smuggler’s price and more. It must support her until she sold cloth again.

      If she could escape.

      She paced back to the window. The roofs glowed orange in the setting sun. She smacked the sill in frustration. She had told him by curfew. It was near that now.

      Merkin’s cheery voice emerged through the door. ‘Good evening. I’ve brought her supper.’

      The guard mumbled a grunt. The lock rattled and the door swung open.

      Merkin, her back to him, winked at Katrine and raised her eyebrows. ‘Go eat, Ranf. I’ll watch her.’

      He closed the door. Footsteps descended the stairs.

      Merkin rolled her eyes. ‘The man’s as dimwitted as he is ugly.’ She put down the tray and stuffed the bread and cheese in her pouch. ‘Hurry, milady.’

      Katrine grabbed her small sack of treasures and her cloak, fingers shaking. ‘How can I thank you? He’ll beat you when he finds me gone.’

      A grin split Merkin’s face. ‘He’ll have to catch me first, milady. I’m coming with you.’

      There was no time to debate. Katrine gave her a grateful hug and they slipped down the stairs and out of the garden door.

      Shadows rippled on the river beneath the bridge and the leftover aroma of the day’s catch followed them through the square. A man in rags crouched on the corner, hand outstretched, muttering a plea or a threat. She pushed Merkin ahead and ran past him, quickly.

      As they hurried through the darkening streets, she prayed war preparations would keep her uncle away for a long time. Ranf wouldn’t know what to do without orders.

      Katrine drew a full breath only after she had safely closed the shop’s door.

      ‘Renard?’ she called. Again, there was no answer.

      She raced up the stairs, only slightly relieved when she saw his sack still there. Nothing about the man was certain.

      ‘Why are you calling for a fox?’ Merkin asked, as Katrine came downstairs.

      She paused, giving her mind time to catch up with her tongue. ‘I hired a guard. Since the house has been empty, I thought there should be someone here to watch it.’

      Merkin rolled her eyes and muttered something about a fox guarding the chickens, but softly enough that Katrine could ignore her. ‘He must be watching from the top of the bell tower, then, milady.’

      Katrine smiled, though she knew she shouldn’t. Merkin’s tongue was as forthright as her own. ‘“Mistress,” Merkin, not “milady”. If we are to be safe here, he must think me a simple tradeswoman.’ If he discovered she had run away from a noble family, he might turn her in for an imagined reward.

      Merkin sighed just a little too loudly. ‘Yes, mistress.’

      ‘I’m sure he’ll be here soon.’ She looked at the gathering shadows as Merkin prepared a bed for herself in the kitchen. Truly, she was sure of only one thing: she had come home.

      Katrine woke to see a tall, motionless shadow on the wall of the weaving room holding a dagger.

      Renard had returned.

      She didn’t lift her head, cradled in her arm over the inventory book where she’d fallen asleep, her wimple pillowing her cheek.

      Full darkness had fallen, she thought, sure she could hear the echo of the compline bell. The fire’s remaining coals glowed red as the pits of hell.

      Slowly, she stretched and yawned, raising her arms towards the rafters, closing her eyes, pretending she had not seen him. Pretending she did not care if she saw him. Yet with this man in it, her shop seemed no safer than the streets.

      Her loose-fitting wool dress brushed her breasts through her chemise. She fought the urge to drop her arms and shield herself from his eyes, thankful for once that her breasts were so small.

      Surely he could not see them.

      As he sheathed his dagger, his shadow fell across her like a caress. ‘I was not expecting to see you when most are abed.’

      ‘And I was expecting to see you long before now.’

      ‘Did you meet your money lender?’

      She counted out the heavy coins, then handed them across the table without answering. No need to add another lie. ‘Here. Though you’ve yet to earn it. I hire you to guard the house, yet you are never here. Then you persist in showing me your blade.’

      Silent, he poured the money into the pouch tied to his girdle without counting. Coins she had recounted ten times. How could a smuggler be so careless with money?

      She closed her inventory book. ‘Tell me, Monsieur Renard, what has brought you to this life? Are you a weaver, trying to bring work to your fellow craftsmen?’ The idea seemed absurd. He had the strong arms and chest needed to beat the weft with the reed, but his long legs had obviously guided a horse into battle, not atrophied beneath a loom.

      He threw a stray twig of kindling into the coals. A bluehearted flame flared up to devour it.

      She waited for an answer, but neither of them feared silence now. She glowed with a moment’s triumph. ‘Monsieur Renard, your namesake, the fox, is never at a loss for words. Has Tibert the Cat taken your tongue?’

      He looked at her then, though the shadows hid his expression. ‘Renard the Fox always has a clever word. Usually, it is a lie.’

      ‘Does that mean your words are lies?’

      ‘Are yours the truth?’

      She blinked, betraying herself again. Is he a priest to know the truths of the confessional? ‘What is your truth, Renard? What do you tell the wife who wonders at your absence?’

      She thought a cloud of anger shadowed his face, but his unreadable eyes protected his secrets as fully as a suit of chainmail.

      Yet a well-aimed arrow could penetrate even chainmail.

      She aimed. ‘Or perhaps the ladies refuse to wed a smuggler?’

      There was the slightest hesitation before he answered. ‘I see no need to marry.’

      Her lips curved up before she realised she had cared what his answer would be. Reckless with small success, she pushed ahead. ‘Your parents, then? Are they proud of their son?’

      His left eyelid slipped into a wink and she sensed the muscles harden to sculpted stone beneath his skin. Though he never moved, the narrow, guarded drawbridge that linked him to the world clanged shut.

      ‘The less we know of each other, the safer we both will be. It is late.’ In one fluid motion, he bowed and held his hand to help her rise. ‘Since I am to be your protector, I will protect you between here and your bedchamber.’

      She held out her hand.

      With a stance anything but humble, he pulled her to her feet so swiftly that she had to clutch his solid arms for balance.

      Nose pressed against his chest, she inhaled the lingering, smoky-sweet