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 waved away the protest. ‘Ridiculous rule. I assumed the crown at fifteen. You can be bishop before thirty.’
‘And 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