LITMIR.BIZ

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not to ask how he would come by it. The English king had embargoed all shipments to Flanders for the last nine months. ‘Where were the sheep raised? I prefer Cistercian-raised flocks from Tintern Abbey, though I will accept Yorkshire fleece.’

      ‘Accept?’ Amusement coloured his voice. ‘You will accept whatever I bring you. You have no choice.’

       Sweet Saint Catherine, what shall I do?

      She had bargained with the larger cloth houses for any fleece they would spare. She had scrambled for the poor stuff grown on the backs of Flemish sheep. She had even directed her weavers to make a looser weave, hoping that the fullers, cleaning and beating the cloth to finish it, could thicken the final product.

      She had no tricks left.

      She had begged her unsympathetic uncle for help, but she feared, unless she trusted this mysterious stranger, there would be no business remaining if—no, when—her father returned.

      At least the stranger’s hands, large, with long, strong fingers, looked reliable, even familiar.

      ‘How much can you get?’ she asked.

      ‘Maybe one sack.’

      ‘A weaver will use that in a week,’ Katrine scoffed, to cover her disappointment.

      He did not move from his comfortable slouch. ‘One sack is one sack more than you have at the moment.’

      She squeezed prayerful fingers. ‘What is your price? If I agree.’

      ‘Twenty-five gold livres per sack. In advance.’

      ‘Fifteen.’ With good negotiation, the pouch of gold her father had left might pay for three sacks. ‘On delivery.’ She gritted her teeth behind a stone-saint smile.

      ‘Twenty-eight.’

      Her smile shattered. ‘You said twenty-five before.’

      ‘I’ll say thirty tomorrow, if I please. Don’t try to bargain with me, mistress. You have nothing to bargain with.’

      The sunlight shifted and revealed his eyes for the first time, the dusky blue of indigo dyed over grey wool. One eye hovered on the edge of a wink.

      ‘Or maybe,’ he said, softly, ‘you do.’

      Something more than fear burned her cheeks and chilled her fingers. Something that had to do with him.

      Stifling her body’s betrayal, she folded her arms, mimicking his stance. ‘I bargain only with gold. I want the wool, but I have another source.’ She trusted her uncle little more than she trusted this stranger, but she would not give him the power of that knowledge. The man already had the advantage. ‘If your offer is better, I will take three sacks and pay twenty each—ten in advance, the rest on delivery. If you want more…’ she hesitated ‘…if you want more money than that, find one of your other willing buyers.’

      ‘It does not matter what you say. It is your husband who will decide.’

      Her hand flew to the wimple hiding her red hair. The married woman’s headdress was one of the little lies of her life, so much a part of her she had forgotten it would signal a husband who ruled her every action. ‘I have been given authority in this matter.’

      In her father’s absence, the drapers’ guild had allowed her to conduct his affairs, but she was reaching the limits of their regulations. And their patience.

      She waited for him to turn away, as had so many who refused to deal with a woman. Yet when the smuggler spoke, respect tinged his words. ‘You bargain like a man, mistress. I suspect you run your business well.’

      ‘I do.’ She willed her tongue to silence, waiting for his answer. Outside, the sign painted with the trademark of the four-petalled Daisy creaked in the breeze.

      He barely moved his chin to nod. ‘We are agreed.’

      Her sigh of relief slipped out without disguise. ‘Agreed if my other source does not better your offer.’ Now, she had an option if her uncle failed her. ‘You will have my answer by the end of the day.’

      ‘See that I do.’ The respect, if she had heard it, had fled his voice. ‘I will not wait on your whim when there are others eager to buy.’

      ‘If I tell you yes, when will I see my wool?’

      He shrugged. ‘I will stay here while I make arrangements.’

      ‘Here?’ She had been mad to deal with a stranger. Already he was changing the bargain.

      ‘Unless you want our business on the Council’s agenda. Any hosteller will be glad to collect their coin for reporting my every move.’

      She could not argue. England and France were near war. The town was swarming with suspicion. An innkeeper would notice a tall, blue-eyed man speaking accented Flemish. ‘I am paying you twenty livres for the wool. What will you pay me for the lodging?’

      No shadow of surprise crossed the deep blue moat of his eyes. ‘Are you re-opening negotiations?’

      ‘You were the one who did that.’ Her tart words made her feel in control again. ‘If you stay, your room will cost you five pence a week and I’ll provide no board. Take a pallet on the third floor,’ she said, vaguely uneasy at the thought of him sleeping under her roof.

      He frowned. ‘With the apprentices?’

      ‘They left months ago.’ No need to lie. He’d learn that soon enough.

      ‘No apprentices? How do you operate a draper business?’ He spoke as though he already knew her answer.

      She sighed. ‘Without wool, there has been little business.’ Instead of being stacked with red, green and blue woollen cloth bearing the Mark of the Daisy, Katrine’s shelves were bare.

      Leaning over, he lifted his sack and slung it across his shoulder without effort. Strong arms, then, and a light load. ‘So, what will you make with this wool of yours?’

      Anything would sell these days, but deep blue would fetch a good price. Indigo dyed over grey wool…

      He watched her with a half-smile. The thread of her thoughts unravelled. His glance seemed to expose her secrets while sharing none of his own.

      ‘Indigo-dyed worsted,’ she said crisply. ‘The market hasn’t seen its like since before Christmas and it should fetch at least fifty florins. If, that is, you bring me wool worth weaving.’

      ‘Whatever I bring, you’ll pay for.’

      She bridled. ‘Of course. I’m an honest woman.’

      ‘So you say.’ Walking past her towards the stairs, he paused beside the loom. His fingers stumbled as he plucked the threads, the first awkward gesture he had made. ‘This is important to you, isn’t it?’ he said, not looking up.

       I leave it in your hands, daughter. Guard it well.

      ‘It is my life.’

      He scrutinised her wordlessly, as if gauging what kind of a life it was. She forced herself to remain still, hoping he saw a trustworthy guild wife. He must not suspect who she really was.

      The midday bell tolled, breaking the stillness.

      ‘I must go.’ Her uncle would be home soon for the main meal. If he had spoken to the Count about her wool, she might be able to send this smuggler on his way. ‘I’ll be back before the mid-afternoon bell. Be here when I return.’

      He raised his eyebrows and laughed. ‘Do you order your weavers about so, mistress?’

      ‘When they need it.’ She gave him a final assessing glance as she opened the door, reluctant to leave him there alone. ‘How do I know I can trust you?’

      One corner of his mouth curved into a parody of a smile. ‘You don’t.’

      Saint

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