Vanora Bennett - Figures in Silk

VANORA BENNETT

For Luke and Joe

Warmest thanks to everyone who helped me write this book, from Susan Watt and her colleagues at HarperCollins and Tif Loehnis and hers at Janklow & Nesbit, to Lodovico Pizzati for linguistic advice on the finer points of Venetian, and of course to Chris McWatters, my husband, for his ideas, advice, patience and encouragement.

Author’s Note

Part One Silk Silk

1

2

3

4

5

6

Part Two Coup

7

8

9

10

11

Part Three Chess

12

13

14

15

Part Four Love

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

Also by Vanora Bennett

Copyright

About the Publisher

1

Spring 1471

Isabel knelt. She didn’t know the church, but she was aware of shadowy people moving round, or kneeling in corners. Not many, though. It was too late for Sext and too early for None. Most people would be out working. She put her hands up to her face, palmer fashion, staring down at the long, undecorated fingers in front of her eyes, shutting everything else out until even her eye’s memory of the candle haloes in front of her had faded. Her father couldn’t really mean to marry her to Thomas Claver, could he?

Her lips began to form the Latin words of prayer. She tried to ignore the picture in her mind, of Thomas Claver’s thighs spreading on a window bench at the Tumbling Bear, and his mouth forming that slack, leering grin as he and her uncle both lifted their tankards to an embarrassed serving-girl (trying to ignore them, as all servants did) and nudged each other obscenely. She shivered, but perhaps that was just because the prayer that had come to her mind was so sombre. ‘O most sweet lord Jesus Christ, true God,’ she muttered, fixing her eyes on the calluses and needle pricks on her fingers, proof that she, unlike Thomas Claver, wasn’t so spoiled by coming from a wealthy family that she wouldn’t deign to learn the family business, ‘who was sent from the bosom of the almighty Father into the world to forgive sins, to comfort afflicted sinners, ransom captives, set free those in prison, bring together those who are scattered, lead travellers back to their native land, minister to the contrite in heart, comfort the sad, and to console those in grief and distress, deign to release me from the affliction, temptation, grief, sickness, need and danger in which I stand, and give me counsel.’

But however hard she concentrated on her fingertips and the movements of her mouth, she couldn’t retreat into the muzz of incense and contemplation she was seeking. In her mind’s eye, Thomas Claver was coming toward her, with his hands stretched out to grab her. She was frozen into the stillness of panic as he loomed over her; no point in shrinking back, as every fibre of her body was screaming to, because the door was locked and there was no escape.

Wisps of voices came unbidden into her head. Her father’s: ‘an honour for the family…’ and ‘… important for the family to have Alice Claver’s goodwill…’ and ‘… an excellent businesswoman; she’s well-connected, you know; she’ll introduce you to people who can help you in life…’ and ‘… it’s not what you know, it’s who you know…’ and ‘… I’m relying on you to do the right thing for the family.’ Her nurse’s hurried, worried whispering, trying to make peace: ‘at your age you think it’s all about love… but all men are the same really… I know he’s a bit wild now, but you’ll set him right in no time, get him working… the important thing is to be in a good family; once you have babies you’ll understand that children are all that matter in life anyway.’ Jane, resigned but still giggling under the bedclothes, somehow managing to be philosophical even in this misery: ‘… well, at least you know your one likes girls. What am I going to do with that old stick Will Shore and his all-night ledgers? Just imagine trying to kiss him !’

It wasn’t half so bad for Jane, Isabel thought furiously, trying to fight back the hot prickle behind her eyelids as she remembered her elder sister’s bewitching face, all pale blonde hair and flirtatiously downturned green eyes and charm, breaking into that rueful smile at the idea of having to marry Will Shore. Will might be a walking cadaver with no chin and no conversation except for what was on his books, but at least he was a man set on his path in the world. He was a freeman and a citizen; he had an honourable apprenticeship behind him and a business already set up. He’d bore Jane to death, but he’d keep her in the silken idleness she liked so much too, lolling on cushions and reading romances and planning her next gown. And she knew it. What did she have to complain about?

Her shoulders heaved. The lump in her chest swelled to bursting. And before she knew where she was, she found herself holding her head in her hands, squeezing helplessly at her closed eyes to stop the tears coming out, with her fingers salty and wet and her breath as fast and anguished as if she were running for her life. I’m crying, she thought, with the calm part of her mind; observing herself, somewhere below that thought, hug her own shoulders with both arms and curl up so low that her head was almost touching the stone floor. But she was sobbing too hard to be surprised.

A shadow moved nearby. Footsteps stopped a few paces away. She heard the faint click of spurs. She didn’t care any more. Now that she’d abandoned herself to the angry helplessness of her emotions, she couldn’t have stopped the storm inside herself even if she’d wanted to. The footsteps moved away. But not far enough to forget them. She didn’t want to be aware of a new candle flame sputtering into life in the unfocused blaze around the Virgin. Yet it was enough to still her heaving chest for a moment and she fell silent, aware of the tears still coming through her fingers and the smeary mess her face must be, trying to breathe deep to control her sobs and what might be hiccups, pulling at her skin to try to dry it off, waiting for the unwanted fellow-worshipper with the spurs that clinked to go away.

But he didn’t. He came back and stood right next to her. Peeping out from between her fingers, she could see the spurs and the mud on his boots. She kept her head determinedly down. He’d go, she thought, in an agony of impatience; she just had to keep quiet.

There was a silence the length of a long-held breath. Then, with dread, she felt a hand on the tight curved agony of her back: a warm hand; a deep, comforting, heel-of-the-hand caress. She burrowed lower into herself to escape; but not before she’d felt the solid reassurance of it. When the surprisingly beautiful bass voice murmured, from just above her head: ‘Forgive me, but are you all right?’ the memory of that silken male touch, the like of which she might never feel in the future closing in around her, was enough to dispel her irritation at being interrupted in her private grief.

Miserably, resignedly, she raised her head. The face she could half-see looking down at her was thin and dark and hard. But it was softened by an expression of concern. He couldn’t have been more than a few years older than she was: eighteen or nineteen, maybe, like Thomas Claver. But he was an adult, with a shadowed jaw and the wiry strength of a man in the neat movement of his arms as he leaned further towards her, with enough delicacy of understanding to realise he shouldn’t touch her, clasping his hands together as if to stop himself. She was strangely warmed by the kindness in those narrow eyes.