His eyes widened when he saw her. “Cara Isabella,” he said gently.
“Well, I was free this morning,” she muttered, embarrassed by her own gesture. She linked her blue silk arm through his black velvet one, as if they were a real couple, and stepped quickly forward.
She gasped when she entered the chamber. It was hot.
Packed. Full of shifting bodies and eyes. It looked as though every liveryman in London was there—except William Pratte and Will Caxton. She could even see her father, with his noble profile and his eager smile, standing right behind the new mayor, William Stokker—a draper. John Lambert must have come to London specially. How had the Prattes not known?
Goffredo glanced at her. Neither of them understood.
They sat at the table on the dais, on one side of the mayor and his men, watched by many dozens of eyes.
Then another delegation walked through the door opposite.
The men who sat down at the other end of the table were all in black velvet. They had dark skins and dark hair and strong features and expensive jewels. And they were familiar. She’d seen them pray at the Lucchese chapel at St. Thomas of Acre. She knew some of their names. Dr. Gigli. Jacopo Salviati himself, towering over the rest. Two young men from the Conterini great place in Botolph Lane. And two others whose names she didn’t know, but who she recognized from the markets: more merchant strangers from Italy.
“Keep calm,” she whispered to Goffredo, whose eyes were flickering from one Lombard face to another.
“This is a trap,” Goffredo whispered back. “We’ve walked right into it.”
It wasn’t an Italian who presented the case against Goffredo.
It was a minor merchant from Southampton called John Burdean, a badly put-together sack of a man, full of spit and resentment. Isabel could see from the way his and Goffredo’s eyes narrowed when they saw each other that they must have once done business together, and fallen out.
The blood was pounding so loudly in her head that she could hardly hear what John Burdean was saying. Concentrate, she told herself, and locked her eyes on Master Burdean’s angry paunch and bony legs and thin, hard voice. She couldn’t meet his eyes.
He seemed to be saying Goffredo owed him money. Large sums. Debts stretching back years, money even Isabel could tell Goffredo couldn’t really owe in full, because some of the purported debts had allegedly been contracted in Southampton at times when Isabel knew Goffredo to have been in Venice.
But the Italians were nodding as if they had checked these charges among themselves and found them true. Now one Lombard after another was standing up to add a charge. Goffredo had stolen a silk damask cloth from the Conterini ware house and fraudulently sold it to John Burdean, telling him it was a cloth he’d imported himself. Goffredo had trespassed in the Salviati shop with intent to steal again.
They’re making the whole thing up, Isabel realized. They’ve dug up some nasty little man with a grudge, and they’re using him to smear Goffredo’s name. If there are doubts about Goffredo, he won’t be able to operate in London anymore. And we’ll have trouble registering the weaving business next week. They don’t know how far we’ve come, how near we are to registering.
But they’re trying to close us down before we begin.
The thought made her angry, but only for a moment. Then she felt her breathing getting tighter and more controlled, her mind beginning to work out responses. The Lombards weren’t going to win so easily.
Each Lombard accusation was followed by more buzzing and whispering. The merchants of London didn’t know whether to be surprised or angry. D’Amico didn’t look an out- and- out villain, after all; most people in the room had done business with him and didn’t recall being cheated. Then again, you could never tell with Lombards. They were sly. D’Amico had stooped low to steal from his own kind, in a foreign land. Who could say what other crimes had gone undetected? Their faces darkened.
The mayor was standing up. “Having heard the charges brought against you,” he was saying, and Goffredo, strangely white for someone so sallow, was swaying in his chair. “In the circumstances,” the mayor was saying, “I have no alternative but to place you,” he paused before the foreign name, then went roundly on,“you, George D’Amico,” and Goffredo flinched, “under arrest, pending a full investigation and trial.”
The Italians allowed themselves small smiles. John Burdean was sweating. He grinned and wiped his hands on his legs. He stood up as if it were all over, then sat down again. The London merchants muttered and waited. The mayor was talking again, saying, “Your right to trade in this city is suspended until further notice; your goods are impounded and must be handed in. You may continue to reside at the home of William Pratte but must report daily to the Guildhall . . .”
Isabel wanted to whisper to Goffredo, but she couldn’t get him to meet her eye. He was frozen. She touched his arm to get his attention. Still staring down at his hands, he muttered:“They’ve got us. They moved first. They’ve got us.” Then a gabble of Italian and a flash of eyes. She didn’t want to know what it meant. It wouldn’t be helpful.
“Goffredo,” she whispered, wishing Robert Lynom were there too, “can I answer?”
He looked puzzled. “Them?” he hissed. “Fight them?”
She nodded briskly; she’d take that as permission, she decided.
“Your Honors,” she called loudly as the mayor wound up, and the room went quiet. The eyes were all on her now. Among them she was aware of her father’s look of horror. Taking a deep breath, hearing her voice tremble, she went on: “Speaking on behalf of Master D’Amico, who is the most trusted foreign trading partner of the House of Claver, which I represent, I want to draw the attention of the worshipful company to certain facts about Master D’Amico’s business that have not been mentioned by any of the speakers so far—and may shed light on the allegations made in this room today . . .”
The real reason Goffredo D’Amico was in the dock today, she told them, was not because he’d cheated John Burdean or the London Lombards. She paused, waiting for the eddy of interest to subside. It wasn’t so hard once she’d started. She was scared, but exhilarated too.
“Your Honors. Master D’Amico has cooperated with the House of Claver in bringing to the City of London a group of Venetian silk weavers,” she announced, with her heart racing.
“These weavers have been teaching English craftswomen how to weave cloths of damask, velvets, cloth of gold and silver and other cloths of silk”—she paused, and looked Dr. Gigli straight in the eye—“for the past two years.”
There were gasps at this. There were murmurs of “Two years!” and “Silk weaving!” and “In London!” and “Where?” She felt excitement all around. She couldn’t stop to see where the gasps had come from, but she hoped some might have been from dismayed Lombard mouths.
“The training is nearly complete. Very soon,” she went on,“our English weavers—London women—will be producing and selling whole silk cloths as lovely, as accomplished—and as valuable—as anything made in Venice or Florence.”
Was that something like a cheer? She ignored it. She said: “So important is this work for England, and for the City of London in par tic u lar, that the king himself supports it. The weavers and their pupils are housed and provided for by the high command of His Majesty; from the royal purse. His Majesty understands, as well as you will all understand, how crucial acquiring this new skill is for England—how it will enhance English trade and boost English prestige . . .”
She looked round, and fixed the impassive Lombards with a steely eye. “In fact, Your Honors,” she went on, “the only losers from the transfer of knowledge Master D’Amico has made possible will be the other merchant strangers of London. We Londoners may soon start thinking their Venetian and Florentine and Sienese and Lucchese cloths are too expensive—or coarse—or ugly—compared with London’s own homemade silk cloths. The merchant strangers you see before you—our honored Lombard guests—are going to
have to work much harder than before to make the same profits from selling us their silk cloths.” There was definitely a cheer in the air now; her audience was getting her drift all right. “No wonder they’re smarting, Your Honors,” she finished. “No wonder they’re angry with Master D’Amico.”
She smiled, and a wave of hoots and laughs and gasps and claps broke over the room. The crowd was with her. Goffredo was standing tall. The Italians did not smile.
From out of the corner of her eye, she noticed her father’s face.
There was astonished respect on it, something she’d longed for years to see. She only wished she had time to enjoy it, now it was there. But she had to keep thinking.
After a whispered consultation with the men around him, the mayor leaned forward.
“Are you suggesting, Mistress Claver,” he said distantly, “that the actions of debt and trespass taken out against Master D’Amico today are”—he wrinkled his nose—“false?”
Isabel stood tall. Her cheeks were pink. Her voice rang out loud and proud. “I am, Your Honor,” she answered, and was aware of another sudden buzz of talk, and some frankly vicious looks from the Italian end of the table. She also noticed Goffredo, staring at her with admiration, shaking his head ruefully at her impudence, beginning to grin. He’d kiss his hand at her in a minute. She liked him so much that she nearly laughed.
Triumphantly, she went on: “I’m no lawyer, your Honor. But I believe Master D’Amico and his lawyer, Master Robert Lynom, will contact you shortly to ask for a corpus cum causa to be directed to the Sheriff of London. We want the motives of the plain-tiff s in this case investigated. And we want all charges against Master D’Amico dropped.”
Isabel and Goffredo were nearly mobbed on the way back to Catte Street. Everyone in the Mercery wanted to know more about the mystery weavers.
“Soon,” Isabel said calmly in answer to all the questions, nudging the beaming Goffredo through the crowd. “We will have more to tell you soon.”
When her own father appeared, she dropped a deep curtsey and kissed his hand, as a daughter should. She didn’t ask what had brought him back to London for the Guildhall meeting. He didn’t explain. But when he said, a little hesitantly, “So, you’ve set up a weaving venture . . . ?” and paused, hoping for a dutiful filial answer, she only nodded her head sideways at Goffredo and said, as she had to the others, “Soon; we’ll have more to tell you soon.”
But she put a hand on her father’s arm—that soft, beseeching movement Jane used so often, to convey helpless goodwill—and added, “I promise,” and then, “dear Father.” And she was surprised to see a timid look of plea sure in his eyes.
She couldn’t say more. She wasn’t sure it was wise to let the Italian merchants know quite how close the Clavers were to succeeding. The news was out now; telling had got a reprieve for Goffredo while the Lombards’ claim and his counterclaim were looked into. Registering the weaving business together would still be impossible till the mayor was satisfied Goffredo was honest; but at least she’d created a mood of sympathy for him, and raised the question of what the other Lombards were really up to. If all else failed, she could go to the king for justice. She thought she’d get it, what ever else came between her and Dickon. Yet the thought of approaching him made her quail. She didn’t want to let it into her mind yet. She thought the Clavers could win by themselves.
Still, she thought, it would be prudent to choke off any more talk for now. She moved off , linking arms with Goffredo so they could step through the crowd together.
“You’re not,” Goffredo said, with the broadest of smiles, squeezing her arm with his, “afraid of gossip? About you and me?”
She grinned. She could hardly remember feeling this on top of life. Everything seemed easy all of a sudden. “No,” she said, deciding what would come next on the spur of the moment.
“Why? Everyone thinks we’ll marry anyway, sooner or later. This is only what they’ve been expecting. It makes sense.” Not quite believing she meant it, he laughed incredulously, then, when she didn’t laugh back, tried to pull her to him. Gently, she pushed his chest. She went on: “Not now. We can talk after all this is over.”
She'd forgotten the painful longing for a while, when she’d been on her feet addressing the mayor. She’d been floating, her feet hardly touching the ground, her mind and mouth full of inspiration. But the pain came back as her breathing slowed down, as the front door creaked open and they stepped back into the familiar gloom of inside. Her unglamorous, tiring, dull pain: an ache, her patient hope, endlessly deferred.
She sat and said nothing while Goffredo—who was full of inspiration and excitement himself now, waving his arms and talking nineteen to the dozen—told and retold the story of the ambush for Alice and Anne and William. “You should have heard Isabel,” he said. “I cut a pitiful figure at first. But she was magnificent.”
“You didn’t,” she said, “you were braver than I could have been. Dignified. You didn’t flinch once. You kept your head.” But she cut short the rest of his generous praise. She didn’t look at the quiet hurt in his eyes, though she admired the manful way he banished it. She didn’t want to sit up late and eat and talk. “I’m not hungry,” she said. “I’m tired. It’s been a long day.”
She dreamed she was in the tavern room. It was empty except for the unmade bed. The sheets smelled of Dickon. Then she saw he was there, after all. Asleep: a dark shoulder; rumpled black hair. Suddenly she was honey and sunlight. She tiptoed to the bed. She was going to kiss his forehead, very tenderly. The first thing he’d see when his eyes opened would be her.
She woke up as she leaned toward him. She didn’t know where she was or what had changed. When she realized she was at Catte Street, alone, she cried. It was worse to have dreamed of happiness, but woken up, than not to have had the dream at all. No one saw or heard her cry. The house was asleep. It was dark. The full moon had set.
If Isabel woke up to the understanding that loving Dickon meant she’d never be able to bring herself to marry Goffredo, or anyone else, the others woke up with nerves. Alice called the Prattes and Goffredo to Catte Street. “We must be very careful from now on,” she said sternly. “More careful. They’ll be watching us like hawks.”
Anne Pratte breathed out through her teeth. She said:“Ooh, it still gives me goose bumps to think how close they came yesterday to shutting us down.”
She always sounded as though she were enjoying herself.
Alice ignored her. “They’ll be looking for the workshop,” Alice went on, looking into one face after another. “It’s not going to be that hard to find. That’s what we need to shut down.”
William Pratte nodded. “You’re right,” he said, sounding relieved. “We should stop till we have the registration sorted out.
We have the first cloths ready. Let’s dismantle the looms. Get the weavers out of Westminster. Lie low until all this blows over.”
Working out how to quietly vanish, then reappear, was harder than it seemed. The elaborate plan Anne Pratte proposed began with Isabel going to Westminster, as she’d done every Thursday before her illness, to spend the night in the house before her Friday session with the princess.
Alice shook her head. Isabel said falteringly: “But I’ve been ill.
It’s months since I’ve been to the palace. They won’t be expecting me.” She was suddenly scared of being swept up again in that other world, when all this was so urgent.
“You’re better now,” Anne Pratte said firmly, ignoring Alice’s mute warnings. “Who’s going to believe you’re still convalescing after what you did today? The whole City will be talking about it.
It’s time to start again. The princess is your best patron. You shouldn’t lose her.”
Reluctantly, Alice nodded. It had taken Isabel a while to 38 recognize this, but she usually let Anne Pratte decide what should happen at moments of crisis.
Anne went on setting out her plan. As soon as Isabel reached the house on
Thursday evening, she was to tell the silk teams they were going on holiday. She’d leave them on Friday morning, taking apart the looms and stacking them against the walls. She’d go to the palace; return to the house; and spend Friday night at Westminster.
The others, meanwhile, would leave London one by one and make their separate ways to Westminster on Friday: Alice and Anne by boat; William by road; Goffredo, later, by a different boat. If asked, they’d say they were invited to a Friday dinner at Will Caxton’s. Once at Westminster, they would supervise the packing. Alice and Anne would load the valuable silk thread supplies onto William’s horse, ready to take back to London. Everyone would be waiting to leave when Isabel finished at the palace on Friday afternoon.
They’d have a bite to eat together at the house, then they’d split up. Will Caxton could ride William’s horse and take the silk supplies back to London before curfew. The two old ladies could go back by boat to show their faces in the Mercery the next day, as usual. Meanwhile, Goffredo and William would walk the silk weavers downriver to Chelsea, stay the night at the inn there, and be off by road for Jane’s house by dawn. Once the weavers were settled in Hertfordshire, the two men could return to London.
Goffredo would be in plenty of time for his Guildhall appeal.
Isabel would come back to London on Saturday morning. The weavers would stay away until they knew Goffredo had been cleared and the business formally recognized and registered at the Guildhall.
Any snoopers who found the Westminster house before that would see nothing more than meaningless bits of wooden frame propped against the walls and Will Caxton’s foreign print workers next door, gabbling at them in their murderous foreign tongues.
Isabel nodded. She didn’t respond to Goffredo’s smiles and nods and hand squeezes. She hadn’t shaken off the heaviness of waking up from her dream. She was hardly thinking about the evacuation. Now she was definitely going, the thought of Westminster, and the palace, was blotting everything else out again.
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