Heaven's Fire

by Patricia Ryan

  “Get out! Get out!” Sir Roger set Detinée down and whipped the two men frantically as they clambered out. The smaller one, Wiley, yanked the whip from his hand and raised it as if to strike him back. His hulking companion snatched it from him and tossed it aside, whispering a warning in English. Of the two men, Frick was by far the more obedient and hardworking. Little Wiley hadn’t ceased to cause trouble since his arrival in Cuxham the previous fall.

  Roger Foliot, usually alert to any form of impertinence, seemed barely aware of the incident, so preoccupied was he with the task of lowering his vast bulk into the grave. Once there, he unsheathed his sharp little eating knife and began hacking away at the partially buried shroud. Frick and Wiley exchanged a look and, crossing themselves, backed away from the appalling sight.

  “Aha!” Grabbing the linen in his meaty fists, Sir Roger ripped it open. “Look, Hugh! Look! I knew it! I knew it!”

  Steeling himself, Hugh leaned over to inspect the contents of the shroud.

  It was filled with straw.

  “What... ?”

  “I knew it!” Even in the shifting moonlight, Hugh could see Sir Roger’s face darken with fury, turning the color of an overripe plum. In a frenzy of rage, he stabbed at the straw-filled shroud, slicing it to ribbons. “You bitch! You little bitch! Make a fool out of me, will you?”

  “But how... ?”

  “She tricked me!” he exclaimed breathlessly. “She faked her death, the little strumpet! And I’ll wager she had help doing it.”

  Ella had told Hugh that she’d been the one to bury Constance. She hadn’t, of course; she’d buried a sack of straw instead. She’d lied to him, then, but he found he could summon no ire over it. It was a clever plan, and it had almost worked.

  “Who filled in this grave?” Sir Roger demanded, clutching two quivering fistfuls of straw.

  Hugh would be damned if he’d point the finger at his own wife. “I wouldn’t know, sir. Someone traveling through, perhaps? Or perhaps Constance herself.” Desperate to change the subject, he asked, “What made you suspect that this grave was empty?”

  “You remember. You were with me when I saw her in Bagley Wood, going into that church. You told me it wasn’t her.”

  “She had her head covered, and we saw her from such a distance. And when we got there, she was gone.”

  “Sneaked out the back,” he growled. “Saw us and slipped away.”

  “And she... she was supposed to be—”

  “She was supposed to be dead!” He crushed the straw in his fists, then flung it aside. “She’s a crafty wench. But I’m craftier.”

  Looking up from the grave, he met Hugh’s gaze, his eyes shining like black beetles in the moonlight. “Get Pigot.”

  “Pigot! Sir Roger, no...

  “Get him!” he screamed, spittle flying from his mouth. “Pigot will find her. Doesn’t matter how far away she’s gotten. Scotland, Wales... He always finds them. He’ll bring her back, and then I’ll teach her a thing or two. I’ll make her suffer for humiliating me.”

  “Sir Roger—”

  “Get Pigot! Promise him double his usual fee. I’ll sell her to a brothel after I’m done with her, and make it back that way.” He held his hands toward Hugh. “Help me out.” Together, the three men succeeded in hauling the obese knight from the hole.

  “Sir Roger,” Hugh began, “if I may... I don’t think it’s such a wise idea, sending Pigot after Constance. That is, I don’t think any brothel will want her after... after he’s done with her.”

  “Aye, he likes those knives of his.” Sir Roger lifted Detinée and made kissing noises at her, whereupon she bared her teeth and lunged for his bulbous nose. He chuckled indulgently and scratched her behind her ears. “I’ll order him not to ruin her face.”

  “He’s a madman,” Hugh objected. “You can tell him whatever you want, but he can’t be controlled. Remember Hildreth? Didn’t you tell him to spare her face when he found her? Yet look what he did to her! Poor girl drowned herself in the river rather than—”

  “Enough!” Sir Roger bellowed. The little dog flinched and let out an indignant yelp. “I’ve told you to fetch Pigot, and by God that’s what you’ll do! You’ll have him here by tomorrow afternoon or I’ll see your neck in a noose. And try to figure out where Constance might have gone. Your wife was a friend of hers, wasn’t she?”

  “My wife?”

  “Ella. She might know something about all this. She was probably the last one to see the bitch before she ran away. Send her to me. I want to question her.”

  “Nay! I... I’ll talk to her.”

  “And you’ll send for Pigot?”

  Hugh’s shoulders slumped. “I’ll send for Pigot. But for God’s sake, don’t call him that to his face this time. You know how it enrages him. Call him by his real name.”

  Sir Roger waved a plump hand in dismissal. “I’ll call him what I damn well please! ‘Twill remind him who’s in charge.”

  Hugh considered arguing the point, but decided against it. If Sir Roger chose to make a personal enemy of this lunatic, so be it.

  Sir Roger waved the two villeins over to the grave. They shambled toward him slowly, Wiley with an expression of disgust, Frick with one of wariness. “Fill this in so it looks exactly as it did.” To Hugh, he said, “Make sure they do a proper job of it. Detinée and I are going to bed.”

  * * *

  Late the next afternoon, Hugh, Sir Roger, Frick, Wiley, and Pigot stood hidden behind a copse of trees across the river from the churchyard, their eyes trained on a tall, fair-haired man standing beside the filled-in grave. He stood perfectly still, his expression solemn. Hugh, knowing the grave contained, not Constance, but a sackful of straw, felt a fair measure of unease watching this stranger mourn a woman who was, in fact, still alive somewhere.

  “Anyone know who that is?” asked Sir Roger, cradling Detinée in his massive arms.

  Pigot nodded, his penetrating gray eyes fixed on the stranger. “Everyone in Oxford knows him. His name is Rainulf Fairfax. He’s Magister Scholarum.”

  “Master of Schools,” Hugh translated, knowing Sir Roger’s Latin to be no better than it should be.

  “And,” Pigot added quietly, “he’s a former priest.”

  “Former priest?” Sir Roger exclaimed. “There is no such thing. Once a priest, always a priest. He took vows, for God’s sake!”

  “Well, it seems he’s found a way to get out of them,” Pigot said in a bored tone. “He’s the son of a powerful Norman baron, and a cousin of the queen. I’m sure that didn’t hurt.”

  Sir Roger frowned, his eyes on Rainulf Fairfax as he sank to one knee and executed the sign of the cross. “Hunh. She was popular with priests, that one.”

  Wiley snickered. Elbowing Frick, he muttered something in English. They both erupted in laughter.

  Across the river, the ex-priest lowered his head and began to pray.

  “He was obviously attached to this woman you’re sending me after.” Pigot frowned at the two villeins, whose conversation was becoming loud and animated. “Hush, you two. I can’t think.” Frick quieted; Wiley went on as before.

  “What do you suppose they were to each other?” Sir Roger asked.

  Hugh’s gaze returned to the man by the grave, who crossed himself again and reached out to touch the gravestone.

  “I think it’s safe to say they were close,” Pigot said.

  After some moments, Rainulf Fairfax rose and mounted his bay stallion. With one final melancholy glance at Constance’s grave, he rode north along the river, disappearing into the woods.

  “He seems to have been quite taken with her,” Pigot said. “What does she look like? Is she pretty?”

  Sir Roger nodded as he thoughtfully petted his dog. “Very. She’s got the whitest teeth you’ve ever seen.”

  Pigot gazed skyward, then closed his eyes briefly. “You might want to elaborate on that description if you expect me to locate her. What color hair does she have?”

&
nbsp; “It’s dark,” said Sir Roger. “And very long—down to her knees. And, let’s see... she’s quite slender. Very little up here.” He cupped a hand over his chest, and Detinée snapped at it. “But quite a charming shape, nonetheless.”

  Wiley nudged Frick, and the two men snorted with laughter.

  “If you want to keep your tongues,” Pigot warned softly, “you’ll hold them.” He gave the satchel draped over his shoulder a meaningful pat. Frick paled, but the implied threat was clearly lost on Wiley, who sneered and mumbled something under his breath. Never having met Pigot before, he would have no inkling of the vast collection of knives housed in that satchel—nor of their owner’s enthusiasm for wielding them. He would have no idea that Pigot was quite thoroughly and completely mad. It was what made him so unpredictable... and so very good at what he did, which was finding people who’d gone to great lengths to hide themselves, people who had no reason to think they’d ever be found.

  Pigot could do this because of his gift, a gift peculiar to a certain variety of madman. It was the gift of adopting whatever persona most suited the particular search on which he was embarked. He could appear entirely harmless, even charming, when he chose. He could play the bored nobleman, the mendicant friar, the jolly butcher... whatever enabled him to get close to his prey. And then, like a snake, he would attack—swiftly and mercilessly and utterly without conscience. Like Sir Roger, he derived pleasure from dispensing pain, but unlike the petty knight, he had refined this cruelty into a kind of hellish art form. In truth, he seemed to regard the mutilated women he returned to Cuxham as something akin to creative accomplishments.

  “You might do well to keep track of this magister who used to be a priest,” Sir Roger said, seemingly oblivious to Pigot’s growing impatience with his men, “in case she seeks him out.”

  Pigot stared him down, his eyes like chips of ice. “The thought had occurred to me.”

  Wiley said something that prompted his friend to whisper, “Shh!”

  Turning to face the two men, Pigot reached into his satchel. “You,” he said to Frick.

  “Me?”

  Pigot withdrew a small, curved knife, which glinted in the late afternoon sun. The big man backed away, his eyes wide. “Wait, I—”

  “Hold him down,” Pigot ordered Frick, pointing toward the smaller man.

  The two villeins looked at each other, Wiley shaking his head, Frick wearing a dumbfounded expression. “Sir Roger?” the big man said. “What... what should I—?”

  “Christ,” Hugh muttered. “Sir Roger, don’t let him—”

  “Now!” Pigot commanded, advancing on the two men.

  “Uh, Pigot,” Sir Roger began, “must you really—”

  “Don’t call me that!” Pigot roared, whirling on the obese knight, the knife upraised.

  Sir Roger, clutching the little dog, stumbled backward. “Do it!” he ordered Frick, who hung his head, then nodded grimly.

  Wiley tried to run, but Frick overtook him easily. “I’m sorry. Truly I am.” Seizing his friend’s arms, he muscled him to the ground and held him down for Pigot. “Be quick about it, all right?”

  “No!” the little man screamed as Pigot straddled his thrashing legs and pried his mouth open. “No!”

  “Sir Roger!” pleaded Hugh. “For God’s sake!” But the knight only shrugged helplessly and squeezed Detinée against his chest.

  Wiley’s screams tore through the woods. Pigot, his back to Hugh, made an abrupt movement. Frick turned his head, his face contorted in anguish, as the screaming was replaced by an eerie, guttural moan.

  Pigot rose and crossed to Sir Roger, holding something outstretched in his bloody hand. “Here.”

  The astonished knight accepted the offering, which Detinée sniffed at eagerly. With a cry of disgust, he flung it away. The little dog leapt from his arms in zealous pursuit of the morsel. “No, Detinée!” Sir Roger shrieked as the dog pounced on Wiley’s tongue and swallowed it whole.

  Pigot retrieved a scrap of linen from his satchel, cleaned the blade carefully, and put it away. Then he washed his hands in the river. Rejoining Sir Roger and Hugh, he glanced toward Frick, cradling Wiley in his arms and stuffing a rag in his mouth. “He didn’t need that tongue. They’re a nuisance in a villein.” He held his hand out to Roger Foliot. “Half now, correct?”

  “Half? Ah. The payment.” With a trembling hand, Sir Roger withdrew a sack of silver from beneath his mantle and handed it to Pigot. “A pound sterling.” Pigot poured the coins into his palm and counted them.

  Sir Roger cleared his throat. “You’ll get the other pound when you bring her back.” He puffed out his stout chest. “With her face intact.”

  Pigot pinned the obese knight with an unblinking stare.

  “Please,” Sir Roger added sheepishly.

  The corners of Pigot’s mouth turned up in a smile that never reached his eyes. “Don’t I always bring them back?”

  “Aye, but—”

  “And I’ll bring this one back, as well.”

  “Aye, but I don’t want her—”

  “Good day, Sir Roger... Master Hest.” He turned and began walking away.

  Sir Roger sighed heavily. “Good day, Pig—” He winced. “G-Good day.”

  Pigot paused, his head cocked to the side as if he were contemplating something; then he continued on his way.

  * * *

  “But what of Plato?” challenged a familiar voice from within the multitude of black-clad scholars crowded into dimly lit St. Mary’s Church. Rainulf sighed and rested his elbows on his lectern as Victor of Aeskirche, always overeager for confrontation, climbed onto his bench and planted his hands on his hips. “This ‘conceptualism’ of yours—this notion of universals as mere words—is in direct opposition to Plato’s teachings.”

  “Had you listened more carefully,” Rainulf countered wearily, “you would know that conceptualism is not my notion at all, but that of Master Abelard and, I might add, of Aristotle. And incidentally, the point I’ve been making all evening is that universals are neither realities nor mere names, but concepts. I welcome debate, Victor, but in the future I would recommend that you get your facts straight before you go to the trouble of climbing atop your bench.”

  There was some laughter at Victor’s expense, and several of his fellows called out to him to take his seat, which he did, rather sullenly.

  “That will be all for tonight,” Rainulf announced, abandoning the Latin he used for his disputatio for French. “Those who care to may join me tomorrow morning in my home for a discussion of nominalism and how it relates to the doctrine of unity in the Trinity. The discussion will commence at terce.”

  The scholars—ranging from grammar students of ten to doctoral candidates in their thirties—filed out into the rainy April evening, leaving Rainulf alone in the candlelit church. Or not quite. As he gathered his notes and books, he saw again, half-hidden behind a pillar in the nave, the shadowy figure of a young man clad in a coarse gray mantle, its hood drawn low over his forehead, a large satchel on his back. He had noticed the youth several times during the evening, and wondered why he had chosen to stand, although two benches were empty in the rear of the church. Perhaps he felt awkward because he lacked the black academic robe of the Oxford students, but he wouldn’t have been alone in that regard. Some of the better-educated locals—even a few of the ladies—frequented Rainulf’s disputatios, and none of them wore the cappa.

  “A triumph, as usual.” Rainulf turned to see Father Gregory emerge from behind the altar.

  “Have you been listening this whole time?”

  “I frequently do.” Gregory leaned on the lectern and smiled, his kind eyes lighting with an almost mischievous humor—incongruous in a man of his advanced years. “You’re the most exceptional teacher I’ve ever known...”

  Rainulf groaned. Here it comes...

  “Brilliant, perceptive,” Gregory continued. “The students worship you.”

  “They might save their wors
hip for a worthier sort. You, of all people, know of my many flaws.” As Rainulf’s intimate friend and confessor, Father Gregory was the only man in Oxford privy to the crisis of faith that had driven him from the priesthood.

  “I know that you’re but a man, with a man’s weaknesses... and strengths. Your strength is in teaching, Rainulf. It’s a gift from God. A man with such gifts shouldn’t waste them in administration.”

  “The chancellorship—”

  “Will smother you,” Gregory stated flatly. “And it will deprive Oxford’s scholars of their most valuable resource.”

  “Anyone could do what I do.”

  “But not nearly as well.”

  Rainulf shouldered his bag and turned to leave. “I doubt that.”

  Gregory held him back, placing a hand on his arm. “You doubt yourself, friend. It’s all right to doubt what you’re taught. Brilliant men can’t help but question what others unthinkingly believe. Such doubt is understandable, even expected. But when they doubt themselves, and retreat from the world, as you’re trying to do, their brilliance fades... and the world is poorer for it.”

  Rainulf raked a hand through his hair. “Gregory, you don’t know how frustrated I’ve been, how desperately I need this change—”

  “Perhaps not,” his friend said quietly. “But just promise me one thing. Promise me you’ll take the time to consider whether this chancellorship is really what you want. You have all summer, and there’s no reason you can’t turn it down, even if it is offered to you. Will you promise me that, as a friend?”

  “I don’t understand,” Rainulf said. “You’re the bishop’s representative. You’re supposed to encourage me to accept this position, not turn me against it.”

  Gregory shrugged and smiled sagely. “I’m God’s representative, too. And I can’t help but think He would want you to continue teaching.” His expression sobered, and he closed his hand over Rainulf’s shoulder. “Just think about it. That’s all I’m asking.”

  Rainulf knew in his heart there was nothing to think about—he needed the chancellorship—but out of politeness, he nodded in agreement before bidding the elderly priest good night and taking his leave. As he passed the nave, a movement in the shadows behind a pillar caught his attention.