Heaven's Fire

by Patricia Ryan

  “Father Rainulf?”

  The magister paused and peered at the cloaked figure waiting in the darkness—the young man who had declined to take a seat. “It’s not ‘Father’ anymore,” Rainulf said.

  The hooded head nodded. “Aye, I meant ‘Master Fairfax,’” he said in English.

  The sandy voice was familiar, but before Rainulf could recall where he’d heard it before, the youth extended his hand, in which he held something shiny. “This is yours.”

  Rainulf took a step closer and accepted the small object, turning it over in his hands. It was the tiny silver casket with the pearl-encrusted cross on top, the reliquary containing the hair of St. Nicaise.

  “It worked.” A hand reached up and lowered the gray hood. “I got better.”

  Chapter 4

  He saw the warm brown eyes, wide in the dusky nave, smiling at him; he saw the gleaming white teeth. Rainulf stopped breathing for a moment. The reliquary slipped from his fingers and clattered on the stone floor. He and his visitor both crouched to pick it up, their hands meeting on the little silver box. The skin that Rainulf touched was warm and smooth, the skin of a woman. Rainulf looked up at the face just inches from his. “My God! Constance?”

  “It’s Corliss now.” She glanced around furtively. “You mustn’t call me Constance.”

  Rainulf’s incredulous gaze took in her wavy black hair, now shorn to chin length, and her face—her very singular face—free of any scars that might betray her bout with the pox... and her clothes! With her slight build, and her heavy tunic and chausses, she looked remarkably like an adolescent boy, if a delicate one.

  He shook his head in grateful disbelief. “I... my God! I don’t believe it!” His bag slipped off his shoulder; his arms encircled her without his willing it, and he drew her close. She set down her satchel and returned the embrace. For a precious, mindless moment that seemed to stretch beyond time, he held her tight, reveling in the feel of her in his arms—her substance, her solidity, the faint tickle of her warm breath on his neck. With a curious detachment he saw himself, as if from above, holding this woman as one would a lover. His rational mind, long accustomed to absolute authority over his actions, scolded him for imprudence; but an unfamiliar force deeper within him—an urge both elemental and profoundly needful—refused to let her go.

  “You’re real,” he whispered. “You’re alive.” His fingers threaded themselves through her hair; he breathed in the scent of green herbs and sweet blossoms. An astonished chuckle rose from his throat. It was the first time in a long time that he had laughed, and it enhanced his feeling of unreality—the impression that this was all happening to someone else. “You’re alive!”

  “Aye,” she murmured into his chest.

  “My God, Constance, I thought you were dead. I thought—”

  “Don’t call me that.” She pulled away from him and stood, raising her hood as she retreated behind the pillar. “Please. No one must hear you call me that.”

  Feeling unexpectedly bereft at the loss of contact, Rainulf retrieved the reliquary and slowly gained his feet. “You’re in hiding?” he asked her. She nodded. “From Sir Roger?”

  “From the man he sends out to capture runaways. I don’t know who that is.”

  “How did you manage to... I mean, there’s a gravestone with your name on it!”

  “Ella helped me. It wasn’t hard. We filled a shroud with straw so that anyone passing would think she was burying me.” She shrugged. “No one questioned her, and I merely waited until dark and went on my way.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “I have a cousin in Bagley Wood, who I stayed with for a few weeks. But I should have known better than to remain so close without a disguise. About a week ago, I got careless. I was heading into church for mass when I saw Sir Roger, along with Hugh Hest, coming down the road. I think they saw me, too.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I slipped out the back and ran as hard as I could,” she said. “Came here to Oxford.” She fingered the short tendrils of hair framing her face. “Cut my hair, traded my kirtle for chausses.” Grinning, she extended her booted leg. “What do you think?”

  Rainulf shook his head helplessly. “I don’t know what to think. How long do you propose to maintain this disguise?”

  “Until Sir Roger gives up on trying to find me. It may takes months—perhaps years—but eventually he’ll tire of the search. If I stay here in Oxford, perhaps I can keep track of his progress through my friend Ella. If I were to flee to some far-off place, I’d lose that advantage, and most likely I’d still be found.”

  “Where have you been staying?” Rainulf asked. “Have you any silver?”

  She shook her head. “What little I had is long gone. I’ve been sleeping in an alley off Beefhall Lane till I can find work.”

  “An alley! You could get your throat cut in your sleep! And what do you do when it rains?”

  “The weather’s been fair. I’ve been lucky. She glanced toward the downpour visible through the open front door of the church. “Until now.” She shrugged. “Perhaps Osney Abbey will take me in for the night.”

  Rainulf conjured up a disconcerting mental picture of Constance—or rather, Corliss—bedded down in the straw in a monastic guest house with dozens of indigents... all male, and many the lowliest form of knave. Granted, she passed amazingly well for a boy, but that alone wouldn’t protect her as much as she seemed to think. There were those who would just as soon force themselves on a defenseless-looking youth as on a girl. And when they discovered her true sex, she’d be fair game for them all. Doubtless the young woman standing before him, so secure in her tunic and chausses, knew little of such matters.

  “I’d better go now,” she said, “or they may not have room for me by the time I get there.” She nodded toward the reliquary clutched in his fist. “I just wanted to give that back. Thank you for... everything.” She looked down momentarily. Even in the shadowy nave, Rainulf thought he could see a slight blush suffuse her cheeks. “I was sad to wake up and find you gone.”

  “I was sad to leave,” Rainulf said quietly. She looked directly at him, her eyes huge in the darkness, as if his declaration had surprised her. He cleared his throat and held the reliquary out to her. “I’m not taking this back. It was meant as a gift. It’s yours now.”

  “Mine?” Her disbelieving gaze met his. “Nay, I couldn’t keep it!”

  “Whyever not?”

  “It’s... it’s much too fine.”

  “You deserve fine things.” He took her hand, opened her fingers, and closed them around the reliquary. “Keep it.” Wrapping both his hands around her small fist, he added, “Please.”

  She nodded gravely, her gaze locked with his. “I’ll treasure it. ‘Twill be a reminder of you and... and everything you’ve done for me. And perhaps it will continue to bring me good luck.”

  Rainulf looked down at his hands enclosing her small fist. He didn’t want to release her, but he did, and took a step back. Constance—Corliss—stepped back as well. Lifting her satchel from the floor, she secreted the little reliquary in it. For a moment they simply looked at each other, and then she said, “Good-bye, Master Fairfax.”

  She walked to the front door, adjusted her hood, and stepped into the driving rain.

  “Wait!” Rainulf crossed to the door in two long strides and pulled her back into the church.

  She looked startled. “Is something wrong?”

  “No. Yes. It’s not safe, you staying at Osney. I don’t like it. You need proper lodgings.”

  She wiped the rain from her face with the edge of her mantle. “Proper lodgings cost money. I hope to be earning some soon, but in the meantime—”

  “Come home with me.”

  She blinked at him.

  “For a decent meal,” he hastily added. “How long has it been since you’ve had one?”

  She smiled a little self-consciously. “Too long. But I couldn’t trouble you after everything—”


  “It’s no trouble. And while you’re eating, I’ll set my mind to the problem of your lodgings.”

  She nodded slowly, then smiled her extraordinary smile; it was as if the dusky church had just been flooded with heavenly light. “All right.”

  * * *

  Corliss paused in the middle of muddy St. John Street and stared up at the building to which Rainulf Fairfax had led her—a massive two-story stone edifice that loomed darkly against the night sky, dwarfing the adjacent timber houses. Shielding her eyes against the rain, she could make out a long row of large, arched windows on each of the two floors; warm, inviting light glowed around the edges of their closed shutters. Smoke drifted from a chimney on the far left side of the shingled roof.

  There were two doorways at street level. Master Fairfax opened the one on the right and motioned her to precede him up a steep, narrow staircase.

  “Where does the other door lead?” she asked as she climbed the stairs.

  “To my lecture hall, which is half below ground. It’s where I teach smaller groups.”

  That he had his own lecture hall here came as a surprise to Corliss. But even more of a surprise was what she found when she got to the second floor. She had expected a corridor leading to a number of apartments, one of which would be the magister’s. Instead, she found herself in one long rectangular hall with a high, vaulted ceiling and whitewashed walls, majestic in size but sparsely appointed. To the right, a leather curtain spanned the width of the space, so it was clearly even larger than it first appeared.

  A savory aroma made her mouth water. Her gaze sought out the cavernous fireplace on the far left wall, in which an iron cauldron hung over a sputtering fire. Fish stew, if she had to guess, with plenty of wine and spices and leeks—a good Lenten supper. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday and felt hungry, exhausted, and soaked to the bone. Thank God she’d finally get to sit down in a warm place and partake of a decent meal!

  In front of the hearth stood a table, at which two black-robed scholars sat before tankards of ale and soggy trenchers of snowy white bread with thick crusts. “Hello, Master Fairfax!” called the sandy-haired one, laughing. He and his companion, a pleasant-looking youth with dark, cropped hair, greeted the teacher in slightly slurred French.

  Master Fairfax tossed his bag in a corner. “Corliss, these drunken mongrels are Thomas and Brad, two of my most leechlike students.”

  She cleared her throat and tried to speak in a low pitch. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “I don’t believe I’ve seen you before, Corliss,” said Brad, the dark one. His English accent pleased her; he was a Saxon, like her. “What do you study?”

  Corliss hesitated. “I... I came to Oxford to work, not to study.” She set her satchel on the rush-covered floor, retrieved her Biblia Pauperum, and handed it to Brad. “I’m an illuminator.”

  The young men praised her workmanship, and she flushed with pride. “You must go to Catte Street,” Thomas said. “That’s where the booksellers and scribes and such have their shops.”

  “I know,” she said, taking back the volume and carefully replacing it in the satchel. “I went there today, but had no luck. Perhaps tomorrow.”

  The magister nodded toward the empty trenchers. “Have you two eaten all my supper again?”

  Thomas shook his head, grinning. “Luella has taken to cooking extra. She’s used to us by now.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Downstairs,” Brad said.

  Master Fairfax crossed to an arched opening in the corner to the right of the hearth, through which Corliss could see a spiral staircase leading to the lower level. “I’m home, Luella!” he called down.

  An odd twist of discomfort burned in Corliss’s stomach. She had wondered about women, had considered the possibility that the robust priest—now ex-priest— kept a mistress in some convenient place. What more convenient place than one’s own home?

  As if sensing her speculation, the ex-priest in question said, “Luella is my housekeeper.”

  Just as I was Father Osred’s housekeeper. Corliss heard footsteps ascend the curving staircase. Slow and heavy footsteps, she realized as they neared, and accompanied by stentorian breathing.

  “It’s about time!” came a gravelly, English-accented voice just as its owner—a very large, red-faced, and breathless woman of advanced years—appeared at the top of the stairs. “I was just tidying up the lecture hall for tomorrow, though I don’t know as I should bother, seeing as how it’ll look once that herd of yours is done with it.” Her sharp little eyes settled on Corliss. “Who the devil are you, young man, and what are you grinning at?”

  Corliss swiftly composed her features. “I didn’t mean to stare, mistress. My name is Corliss.”

  Luella crossed her arms and raked Corliss with a coolly assessing gaze. “Another mouth to feed, eh, Father?” She stalked inelegantly to the table and gathered up the used trenchers, tossing them in a pail in the corner. “And clean up after!” she added, spearing Thomas and Brad with a censorious frown. She grabbed a large spoon from a hook and stirred the contents of the cauldron, releasing more of its seductive aroma into the room.

  “Do stop calling me ‘Father,’ Luella. And yes, I do intend to feed Corliss, but we’ll clean up after ourselves. I thought you might be ready to go home. Thomas and Brad will be happy to walk you back to Grope Lane.” He cast a meaningful glance in their direction. “Won’t you, boys?”

  The two youths assented with a decided lack of grace, then swiftly gulped down the remainder of their ale and rose unsteadily.

  “Lots of good they’ll do me in their condition,” grumbled Luella as Rainulf helped her on with her shawl.

  “I was hoping you could protect them,” the magister said. Luella hooted with laughter, the boys rolled their eyes, and the three took their leave.

  The big hall rang with silence once Corliss and Master Fairfax were alone together. He said nothing, simply leaned back against the table, crossed his arms, and scrutinized her, as if inspecting a strange new type of creature he’d never seen before. Corliss began to shiver, as much from nervousness as from her sodden clothes. She licked her lips and looked around, observing the bare walls, the minimal furniture, the very vastness of the place.

  “This whole house is yours?” she asked.

  “Aye,” he said without taking his eyes off her.

  “It must have cost a fortune.”

  He appeared to ponder that. “I suppose that would depend on your definition of a fortune.”

  She detected a slight shift in the atmosphere between them, a subtle disquiet, and wondered at its cause. “That’s not an answer.”

  “You didn’t ask a question,” he pointed out.

  “Is this how academics converse?” she asked testily. “I hate it. Why won’t you just tell me how much the house cost?”

  “One isn’t supposed to ask such things.” He smiled oddly. “It cost thirty-eight pounds sterling.”

  Her jaw dropped open. “You have that much money?” Before he could answer, she said, “Of course you do. You’re a cousin of the queen. You must be terribly wealthy, priest or no priest.”

  “I’m not a priest,” he said a bit irritably, pushing away from the table, but keeping his eyes trained on her.

  She took a step back. “Why do you keep staring at me like that?”

  He almost smiled. “Father Osred was right. You are like a little child, always asking questions.”

  She raised her chin. “Well?”

  After a moment’s hesitation, he said quietly, a note of amazement in his voice, “They thought you were a boy.”

  So that was it. He couldn’t believe her disguise actually worked! “That’s the point of all this,” she said, indicating her masculine garb with a sweeping gesture.

  “No, but they really believed it. They have no idea you’re a woman. None whatsoever.”

  She grinned. “You see? I could probably live this way for years, and none would be the
wiser.”

  He turned his head toward the fire, clearly still engaged in his private ruminations. She followed his line of sight, her gaze lighting on the cauldron; she wondered how soon they would eat.

  He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his eyes distant and unfocused. Whatever he contemplated with such absorption was lost on Corliss. Her stomach groused impatiently. “Master Fairfax?”

  His gaze darted to her, as if he’d forgotten she was there.

  “Are we going to eat?”

  “Yes, of course.” But he made no move to serve supper. Instead, he said, “I’d prefer if you called me Rainulf.”

  She smiled slowly, finding herself inordinately pleased by this. “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. There’s no need for formality between us. Especially if... that is, I was thinking...” He dragged both hands through his hair. “I was thinking, since you’ve no place to live, and you pass so well for a young man...”

  “Yes?”

  He took a deep breath. “It occurred to me you might want to live here. With me.”

  They stared at each other for a moment.

  “With you?” she said.

  “If you like. You’d be safer living with me than living alone—and not only from Sir Roger. Oxford is like any city—it’s teeming with brigands and cut-purses. Of course, you’d have to be careful. We both would. ‘Twould be scandalous if I were discovered to be living with a woman, but in your case, with your uncanny disguise... His gaze traveled over her rain-soaked mantle, and his expression darkened. “Oh, for pity’s sake. Come.”

  It was with a certain wariness that she followed him to the leather curtain, which he pushed aside enough for the two of them to pass through. The section of hall on the other side—smaller than the main hall—had been furnished as a bedchamber. Constance felt a prickle of foreboding and stood utterly still, taking in the huge bed—the largest she had ever seen, easily capable of accommodating an entire family. Its saffron damask curtains were tied back, revealing several layers of quilts and a mountainous tumble of pillows. She assumed it had a feather mattress.