Heaven's Fire

by Patricia Ryan

  “It came with the house,” Rainulf said, noticing the direction of her gaze. “I always felt it was just too big, too...” He spread his hands and made a small, wry smile. “Perhaps you’ll like it better.”

  Her mind instantly conjured up a picture of Father Osred, standing in his bedchamber dressed in nothing more than his shirt. I don’t imagine you’ve ever lain on a feather mattress... Did all priests sleep in such luxury? she wondered. You can hang your things up here... Did all of them keep mistresses?

  Of course, Rainulf Fairfax was no longer a priest, she reminded herself. Even if he had been chaste before renouncing his vows, there would be no need for chastity now.

  “Here.” He reached for her, and she flinched. His eyes met hers, and he smiled reassuringly. “Did I startle you? I just wanted to help you off with this.” She watched his face as he unfastened her mantle, studied the concentration in his eyes as he worked on the complicated clasp; noticed the little vein on his forehead, pulsing through the smooth, golden skin. He smelled of rain and wet wool and clean male. Heat from his hands warmed her throat, and she swallowed hard, striving to keep her breathing steady.

  Rainulf swept the mantle off her shoulders and draped it on a hook, then removed his drenched cappa and hung it up, as well. He unbuckled his belt and tossed it onto a finely carved chest, then pulled his damp tunic off over his head, leaving himself in shirt and braies. Turning his back to her, he squatted down, rolled up the loose trousers, and began unwrapping the long linen strips that bound his woolen hose. “You can put your boots in the corner there, and hang your other things on the wall.”

  Motionless, Corliss watched the muscles of his back and shoulders strain and flex beneath the linen of his shirt as he undid his hose. The sight was strangely captivating. She wondered what it would be like to share a bed with a man like Rainulf Fairfax; surely, were she to remain here, she would soon find out. The prospect was both compelling and disconcerting.

  Most disconcerting.

  Don’t let yourself be tempted by his comeliness and his appealing ways, she warned herself. ‘Twill be but more of the same. You’ll be naught but a whore again, bartering your body for protection. You’ll never know freedom.

  Would he let her go willingly, if she refused him? On the one hand, he was a good man; she knew that unequivocally. On the other, all men were beasts when aroused, and ruthless with women they believed to have led them on; Ella, very wise about such matters, had assured her of this many times. Corliss had no reason to doubt her, her own experience being limited to Sully and Osred, old men with waning sexual appetites. Rainulf Fairfax was not old, and he was a man of great strength. If he was determined to have his way with her, she’d be powerless to stop him.

  Holding her breath, she backed up slowly, taking care to step cautiously in the rushes, so as not to draw his attention. Once past the leather curtain, she made a quick dash for her satchel, then darted into the stairwell, bounding down the steps in a blur.

  Rainulf heard the pounding footsteps in the stairway and whipped his head around. “Corliss?” He rose and, frozen in bewilderment, listened to the sound of booted feet racing down the stairs, the dull thud of the front door slamming. “What the devil...?”

  In his mind he re-created the events of the last few minutes, searching for some reason for her sudden flight. Surveying the bedchamber, his gaze lit on the big, ridiculous bed, in which he had never once slept... his belt dangling off the edge of the chest... his discarded tunic and cappa, hung up next to her mantle—the mantle she hadn’t even bothered to put back on before she fled out into the rainy night. He looked down at the woolen hose in his hand, then groaned, awareness dawning on him.

  You fool, Rainulf Fairfax. Aye, she had fled. From him!

  “Damn!” Flinging the hose aside, he sprinted to the stairwell, descended the steps three at a time, and ran out into the middle of St. John Street. The rain had died down to a drizzle, but it was chilly out—and dark as Hades, save for the occasional patch of light from a town house window. He spun around, peering through the gloom, his bare feet slipping on the muddy surface of the road. There she was—a small, receding figure running west toward the center of town.

  “Corliss!” he shouted, but she didn’t pause or turn around. Perhaps she hadn’t even heard him.

  With a muttered curse, he darted after her, mud spraying in his wake, his shirt and braies clinging wetly to him. With his lengthy strides, he swiftly gained on her. “Stop!” he called out when he knew she was within hearing distance, but this only encouraged her to pick up her pace.

  At the corner of Shidyerd Street, he overtook her, grabbing on to her tunic as he battled to maintain his footing on the treacherous roadbed. It didn’t work; his feet slid out from under him and he fell heavily, pinning her beneath him.

  “Be still!” he demanded, as she struggled violently, thrashing to and fro and demanding to be let go. They grappled briefly in the rain and the mud, she lashing out with her fists and feet, he striving to subdue her without hurting her. Finally he seized her hands and pinned them next to her head. “Stop this! I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to talk to you.”

  “You want more than that,” she spat out, her expression fierce through the mud spattered on her face. “But I assure you, Master Fairfax, I’ve had quite enough of playing the willing whore.”

  She writhed and strained to free her hands from his grip; he tightened it. She brought one knee up sharply, but he moved aside to avoid it, then readjusted his weight so that his body pressed hers down, immobilizing her. Through his thin, sodden shirt he felt the rapid rise and fall of her chest, and fancied he could sense the birdlike racing of her heart, despite her heavy tunic.

  “Corliss, listen to me!”

  “If I’d been willing to trade my body for protection again, I’d have said yes to John Tanner. He wanted to marry me! All you want—”

  “Is to help you.”

  “Hah!”

  Rainulf drew in a deep lungful of air and let it out slowly, willing composure on himself. As soothingly as he could, he said, “I know what you thought, back there. I know how it looked... I’m... unused to dealing with women, or I wouldn’t have been so...” He shook his head helplessly, noting that she had grown still and alert. The rain had ceased while they were wrestling. A great silence descended over them, punctuated only by their ragged breathing.

  “I was a fool,” he continued quietly. She looked him in the eye as he spoke, the subtleties of her expression impossible to decipher in the dark. “It’s been eleven years since I’ve had a woman in my home, Corliss. For eleven years I’ve been... well, a priest. And fully observant of my vows.”

  There was a pause while she digested this. Her head moved in a small nod, but then her eyes, wide and watchful, narrowed slightly. “Aye, but you’re no longer a priest. I thought, when you began to undress... I thought...”

  “Well, I didn’t think. That was the problem. I’m at fault here.” He sighed and shook his head, then loosened his hands from her wrists experimentally. When she didn’t renew her struggles, he released her, supporting himself with his arms braced on either side of her head.

  “Truly,” he said, with all the conviction he could muster, “all I wanted was to get out of my wet tunic... and I thought you might want the same. Perhaps it’s because you pass so well for a boy that I didn’t consider... how it would all look to you. That you would think I was trying to... well... His ears grew warm.

  “Seduce me,” she provided, a little spark of amusement lighting her eyes.

  “Rest assured, I have no such plans,” he said firmly.

  Perhaps a little too firmly, for he detected just the briefest flicker of hurt in Corliss’s expression before she marshaled her features and said, “That’s very reassuring. Now, may I please sit up?”

  He eased off her and rose, offering her his hand. She accepted it with a neutral expression and allowed him to help her to her feet.

  “I didn
’t mean that the way it sounded,” he assured her. “It’s not that I’m not... that I don’t find you...” He raked the fingers of both hands through his hair before realizing that they were covered with mud. Corliss looked up at him and giggled; Rainulf smiled, thinking he had never heard a lighter, more melodious sound. “In truth,” he began sincerely, “you’re a very attractive...” He inspected her from head to foot, grinning to find her more mud-covered than not. “That is, usually a most attractive...”

  Laughter bubbled up from her. He laughed as well, marveling in the feel of it as it shook his chest, the sound of it, blending with hers.

  He reached out and tried to wipe the mud off her face with his fingers, but that only made it worse.

  “Do you have a bathtub in that wonderful big house of yours?” she asked.

  “I do indeed. Would you like to go first?”

  “You can. I’d rather eat first.”

  “It’ll be cooked to the bottom of the pot by now.”

  “I’ll eat it anyway,” she said.

  “As you wish.” With a light hand on her arm, he turned her around and guided her back in the direction from which they had come.

  * * *

  The man called Pigot watched from a narrow, unlit alley as the ex-priest and the dark-haired youth walked back up St. John Street and disappeared into the enormous house.

  So... the Magister Scholarum of Oxford likes boys. Then why, Pigot wondered, had he appeared so grief-stricken at the grave of the old rector’s young mistress? Perhaps he was one of those whose passions encompassed both sexes.

  Even so, he mused, a man like Rainulf Fairfax could do better than a whore like Constance of Cuxham. And not just a whore, but a tricky one—devious, deceitful, cunning. How well he knew her kind. He could teach her a lesson or two, he and his steel.

  But first he had to find her. His instincts told him to keep a close watch on Master Rainulf Fairfax, because sooner or later, she would come to him...

  And Pigot’s instincts had never failed him yet.

  Chapter 5

  Corliss woke up slowly, surrounded by softness.

  I’m in a cloud, she thought dreamily, her eyes still closed. I’m in Heaven.

  Heaven smelled lovely, like fresh laundry hung out to dry in fragrant breezes. It sounded like the giggly, careless chattering of birds. And it glowed with a rapturous golden light that she could see even through her closed eyelids, a light that surrounded her, soothed her, warmed her...

  If I open my eyes, ‘twill all be gone. For long, peaceful moments she lay motionless, cocooned in her golden paradise. Gradually a sense of wakefulness—of reality—stole upon her, yet the birds still laughed and sang, the light still glowed.

  “Ah,” she breathed, remembering where she was.

  Opening her eyes, she saw morning sunlight sifting through the saffron damask of the drawn bed curtains, illuminating the space they enclosed—as sizable as a small room—with extraordinary yellow light. This is my bed now, she thought with an awestruck grin. My bed! Mine alone! She yawned and stretched like a contented cat, then lay still, remembering last night, after she had fled and Master Fairfax—Rainulf—had brought her back.

  The first thing he’d done—thank a merciful God!— had been to cut her a thick slice of bread and heap it high with fish stew. While she ate her fill, much too quickly, he set up a wooden tub in front of the fireplace and put a pot of water on to boil. They took turns bathing, shielded from each other’s view by a portable screen, then sat at the table and talked well into the night.

  They talked about her plans to find work as an illuminator. Rainulf told her everything he knew about Catte Street, where most of Oxford’s books were produced. They talked about this small walled city and the changes it was undergoing, with the recent influx of scholars and masters. They talked about teaching, and how troubling it had become for Rainulf; about the chancellorship he so desperately wanted, and the necessity for his remaining celibate in order to secure it.

  So you see, Corliss, he had reassured her, you’re perfectly safe with me. I would never jeopardize this opportunity by making you my... trying to make you my...

  Mistress?

  He’d looked away quickly, nodding. Not even in secret. Discretion is pointless. The truth is very stubborn, and people always discover it. I’ve seen more than one churchman stripped of his position—ruined—over a woman. ‘Twill never happen to me.

  His vague discomfort had both amused and intrigued her. How, she wondered, could a man like Rainulf Fairfax have gone eleven years without succumbing to the temptations of the flesh? She pictured him in her mind—his impressive stature, his lean and muscular body, his fair-haired good looks, and those gentle and perceptive eyes the color of a stormy lake. Surely there had been women during those eleven years who’d tried to coax him into violating his vow of chastity. Yet, if she was to believe him—and she did—he had never done so.

  Eleven years... She snuggled deeper into the downy mattress and pulled the sweet-smelling covers up to her chin, reveling in the finely woven linen, smooth as silk. ‘Tis a frightfully long time for a man to go without sex. It would be no hardship for her, of course, the act being more a matter of duty than pleasure for women; but men seemed to need a good tupping on a fairly regular basis, or they got cranky. Perhaps, despite his seeming virility, Rainulf Fairfax didn’t care for women—that way. Perhaps, like some priests she’d heard of, he preferred men and boys to the fairer sex.

  Corliss squinted up at the expanse of yellowish damask overhead and contemplated that possibility. On the one hand, Rainulf had called her “attractive.” And last night, after they’d bathed, when she’d sat across from him wearing naught but his own thin linen wrapper, his gaze had more than once strayed downward toward her breasts. Mayhap, she thought sourly, he was simply astounded that a grown woman should have so little where others boasted so much. It would be the height of conceit to think he’d find her most unappealing feature alluring.

  The more she thought about it, the more likely it seemed that the handsome, engaging magister reserved his affections for those of his own sex. A pity...

  Or perhaps not. The last thing you should want, she reminded herself, is for Rainulf Fairfax to lust after you. If he did—really did—could she resist him? And then what would happen to her precious freedom?

  She closed her eyes and saw him as he had been that night in the rectory, after he’d built the great fire that was supposed to cure her of the yellow plague. Superstitious nonsense, of course; it was the hair of St. Nicaise that had cured her, not some absurd heathen sweating treatment. Yet it moved her deeply that he had gone to all that trouble for her. And he had looked so... untamed... when she’d awakened and found him next to her, bare-chested and sweating, his face flushed from the heat. He’d looked as if he’d just lain with a woman... and enjoyed it.

  At least, that’s what she’d thought at the time. Now that she knew of his many years of celibacy, and his seemingly untroubled decision to remain chaste, she doubted that he had ever been with a woman; she doubted, moreover, that he had ever wanted to. This knowledge brought her some measure of relief, for she knew now that she could live here without fearing for her... virtue?

  A little late to try and salvage that! Crawling to the edge of the enormous bed, she swept aside the curtains, startling a handful of little brown house sparrows gossiping on the sill of an open window—the source of all that merry chirping. They scolded her irately as they fluttered away, leaving the sun-flooded chamber completely silent. She sat on the edge of the bed for a minute, thinking, I live here now! This big bed, it’s all mine! She could scarcely believe her ears last night when Rainulf had given it to her—given her the whole bedchamber! But where will you sleep? she had asked. Where I’ve always slept—on a straw pallet in front of the fireplace. How odd, she’d thought, that he would eschew such delicious luxury for a straw pallet; but how lucky for her!

  Crossing to the open window to breathe in
the cool air, she gazed down at the rooftops of Oxford—many, like that over her head, covered with handsome oak shingles. There were even a few, over in the Jews’ quarter, made of lovely, rust-colored curved tiles, and one that looked like it might be slate! I’m a long way from Cuxham. She closed the shutters. Even the grandest dwelling in the village of her birth—Sir Roger’s manor house—was roofed with humble thatch.

  Grateful to find water in the pitcher on the washstand, Corliss scrubbed her face. Then she used the chamber pot; there was a privy in the stable yard, but she didn’t want to venture outside in the daylight wearing just the nightshirt Rainulf had lent her. She rummaged in her satchel for her big whalebone comb and quickly tidied her hair. How wonderful not to have to plait it into those tedious braids, she thought as she stowed away the comb. She pulled the nightshirt off over her head, then retrieved a fresh shirt and chausses.

  The leather curtain that separated her bedchamber from the main hall began to part. “Someone in there?”

  Luella! Clutching her clothes to her bare breasts, Corliss jumped onto the bed and yanked the curtains shut. “Uh...” She cleared her throat and consciously lowered her voice. “It’s Corliss.”

  A slight pause. “Who? Show your face!”

  Corliss poked her head out from between the curtains and forced herself to smile at the scowling housekeeper, who held her broom with both hands, as if ready to swing. “Corliss. From last night?”

  “Oh. You.” Luella lowered the broom. “Father let you sleep there?” She grunted and shook her head. “Figures. Come on out of there, then, and let me make up that bed.”

  Corliss shrank back and pulled the curtains closed, then began furiously wriggling into her chausses. “I... I’m not dressed.”

  Luella snorted with amusement. “I raised seven sons of my own, young man. You haven’t got anything that’d shock me.”

  I wouldn’t be too sure about that, thought Corliss, with a glance down at her half-naked body. “Please, Luella. Leave me and I’ll dress quickly and then you can do whatever you need to.”