Heaven's Fire

by Patricia Ryan

  Luella sighed heavily. “All right,” she growled, leaving and closing the leather curtain behind her. “But make it quick!”

  With more speed than she knew she was capable of, Corliss shimmied the chausses up over her small hips and tied the waist-cord, then tugged on her boots. She wrapped her breasts in a length of linen to compress them, then donned her shirt and tunic, just as Luella flung the curtain aside and stomped toward the bed.

  “There’s some wine and bread out there if you want,” the old woman said as she briskly straightened the bedcovers.

  “Thank you. Is Rain—er, Master Fairfax... is he—”

  “Father’s been downstairs all morning, talking his ungodly gibble-gabble with all them so-called students of his.”

  “All morning?” asked Corliss, appalled. She had never slept so late in her life, except when she had the pox. “How late is it?”

  Luella grunted. “Too late for a healthy young man to be lying abed, that’s for sure. Father’ll be wondering how come you’re not down in the lecture hall with the rest of them.”

  “I’m not a scholar,” Corliss admitted. “I’m looking for work.”

  “Glad to hear it! They’re like packs of begging dogs, those scholars. Half of them’ll be up here looking for a handout afterward. Master Thomas and Master Brad will, at any rate. Idle young good-for-nothing...”

  “Why do you still call him ‘Father’?” Corliss asked. “He’s not a priest anymore.”

  “Hmph!” Luella punched the pillows up, one by one, and piled them against the headboard. “You can’t undo something like that just by wishing it so. Once a priest, always a priest. The idea... thinking he can just wake up one day and...”

  Corliss stole out through the leather curtain while Luella griped and muttered. On the table in front of the fireplace she found a pitcher of watered wine, a loaf of crusty bread, and a wedge of cheese. She ate quickly feeling all the while like an impostor—which, in fact, she was. If Luella—or anyone else—knew her true sex, Rainulf Fairfax would be ruined.

  Voices from downstairs drew her to the corner stairwell. She strained to hear the words from below, but couldn’t make them out, so she descended on silent, soft-soled feet to the bottom of the circular stairs.

  The lower level, like the upper, was all one huge room. The windows downstairs were smaller and higher than those upstairs, and there was no fireplace; otherwise the two halls were much the same. Corliss had thought Rainulf’s living quarters austere, but his lecture hall was even more bare, containing but one piece of furniture—the lectern at the far end of the hall, at which Rainulf stood. The several dozen students crowded around him sat in the straw on the floor.

  “And therefore,” Rainulf was saying in Latin, “it falls to nominalism to apply the test of reason to the mysteries of the faith, including that of the Trinity.” The magister noticed Corliss, and his demeanor changed, ever so subtly. He stood a bit straighter, seemed slightly more alert, more there. “Corliss.”

  Every head turned and stared at her; she backed up into the stairwell.

  “Don’t go away,” Rainulf said, stepping out from behind the lectern. “We’re done here.” To his audience he said, in French, “Those who are interested may hear more on this subject tomorrow morning. And tonight at St. Mary’s, we’ll debate the relationship between logic, physic, and metaphysic.”

  His audience stood around and chatted for a few minutes as they swatted the straw from their black robes. Rainulf strode through the milling crowd and came straight to Corliss, with Thomas and Brad tagging behind. “A pity you missed the lecture. I think you would have enjoyed it.”

  Corliss gave a sheepish little laugh. “Do you think I would have understood it?”

  He leaned down to whisper in her ear, “Better than most of these fellows.” His breath was warm on her ear; little shivers of pleasure skittered through her body.

  I’m such a fool. If Rainulf knew how she reacted to his touch, he’d surely laugh, unmoved as he was by the charms of her sex.

  “What are your plans for the day?” Thomas asked her.

  “Another visit to Catte Street,” she said. “Late yesterday, someone told me about a widow named Enid Clark who’s got a copying shop. They say she’s looking for illuminators for a big job.”

  “Brad and I are going in that direction,” Thomas said. “We’ll walk with you as far as St. Mary’s.”

  She was about to say yes, but Rainulf’s furrowed brow stilled her tongue. “I’ll accompany Corliss,” he told the boys. “Why don’t you two go upstairs and have some breakfast?”

  Thomas and Brad eagerly took him up on the offer. Corliss emptied her satchel of everything except her Biblia Pauperum, slipped the little reliquary into her belt pouch—for luck—and set out with Rainulf for Catte Street. The weather had cleared up overnight, but the roads were narrow avenues of mud—until they came to High Street, which was more of a grand, wide avenue of mud, teeming with people. Many of them—not just academics, but townspeople!—waved to Rainulf, and he waved back, often greeting them by name. Everyone in Oxford seemed to know and like the handsome Magister Scholarum.

  Corliss loved the controlled pandemonium of Oxford, so different from Cuxham’s unchanging sameness. There was an atmosphere of lively expectation here, a sense that anything was possible—that one could unravel the mysteries of the universe if only one applied one’s mind to the task. The very air here crackled with intellectual curiosity; it buzzed all around her, infusing her with its fervor, making the blood run swifter in her veins.

  To the west, rising above the overhanging shops and town houses, loomed the great square tower of Oxford Castle, the city’s most prominent landmark. In that direction also stood dozens of market stalls, many clustered around St. Martin’s Church, where the townspeople worshipped. During the week she’d spent in Oxford, Corliss had seen how the city’s residents avoided the scholars. From all appearances, they despised them, despite the outrageous profit they made from renting them their rooms and selling them their food and drink. This antagonism struck her as odd and foolish. The scholars, after all, were what made Oxford so special; the merchants should welcome them with open arms, not overcharge them and treat them with contempt.

  Corliss was not so lost in her own thoughts that she didn’t notice Rainulf’s pensive silence. He’d been out of sorts ever since they’d left the house. “Why didn’t you want Thomas and Brad to come with me?” she asked as they crossed High Street.

  Rainulf tossed a coin into the cap of a mendicant scholar begging outside St. Mary’s. “I’m afraid to let them—or anyone—spend too much time with you.”

  “You’re afraid I’ll be found out,” she guessed. “That I’ll give myself away somehow.”

  At the corner of Catte Street he paused, frowning down at her. “It’s exhausting to have to hide one’s true nature for any length of time, Corliss. Believe me, I know. One day you may slip. You may say something, do something... and you will be found out. You must take no chances—none. ‘Twould be disastrous for me.”

  “For me as well,” she pointed out, sounding more petulant than she would have liked. “I only adopted this disguise to protect myself. If it fails, I’m at Roger Foliot’s mercy.”

  “Aye, and from all I hear, he doesn’t know the meaning of the word. Do be careful,” he cautioned, briefly laying a hand on her arm.

  Her heart quickened at his touch. Fool! she chided herself. “I will.”

  They turned the corner and began walking north along Catte Street. “A few years ago, none of this was here,” Rainulf said, indicating the businesses lining the street—parchmenters, writers, scribes, binders, and booksellers—with a generous sweep of his hand. “All the books came from the monasteries. Now most of them—most that are used in Oxford, at any rate— are made on Catte Street. There’s a similar district in Paris...”

  Rainulf continued on in this manner as they walked, describing the rise of the great centers of learning and t
he corresponding demand for books: textbooks and sacred books; books of theology, philosophy, logic, and astronomy; tales of ancient battles and tragic romances; law books from Bologna, medical books from Salerno; books by so-called pagans and infidels, banned for centuries in Paris, but displayed proudly and openly in the bookshops of Oxford’s Catte Street.

  He’d slipped into the role of teacher, Corliss realized. It was so natural to him that he didn’t even seem aware of it, seemed hardly to notice that he wasn’t making conversation, but presenting a lecture. His eyes glittered as he delivered his discourse; his whole countenance seemed to glow with an inner light. She smiled sadly to herself. Teaching was in his blood; it was fundamental to who he was. How could he think of giving it up?

  The used-book shops seemed irresistible to Rainulf, and he insisted on visiting nearly every one. The proprietors all knew him, and would lead him to whatever volumes they’d managed to acquire since his last visit—all either locked in cages or tethered by chains to heavy reading tables. He made two purchases: a fairly new copy of The Antidotarium by someone called Nicholas of Salerno, for which he paid the staggering sum of sixty shillings; and a rather shabbier Ars Medicinae by one Constantinus Africanus, which cost half as much.

  “They’re for my sister, Martine,” he explained. “She’s interested in the medicinal uses of herbs. I’ll be visiting her and Thorne soon. She’s expecting their first child, and I promised I’d try to get to Blackburn before the birth. I’ve only seen her once, briefly, since I returned from pilgrimage. We’re due for a long visit together.”

  Corliss didn’t ask how soon he’d leave, or how long he’d be gone, although the questions rose to her lips. Nor did she ask if she could remain at the big house on St. John Street during his absence. She had no claim of any kind on Rainulf Fairfax or his home, and she’d best get used to that fact.

  “There it is,” she said, pointing to a large, two-story shop with the legend E. CLARK, SCRIPTORIS painted in graceful red lettering over the open door. To one side of it was nailed a thick parchment poster displaying specimens of eight different scripts, all flawlessly penned.

  Rainulf indicated that she should precede him into the shop. Swallowing hard, she dusted off her tunic and walked inside. At sloped writing desks next to the windows sat two young men and a girl, hunched over their parchment. Each had a penknife in one hand and a quill in the other, with which they were industriously copying the text from books propped open with lead weights. All three looked up at her as she entered. The youths nodded in a preoccupied way and returned to their work, but the girl—a fragile honey blonde of perhaps fourteen—stared at Corliss, her quill poised in the inkhorn. Corliss smiled at her, whereupon her cheeks stained scarlet. She looked down momentarily, then shyly returned the smile and looked down again.

  “Felice!” barked a woman from the back of the shop.

  The girl started and jerked the pen out of the horn, spattering her half-finished page with ink. Groaning, she slumped in her seat. “Sorry, Mama. I think it’s ruined.”

  Her mother sighed. “Try to scrape it off. That took you all morning to do. May I help you, gentlemen?” Her gaze lit on Rainulf. “Ah, it’s the Master of Schools himself. What can I do for you, sir?”

  “You can spare a few moments of your time for my friend, mistress.” Guiding Corliss with a gentle hand on her back, Rainulf urged her toward the woman, who wore the wimple and veil of a respectable widow; beneath it peeked out hair like polished bronze. The vivid green of her kirtle emphasized her emerald eyes; she was an older version of her daughter. Like the others, she was busily reproducing an exemplar held open on her large and elaborate desk.

  Taking a deep breath, Corliss said, “Are you Mistress Clark?”

  “I am.”

  Corliss took her Biblia Pauperum out of the satchel. Enid Clark laid down her pen and knife and held her hand out. Corliss hesitated, noticing the woman’s ink-stained fingers.

  “It’s dry,” Mistress Clark assured her as she took the book out of Corliss’s hands. Her eyebrows rose when she opened it and began reading. “English?” She studied it carefully, taking her time and peering closely at every intricate illustration.

  She glanced up at Corliss. “I’ll give you a hundred shillings for it.”

  “What?”

  “A hundred twenty, then.” Closing the volume and running her fingers over the embroidered cover, she said, “I don’t usually trade in used books, mind you, but I’ll make an exception for this one.” Her soft smile rendered her much less intimidating in Corliss’s eyes.

  “Mistress, I really couldn’t—”

  “She couldn’t take less than eight pounds sterling for it,” Rainulf interjected.

  Corliss gasped; he closed a hand over her shoulder and squeezed sharply, but she refused to be silenced—or to have him negotiate for her, as if she couldn’t manage her own affairs. “Thank you, Mistress Clark, but I have no intention of—”

  “Seven and a half,” the lady scribe countered.

  Rainulf shook his head. “Seven and—”

  “Stop!” The two hagglers fell silent. “Thank you, but I can’t sell it. I can’t. It’s...” She shook her head; words were inadequate. When she reached for the book, Enid Clark met her gaze with a look of understanding and placed it carefully in her hands. Corliss returned it to her satchel.

  “It’s special,” the woman said quietly. “Yes. It is, indeed. I envy you your ownership of it. Where did you acquire it?”

  The question made Corliss laugh. “I made it!”

  The scribe stared at her. “You mean you copied the text yourself? What exemplar did you use?”

  “I wrote it myself, and illuminated it, too.”

  “Who bound it?”

  “I did.”

  Mistress Clark grinned and shook her head. “Did you slaughter the sheep and make the parchment, too?”

  “Nay, but I know how.”

  “I have no doubt that you do. It seems you’re a young man of many and diverse talents. What brings you to my shop today?”

  Rainulf stepped forward. “My friend is looking for work as an illuminator.”

  Corliss grabbed his arm and drew him back. “Your friend has a tongue,” she whispered—too loudly, for Mistress Clark heard and chuckled. “They tell me you need illuminators,” Corliss said.

  Mistress Clark nodded. “A very important client has commissioned a rather ambitious project—all the books of the Bible in one volume. Everything... Psalms” —she indicated the exemplar on her desk, a monastic psalter— “gospels, minor prophets... What normally fills twenty or more volumes will all be bound into one huge book.”

  Rainulf let out a low whistle. “Is that possible?”

  Mistress Clark shrugged. “We’ll find out. We’re using the finest uterine parchment, so thin you can see through it.” She held out the sheet she was working on for Corliss to touch; it was soft as Sicilian wool, and nearly transparent. “If it can be done, we’ll do it. But I’ll have to hire on extra copyists, and I can use all the illuminators I can get”—she fixed her gaze on Corliss—”but they have to be good.”

  “I’m good,” Corliss stated flatly.

  Mistress Clark smiled, clearly pleased at the lack of false modesty. “You’re more than good. But I need someone who can apply gold. I noticed there’s none in that Biblia Pauperum of yours.”

  “Only because it’s so dear. I know how to use it.”

  “Leaf or dust?”

  “Both.”

  The older woman nodded slowly. “Do you have someplace to work? I’ll provide you with your supplies, but I’ll have no room here after I hire the new copyists.”

  “I...”

  “Aye,” Rainulf inserted. “Sh— He has everything he needs at home.”

  At home. Corliss liked the sound of that, as if his home—his wonderful home with its grand, soft bed—were really hers.

  “All right, then,” said Mistress Clark. “I pay four-pence each for
a large gold initial. The small ones are three for a penny. Paragraph marks are ten for a penny. You’ll get a shilling for every full-page illumination, sixpence for half a page. I’ll expect you to work quickly.”

  Rising, she gestured for Corliss to follow her to a large table in a back room, on which were stacked dozens of signatures ready for illuminating. The gatherings of double pages were fully lettered but unsewn, and numbered so that they could eventually be bound in the proper order. “The scribes have left spaces for the illustrations, and they’ve written margin notes as to what should go into them.” She slipped a signature into a leather sheath and gave it to Corliss, who stowed it in her satchel. Mistress Clark then handed her a slim book from a stack of identical volumes. “Copy the artwork from this pattern book.”

  “Oh.” Corliss leafed dejectedly through the book, which contained decorative capitals in ascending sizes, as well as sample illustrations: angels, stars, birds, rabbits, stags, herons. In the back were pictures of various mythical beings: unicorns, lions, monkeys, and assorted grotesques. “I thought...” Corliss began.

  “Yes?”

  “I thought I could make up the pictures myself.” That sounded like whining, she realized, so she opted for a different approach: “Such an important book ought to have original pictures, don’t you think? I’m an excellent draftsman.”

  “You are that.” Mistress Clark looked thoughtful for a moment. “Very well. You may do as you wish with that signature. But if I’m not pleased when you bring it back, you’ll have to recopy the whole thing for free, and reimburse me eightpence for the parchment.”

  Corliss grinned and handed back the pattern book. “Thank you, mistress. And you will be pleased—I guarantee it!”

  Rainulf said, “How long do you think it will take to complete this Bible?”

  “Probably around four months,” the scribe answered as she gathered together the various pigments Corliss would need for her work: black and red inks, vermilion, lead white, yellow volcanic earth, green malachite, even a tiny pot of precious lapis lazuli, known as ultramarine, and gold leaf. “It could take as long as half a year, perhaps longer. And it’s all we’ll be working on. Of course, Master Becket’s making it worth our while. We’re getting forty pounds for it.”