Heaven's Fire

by Patricia Ryan

  She fairly jumped out of her seat. “Really?”

  “Really.” He nodded toward her work. “Are you finished there?”

  She shook her head. “I still have to do the angel’s halo.”

  He settled into his seat and crossed his long legs. “Then I’ll continue reading... unless it’s boring you.”

  “Nay,” she lied. “It’s fascinating.” It was Rainulf’s company she wanted, of course, and not more of Master Abelard’s treatise on himself. But she was quite happy to put up with one in exchange for the other. What enervated her wasn’t the dullness of the Historia Calamitatum, but the heat. Her tunic was stifling; sweat trickled between her bound breasts, making her squirm.

  Why suffer? she decided. If Rainulf can relax at home in just a shirt and chausses, so can I. Rising, she flung aside her belt and pulled the heavy wool garment over her head, then untied the neck of her shirt, reached in, and unwound the strip of linen from around her breasts. Rainulf stared, but said nothing.

  “Ah,” she breathed, taking her seat once more, “that’s better.” She picked up her tiny knife and proceeded to cut the angel’s smaller halo out of the sheet of gold leaf.

  Rainulf cleared his throat and read Abelard’s account of having contrived to live in Canon Fulbert’s home and tutor his niece, for whom he was “burning with desire.”

  “‘What more can I say? We were soon united, not just under the same roof, but in our hearts. Using her tutelage as an excuse to be together, we gave ourselves over to the expression of our love. Our lessons permitted us the privacy our love demanded, and over our open books, we spoke more of love than of our reading, and exchanged kisses more than we studied. My hands caressed her breasts more often than they turned the pages.’”

  Rainulf paused, frowning at the manuscript in his hand, his ears crimson.

  “Go on,” Corliss said. He licked his lips and continued reading as she softened the gesso with her hot breath and positioned the delicate gold leaf.

  “‘Our ardor left no manner of lovemaking untried, and we welcomed the most novel expressions of physical passion. We embraced these acts of love with great fervor, being all the more ravenous for our prior inexperience.’”

  He refolded the sheaf of parchment. “That’s enough for now. You’re not really interested in all this.”

  “Yes I am,” she said—quite truthfully this time. “Please go on.”

  Rainulf studied Corliss as she went back to burnishing the gold leaf. Was she just having a bit of fun at his expense by embarrassing him? His gaze was inexorably drawn to her shirtfront, open to midchest, revealing the ivory flesh between her breasts. Their perfect roundness was evident through the filmy linen... They were just the right size to fit in the palm of a hand.

  My hands caressed her breasts more often than they turned the pages, Abelard had written. Our ardor left no manner of lovemaking untried... If Héloïse’s charms had been comparable to those of Corliss, Rainulf could easily imagine the great man losing his head over her—and suffering mutilation and disgrace as a result.

  Rainulf sat back and rubbed his damp palms on his wool-encased thighs. Perhaps he’d been rash in proposing to tutor Corliss. It seemed suddenly unwise to think of their bending their heads together over the same book, hour after hour. Unwise, but... a most enchanting prospect nonetheless. He liked being with her. Whenever he came home from a lecture, he hoped she was here. When he saw her, his spirits lifted. When she smiled that dazzling smile of hers, they soared. Colors seemed more vivid when he was in her company; things that he touched felt different, more... there. Her very presence heightened his senses, made him more alive than he could ever remember having been. He craved her companionship as some men crave strong drink.

  “Well?” she said without looking up from her work.

  He found his place in the Historia Calamitatum and read on a bit to himself, finding no more descriptions of ardent lovemaking, at least for the next page or so. “‘The more these pleasures consumed me, the less attention I devoted to the study of philosophy and to my school...’”

  While Corliss labored over her miniature, Rainulf recounted the horror of the lovers’ discovery “in the act,” Canon Fulbert’s rage, the birth of their son, their secret marriage, and the canon’s revenge, carried out by some of his friends and relatives: “‘They cut off those parts of me with which I had committed the sins that had so infuriated them.’”

  Corliss sat motionless for a moment, holding the burnisher poised above the angel’s radiant halo. “Now when he says, ‘those parts of me with which...’”

  “They castrated him,” Rainulf said softly. “They bribed his servant to let them in during the night, and—”

  “My God.”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he asleep?”

  “Well... at first. But I imagine one could hardly sleep through... that.”

  “How many were there? In the group that attacked him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Was Abelard a large man?”

  “Aye. Tall and well built. Why do you ask?”

  She set the tool down and crossed her arms. “Well, it seems to me that, if he were awake, and if he were a man of some strength, and if his enemies were not too numerous—”

  “Then he could have defended himself?” Rainulf asked. “Fought off his attackers?”

  “Aye. From his position on the bed, he should have been able to kick one or two in the stomach, perhaps punch... Why are you shaking your head like that?”

  “How little you know of fighting, Corliss.”

  “I know enough.”

  “You know hardly anything,” he said grimly. “In point of fact, Abelard was outnumbered and caught by surprise. But even if it had been broad daylight, and a fair, one-on-one fight, I doubt he would have prevailed, regardless of his size. He was an academic, Corliss. A creature of the mind.”

  “He was also the eldest son of a knight of Brittany.”

  “Aye, but he renounced his birthright, and was never trained as a soldier. Without the proper training—or its equivalent in experience—one can’t hope to defend oneself physically against any but the weakest opponents. I saw too many wellborn, inexperienced men on Crusade. They all met early deaths.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  He hesitated, never eager to discuss this part of his past. “I knew how to fight,” he said tersely. “Even though I was a second son, and destined for the Church, my father insisted on training me. As a soldier is trained—to kill or be killed.” A memory surfaced in Rainulf’s mind—a hazy image of a small, towheaded child and the golden giant who had sired him, squaring off in a castle courtyard. The yard had been paved with slate, and his father hurled him onto it repeatedly and ruthlessly; he was often bruised head to toe during his youth.

  “And then,” he continued, “I got in plenty of practice at the University of Paris. There was always one scrape or another.”

  “You?” she asked incredulously. “Getting into scrapes? Over what?”

  Women, mostly. “This and that.” He held up the sheaf of parchment. “Shall I continue reading?”

  “Nay. I’m done here, and...” Color rose in her cheeks. “Would you be willing to... that is... I was wondering if you’d teach me how to fight.”

  He blinked at her. “You’re a woman.”

  “All the more reason I should know how to defend myself, wouldn’t you say?”

  He must have hesitated too long, because she shrugged and turned away, saying, “If you don’t want to, that’s all right. I don’t plan on courting danger.”

  “But you do court danger, Corliss. Every time you join in the crowd that gathers around Victor, or share a pint with one of his followers, you’re drawing unwanted attention to yourself.”

  “I just like to hear what they have to say. That doesn’t make me some kind of fanatical—”

  “It makes you appear so to those who don’t know you well. And then there’s that pe
ddler.”

  She groaned. “Rad is harmless. I’ve told you that a thousand times. He’s like a child.”

  “I don’t like the way he keeps coming around, hoping to find you here, even when he’s got nothing new to sell you. And the way he looks at you... There’s something in that look. He sees too much. Why do you encourage him?”

  She shrugged. “I like him. I feel a little sorry for him, too. Everyone treats him like some kind of animal. He only seeks me out because I’m nice to him.”

  “Look, Corliss, I try not to worry, but I do. I can’t help it.”

  “Well, don’t. Even if something happened, I really do think I’ll be able to take care of myself. I’ve decided I’m going to buy a dagger.”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “Ah, so it’s unladylike to carry a weapon, as well as to learn how to fight? This is beginning to sound like some grand scheme on the part of men to keep us as weak and helpless—”

  “It has nothing to do with your being a woman,” he said. “Have you ever handled a dagger?”

  She hesitated. “Nay, but—”

  “That takes practice, too. Do you know what would happen if you started waving one in front of an attacker? Chances are he’d take it away from you and use it on you.” He sighed in frustration. “It’d be safer if I taught you how to defend yourself with your fists and feet. Perhaps I should show you one or two moves.”

  “It really isn’t necessary,” she said, tidying up her desktop.

  He stood. “Nay, I insist.” She wouldn’t meet his gaze. He noticed she seemed to be trying not to smile. “Why, you little... How did you do that?”

  To what?” she asked disingenuously.

  “Turn things around so smoothly. Got me trying to talk you into it.”

  “Is that what I did?”

  He grabbed her arm and lifted her to her feet. “Come along before I change my mind. We can do this out back in the stable yard. All that clover will cushion your falls.”

  “And yours,” she added, grinning.

  * * *

  “All right, now you try it,” Rainulf said, lifting the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face. He wished it weren’t so damn hot. “Like I showed you.”

  Corliss nodded and fingered her sweat-soaked hair out of her eyes, then grabbed her own shirt by its hem and flapped it, fanning herself. She hadn’t an ounce of pretense, and he found that oddly fetching. Back before he’d taken his vows, his taste had run to women of refined and calculated beauty—women who painted their faces and laced their kirtles tight, who rubbed fragrant oils into their skin and bedecked themselves with jewels before a tryst. It used to excite him to think that a woman had taken pains to make herself alluring just for him.

  None of those women would ever have asked him to teach her how to fight, that’s for sure. So far this afternoon he’d shown her how to break a man’s fingers, nose, and kneecaps. She’d proven an eager pupil and a fast learner, and she was stronger than she looked. Still, it was clear she was tiring. He’d make this the last demonstration of the day.

  She turned her back to him and adopted a ready stance—feet spread, hands at her sides. “Go ahead.”

  He came at her from behind and wrapped his arms around her upper chest, tight.

  “Like this?” Corliss gasped, shoving her fists beneath his arms and pushing.

  “Does it seem like it’s doing any good?”

  She grunted with the strain of trying to dislodge his arms. “Nay.”

  He released her and turned her around by her shoulders. “That’s because you did it wrong. This is what I showed you.” He crossed his arms over his chest, slid them up, and flung them out wide. “That’ll work on any but the strongest opponent. Try again?”

  Breathless, she nodded and turned around. Again Rainulf locked his arms around her. This time she executed the maneuver perfectly, breaking his hold and wheeling around to face him, laughing delightedly.

  “Do your worst!” she challenged. “Come on. I can take you!”

  He smiled. “Ah, you’re invincible now, are you?” The prospect of grappling with Corliss was inviting—too inviting. The lesson—with its unavoidable physical contact—had been trying enough in its own way. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve and turned back toward the house. “Perhaps tomorrow. We’re both tired.”

  Cackling with glee, she charged him, nearly knocking him over as she grabbed his arms and hooked a leg around his. He struggled to keep his balance, but it was no use. Down they went, a tangle of arms and legs, landing in the white-flowering clover that blanketed the ground. Laughing breathlessly, she made a fist and aimed for his nose, stopping just short of smashing it. “I win!”

  “No you don’t,” he growled, seizing her wrist. “A man with a broken nose can still do this.” He pinned her hand to the side as he lowered his weight on her.

  She twisted frantically, pounding on his shoulder with her other hand. He grabbed it as well and held it down on the other side. “I win,” he rasped, pushing himself up on his elbows, but keeping a firm grip on those wrists; she was unpredictable. “You’re a quick study, but you have much to learn yet.”

  She nodded and closed her eyes, gulping air. Her hair stuck in damp curls around her face. Such an extraordinary face, he thought, taking advantage of this opportunity to gaze upon it at close range. She had the kind of translucent skin that showed so much underneath, if one only looked hard enough. Right now a flood of red burned beneath that sheer skin, the product of her exertions. Her lips, as well, seemed suffused with blood; they were dark as cherries.

  His gaze traveled down her throat, and lower. He stilled, his grip on her hands tightening, dimly aware of her eyes blinking open in confusion. Her struggles had twisted her shirt to the side. The neckline gapped open widely, revealing the left side of her chest. Aware now that she was watching him, but unable to control the direction of his gaze, he followed the creamy curve of the exposed breast to its tip. The nipple, small and rosy, became erect under his scrutiny.

  A powerful rush of arousal uncurled in his loins and strained at his chausses. He felt himself move without his willing it, as if his body had taken over and his mind were shutting down. His hips shifted, seeking the warm cradle of her thighs, their soft juncture—seeking relief from the pain of this sudden, shocking need. Like an animal, his natural urged clawed for dominance within him. With what little rational thought he still possessed, he fought the overwhelming urge to thrust against her.

  Chapter 8

  Astonished, Corliss felt the rigid male flesh press against her through the wool of their chausses. When he shifted, she followed suit, fitting her hips to his as naturally as if they were longtime lovers—all the while utterly amazed that this was happening, that she had the power to arouse him. She knew she shouldn’t want this, but she did, desperately. She had wanted it for weeks.

  Gazing up at him, she saw a raw hunger in his eyes. His face was flushed. That little vein on his forehead throbbed in time to the pulsing heat between her legs—his heat... and hers, too. It was a strange, liquid heat—a heat she’d never felt before, at least not to this degree. It was like an itch that needed scratching, that needed his touch, an itch that made her arch her hips, striving for closer contact.

  He squeezed his eyes closed, his body taut, his fingers digging painfully into her wrists. “Corliss,” he whispered harshly. Opening his eyes and meeting her gaze, he shook his head forlornly.

  He looked down at her open shirt, then released one of her wrists and slowly brought his hand to her uncovered breast. She thought her heart would explode through her chest as his palm hovered over her bare flesh. His jaw clenched, and then he took hold of a handful of her shirt and drew it back across her chest, concealing her once again from his view.

  Raising himself off her, he stood and dragged his fingers through his hair. She sat up and retied her shirt with trembling hands, then examined her wrists, reddened and swollen.

>   Squatting down, he took her hands in his, frowning at the red marks. “Damn.” He shook his head and looked away, then froze, his eyes narrowed in the direction of the stable.

  Corliss felt the sudden tension that surged through him. “What is it?”

  “Someone was there,” he said tightly. “Just now. Watching us.”

  “Rainulf, no one was—”

  “Go inside.” He sprang to his feet and strode across the yard toward the stable.

  “Rainulf!” she yelled. “There’s no one—”

  “Go!” he yelled over his shoulder as he broke into a sprint and took off.

  * * *

  Rainulf raced through the neighboring yard, arms and legs pumping, scanning the area for the intruder. There—a dark figure, vanishing into a narrow alley between two houses. “Stop!”

  He turned in to the alley and tripped over something, falling face-first onto the hard-packed earth. As he scrambled to his feet, he glanced back at the big satchel he’d stumbled over, from which dozens of assorted knives had spilled out.

  Rad. “You bastard!” he yelled as he tore off down the alley in pursuit of the peddler. “Come back here!”

  He darted across Kibald Street, right in front of a cart loaded with wine barrels. “Whoa!” screamed the carter, and he yanked on the reins. The two horses squealed and bucked as Rainulf hurriedly sidestepped them. A barrel rolled onto the road and crashed open, spraying its crimson contents in every direction. “Come back here!” the carter bellowed. “You’ve got to pay for this!”

  A shadowy figure disappeared around the corner, and Rainulf followed it. Grope Lane was more populated than Kibald today, but Rainulf easily picked out Rad’s ponderous form, glancing back over his shoulder as he ran with surprising speed. Rainulf, however, had always been fast on his feet, and he easily overtook the peddler, grabbing him by his cape and spinning him around roughly.