Heaven's Fire

by Patricia Ryan

  Rad ducked and crossed his arms in front of his face. “D-don’t hur-hur-hurt—”

  “Why were you watching us?”

  “D-don’t...”

  Rainulf shook him hard. “Talk! What were you doing sneaking around behind my house?”

  Rad just shook his head, cowering. Passersby stared openly. Growling a curse, Rainulf dragged Rad into the recessed entryway of a poulterer’s shop and slammed him against the door. “Tell me why you were spying on us.”

  “I... I m-meant no h-h-h-harm.”

  Rainulf made a fist. “Tell me!”

  The peddler’s grotesque face took on an abject expression. “I th-thought you might h-hurt her.”

  “Her.”

  “Cor-Corliss.”

  Her. “Oh, shit.” Rainulf lowered his fist, recalling the sight of Corliss, her shirt askew, one breast exposed. Any doubts Rad might have harbored as to her true sex would have been laid to rest that afternoon. “You were trying to protect her?” Rad nodded. “From me?” He nodded again. “I wasn’t hurting her. I was trying to teach her how to defend herself.”

  Rad nodded. Even when Rainulf stepped back, he continued to press himself against the door, twitching nervously. The magister studied the peddler for a minute, and then said, “Did you suspect she was a woman before today?”

  Rad shook his head, and Rainulf relaxed a bit, grateful it wasn’t that obvious—until Rad said, “I knew.”

  “You knew? Since when?”

  “A-always. E-e-even before I s-saw her face, I saw her light. And I knew.”

  “Her light?”

  Rad nodded. “‘T-twas silver. A w-woman’s light. A-all around her, b-bright as anything and sh-shimmering in waves. S-silver.”

  “I see.” He did. The hulking, disfigured peddler was mad. Had he been merely dull-witted, he’d be no threat, for Rainulf believed him when he claimed to be watching after Corliss, to whom he seemed to have taken a fancy of sorts. But this talk of a shimmering silver light boded ill.

  Rainulf knew more than he cared to of madmen. Of the many prisoners chained into that fetid hole in the Levant, only he and Thorne had retained their senses. The rest howled, wept, laughed endlessly... and attacked one another at regular intervals, for no reason other than that their minds had snapped. Violence was part and parcel of who they were; seven of his cellmates had died at the hands of fellow prisoners.

  “C-c-can I go?” Rad asked.

  Whether this pathetic creature meant to or not, he could easily end up doing harm to Corliss. It was a possibility Rainulf did not intend to invite. “You can go,” he said, “but you must never come back to the house. Do you understand?”

  Rad just stared at him, his eyes wide and sad.

  Steeling himself, Rainulf said, “You must never see Corliss or talk to her again. Or I’ll...” God, how he hated this. “I’ll have to hurt you. Tell me you understand.”

  Rad looked all around the little entryway, his eyes growing moist. Finally he nodded and said, “I un-un-un...” He shook his head vigorously, like a dog shaking off water. “I understand.”

  Rad stared at the ground. Rainulf backed away, feeling like the lowest form of knave. “Your satchel’s in that alley off Kibald Street. Go and fetch it, and then don’t ever come that close to the house again.”

  The peddler nodded miserably. Cursing under his breath, Rainulf turned and walked away.

  When he rounded the corner, someone yelled, “There he is!” It was the carter, the one whose horses Rainulf had spooked. A flock of ragged children were clustered around the shattered barrel, frantically dipping their hands in what remained of the wine and slurping it up. The carter stalked toward Rainulf, his expression fierce. “You owe me four shillings. That there was good Rhenish wine. Four shillings, and not a penny less.”

  It was an outrageous sum, even for Rhenish wine, but Rainulf hadn’t the heart to debate the matter. With a resigned sigh, he pressed the coins into the wide-eyed carter’s open palm, and slowly walked home.

  * * *

  She’d been wrong about him, Corliss reflected as she watched Rainulf and a dozen others—masters and scholars, all shirtless beneath the glaring noon sun—line up for the race. The starting line had been scratched into the dried mud at one end of High Street, in front of East Gate. The finish line was the entrance to Oxford Castle, more than half a mile to the west. Between the two points, hundreds of scholars and a handful of townspeople lined either side of the wide avenue, impatiently waiting for the race to begin.

  Aye, she’d been very wrong, indeed. Three weeks had passed since the incident following the fighting lesson—since she had felt his body respond to hers and realized that Rainulf Fairfax was a man like any other, a man with the same physical needs, the same desire for a woman’s touch. Afterward, neither of them had spoken about it, as if trying to pretend it had never happened, which was probably for the best. Since he hadn’t offered any more fighting lessons, she’d gone ahead and bought a dagger. Not wanting his disapproval, she hadn’t told him about it, but kept it hidden in her boot at all times.

  Squinting against the sun, she watched him plant a booted foot against the great stone gate and lean forward, his thighs and calves hard and well defined beneath his snug chausses. Grateful for the chance to stare openly, she admired the way his back and arm muscles stood out in sharp relief, the way his wide shoulders and narrow hips and strong limbs all balanced together to create a flawlessly proportioned whole. He was the very image of masculine perfection. How could she ever have thought him less than completely male?

  In her mind she contrasted the virile, handsome Oxford master with the two old men she had buried. They’d both had hands as cold as ice, and their attentions were always a vague irritant. Rainulf’s hands—what little she had felt of them—branded her with their heat, scalded her blood, made her heart pound with fevered longing. Neither Sully nor Osred had ever made her feel this strange exhilaration, even when they’d bedded her. Observing the flexing of Rainulf’s muscles, and contemplating his vigor and strength, she couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to lie with him. Imagining him on top of her, inside her, stirred her in ways she’d never felt before.

  Thomas nudged her, ale spilling from his tankard onto the ground. “Sixpence says Master Fairfax finishes last.”

  “Last!” Corliss exclaimed. “How disloyal of you!”

  Brad elbowed her from the other side. “That’s what I said,” he declared thickly. “He’ll place in the middle of the pack, I’ll wager.”

  “Shame on both of you! He’s your teacher. You ought to put your money on his winning.”

  The two young men laughed. “He’s six-and-thirty, Corliss,” said Brad, “twice the age of some of the others. He couldn’t possibly win.”

  Shielding her eyes, she studied the tall magister as he whipped his powerful arms back and forth, back and forth. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

  Rainulf appeared to be scanning the crowd. His gaze rested on her and his entire being seemed to find its focus. He ceased his stretching to reach up and run his fingers through his hair, pale and fiery in the bright sun. Even from this distance, she saw his lake-colored eyes ignite from within. A hint of a smile played on his lips, and then someone spoke to him and he turned away quickly, with an uneasy look.

  She wondered whether the look had to do with her or the race. He and Father Gregory had organized it as a way of involving both the people of Oxford and the scholars in a social activity—only, at the last minute, Victor had entered the race, and all the townsmen had dropped out in protest. That left just twelve academics, including Rainulf. He had never wanted to participate, for reasons not entirely clear to her; perhaps it just came down to that dreadful dignity of his. Finally Corliss and Father Gregory, working together, had been able to talk him into it.

  She liked the elderly priest. Although he never seemed quite sure how to act with her, being the only person besides Rainulf who knew her true sex, h
e seemed fond of her as well. He probably suspected that she and the Magister Scholarum were secret lovers, despite Rainulf’s assurance in confession that their relationship was innocent. Even priests knew—perhaps better than anyone—that the flesh was weak and subject to powerful urges.

  Yes, Rainulf had urges of the flesh, and those urges were directed toward women, but Corliss was as convinced as ever that he had little in the way of sexual experience. It was entirely possible that he had never lain with a woman. She knew that many priests went their whole lives without sex, abstaining with apparent ease from something most men couldn’t seem to live without. Perhaps this was because never having experienced such pleasures they simply didn’t know what they were missing. Given Rainulf’s willingness to maintain his celibacy, she thought it more than likely that he was one of their number.

  “Corliss!” Thomas was yanking at the sleeve of her tunic, and swaying on his feet as he did so.

  Brad chuckled drunkenly. “Are you awake, boy?”

  “I asked you,” Thomas pronounced slowly, “if you had six pennies to back up your confidence in Master Fairfax.”

  “I have twelve,” she said. “A shilling says Rainulf Fairfax comes in first.” She produced the coin and held it up; it glinted in the sun.

  The two scholars exchanged grins of disbelief. Thomas grabbed at the shilling. Corliss held it out of his reach, and he toppled dizzily to the ground. Brad howled with laughter.

  “You two get this shilling when and if Rainulf loses,” she said as Thomas awkwardly gained his feet and dusted off his cappa. “And if he wins, you each owe me sixpence.”

  Thomas and Brad agreed to the bet, and presently Father Gregory called the participants to the starting line.

  “Ready... and go!”

  The racers shot forward like a volley of arrows, kicking up a storm cloud of dust as they tore down High Street. Corliss coughed and shielded her eyes. When she uncovered them, the runners were out of sight, the onlookers sprinting after them.

  “Come on!” Tossing their tankards aside, Brad and Thomas each grabbed a sleeve and pulled her along with the crowd, but she couldn’t run as fast as them, and kept stumbling.

  “You two go on ahead,” she said, tugging her tunic out of their grasp and giving them each a push. “I’ll catch up with you.”

  Brad shook his head uncertainly. “Master Fairfax told us to stay with you.”

  “Just to keep me company,” she lied. Rainulf, who’d worried overmuch since Rad had spied on them, now frequently asked Thomas and Brad to “keep the boy company.” If they haven’t figured out yet that you’re a woman, they never will, he’d said.

  Thomas and Brad looked at each other and shrugged. “All right,” said Thomas as they jogged on ahead. “See you later.”

  They disappeared from sight, with the rest of the throng, where High Street curved in front of St. Mary’s. Corliss and a few dozen other stragglers walked at a more leisurely pace.

  “Corliss!” She looked across the street and saw young Felice, along with her mother and Bertram. The girl waved and grinned; Mistress Clark looked on with a bemused expression, Bertram with one of suppressed rage. “Will you be coming to the shop today?” Felice called out.

  “Nay. Not today.”

  Her shoulders sagged. “Oh.”

  “Come, Felice,” her mother urged, guiding her by the arm up Catte Street. “Good day, Corliss.”

  “Good day, mistress.”

  Bertram’s hands balled into fists. He speared Corliss with a threatening glare, then turned and followed the two women.

  From the direction of the castle rose the sound of hundreds of voices shouting “Hurrah!” The race was over, and the winner was being cheered. She thought about that shilling in her pocket, and wondered casually whether she’d get to keep it. Two months ago she never would have believed she could take such liberties with a whole shilling! To be earning such money doing what she loved the most was like finding Heaven on earth. In the beginning she’d spent it as soon as she earned it—mostly on clothes and supplies for her work. Now, however, she saved all but a small allowance in an old, cracked saltcellar under her bed. She smiled; soon she’d have to find a larger container for it.

  A familiar-looking shape drifted in and out of her field of vision to the left. Rad. She’d noticed him earlier in the crowd, but had paid him little heed; he hadn’t been the only townsperson watching the race. But now she couldn’t deny the fact that he was following her. His pace matched hers exactly, although he kept back a bit and hugged the buildings on the edge of the street.

  When she reached the corner of Shidyerd, she turned to face him squarely. “I see you.”

  He shrank back into the doorway of a wine shop. She walked directly up to him. “You mustn’t do this, Rad. Rainulf wouldn’t like it. He told you not to come near me.”

  Rad shook his big head helplessly. “J-just w-w-want to k-keep you safe.”

  “From what?”

  “There are b-b-bad people.” He scowled as if to emphasize his point. “Bad people. I know.”

  Corliss was sure he did. She shuddered to think of the abuse he’d come to accept as an everyday thing. “No one wants to hurt me, Rad.” Perhaps not quite the truth, but Rad knew nothing of Sir Roger and his plans for her; why worry him?

  “Some b-bad men hurt w-w-women.”

  She lowered her voice and glanced around. “Everyone thinks I’m a boy, Rad.”

  “I kn-knew you weren’t.”

  Rainulf had told her about the silvery, feminine light Rad claimed she emitted. “Yes, well

  “Others must kn-know as well.”

  “No one knows, Rad. No one but you and Rainulf and Father Gregory. I’m perfectly safe. You must stop spying on me all the time. I see you watching the house when Rainulf isn’t there. And I see you sometimes, walking behind me when I go to Catte Street, or to St. Mary’s for a lecture.”

  He blinked in surprise.

  “Oh, I see you, all right. I know you’re there. And I know you don’t mean any harm. I know you just want to look after me, but you mustn’t. If Rainulf knew, he’d... I don’t know what he’d do.”

  He nodded furiously, twitching.

  “Rad, please. Promise me you’ll stop this.”

  He hunched his shoulders up, shaking his head fractionally. “Got to k-keep you—”

  “No, you don’t!” she said more firmly. “I have Rainulf to protect me. And when he’s not there, he always gets someone...”

  Rad adopted a surprisingly astute look that could only be described as skeptical, and glanced around. Corliss followed his gaze to the sparsely populated street behind her. “Ah... right. There’s no one with me now. You see, Brad and Thomas...”

  His eyebrows shot up, and she smiled and shook her head. “Brad and Thomas fell down on their duty, I suppose. And I encouraged them to. But that doesn’t mean you have to—”

  He nodded vigorously.

  “Rad, please...”

  A din of raised voices advanced steadily from the west. The crowd was returning. She backed away from the wine shop. “Go, Rad. Rainulf may be with them. Go before he sees you.”

  Rad pulled his cowl down over his forehead and ducked between two buildings just as the black-clad horde appeared. The group in front, which included Thomas and Brad, were laughing and cheering... and carrying Rainulf on their shoulders!

  He won! Rainulf won! The sheepishly grinning victor wore an ermine-lined mantle and a crown of something resembling laurel. On another man, such trappings might have seemed ridiculous, but they only enhanced Rainulf’s aristocratic good looks. With his silver-blond hair, broad shoulders, and natural poise, he looked like a warrior chief of the Northmen, being honored by his people after a glorious victory in battle.

  His regal costume made it easier to remember that he was, in fact, of noble blood—the son of a Norman baron, and a cousin of the queen. He came from the very top of the inviolable social order, she from the bottom. It was poi
ntless to deny her feelings for him to herself, but she must be careful to keep them in their place.

  The most difficult time to remember this was during their lessons, when he had her read aloud in French, or tutored her in the seven disciplines. It was always a challenge to keep her mind on her work, with him hovering so close, watching her with those perceptive eyes, instructing her endlessly. Teaching was an ingrained passion with him, and once he got started on remaking her, he couldn’t keep himself from refining her demeanor, as well as her accent: If you’re going to speak like a wellborn lady, Corliss, you may as well sit like one. Tilt your chin up just a bit... That’s right. Now, straighten your back. You look lovely!

  Those occasional compliments were what kept her going, try as she might not to read too much into them. Even if Rainulf were of a mind to take a mistress, and willing to risk the chancellorship by doing so, he wouldn’t want a simple peasant like her, no matter how well she’d been trained to speak and carry herself—and regardless of fleeting urges in stable yards. And if he did, what would become of her independence? The best way to protect her precious freedom was to avoid entanglements with men.

  Rainulf caught her eye, and to her astonishment, the grin widened. Someone thrust a tankard into his hand. “Drink! Drink! Drink!” the crowd chanted. He upended the vessel and swiftly drained it to a roar of approval. It was snatched away and quickly replaced by another.

  “Look at him.” Corliss turned to see Father Gregory standing next to her, gazing in Rainulf’s direction. “I think he’s actually happy.”

  Corliss chuckled disbelievingly. “You may be right.”

  The priest smiled at her. “It’s your influence, you know. Somehow you’ve managed to crack that armor of his. As well as I know him, and as hard as I’ve tried, I could never even dent it.”

  “I hardly feel as if I know him at all,” Corliss said, watching the subject of their conversation being lowered to the ground and dragged into Burnell’s Tavern. “He’s something of a mystery to me.”

  “And to himself as well, I think,” said Father Gregory, leading her across the street, toward the tavern. “Come.” He grinned. “He’ll want you to be there with him in his moment of glory.”