“Look!” cried a young monk, pointing to the road that led from Castle Blackburn to the priory. A horseman was tearing toward them at breakneck speed, his enormous white mount kicking up a trail of dust.
Matthew chuckled and shook his head. “He must have seen you and couldn’t wait for you to come to him. Thorne’s got an impatient streak.”
“Aye,” Rainulf agreed. “We’ll have to save our visit for some other time, Matthew.” He walked to the gate and waited, hands on hips, as his friend rode toward him.
The big white stallion snorted and danced as he was reined in. Thorne Falconer dismounted and wrapped Rainulf in an enthusiastic bear hug. Corliss gaped, taking in the Saxon’s size. He was taller even than Rainulf, with the most massive shoulders she’d ever seen—a human warhorse. His long, golden brown hair and humble tunic enhanced his slightly barbarous image. He wore no fur or sword to signify his rank. All this was odd enough, but when he asked Rainulf how his journey had gone—in English!—her jaw dropped open. She’d never thought to hear a baron speak her native tongue. Never mind that it was his native tongue as well. The ruling class of England spoke French exclusively; she’d never heard of an exception.
He spoke to Brother Matthew in French, but reverted to English as he got back on his horse. “Martine’s been anxious to see you, Rainulf. I promised I’d bring you back right away. You don’t mind, do you?”
Rainulf exchanged a grin with the prior. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint Martine.” He remounted, and Corliss followed suit.
The baron’s vivid blue eyes assessed her curiously as they rode slowly back up the path toward the castle, three abreast with him in the middle. “I must say, Rainulf, I never thought to see the day you’d be traveling with a servant. What happened to that famous humility of yours?”
Rainulf sighed and cast her a slightly apologetic look. “Corliss is... a friend, not a servant. And there’s something—”
“Corliss, eh?” He regarded her skeptically. “Isn’t that a woman’s name?”
“Not always, my lord,” she said. “It can be either a man’s or a woman’s.”
“None of that ‘my lord’ business, boy,” the big Saxon remonstrated. “Friends of Rainulf’s must call me Thorne.”
“Thank you... Thorne.” She caught Rainulf’s eye and mouthed Tell him, but before Rainulf could speak, Thorne reached over and punched him on the arm.
“Look at you! You’re not a priest anymore! I’m still not entirely sure how you managed to get out of it.”
“Neither am I,” Rainulf conceded.
Thorne shrugged. “Mayhap it’s just because everyone likes you so much.” He turned to Corliss and said, “He’s always been able to get away with things no one else could. His charm has earned him special favors all his life.” His voice took on a low, conspiratorial tone, and he winked at her. “Especially from the fairer sex.”
Corliss sat up straighter in her saddle. “Really?”
“Aye.” Thorne chuckled good-naturedly. “He was reputed to be quite the swordsman in his university days.”
Corliss frowned. “Swordsman?”
“In bed.”
“Thorne—” Rainulf began.
“Of course, I didn’t know him back then. I met him when they chained him next to me in a prison hole in the Levant. After a year, Queen Eleanor bought our freedom, and we returned home along the overland route. That’s when I first became aware of his amorous skills. We were traveling through the Rhineland—”
“Thorne,” Rainulf interjected, “there’s something you should know about Cor—”
“Later!” said Corliss, knowing she’d never get to hear the story once Thorne found out she was a woman. Rainulf shot her a look, but she ignored him. “What happened in the Rhineland?”
Thorne leaned toward her with a grin. “There was this sweet young farmwife who let us sleep in her loft. Can’t remember her name...” He glanced over his shoulder. “You were always so good with names, Rainulf.”
“Sigfreda,” Rainulf said, staring straight ahead.
“Sigfreda! That’s right. Lovely. Hair the color of ripe wheat. Rainulf and I had picked up enough German from our cellmates to be able to talk to her. Turned out her husband had gone on Crusade and never returned. She was... lonely.” He shrugged. “We stayed with her two nights. The first night, I slept upstairs in the loft and Rainulf shared Sigfreda’s bed. The next night, Rainulf got the loft, and I got Sigfreda.”
“Ah,” Corliss said.
“That first night,” Thorne said, “I lay up there in the hay listening to the most astonishing sounds from below.”
Rainulf groaned. “Thorne...”
“All the more astonishing because of my own inexperience. I’d been a pious and chaste youth when I took up the cross. Two years of battle and imprisonment had cured me of my piety, but left my chastity intact. So I lay awake for hours, wide-eyed in the hay, wondering at every little gasp and giggle, every crackle of the straw. And then, when the screams came—”
“Screams?” Corliss stole a glance at Rainulf; his ears were purple.
“Every once in a while,” Thorne explained, “Sigfreda would let loose with the most alarming... I hardly know how to describe the sound. At first I thought the imprisonment had gotten to Rainulf, after all. I thought he’d gone mad and was killing her in some slow, torturous way. Then I realized she was just, well, enjoying herself. Very much. I was impressed.” He laughed. “So was she.”
Turning to Rainulf, he said, “You ruined her for me, you know. The next night, when it was my turn, all she could talk about was you. Your endurance, your vigor, your ‘sorcerer’s hands,’ I think she called them.”
A small smile crept past Rainulf’s stony defenses. “I knew I’d be taking a vow of chastity soon. I was inspired.”
“Well, your inspiration was my downfall,” Thorne said. “I’d never been with a woman, and I finally decided I must be incompetent, because I couldn’t get her to scream like you did. She assured me I wasn’t doing it wrong—I just wasn’t doing it as right as you had. When I told her you were taking Holy Orders, she burst into tears.” To Corliss he said, “Not an uncommon reaction, as I understand. I’m told the ladies of Paris went into mourning when Rainulf took his vows.”
Corliss looked back and forth between the two men, gathering her thoughts. Certain aspects of the ribald anecdote confused her—that a woman should scream during sex made no sense, unless it was causing her pain—but one thing was clear. Her image of a virginal Rainulf was clearly off the mark—way off the mark. She cleared her throat and tried not to sound as astonished as she felt. “I had no idea our Magister Scholarum was quite such a legend,” she said with forced nonchalance.
“Aye, ‘legend’ is the right word,” Thorne said. “And now that he’s renounced his vows, perhaps the legend can continue. What say you, Rainulf? Are you ready to enslave the ladies of Oxford as you once did those of Paris?”
“Enslave?” said Rainulf.
“You enslaved their hearts, only to break them when you became a priest.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Oh, I heard all about you at the queen’s court in Paris, before I returned to England. The ladies would whisper of your extraordinary seductiveness, of the deep and reckless passion hidden beneath your scholarly robes. They’d confess how they’d given themselves to you eagerly, even knowing you didn’t love them. And then they’d ask me why a man like you would want to be a priest, and they would weep.”
“I do hope you comforted them,” Rainulf said dryly.
Thorne smiled. “What else could I do?”
Both men laughed easily, and Corliss shook her head in astonishment, thinking, I really don’t know Rainulf. I don’t know him at all.
The horses’ hooves clattered on the drawbridge, and Corliss swallowed hard, staring up at the spectacular majesty of Blackburn Castle as it loomed over them. She whispered a hurried prayer—”Please, God, don’t let me throw up from ne
rves before I even get inside”—and crossed herself as they rode single file through an opening in the great oaken door. The outer bailey—with its stone-and-thatch structures surrounding a central fishpond—reminded her of Cuxham. Or it would have, except that everyone here seemed content, even happy, whereas smiles were rare within Roger Foliot’s domain.
The inner bailey was a maze of gardens, both utilitarian and ornamental. Against the far side of the wall from the keep stood an enormous stone dwelling, which Thorne identified as his hawk house.
“Birds live in there?” Corliss asked. It was as large as Sir Roger’s manor house!
Rainulf laughed. “Thorne’s falcons are his babies. He lives for them.”
“I live for Martine,” Thorne said, a statement so matter-of-fact, yet so intimate, that Corliss hardly knew how to respond. “I keep falcons merely to amuse myself when she’s had enough of me.”
As they dismounted in the tree-lined courtyard outside the keep, Rainulf said, with a smug grin, “By the way, Thorne, there’s something I didn’t get a chance to tell you about Corliss before you launched into that bawdy story of yours.”
“Something about Corliss?” Thorne glanced at two young women hauling baskets of laundry down the wide steps of the keep’s forebuilding, and lowered his voice, grinning. “Is the boy an innocent? Too delicate for tales of Sigfreda?”
“The boy is a woman,” Rainulf said mildly. “And by her very nature too delicate for such tales.”
The big Saxon blinked at Rainulf, and then turned to stare at Corliss, taking her in head to toe. When he met her gaze, she broke into a wide grin and shrugged. “It’s true, my lor—I mean, Thorne.”
He blanched, then turned to glare at Rainulf. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded in a fierce rasp.
“I tried. You were too busy describing Sigfreda’s screams of ecstasy to—”
“Rainulf!” Thorne cast a horrified look in Corliss’s direction.
“She’s heard it already,” Rainulf pointed out. “From your own mouth. Too late to worry about her feminine sensibilities now.”
“Too late to worry about whose feminine sensibilities?” They all turned toward the soft voice, which belonged to a young woman standing at the top of the stairs. Corliss instantly knew that this was Martine Falconer. She had her brother’s impressive height, flaxen hair, and regal good looks. A band of hammered silver encircled her head, but she wore no veil over her two long, thick braids, which hung down on either side of the largest stomach Corliss had ever seen on a pregnant woman. In the curve of one arm she held a black cat with white boots. Smiling, she lifted the hem of her voluminous blue silk tunic, descending the steps with a good deal more grace than Corliss would have thought possible.
Thorne raced up the steps to take her arm, closely followed by Rainulf. “Martine!” Her brother kissed her on both cheeks. “You look wonderful. Full of health.” She did; her deep blue eyes sparkled, her face glowed.
She laughed. “I look like some great sow that’s been fattened up for just a bit too long.” Like Rainulf, she spoke the Anglo-Saxon tongue with a pronounced Norman-French accent.
He studied her vast belly with an expression of wonderment. “Nay, you look...”
She laughed again and petted her cat. “Fat. Say it.”
Shaking his head, he murmured, “Beautiful. More beautiful than ever.”
Corliss felt an irrational stab of jealousy, despite the fact that Martine was Rainulf’s sister. Perhaps it was her very womanliness, her fecundity—and Rainulf’s awestruck reaction to it—that so discomfited Corliss. She fingered her chin-length hair and looked down at her dusty chausses, feeling suddenly self-conscious, even a bit foolish in her masculine garb.
“So, whose sensibilities has my husband bruised?” Lady Falconer asked with a smile. “Whom has he insulted now?”
“Corliss.” Rainulf gestured to her to step forward. “I hope you don’t mind an unexpected guest, Martine.”
“Of course not.”
“Thank you, my lady,” said Corliss.
“It’s Martine,” the young baroness corrected, looking a little confused. “I must have misheard Rainulf. I thought he said something about feminine sensibilities.”
Thorne leaned down and whispered something in her ear, whereupon Martine fixed her widening eyes on Corliss. The cat leaped from her arms and darted away, though she seemed scarcely to notice. “Oh.”
“Yes,” said Corliss miserably. “Perhaps Rainulf should have written ahead of time...”
“Nonsense.” Martine held out her hand, and Corliss bounded up the stairs to take it. “I’m very pleased to have you. Just a bit” —her gaze sought out her brother, and she raised her eyebrows teasingly— “unaccustomed to Rainulf’s having a... female companion.”
“It’s not what it looks like,” Rainulf said.
Martine’s amused gaze swept Corliss from top to bottom. “I’m not quite sure what it does look like.”
“I mean, we’re not...” Rainulf began. “Corliss lives with me, that’s all.”
Thorne and Martine exchanged a look. The Saxon grinned knowingly and reached behind his wife to slap Rainulf on the back. Corliss rolled her eyes.
“This isn’t coming out right,” said Rainulf.
Martine chuckled. “There will be plenty of time to explain it over supper. Meanwhile, you and Corliss can rest up a bit from your journey. I’ll show you to your chambers.”
* * *
Once alone, Rainulf stripped completely, then lay on the too large bed they’d given him and threw an arm over his face. An image of Corliss materialized before him—Corliss as she had looked last night while she listened to the monks chant, her eyes closed, her mouth slightly parted, her head back. She’d looked transported. He imagined her looking like that as she lay beneath him, and his body reacted instantly. Growling, he leaped from the bed and poured a basinful of cold water, then lathered up a bar of soap, and vigorously washed off the dust of the road.
As he dried himself off, he became aware of muffled voices—not from the hallway, but from another door, one that he had assumed to be a dressing alcove or closet. Silently turning the handle, he opened the door a crack and peeked through.
“Which one?” Through the narrow opening, he saw a flash of purple silk, and another of green, as Martine held up two shimmering, jewel-toned kirtles.
He heard water splashing and eased the door open just a fraction more, then stilled, his heart quickening. A pale, curved ribbon of flesh—Corliss’s flesh—was just visible. She stood in a bathtub as someone poured steaming water over her. He saw her arm rise as she lifted her damp hair off the back of her neck, saw the delicate contour of a breast, the slope of a hip...
Another woman spoke. He recognized the voice of his sister’s personal maid, Felda. “Take the purple gown, Lady Corliss. It suits you. I’ll hem it, and we can lace it up so it fits like it was made for you.”
Lady Corliss?
Rainulf closed the door with a silent, careful movement, then leaned his forehead against the cool, polished wood and let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
They’d given Corliss a chamber adjoining his. That was surely no accident. They—Martine and Thorne—assumed she was his mistress. They’d thought to please him with this discreet arrangement—separate chambers that connected, a winking nod in the direction of respectability.
He heard Martine’s gentle laughter, and the louder laughter of Felda, and knew that they harbored no doubts whatsoever that he and Corliss were lovers. Closing his eyes, he pictured again that fleeting, partial view of Corliss in her bath... the sliver of creamy flesh, steam rising from her smooth, wet body... and wished, with sudden, staggering force, that it were so.
Fool!
Pushing away from the door, he dressed quickly and bolted from the room. He’d go to the stables and choose a horse—one of Thorne’s giant, half-mad stallions—and ride until his bones were too weary and his mind too numb
to think of anything but supper and bed.
* * *
Pigot knew something was wrong. He’d seen neither Rainulf Fairfax nor his young housemate for two days, and that made him nervous.
The housekeeper still cooked and cleaned in the big house on St. John Street. And those two scholars who hung on his cappa still treated their magister’s home as their own, although they had long ago stopped entertaining their whores there; Fairfax must have discovered the practice and put an end to it. But he and Corliss were nowhere to be seen.
Had Fairfax caught on, discovered that he’d been watching, waiting? Was his quarry even now being stowed aboard a ship bound for Normandy, or escorted north into the Scottish Highlands?
He’d never failed to bring back his prey, and he’d be damned if he’d fail this time.
You’ll be damned anyway, he thought with a humorless smile as he watched the front door of the magister’s house open and the old housekeeper emerge. He retrieved his leper’s mask—a sack of coarse linen with a hole for one eye and another for his mouth—and drew it down over his head. Next came ragged gloves, a pair of shabby, oversize boots, and a tin cup. Shrugging his satchel onto his back, he shuffled out of the alley and followed the housekeeper down St. John Street, catching up to her at the corner of Shidyerd.
He shaped his throat so that his voice would emerge as a gravelly rasp. “Mistress?”
She turned around and started, then pressed a fleshy hand to her bosom. “Aye?”
He held the cup out, his head lowered. “Alms for a cursed soul?”
Grimacing, she fumbled in her purse for a penny and dropped the coin with a metallic clatter into his cup. He peered inside and said, “Master Fairfax gives me tuppence.”
She frowned. “Father gives you money?”
Father? “Every day.”
Planting her hands on her hips, she said, “Then how is it I’ve never seen you before today?”
“I’m usually outside St. Mary’s. That’s where I see Father Rainulf. I came here looking for him.” He shook the cup; the coin rattled around inside. “He gives me tuppence.”
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