An enraged bellow filled the undercroft as Will toppled to the ground. The mallet rolled away, and he reached for it as he rose. Rainulf, on his feet, kicked it away and grabbed Will by the tunic, landing him a hard punch to the head.
Will staggered, but recovered quickly, hunkering down low and ramming his fists into Rainulf’s stomach. Rainulf countered with blows of his own.
Corliss shut her eyes, listening to the brutal sounds of fists against flesh... the grunts of pain. I can’t bear this... When she looked again, Rainulf and Will were circling each other, bloodied and wary.
Will glanced toward the mallet lying a couple of yards away. Rainulf saw this and dove for it, but Will was closer and got to it first. Seizing it, he spun around to face Corliss, brandishing the weapon.
“Nay!” Rainulf grabbed the head of the mallet. Will wrenched it away and slammed it into Rainulf’s midsection. He doubled over, gasping, then straightened and lunged for the mallet again, but Will sidestepped him easily.
“The only way you can stop me,” Will said as he took up position in front of Corliss and prepared to swing again, “is by killing me, and I don’t believe you’ve got the stomach for that.”
Rainulf pressed a hand to his middle and rasped, “I killed on Crusade.” And tormented himself about it for years afterward, Corliss knew.
“That was a long time ago, Magister.” Will grinned, as if at a child who’d overestimated his own abilities. Turning toward Corliss, he hauled back with the massive weapon, aiming for her legs. “You’ve forgotten how.”
Rainulf moved with breathtaking speed. This time he seized not the mallet, but Will’s head, closing his hands around it and twisting sharply. The mallet fell from Will’s hands. He grew rigid, and looked startled for a moment; then his eyes closed and he went slack. “It’s not the kind of thing one forgets,” Rainulf said grimly as Will slumped to the floor, limp and—Corliss quickly realized—lifeless.
A flood of almost painful relief consumed Corliss; her eyes filled with tears. She wanted to say something, but couldn’t wrest words from her throat.
Rainulf took her face in his hands and rested his forehead against hers. “Oh, God... Corliss.” Working quickly, he freed her hands from their shackles. Her legs were trembling. She didn’t know whether she was laughing or crying; tears streamed down her face.
“Come.” Wrapping an arm around her, he guided her up the curved stairwell. Hugh Hest crossed himself and fell to his knees when he saw them.
“Let’s get out of here,” Rainulf said. They stumbled down the outer stairs and made their way to the middle of the lawn before their legs gave out simultaneously. Sinking to their knees, they held each other tight, Rainulf murmuring reassurances and words of love until at last she stopped shaking.
“Do you think you can ride?” he asked, drawing back and threading his fingers through her hair.
She nodded as she used her sleeve to wipe the blood from his face.
“Let’s go home, then.”
Fresh tears stung her eyes. Home. It sounded so wonderful... and so impossible. Summoning all her reserves of strength, she said, “I... I can’t. I can’t go back with you, Rainulf.”
He gripped her shoulders hard. “Corliss...”
She caressed his cheek with her palm. “I can’t. I left once. I don’t think I can do it again.”
“You don’t have to leave.”
“I can’t stay in Oxford. ‘Twould be too painful.”
A hint of a smile played around his lips. “Would it be less painful if you had your own shop?”
She shook her head. “I can’t afford my own shop yet, and besides—”
“I bought Mistress Clark’s shop for you,” he said.
Corliss stared at him, dumbfounded. “Why did you do that?”
He shrugged. “Oxford can use another bookshop. Especially one as ambitious as what you have in—”
“Oh, my God.” She rose to her feet, her hands fisted at her sides. “You did it, didn’t you?”
“Did what?”
“Bought me a gift, as if I were one of your... your...”
“Ladies who aren’t mistresses?
“Aye!”
He stood and reached for her, but she pulled away. “Believe me, Corliss, I never bought one of them her own business.”
She turned her back to him. “Am I supposed to be flattered? Rainulf, why did you have to—”
“I thought you’d be pleased.” He paused. “I even hired someone to paint a sign to go over the front door— ‘Corliss Fairfax, Venditrix Librorum.’”
She slowly turned to face him. “Corliss what?”
He tilted her chin up and kissed her lightly. “Fairfax. It’s not a parting gift, you little idiot. It’s a wedding gift.” His smile widened... and then faded. “That is... if you’ll have me.”
“If I’ll...”
“I know I’ve been more trouble than I’m worth. I’ll try to be easier to deal with, though. I’ve resolved to take your advice and keep my doubt in the lecture hall, where it belongs.”
“Now you’re being an idiot,” she chided gently. “How could I possibly not want to marry you? But...”
He grinned and wrapped his arms around her. “Then you’ll—”
“Rainulf... please. You know I can’t.” His crestfallen expression took her by surprise. How could he not understand? What was he thinking of? “It’s completely impossible.”
“Why? The chancellorship?”
“For one thing.”
“I’ve done a lot of thinking about the chancellorship the past few days. And about teaching. And about you.” He kissed her forehead. “I’ve tried to just... live in my skin, as you put it. To just be myself and feel what I feel, want what I want. I discovered that what I want, more than anything, is you.”
He closed his mouth over hers and kissed her, a long, sweet, ardent kiss full of hope and promise.
“And,” he added when they drew apart, “to teach. You were right about that. I decided Bishop Chesney will just have to find another chancellor to create his grand university.”
“No one else is qualified—you know that.”
He shrugged carelessly. “Then Oxford will just have to remain a humble little studium generale until he finds someone who is.”
“I’m pleased,” she said. “You were born to teach. But there’s still the matter of Wulfric’s baptism. Father John said we were spiritually bound when we lifted him from the font. The Church won’t let us marry.”
He chuckled and pressed his lips against her eyelids. “You and I were spiritually bound from the moment we met.” He kissed her nose. “From the beginning of time.” He brought his mouth to hers, murmuring, “We’ll be bound to each other always and forever. I hardly think that should be an impediment to marriage.”
“Aye, but the Church—”
“The Church,” he said, “makes her rules, and from time to time the thoughtful man must think of ways to circumvent them. I’ve already put Father Gregory to work arranging a dispensation for us.
“Is that possible?”
He smiled indulgently. “If I can get out of my vows, anything is possible.”
“You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”
“I’ve always been thorough.”
“I know.” She allowed herself a wicked grin. “Quite exceptionally thorough at times.”
He kissed her again, deeply, his hand gliding down her throat to her chest. She felt his frustration as he tried to caress her through her tunic and the strip of linen wound tightly around her breasts. Breaking the kiss, he growled, “Damn those bindings of yours. And those chausses and tunics. The first thing I’m going to do when we get back to Oxford is order a dozen kirtles made up for you. Silk kirtles,” he murmured. “Thin ones that rustle when you walk.”
“That’s the first thing you’re going to do?” She asked playfully as she stroked his shoulders, his back, his hips... pressing him to her as she moved languidly
against him.
“Perhaps the second,” he amended with a smile. “You’ve turned into quite the tease, my love.”
She had to ask: “Please... say that ag—”
“My love,” he whispered against her lips. “My love,” he breathed into her ear. “My love.” He kissed her temple, her hair, and then her mouth again, with great passion and heartbreaking tenderness. “My love... from the beginning of time until the end. Always and forever. You’ll always be my love. Always.”
Epilogue
Rad the Peddler stood half-hidden behind a pillar in the shadowy nave of St. Mary’s Church. Outside, an enormous crowd of townspeople, their hands filled with seeds, waited in the bright September sunshine. Rad had never heard so many people make so little noise; their silence made him feel warm and shivery at the same time. They were quiet out of respect, he knew. They were quiet because Oxford’s Master of Schools, Rainulf Fairfax, was getting married.
The bride and groom had already exchanged vows on the church steps. Now they were inside. They knelt on the altar, their backs to the hundreds of black-robed scholars who’d gathered to witness their union, as Father Gregory celebrated the nuptial mass.
Masses had always perplexed Rad. Ordinarily he avoided churches entirely, but he was happy to be here today—happy and proud. Master Fairfax had wanted him here, had asked him to come! He’d even tried to get Rad to stand up with him, alongside the Saxon baron. But he couldn’t have. He never quite knew what to do in church. And there’d be all those people, looking at him...
No, he was happier where he was, in back where he wouldn’t draw attention. He could see everything he needed to see. He could see her.
She looked like an angel, in glimmery silks and veils, emeralds sparkling as she moved. She didn’t look like a boy anymore, that was for sure. Of course, he’d always known she was a woman, right from the very start. She had a woman’s silvery light shimmering around her. How could anyone ever have been fooled?
She belonged to Master Fairfax now. Rad didn’t have to watch out for her anymore. Master Fairfax would take care of her. He was smart. He’d figure out a way to do it so she didn’t know he was doing it.
A baby cried. A woman in the front row—the Saxon’s young baroness—hefted the squalling child onto her shoulder so he could look around. Rad smiled as he watched the infant’s curious little eyes survey the sea of black robes. He liked babies. He’d rather watch a baby than listen to mass any day.
The couple rose for the kiss of peace. Master Fairfax, tall and elegant in a long, ceremonial black tunic, received the kiss from Father Gregory and turned to Corliss, lifting her veils. They smiled at each other. Rad thought maybe she was crying; he wasn’t sure, because then the kiss began, and it didn’t stop for a long time.
The scholars laughed and cheered as their magister and his bride walked hand in hand down the aisle, smiling as if they’d never stop. Rad tried to hide in the shadows as they passed through the nave, but they saw him anyway. They both embraced him.
She kissed him on the cheek.
When they reached the steps of the church, the townspeople roared happily and showered them with their seeds. Master Fairfax pulled her into his arms. They kissed as the seeds rained down on them, twinkling like gold dust in the sunshine. Her silver light was glorious against the bright blue sky.
Rad stood mesmerized by the sight... the sparkle of gold, the glow of silver, the kiss. It looked like everything good and beautiful in the world.
It looked like Heaven.
###
Read on for more about the author and her books, plus EXCERPTS from two other Patricia Ryan medieval romances...
Author’s Note
After the publication of Martine and Thorne’s story, Falcon’s Fire, many readers wrote to tell me how taken they were with Martine’s brother, Rainulf, and how eager they were for a book about him—which, of course, I was already in the process of writing. Heaven’s Fire was a joy to write. I adore Corliss, and of course I’ve been madly in love with Rainulf since he first introduced himself to me on the deck of the Lady’s Slipper so very long ago.
In my next medieval romance, Secret Thunder, I step even further back in time, to the year 1067 A.D. and the aftermath of the Norman Conquest of England. Young Faithe of Hauekleah, widowed by the conquering Normans, is horrified to learn that they’ve given her hand in marriage, and therefore her estate, to one of their own: the notorious Luke de Périgueux, a Norman soldier known as the Black Dragon for his ruthlessness against her people. She could refuse the marriage, but that would mean losing her ancestral farmstead, an even worse prospect than giving herself to some Norman devil.
What follows are excerpts from this book’s prequel, Falcon’s Fire, and Rainulf’s story, Secret Thunder.
An Excerpt from
FALCON’S FIRE
by Patricia Ryan
Romantic Times nominee for Best First Historical Romance, The Literary Times nominee for Outstanding Historical, Golden Heart finalist
Available as an electronic book
“A powerful debut historical novel by an exciting new talent, Falcon’s Fire will ignite your imagination and passion for medieval romances.”Romantic Times
Chapter 1
August 1159, the Normandy Coast
Martine of Rouen watched the seagull soar out of the dawn sky from across the Channel. It flew over the vessels in the Fécamp harbor for some time, as if trying to pick out one from the rest. Finally, its choice made, it descended in a graceful spiral to alight next to her on the railing of the Lady’s Slipper as thirty oarsmen propelled the merchant longship smoothly out of her dock.
“‘Tis a good omen, milady,” the ship’s pilot said, and smiled. “A blessing on your marriage to Baron Godfrey’s son.” He was a massive Englishman, nearly toothless. His face formed a landscape of boils; his French was spoken with an unpleasant, guttural accent.
Martine had not believed in omens since the age of ten, particularly good ones. Why fool oneself into expecting the best, when logic foretold the worst? This journey to England, a place she had never been, to marry Edmond of Harford, a man she had never met, filled her with a dread that no omen could erase.
Sensing her brother’s comforting presence behind her, she turned to look up at him.
Rainulf met her eyes with a reassuring look, then returned the Englishman’s smile. “A good omen? And why would that be?”
The pilot pointed to their small visitor on the railing beside Martine. “That gull be an English herring gull, Father—er, milord.” He frowned, his mouth agape. Martine knew he pondered the correct form of address for someone who was not only a priest and the son of a Norman baron, but a relation of Queen Eleanor herself.
“‘Father’ is fine,” Rainulf said. “My fealty to my God supersedes even that to my cousin.” He nodded toward the bird. “So you think our little friend here has flown all the way from England just for us?”
“Aye, milord. Father. ‘Tis a lucky sign for milady.” He grinned at Martine. “That wee creature flew a great distance and come straight to you, milady, to escort you across the Channel to young Edmond of Harford. If you feed him crumbs, he’ll most likely stay with us till we dock at Bulverhythe Harbor tomorrow. And then it’s certain your marriage will be a union of love, and your sons many.”
A union of love? Martine shuddered at the thought. As a child, she had watched her mother’s union of love claim her will, her reason, and finally her life. In a choice between marriage and the convent, Martine had consented to marry, but she hadn’t consented to love. Nor would she ever, omen or no omen.
The pilot stared at her, waiting for some sort of response. Do all Englishmen share your primitive ideas? she wanted to say. If Sir Edmond does, I’ll hardly need a gull to predict how miserable my marriage will be. That’s what she wanted to say, because fear unleashed in her a reckless temper. But this Englishman, despite his coarseness and his childish superstitions, clearly meant no harm. For t
hat reason, and because Rainulf constantly begged her to be civil, she held her tongue. She even tried to smile, but couldn’t quite manage that. Excusing herself to her brother, she descended the narrow stairway to the main deck and ducked into the cabin. The heat in the tiny compartment assaulted her even before she closed the door.
The Lady’s Slipper had but one enclosed cabin, tucked into the stern beneath the quarterdeck. It was a dim, airless little chamber, crowded with Martine’s and Rainulf’s baggage, but it was private, reserved exclusively for their use during the crossing.
Martine ducked her head to avoid the low ceiling and unpinned the gold brooch that secured her hooded black mantle, tossing both into a corner. On her head she wore a saffron-dyed linen veil, intricately draped and tucked so as to reveal only her face, from eyes to chin. When she removed the veil, her hair spilled to her hips in a flaxen sheet.
There could be no mistaking that Rainulf and Martine were related. Both were tall, silver-blond, and fine-boned, as were the Northmen from whom they were descended. They bore a striking resemblance to their father, the late Baron Jourdain of Rouen, and although they had different mothers, both women had been fair and blond.
Through the cabin’s single tiny porthole, Martine watched the rugged Normandy coastline gradually shrink into the distance. She felt something stir against her legs and flinched, but when she looked down, she saw it was just her cat, a sleek black tom with white boots.
“Don’t worry, Loki.” Abandoning the cool facade with which she distanced herself from men like that Englishman—from all men except Rainulf, in fact—she sank to the floor and gathered the cat in her arms.
“They say England is...” Cold and wet. Shivering, she buried her face in his fur. “Perhaps there are lots of mice there. I’m sure you’ll be happy.”
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