Lords of Conquest Boxed Set

by Patricia Ryan

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve been rude. I was out of sorts and I took it out on you.”

  She saw surprise in the peddler’s eyes, as if kind words were foreign to him. What must it be like to go through life regarded as less than human? On impulse she asked, “What’s your name?”

  He paused. “My r-real name, or”—his expression became grim— “what-what-what” —he shook his head in evident exasperation over his stuttering— “what they c-call me?”

  God only knew what vile nickname the people of Oxford had thought up for this poor creature. “Your real name.”

  “Rad,” he said presently.

  “Rad,” she repeated. “I’m pleased to meet you, Rad. My name is Corliss.” She nodded toward his satchel. “What have you to show me?”

  The peddler thumped his big satchel down and opened it, pulling out a large blue cloth, which he spread out on the ground at her feet. On this cloth he arranged a dizzying display of goods, some new and some clearly secondhand: battered pots and pans, fireplace pokers, spoons of all sizes, small bolts of cloth, skeins of colored silk, kid slippers, fur-lined gloves.

  A hairbrush caught her eye, and she knelt down to examine it. “Oh, how lovely.” It had stiff boar bristles and a handle of intricately carved ivory.

  “It’s n-new,” Rad offered.

  “What do you want for the brush and these ribbons? Oh, and this piece of lace.”

  He squatted down so they were eye to eye. “Four-p-p-pence for the lot.”

  “It’s worth sixpence if it’s worth a penny,” she said. “You’re just being nice to me. What else have you got in that bag of yours?”

  “N-nothing as f-fine as that.”

  “No?” Leaning over, she peered into the open mouth of the satchel and saw the glint of steel. “Knives, I see. You’ve certainly got a lot.”

  “You-you-you n-need knives?” he asked.

  “No, Rad, thanks just the same. Perhaps if I had a kitchen of my own, but I’m really just a guest here. Master Fairfax has been kind enough to take me in—”

  “What have we here?”

  Corliss squinted up to see Rainulf standing over her, silhouetted against the bright sky. He was staring fixedly at the huge collection of knives. She stood and held out the brush for him to admire. “Look—isn’t this pretty?”

  He glanced at it briefly, then turned his hard gaze on the peddler, who proceeded to gather up his wares. “How much?” the magister asked, withdrawing his purse.

  “S-sixpence,” Rad said without looking up.

  “Here.” Rainulf withdrew the coins, but Corliss grabbed his wrist.

  “They’re my things. I’ll pay for them.” She retrieved the sixpence from her pouch and gave it to Rad, who stowed it away without looking at her.

  “Be on your way,” Rainulf told the peddler.

  Corliss glared at him, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes. Arms crossed, he watched Rad pack up his things and shamble down the road.

  “What’s gotten into you?” she asked.

  “I might ask the same of you.” He frowned at her purchases. “Ribbons? Laces? A lady’s hairbrush? Do you want to be found out?” He stepped through the doorway and stormed up the stairs.

  He’s right. She ran her fingers over the carved ivory, the dainty strands of silk. She’d been indiscreet. What would he say if she knew Rad had called her “mistress?” She pondered the situation as she slowly climbed the stairs to the main hall. He may have been right about the ribbons and such, but still he’d been unforgivably rude to Rad. She would never have expected such discourtesy from Rainulf Fairfax. Perhaps she didn’t know him as well as she thought.

  Rainulf stood at a window and gazed out at the rolling pastures beyond the north wall of Oxford. He heard Corliss come upstairs and go into her bedchamber, presumably to put away her new things. Presently she came out again.

  “You had no right to talk to Rad that way,” she said. “He meant no harm. He’s just a peddler trying to make a living.”

  “How do you know?” he challenged, turning to face her. She stood there in her tunic and chausses, with her feet apart and her hands fisted at her sides, ready to take on the world. She looked amazingly like the young man she pretended to be. Only Rainulf knew otherwise—and Father Gregory, of course, to whom he confided everything. And now, perhaps, this Rad.

  “Really, Rainulf. First it’s shadowy figures in alleyways. And now, every person I befriend becomes suspect—”

  “You have no business befriending people like that peddler.”

  “Why? Because of how he looks? I can’t believe you, of all people, would judge a man on the basis of—”

  “You should know me better than that, Corliss. His appearance means naught to me. And it should mean naught to you, but in fact, you seem to assume some innate goodness in him because of his misfortune. Life isn’t always like that. People who’ve suffered can be evil, too. Certain kinds of suffering can even bring out wickedness in those of weak character.”

  “Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Rainulf. The man is harmless.”

  “No one of that size is harmless.”

  “He’s simple-minded... I think.”

  “But you don’t know for sure.” He strode over to her and grabbed her upper arms. “All you really know is that Sir Roger has sent someone to find you. Someone who will not only return you to Cuxham, but do serious harm to you in the process. You ought to have more sense than to expose yourself to strangers this way. You’re making yourself too visible, Corliss. You lark about on your own, in all precincts and at all hours. This morning Father Gregory told me he saw you last night with a group of scholars outside St. Mary’s, listening to that hothead, Victor, gripe about the townspeople.”

  She wrested out of his grip and rubbed her arms. “I thought he pointed out some genuine concerns.”

  Rainulf grunted. “Pointing out concerns is easy. Doing the right thing about them is hard. Victor invites trouble. I think he may actually want to die. They tell me he used to be quite the ruthless mercenary—completely bloodthirsty. Perhaps he thinks he’s sinned so badly that he must atone with his own death.”

  “That’s preposterous.”

  “Perhaps. Nevertheless, you mustn’t fall in with his crowd, Corliss—or any crowd. You mustn’t go out at night so much, or talk to strangers, or trust anyone. One of these days someone may take a good hard look at you and realize you’re not what you seem.”

  She smiled dismissively. “No one pays any attention to me. I’m just another adolescent boy roaming around Oxford—one of hundreds. Don’t you understand? For the first time in my life, I’m free to go where I please and do what I want, and no one tries to stop me—except you.”

  He dragged his hands through his hair. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  She raised her chin. “You just don’t want to lose the chancellorship, and you’re afraid that’s what will happen if people find out you’re living with a—”

  “It’s not just that, Corliss. I’m worried about you. If anything happened to you...” He sighed heavily. “I’m going to have to forbid you to continue exposing yourself to danger in this manner.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I won’t permit you out after dark anymore.”

  Outrage flared in her wide brown eyes. “What?”

  He tried to gentle his voice. “Not unless I’m with you. And you’ll have to limit your movements and associations—”

  “You can’t be serious.” She gaped at him, her face a mask of disbelief. “Please tell me you’re not serious.”

  “Corliss...” He reached for her, but she backed away from him.

  “I can’t believe you’re saying these things to me. I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.”

  “Corliss!”

  “I didn’t come to Oxford to be told what to do and when to do it, where to go and who to talk to.”

  “It’s for your own good, Corliss.”

  “I
thought you were different,” she said, her voice quavering. “But you’re like every other man I’ve ever known. You think you have the right to tell me what to do, just because of what hangs between your legs. You know, when you come right down to it, you’re little better than Roger Foliot.”

  “Corliss...”

  She swept past him and into her bedchamber, tugging the leather curtain closed behind her.

  He listened outside the chamber for several minutes. She was moving about in there. “Corliss?”

  No answer. He parted the curtain. Her satchel lay open on the unmade bed. Within it he saw her clothes and the Biblia Pauperum. She picked her comb up off the washstand and tossed it on top, then buckled it and slung it over her shoulder.

  “It’s not that I don’t appreciate everything you’ve done for me,” she said, calmer now. “But I can’t live the way you want me to live. Not anymore. I’ll come back for my paints and inks and things as soon as I find my own place.”

  She tried to walk past him, but he blocked her way. “You can’t afford a decent place, Corliss—not yet, anyway.”

  “I’d rather live in the most dismal rented room, and be free, than to stay here.”

  “I thought...” A strand of hair hung in her eyes; he brushed it aside and saw her bite her lip. Very quietly he said, “I thought you liked it here.”

  “I love it here,” she replied softly. “I never thought I’d live in such a grand house. And you’ve been...” She looked down. “You’ve been very kind. But if the only way I can live here is to give up my freedom, I’m no better off than a bird in a cage. A very grand cage, to be sure, but a cage nonetheless. Good-bye, Rainulf.”

  She tried to walk around him, but he seized her shoulders. “Corliss, don’t.”

  She tried to twist out of his grip. “Rainulf, please. Let me go.”

  “No.” He held her tighter.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t want to.” With one hand wrapped around her back and the other holding her head against his chest, he murmured, “I don’t want you to go.”

  He could barely hear her when she spoke, but he thought she said, “I don’t either.”

  His heart thundered in his chest. “Then don’t.”

  “I have to.”

  “No you don’t.” He closed his eyes and rubbed his cheek against her glossy hair. “You don’t. Stay.”

  “But—”

  “I won’t tell you what to do,” he promised in a hoarse whisper. “I won’t tell you where to go.”

  She backed away slightly. Her arms encircled him, he realized; when had she returned his embrace?

  “Really?” she said. Her warm breath tickled his face. She was so close... He felt her chest rise and fall with every breath she took.

  He nodded. “Just promise me... promise me you’ll be careful.”

  Those charming little frown lines appeared between her eyebrows. “Nay,” she said, “I refuse to be careful.” He blinked, and she burst out laughing. “You are so dreadfully serious, Rainulf Fairfax. I must try to cure you of that.”

  He found himself smiling. “Then you’ll stay?”

  “Aye.”

  He squeezed her tight and kissed the top of her head. She looked up at him; his gaze traveled from her eyes to her mouth, slightly parted. He felt breathless, light-headed...

  I could lower my mouth, he thought crazily, until it touches hers. I could kiss her. It would be the most natural thing in the world.

  And the most foolish.

  He released her—somewhat abruptly, he realized—and stepped back. “Good,” he said gruffly. “You’ll be safe here.”

  A fleeting trace of sadness darkened her eyes, and then she smiled stiffly and nodded.

  From beyond the leather curtain he heard the groaning of stairs, and then a voice from the main hall, Luella’s voice: “Father Rainulf? Corliss? Anybody home?”

  They drew farther apart, just as Luella flung the leather curtain open. “Here you are! I’ve got nice, fresh bread for dinner, and some lovely sausages. Shall I cook them up now? Are you hungry, Father?”

  Rainulf let out a long, ragged sigh. “Do stop calling me ‘Father,’ Luella. And yes, I’m hungry... terribly hungry.”

  Chapter 7

  “Shall I begin?” Rainulf asked, pulling up a chair next to Corliss’s desk and unfolding the sheaf of parchment.

  “Go ahead,” she said, “but move your chair back a bit so your breath doesn’t disturb the gold leaf.” He did as she asked. In truth, there was little risk in having him sit so close—except to her composure. During the month they’d been living together, the foolish attraction she felt for him had not diminished in the least; in fact, it grew stronger day by day. To attempt the tricky business of applying gold leaf with Rainulf Fairfax mere inches away was more of a challenge than she felt up to.

  He cleared his throat and began to read Abelard’s letter of consolation to his friend. “‘There are times when a personal example is more effective than advice. I shall therefore elaborate upon the consolation I offered you in person with the history of my own misfortunes, which I hope will comfort you in my absence.’”

  “Comfort?” she said as she arranged her tools and materials on the flat desk for easy access. “What made him think his own problems would comfort anyone?”

  “Well—”

  “Was this a real letter? It doesn’t sound like a letter to a friend. Sounds more like an excuse to talk about himself... to whine about his problems.”

  Rainulf gave an astonished little gasp of laughter. “Peter Abelard didn’t whine. He was the greatest—”

  “The greatest thinker in Europe,” she finished, mocking his sober tone. “A man of extraordinary brilliance. And, it would seem, something of a whiner.”

  Avoiding Rainulf’s gaze, she made a show of leaning over the double page on her desk to examine the miniature she was preparing to gild. Hard as she tried, she couldn’t keep from smiling at Rainulf’s outrage. He took everything so terribly seriously. She knew she shouldn’t goad him so much, but he made it so irresistible. A glance revealed that he was smiling, too. Ah! Progress!

  “As it happens,” he said, “you’re right about this being more than a simple letter. It’s generally agreed that Abelard intended it to become public and set the record straight about his supposed heresy and his love affair with Héloïse. I understand it’s been in circulation for nearly three decades, although this is the first I’ve seen of it. I’m curious as to how he’s going to explain away Héloïse. As a teacher, he was supposed to remain celibate.” He found his place in the document. “Shall I continue?”

  “Please.”

  “‘I was born on the border of Brittany, about eight miles east of Nantes...’”

  Corliss took a long, critical look at the drawing she’d inked but not yet colored—St. Luke at a writing desk, with an angel peeking out of a cloud above—and felt inordinately pleased with herself. The lines were fluid and natural, the folds in Luke’s robe the best she’d ever drawn. His face had come out particularly well—handsome yet thoughtful, almost grim. The nose was straight and aristocratic, the jaw strong, the eyes kind and intelligent. Her instructions had been to give the saint long, flowing hair and a beard, and this she had done; but for them, the face staring up at her from the parchment was none other than the face of Rainulf Fairfax.

  She glanced from the portrait to the man himself, absorbed in reading his beloved Abelard’s rather self-indulgent Historia Calamitatum. “‘Finally I arrived in Paris, where the study of dialectic had long flourished...’”

  His face glowed with a light sheen of perspiration. It was dreadfully hot for May, and she’d had to tack parchment over the window by the desk so the warm breezes wouldn’t disturb the gold leaf. He wore an untucked white shirt over his chausses, the open neck of which revealed the dark hair on his upper chest—not wiry hair, as Sully’s had been, but soft and smooth. Just as a creature with silken fur invited petting,
so Rainulf’s chest cried out to be touched. Her fingers hummed with a restless urge to stroke it... She ached to lay her cheek against its sleek heat and hear the heartbeat within.

  Corliss, you idiot! Holding her breath, she carefully lifted a weightless, shimmering piece of gold leaf with a thin brush and let it fall atop her gilder’s cushion. It fluttered down like a wrinkled silken sheet, and she gently blew it out flat.

  “‘My school was established and I began to develop a reputation for dialectic...’”

  Corliss bit her lip as she painstakingly cut the gold leaf with a tiny, sharp knife into the crescent shape of St. Luke’s halo. What an idiot she was to have taken a fancy to Rainulf Fairfax. For one thing, there was no question of her feelings ever being reciprocated, given Rainulf’s disinterest in women. Only once during her stay here had she had cause to question that disinterest—when she’d packed her things and tried to leave, after he’d attempted to restrict her movements. He’d embraced her, kissed her hair, all but begged her to stay... Have I misjudged him? she’d wondered, elated by the possibility that he might care for her.

  But no... No sooner had she agreed to remain in the house than he once again assumed that distant politeness with which he treated all women. It was clear that any affection he might harbor for her was, at most, that of a brother toward his sister. That this disappointed her shamed her intensely. The last thing she wanted was an affair of the heart with Rainulf. It would compromise her freedom. Yet at the same time, she miserably conceded, it was all she wanted, all she thought about when she wasn’t working. Her gaze settled on St. Luke’s all-too-familiar face, and she smiled sardonically, for in truth, the handsome magister appeared to be all she thought about even when she was working.

  “‘My lectures gained such renown that my own master’s most zealous followers, who were once my strongest critics, now flocked to school...’”

  Corliss wiped her brow with her tunic sleeve so that sweat wouldn’t fall on her work, and then leaned close to the drawing and carefully examined the area to which the gold leaf would be applied. The pinkish gesso she had laid down on the halo yesterday had dried, and now she took up another little knife and scraped the raised surface smooth. Bringing her mouth close to the page, she breathed onto the gesso, the dampness of her breath making it slightly sticky. Working quickly, she lifted the little crescent of gold leaf and settled it onto the gesso, then grabbed a square of silk and pressed the infinitely thin gold onto the raised medium with her thumb.