Heaven's Fire (29 page)

Behind her, she heard Rainulf tell the young men to wait. He caught up with her and grabbed her arm. She shook him off. “Who do you think you are,” she fumed, “ordering me about as if I were—”

“You’re right.”

She snapped her mouth shut.

“‘Twas a rash reaction,” he conceded. “Born of concern for you. I worry about you associating with Victor and that crowd, and it’s so late. You’d have to walk home alone in the dark.”

“Victor lives on the East End, so I can walk home with him. I’ll be safe.”

Rainulf frowned uncertainly.

“He’s a former mercenary,” she reminded him. “If anyone can protect me, Victor can. I’ll be fine.”

Rainulf raked his fingers through his hair. “All right. But come home as soon as you can. I’ll wait up for you.”

Corliss sat in the back of the church and yawned all through the meeting, wishing she hadn’t felt obliged to attend just to make a point with Rainulf. She paid little attention to the issues that were discussed and the action that was decided on. Instead, she pondered the question of what sort of decorations to paint around Rainulf’s fireplace that would complement the dancing monkeys encircling the windows.

Lions, perhaps... noble golden beasts, like the magister himself. She had just finished illuminating another signature of Chancellor Becket’s Bible, and would have time before starting the next one to sketch the lions onto the whitewashed wall. She pictured a row of them, one after the other, each gripping in its mouth the tail of his brother in front. One after the other they would march around the fireplace... marching... marching...

A hand jiggled her shoulder. “Corliss? Wake up.”

She groaned.

“Was it that boring?” Victor asked.

“Yes.”

He grinned and shook his head. “Come on. I’ll walk with you as far as the magister’s house.”

The moon was full, bathing the narrow streets in a dusky half-light. Conversation during the walk was decidedly one-sided, with Victor discoursing at length on the justification of force to attain his ends, and Corliss pretending to listen. As they approached the corner of St. John Street, she thought she heard footsteps from behind. Heavy footsteps.

Must be Rad
. She toyed with the idea of confronting him. It would be unwise to do so in the presence of Victor who, at any rate, was too preoccupied with his oration to even notice that they were being followed.

The footsteps quickened. What was this? Rad never tried to catch up with her, preferring to skulk in the shadows. She turned to look back at him just as he raised a massive club and brought it down on Victor’s head.

She watched in speechless horror as the blow shuddered through Victor. He didn’t make a sound, merely collapsed bonelessly, like a rag doll tossed onto the ground. A scream welled up inside her, but her throat wouldn’t work. She couldn’t feel her legs or arms.

Rainulf’s calm voice came to her as clearly as it had during their fighting lesson in the stable yard:
Don’t panic. Get away if you can
.

She turned to run as the hulking brute with the club advanced on her. Was it Rad? He was big like Rad, but he wore a sacklike mask over his head.

A dull burst of pain exploded in her lower back, hurling her sideways into the street. She landed hard, the air whooshing out of her lungs on impact. When she tried to draw a breath, she found she couldn’t. Panic found a foothold, and raced through her.

Victor still lay facedown on the road, unconscious. Struggling for air, Corliss watched as his assailant tossed the club away and yanked Victor’s purse from his belt, pocketing it. Then he searched his victim’s boot, withdrawing something that gleamed maliciously in the moonlight.

A dagger. Victor’s dagger
. “A taste of your own steel,” the masked man growled. “That’s what you’re needin’, you goddamn troublemaker.”

Exerting an enormous effort, Corliss managed to suck in a breath. The air seared her lungs, and she choked on it.
At least I’m breathing
.

The big man pressed a knee into Victor’s back, grabbed a handful of black hair, and yanked his head up. Victor groaned and blinked; a ribbon of blood ran from his mouth.

“What do you say?” His attacker held Victor’s own blade in front of his eyes. “Should I open up your throat quicklike or make it last a bit?”

“Burnell,” Victor rasped, “you bastard!”

“Guilty.” He tore the mask off. “Including the bastard part. I reckon that’s something we have in common, eh?”

My dagger!
The brutal tavern keeper had his back to her. If she was very quiet...

Corliss reached down into her own boot, closed her fingers around the hilt of her dagger, and slid it out. Clutching the weapon in her fist, she crept stealthily toward the two men.

Burnell pressed the blade against Victor’s throat and chuckled harshly. “Do y’suppose I’ll get extra time in purgatory for killin’ the son of a priest?”

Victor bared his teeth. “You’ll roast in hell where you belong, you son of a bitch!”

“I’ll see you there, then.”

As Corliss approached Burnell, her nostrils flared at his ripe, greasy odor: stale sweat and rancid meat. Coming up behind the big man, she grabbed him by the neck of his tunic and held her dagger to his throat. “Drop it.”

Burnell froze; Victor grinned.

“Now!”

Burnell eased the blade away from Victor’s throat and let go of his hair...

Then he grabbed Corliss’s wrist, raised her hand to his mouth, and bit it, hard. Corliss yelped. The dagger fell from her fingers. She grappled for it, but Burnell got it first.

No!

Corliss and Victor both struggled to rise, but Burnell, laughing, was already on his feet, a dagger in each mammoth fist. He kicked Victor in the head. The young scholar flopped onto his back and groaned, then went limp.

Burnell wheeled on Corliss and kicked her in the stomach. She went down like a sack of rocks, gasping in pain.

Looking up, she saw his dark form looming over her, saw teeth and steel glinting in the light of the full moon. “You and him and them others been costin’ me money,” he growled, fumbling with the pouch on her belt. “You owe me some silver.” He tried to tear the pouch off, but it wouldn’t budge, so he jammed his fingers inside and felt around. “What the hell’s this?” he demanded as he fumbled with her little reliquary, which was all that the pouch contained. “Where’s your money?”

“I left it home,” she managed. It was the truth, but he clearly didn’t believe her. He knelt close to her, overwhelming her with his sickening smell. Gripping both daggers in one hand and pressing them to her throat, he shoved the other under the hem of her tunic and groped along the waist-cord of her chausses for a hidden purse.

The feel of his hand beneath her tunic filled her with revulsion... and fear. If he searched her thoroughly, he might detect the lack of more than a purse. She tried to writhe away, and he flicked the blades at her throat; she felt a stinging pain, followed by a hot trickle down her neck.

“Next time I’ll slice you open.” He ran his hand over her belly...

And back again.

And paused.

Desperately she tried to skitter back, but that only brought his meaty palm directly between her legs. His eyes widened and then narrowed. “What have we here?” He grabbed her hard, and she cried out. “More to the point, what
don’t
we have?”

His low, sinister laughter made her insides spin around slowly. Snatching his hand out from under her tunic, he ran it over her chest, frowning in puzzlement at its flatness. Keeping one blade at her throat, he used the other to slash open her tunic. A second pass slit her shirt down the front. A third tore into the linen bindings around her chest—and her skin as well.

She screamed in pain and tried to push his hand away. He raised it and slammed the hilt of the dagger into her forehead.

Bursts of light filled her vision and a blessed numbness overtook her... but not completely. She felt him push aside the shreds of linen, heard his awful chuckle as she lay exposed beneath him. Through slitted eyes she saw him shove one dagger into the sheath on his belt and hurl the other into the hard-packed earth, where it stuck, quivering.

Then she felt his hands on her.

No! No!
She thrashed fiercely and he chuckled. “You’re a live one, are you?”

He grabbed her under her arms and pulled her between two buildings.
For privacy?
She struggled, but couldn’t dislodge his firm grip.

The space between the stone walls was very narrow, and black as hell. He dropped her; she landed with a thud. She tried to rise, but he was there, on top of her, pawing her, groping.

No! God, no!

He grabbed her knees. She focused all her strength on keeping her legs together, but he wrenched them apart and knelt between them. By what little moonlight penetrated the dark passage, she saw him untie his braies.

Don’t panic!
Again she heard Rainulf’s voice of cool reason:
Go for the nose... use the heel of your hand.

She cocked her wrist and whipped it down. It connected with a soft crunch, and he howled.

“Fuckin’ bitch!” He slapped her hard across the face. “I’ll teach you.” Breathing harshly, he lifted her tunic and fumbled with the cord that secured her chausses.

Or you can break a finger
, Rainulf had instructed.
Here’s how
...

Reaching down, she grabbed one of his hands, located the little finger, and snapped it sharply. His roar of pain filled the alleyway. Yet she was too confined to escape. She couldn’t move, couldn’t maneuver in a space that was no wider than her opponent. Squeezing out between Burnell and the wall was impossible, so while he cradled his hand, moaning, she retreated quickly...

Only to find another wall at her back. On three sides of her there was stone; on the fourth, Burnell.
Oh, God, no
... She scrambled to her feet.

With a bellow of rage, he rose and charged her.

She ducked, grabbing him around his thick waist; she felt the wide leather belt, the sheath...
the dagger!
Her hand closed around the weapon’s hilt a split second before his would have. She yanked it out and rose.
What now? Where do I strike?
Taking advantage of her moment of indecision, Burnell seized her wrist and twisted. She felt her fingers open.
No, no
...

With a guttural cry of triumph, he took possession of the dagger and pointed its tip at her bare chest. “You’re a plucky little wench, I’ll give you that. You think you’re invincible, don’t you?”

Ah, you’re invincible now, are you?
Rainulf had said. Right before she’d...

Yes. Do it.

She hooked her leg around Burnell’s, and they went down together, limbs tangled, grunting. They grappled savagely in the dark, confined space. She groped for the dagger. Burnell wrested it away and rolled on top of her as she flailed at him.

And then he cried out, a long, harrowing shriek that echoed and echoed off the stone walls.

What... ?

He rose over her, quivering. She heard a wet, strangled gurgle and saw the dagger sticking out of his throat.

Jesus!

Eyes wild, he grabbed the weapon with both hands and yanked it free. Something warm and wet pulsed onto her. He collapsed on her, jerking as the blood pumped out of him, soaking her.

“No!” she pushed against him. But it was no use.  His twitching body pinned her down; his garbled cries filled her ears. She tasted his blood in her mouth.

She closed her eyes and raised her voice in a long, hoarse scream.

Suddenly she felt his weight lift off her. She opened her eyes, and he wasn’t there anymore.

Rainulf
. He stood over her, stricken with horror. “Corliss! Oh, God!” He crouched, touching her gingerly. “You’re hurt! What did he—”

His voice caught in her throat as his hands traveled from her face to her chest, encountering her shredded garments and bare skin, soaked with blood. His fingers brushed one of the dagger cuts and she winced.

“Oh, Jesus,” he rasped, gathering her in his arms. “Corliss. Oh, God.”

A sound from behind made them both turn to see Burnell lurching out of the alley with his hands clutching his throat, his braies around his ankles. Rainulf stiffened, his face contorting with hatred. A dark, unsteady figure—Victor, clearly still dazed—lunged at Burnell, but he managed to throw him off and stumble away.

Victor started after the wounded tavern keeper, but Rainulf yelled, “Let the bastard go, Victor! He’s done for.”

“Oh, no,” Victor moaned, staggering into the alley. “Corliss?”

“She’s hurt,” Rainulf managed. “Badly, I think.”

“She?” Victor peered down at her, his eyes widening in the dark.

Corliss pulled the two halves of her shirt together with trembling hands. “It’s not that bad.”

Victor looked stunned, whether from the blows Burnell had dealt him, or the revelation of her true sex, she couldn’t say.