Heaven's Fire (6 page)

Her eyes, shining with curiosity and compassion and native intelligence, searched his. “You must have very sad memories,” she said quietly.

“My memories of the men I killed are far worse than those of imprisonment. I thought of them as infidels, as less than human. I thought ‘twas God’s will that they be slain.” He swallowed the bitter reminiscence and shook his head. “I gained my freedom and returned to Paris, but my faith had been undermined. Mother Church had sent me halfway around the world to do an evil thing, and I found I could never trust her teachings again. Nothing was ever the same after that.”

“Yet you took your vows.”

He nodded. “I was educated for the priesthood, and I thought, perhaps in time, my faith would grow strong again. Instead, it slowly weakened, until...” He took in a lungful of hot air. “I returned to the Holy Land last year as a pilgrim, thinking that would help, but it’s hopeless.”

“All this melancholy because you killed trying to retake the Holy Land?” she asked. “Don’t you think killing is justified sometimes?”

“Nay. Not anymore.”

“How awful to live with such torment,” she said. “And how silly.”

Rainulf let out a disbelieving little laugh. “Silly?”

“You make everything so complicated, so troublesome. You can’t accept anything for what it is.”

“Constance... you really don’t understand.”

She laughed and waved her hand in airy dismissal. “I understand much more than you realize.” Her gaze traveled to the book in his lap. “What do you think of it?”

He closed it and ran his hand over the lavishly embroidered cover. “I think it’s extraordinary. Where did you learn to do such work?”

“Father Osred, of course. He used to copy books for himself, and also some to sell in Oxford. But by the time I came to live with him, his hands had become all gnarly and sore.”

“So he taught you copying and illuminating,” Rainulf finished. “And Latin as well, I take it?”

“Aye. I love making books—the pictures especially.” She nodded toward the
Biblia Pauperum
. “I’ve just finished that one. It’s my masterwork. If I do die, at least I’ll know I’ve done something special first.”

“It’s very special,” he said, rising to return the book to its cupboard. “‘Twas good of Father Osred to teach you this craft.”

Constance regarded him thoughtfully as he replaced the volume and squatted next to the fire, stirring it up with the poker. She said, “You probably think... You must think I’m a... a common woman. A whore.”

He set the poker aside and wiped his sweaty hands on his chausses. “It’s not my place to pass judgment on you, Constance.”

“Aye, but I know what you think.”

He looked her straight in the eye and said quietly, “No, you don’t.” Moving closer to her, he gently tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “Our thoughts are private. And our actions, even if they be sinful, are rarely without cause. God understands this. It’s men who don’t.”

She inspected him with discerning eyes. “You don’t talk like other priests, Father.”

“I’m not like other priests,” he said soberly.

“Do you want to be?”

“Oh, yes. Yes. Very much. I want their easy faith, their unquestioning devotion. But instead, I question ceaselessly.”

“Is that really so wrong?”

“I didn’t use to think so. Do you know who Peter Abelard was?”

She shook her head.

“He was the greatest thinker in Europe, a man of extraordinary brilliance. I studied under him in Paris. He encouraged us to doubt what we were told. He said, ‘It is not because God has said something that we believe it, but because we are convinced that it is so.’”

“What nonsense,” Constance said.

Rainulf chuckled incredulously. “What?”

“Utter nonsense. No wonder you’re miserable, having to struggle to
convince
yourself of things before you can believe them!”

“I’m not miserable.”

“Of course you are. Look at you. I’ve never seen anyone so grim.” She bit her lip, and then said, “Is it so very awful, being a priest who asks questions?”

He stared into the fire. “Yes, actually. It is. When I returned from pilgrimage six months ago, I went to Paris and immediately petitioned to renounce my vows.”

Her brow knit. “To stop being a priest?” He nodded. “Can you do that?”

“No, not... not ordinarily. It’s very rare and exceedingly difficult.”

“Ah, but not for a cousin of the queen, I’ll wager. Was there royal intercession on your behalf?”

“There was,” he conceded, amused at her savvy. “But it still wasn’t enough. You have no idea what an outrage it is to ask for release from the priesthood. I had to come up with a better reason than my relation to the queen.”

“And what was that?”

He sighed dispiritedly. “I claimed that the bishop who ordained me wasn’t qualified to do so, because he was a heretic.”

“Was he?”

Rainulf shrugged. “He was excommunicated for heresy, but only because he had dared to align himself with Abelard. All of Abelard’s supporters were excommunicated after Abelard was condemned as a heretic by the Council of Sens. One of them—Arnold of Brescia—was even burned.”

“Burned!”

“That’s the punishment for the most serious forms of heresy. My sister, Martine, was condemned of heretical sorcery a year ago, and sentenced to the stake, merely for being a healer. ‘Tis a miracle that she managed to prove her innocence.”

“My God!”

“The bishop who ordained me was luckier. He got away with a flogging and banishment. I was loath to use this poor man’s misfortune to benefit my own ends, but he himself encouraged me to do so. He said his reputation was already ruined—that I could do no more harm than had already been done. Still, I was consumed with guilt over the whole matter. And, of course, my petition has created quite a scandal. I’m a pariah in Paris. I used to teach there, but they’ve asked me not to come back. I knew that would happen, but I had to do it anyway.”

She yawned and shook her head. “I’m sorry for your troubles.”

“And I’m sorry for yours.” He rested the back of his hand on her forehead and smiled. “Much better. I believe you’re out of danger.”

She took hold of his hand and brought it to her mouth, lightly kissing the palm. The warmth of her lips sent delicious shivers up Rainulf’s arm. “Thank you. I think you may have saved my life.”

He gently disengaged his hand from hers and urged her to lie back down. “You need your strength. Sleep.”

She closed her eyes, and within moments was sleeping soundly.

*   *   *

“What’s this?”

Rainulf looked up from the open saddlebag in which he was stowing away everything he’d brought. A portly woman stood in the doorway, backlit by a radiant dawn, hands firmly planted on her generous hips, her expression one of wary puzzlement. Her face seemed unnervingly familiar to him, which didn’t make any sense until he realized where he’d seen it before—on one of Constance’s window parchment angels.

Rainulf put a finger to his lips and tilted his head toward Constance, fast asleep on her pallet. “Don’t wake her,” he whispered. “Are you”—he struggled to recall the name—”Ella?”

Ella’s eyebrows rose fractionally. “Aye,” she said quietly. “And you’d be...”

“Rainulf Fairfax.
Father
Rainulf Fairfax.”

Ella inspected his tunic and leggings with ill-concealed suspicion. “You don’t—”

“Look like much of a priest,” Rainulf finished wearily. He was exhausted, both mentally and physically. All he wanted was to sleep, yet he had to ride back to Oxford as swiftly as possible for an important lecture later that morning. He had just been awaiting Ella’s arrival before he left, so that he’d know Constance would be cared for. “Yet, oddly enough, I am.” As proof, he withdrew his folded stole for her inspection, then tucked it back in. “For the time being, at least.”

Ella looked decidedly confused for a moment. Then, seeming to shrug him off like a fly, she approached her sleeping friend and squatted down next to her. “The pox have appeared.”

“Aye.” Rainulf followed her line of sight to the scattering of minuscule red pinpoints on Constance’s cheeks and forehead, soon to be followed by many more.

Ella executed a solemn sign of the cross. “Pray God she don’t scar.”

Automatically Rainulf crossed himself as well, his gaze caressing that singular face. He hoped with all his heart that it would be spared. It was a face of such rare humor and intelligence; it would be a grave sadness indeed for it to be ruined.

“Is she...” Ella hesitated, then looked up at him, grief and hope and fear in her eyes. “Will she...”

“Will she live?” Ella nodded. “I’m not a physician. But I would think so. Her fever broke during the night, and she seems much better.”

“Praise God,” Ella breathed, crossing herself again.

Rainulf slung his saddlebag over his shoulder and looked down upon Constance. “Tell her...”

Tell her what? That she’s one of the most extraordinary people you’ve ever met? That you can’t bear to think of never seeing her again? That you’ll come back and make sure she’s all right? And then perhaps again, and again...?

No. It would be very poor judgment indeed to allow himself to form an attachment of any kind with Constance of Cuxham. Attachments in general were something he’d avoided for quite a long time, as he’d retreated further and further into the comforting emotional void of academia. And an attachment to a woman—however innocent—would be particularly unwise, considering his plans should his petition for release from his vows prove successful.

“Tell her good-bye.” Tearing his gaze from Constance, he strode quickly to the door and stopped, a thought occurring to him. Searching through his saddlebag, he located the tiny silver reliquary, brought it over to Constance, and knelt beside her. He rubbed his thumb over the little pearl-encrusted cross, kissed it, and tucked it into her open hand, closing her fingers firmly around it.

“God be with you, Constance,” he whispered, and left.

Rainulf saw the face in the open shopfront as he passed. Or, rather, he saw the hair, from the back—a swath of fiery copper—and mentally put the befreckled face to it as he walked by. It was that fellow who’d sent him to Cuxham two weeks ago. Pausing, he turned and looked back toward the shop—one of dozens lining narrow Pennyfarthing Street—above which hung a small sign announcing
Will Geary, Surgeon
. He retraced his steps and opened the door, jarring the bell that dangled overhead.

The surgeon turned to look over his shoulder as he deftly bandaged the arm of a young man sitting on the edge of a central table. “Well! If it isn’t my poxy priest! Good afternoon, Father. What brings you to my humble shop? I hope you’re not hurt.”

“Nay. Just passing by, and I saw you in the window. I thought you were a
traveling
surgeon.”

“I am, for the most part.” Geary tied off the bandage, and the young man winced. “But I’ve had this shop for years, and I can’t bear it give it up. Also, I live right upstairs”—he pointed toward a narrow staircase in the rear of the shop, near a stack of coffins—”so I don’t fancy letting someone else conduct business down here. I like my privacy.”

The oaken table on which the young patient sat was long enough for a man to lie upon, and featured a carved channel along the edge for blood, as well as leather restraints with buckles, not in use at present. A smaller table laid out with surgical tools stood to the side, and cupboards lined the walls. The coffins in back attested to the difficulty and unpredictability of the surgeon’s art. Rainulf doubted he would have the stomach for such work.

Geary assisted the young man off the table and helped him on with his cappa. “Keep that arm clean, boy,” he ordered, then held out his hand. His patient withdrew his purse, made payment, and took his leave.

“By the way, Master Geary,” Rainulf said, “it’s not ‘Father’ anymore. I’ve just received word that the Pope has released me from my vows.”

The surgeon frowned as he counted the coins. “I didn’t know that was possible.”

“Neither did I, until I did it.”

“So this was something you wanted.”

“Aye.”

“Then you must celebrate. There’s a public house next door. Let’s share a pint, shall we? I’ll even pay, providing you promise not to call me ‘Master Geary.’” He grinned and pocketed the silver. “The name’s Will.”

The public house in question turned out to be the downstairs room of a brothel. As soon as the two men were seated, half a dozen working wenches gathered around their table, all silken smiles and undulating hips. The boldest—and prettiest—laid claim to Rainulf immediately, planting herself firmly on his lap and pressing his hands to her ample bosom.

“You’re wasting your time, Hulda,” said one of the other whores. “I recognize that one. He’s a priest.”

“Are you, now,” Hulda purred as she wrapped her arms around him; Rainulf dropped his hands to her waist. “I’ve got some impure thoughts to confess, Father... thoughts I started having as soon as you walked through that door.” Bringing her painted mouth close to his ear, she shared those thoughts in a voice throaty with sexual promise. She whispered things she could do to him... things she’d let him do to her.