Heaven's Fire (10 page)

“I don’t believe I’ve seen you before, Corliss,” said Brad, the dark one. His English accent pleased her; he was a Saxon, like her. “What do you study?”

Corliss hesitated. “I... I came to Oxford to work, not to study.” She set her satchel on the rush-covered floor, retrieved her
Biblia Pauperum
, and handed it to Brad. “I’m an illuminator.”

The young men praised her workmanship, and she flushed with pride. “You must go to Catte Street,” Thomas said. “That’s where the booksellers and scribes and such have their shops.”

“I know,” she said, taking back the volume and carefully replacing it in the satchel. “I went there today, but had no luck. Perhaps tomorrow.”

The magister nodded toward the empty trenchers. “Have you two eaten all my supper again?”

Thomas shook his head, grinning. “Luella has taken to cooking extra. She’s used to us by now.”

“Where is she?”

“Downstairs,” Brad said.

Master Fairfax crossed to an arched opening in the corner to the right of the hearth, through which Corliss could see a spiral staircase leading to the lower level. “I’m home, Luella!” he called down.

An odd twist of discomfort burned in Corliss’s stomach. She had wondered about women, had considered the possibility that the robust priest—now ex-priest— kept a mistress in some convenient place. What more convenient place than one’s own home?

As if sensing her speculation, the ex-priest in question said, “Luella is my housekeeper.”

Just as I was Father Osred’s housekeeper
. Corliss heard footsteps ascend the curving staircase. Slow and heavy footsteps, she realized as they neared, and accompanied by stentorian breathing.

“It’s about time!” came a gravelly, English-accented voice just as its owner—a very large, red-faced, and breathless woman of advanced years—appeared at the top of the stairs. “I was just tidying up the lecture hall for tomorrow, though I don’t know as I should bother, seeing as how it’ll look once that herd of yours is done with it.” Her sharp little eyes settled on Corliss. “Who the devil are you, young man, and what are you grinning at?”

Corliss swiftly composed her features. “I didn’t mean to stare, mistress. My name is Corliss.”

Luella crossed her arms and raked Corliss with a coolly assessing gaze. “Another mouth to feed, eh, Father?” She stalked inelegantly to the table and gathered up the used trenchers, tossing them in a pail in the corner. “
And
clean up after!” she added, spearing Thomas and Brad with a censorious frown. She grabbed a large spoon from a hook and stirred the contents of the cauldron, releasing more of its seductive aroma into the room.

“Do stop calling me ‘Father,’ Luella. And yes, I do intend to feed Corliss, but we’ll clean up after ourselves. I thought you might be ready to go home. Thomas and Brad will be happy to walk you back to Grope Lane.” He cast a meaningful glance in their direction. “Won’t you, boys?”

The two youths assented with a decided lack of grace, then swiftly gulped down the remainder of their ale and rose unsteadily.

“Lots of good they’ll do me in
their
condition,” grumbled Luella as Rainulf helped her on with her shawl.

“I was hoping you could protect
them
,” the magister said. Luella hooted with laughter, the boys rolled their eyes, and the three took their leave.

The big hall rang with silence once Corliss and Master Fairfax were alone together. He said nothing, simply leaned back against the table, crossed his arms, and scrutinized her, as if inspecting a strange new type of creature he’d never seen before. Corliss began to shiver, as much from nervousness as from her sodden clothes. She licked her lips and looked around, observing the bare walls, the minimal furniture, the very vastness of the place.

“This whole house is yours?” she asked.

“Aye,” he said without taking his eyes off her.

“It must have cost a fortune.”

He appeared to ponder that. “I suppose that would depend on your definition of a fortune.”

She detected a slight shift in the atmosphere between them, a subtle disquiet, and wondered at its cause. “That’s not an answer.”

“You didn’t ask a question,” he pointed out.

“Is this how academics converse?” she asked testily. “I hate it. Why won’t you just tell me how much the house cost?”

“One isn’t supposed to ask such things.” He smiled oddly. “It cost thirty-eight pounds sterling.”

Her jaw dropped open. “You have that much money?” Before he could answer, she said, “Of course you do. You’re a cousin of the queen. You must be terribly wealthy, priest or no priest.”

“I’m not a priest,” he said a bit irritably, pushing away from the table, but keeping his eyes trained on her.

She took a step back. “Why do you keep staring at me like that?”

He almost smiled. “Father Osred was right. You
are
like a little child, always asking questions.”

She raised her chin. “Well?”

After a moment’s hesitation, he said quietly, a note of amazement in his voice, “They thought you were a boy.”

So that was it. He couldn’t believe her disguise actually worked! “That’s the point of all this,” she said, indicating her masculine garb with a sweeping gesture.

“No, but they really believed it. They have no idea you’re a woman. None whatsoever.”

She grinned. “You see? I could probably live this way for years, and none would be the wiser.”

He turned his head toward the fire, clearly still engaged in his private ruminations. She followed his line of sight, her gaze lighting on the cauldron; she wondered how soon they would eat.

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his eyes distant and unfocused. Whatever he contemplated with such absorption was lost on Corliss. Her stomach groused impatiently. “Master Fairfax?”

His gaze darted to her, as if he’d forgotten she was there.

“Are we going to eat?”

“Yes, of course.” But he made no move to serve supper. Instead, he said, “I’d prefer if you called me Rainulf.”

She smiled slowly, finding herself inordinately pleased by this. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. There’s no need for formality between us. Especially if... that is, I was thinking...” He dragged both hands through his hair. “I was thinking, since you’ve no place to live, and you pass so well for a young man...”

“Yes?”

He took a deep breath. “It occurred to me you might want to live here. With me.”

They stared at each other for a moment.

“With you?” she said.

“If you like. You’d be safer living with me than living alone—and not only from Sir Roger. Oxford is like any city—it’s teeming with brigands and cut-purses. Of course, you’d have to be careful. We both would. ‘Twould be scandalous if I were discovered to be living with a woman, but in your case, with your uncanny disguise... His gaze traveled over her rain-soaked mantle, and his expression darkened. “Oh, for pity’s sake. Come.”

It was with a certain wariness that she followed him to the leather curtain, which he pushed aside enough for the two of them to pass through. The section of hall on the other side—smaller than the main hall—had been furnished as a bedchamber. Constance felt a prickle of foreboding and stood utterly still, taking in the huge bed—the largest she had ever seen, easily capable of accommodating an entire family. Its saffron damask curtains were tied back, revealing several layers of quilts and a mountainous tumble of pillows. She assumed it had a feather mattress.

“It came with the house,” Rainulf said, noticing the direction of her gaze. “I always felt it was just too big, too...” He spread his hands and made a small, wry smile. “Perhaps you’ll like it better.”

Her mind instantly conjured up a picture of Father Osred, standing in his bedchamber dressed in nothing more than his shirt.
I don’t imagine you’ve ever lain on a feather mattress
... Did all priests sleep in such luxury? she wondered.
You can hang your things up here
... Did all of them keep mistresses?

Of course, Rainulf Fairfax was no longer a priest, she reminded herself. Even if he had been chaste before renouncing his vows, there would be no need for chastity now.

“Here.” He reached for her, and she flinched. His eyes met hers, and he smiled reassuringly. “Did I startle you? I just wanted to help you off with this.” She watched his face as he unfastened her mantle, studied the concentration in his eyes as he worked on the complicated clasp; noticed the little vein on his forehead, pulsing through the smooth, golden skin. He smelled of rain and wet wool and clean male. Heat from his hands warmed her throat, and she swallowed hard, striving to keep her breathing steady.

Rainulf swept the mantle off her shoulders and draped it on a hook, then removed his drenched cappa and hung it up, as well. He unbuckled his belt and tossed it onto a finely carved chest, then pulled his damp tunic off over his head, leaving himself in shirt and braies. Turning his back to her, he squatted down, rolled up the loose trousers, and began unwrapping the long linen strips that bound his woolen hose. “You can put your boots in the corner there, and hang your other things on the wall.”

Motionless, Corliss watched the muscles of his back and shoulders strain and flex beneath the linen of his shirt as he undid his hose. The sight was strangely captivating. She wondered what it would be like to share a bed with a man like Rainulf Fairfax; surely, were she to remain here, she would soon find out. The prospect was both compelling and disconcerting.

Most disconcerting.

Don’t let yourself be tempted by his comeliness and his appealing ways
, she warned herself.
‘Twill be but more of the same. You’ll be naught but a whore again, bartering your body for protection. You’ll never know freedom.

Would he let her go willingly, if she refused him? On the one hand, he was a good man; she knew that unequivocally. On the other, all men were beasts when aroused, and ruthless with women they believed to have led them on; Ella, very wise about such matters, had assured her of this many times. Corliss had no reason to doubt her, her own experience being limited to Sully and Osred, old men with waning sexual appetites. Rainulf Fairfax was not old, and he was a man of great strength. If he was determined to have his way with her, she’d be powerless to stop him.

Holding her breath, she backed up slowly, taking care to step cautiously in the rushes, so as not to draw his attention. Once past the leather curtain, she made a quick dash for her satchel, then darted into the stairwell, bounding down the steps in a blur.

Rainulf heard the pounding footsteps in the stairway and whipped his head around. “Corliss?” He rose and, frozen in bewilderment, listened to the sound of booted feet racing down the stairs, the dull thud of the front door slamming. “What the devil...?”

In his mind he re-created the events of the last few minutes, searching for some reason for her sudden flight. Surveying the bedchamber, his gaze lit on the big, ridiculous bed, in which he had never once slept... his belt dangling off the edge of the chest... his discarded tunic and cappa, hung up next to her mantle—the mantle she hadn’t even bothered to put back on before she fled out into the rainy night. He looked down at the woolen hose in his hand, then groaned, awareness dawning on him.

You fool, Rainulf Fairfax
. Aye, she had fled. From him!

“Damn!” Flinging the hose aside, he sprinted to the stairwell, descended the steps three at a time, and ran out into the middle of St. John Street. The rain had died down to a drizzle, but it was chilly out—and dark as Hades, save for the occasional patch of light from a town house window. He spun around, peering through the gloom, his bare feet slipping on the muddy surface of the road. There she was—a small, receding figure running west toward the center of town.

“
Corliss!
” he shouted, but she didn’t pause or turn around. Perhaps she hadn’t even heard him.

With a muttered curse, he darted after her, mud spraying in his wake, his shirt and braies clinging wetly to him. With his lengthy strides, he swiftly gained on her. “
Stop!
” he called out when he knew she was within hearing distance, but this only encouraged her to pick up her pace.

At the corner of Shidyerd Street, he overtook her, grabbing on to her tunic as he battled to maintain his footing on the treacherous roadbed. It didn’t work; his feet slid out from under him and he fell heavily, pinning her beneath him.

“Be still!” he demanded, as she struggled violently, thrashing to and fro and demanding to be let go. They grappled briefly in the rain and the mud, she lashing out with her fists and feet, he striving to subdue her without hurting her. Finally he seized her hands and pinned them next to her head. “Stop this! I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to talk to you.”

“You want more than that,” she spat out, her expression fierce through the mud spattered on her face. “But I assure you, Master Fairfax, I’ve had quite enough of playing the willing whore.”

She writhed and strained to free her hands from his grip; he tightened it. She brought one knee up sharply, but he moved aside to avoid it, then readjusted his weight so that his body pressed hers down, immobilizing her. Through his thin, sodden shirt he felt the rapid rise and fall of her chest, and fancied he could sense the birdlike racing of her heart, despite her heavy tunic.