He nodded understandingly. “Of course.” Taking her by the hand, he led her to the bed and urged her to lie down. “Are you cold? Do you want the quilt?”
“Yes. Please.”
He’s not really such a bad sort, she thought as he covered them both and fumbled with her shift. Since he was a much smaller man than Sully, there was considerably less discomfort when he got on top of her. The act itself was over scarcely before it had begun, for which she was grateful. Her husband used to take forever, leaving her painfully raw.
He rolled off her, and presently she heard a high-pitched, whistling snore from his side of the bed. She felt drowsy herself, remarkable given the day’s turbulent events. Must be the feathers, she thought, snuggling into the fluffy mattress. No wonder Maida had liked this bed so much.
Just before she drifted off, a thought occurred to her. Taking pains to be quiet, she rose and knelt in the rushes at the side of the bed. And then she prayed with all her heart that Father Osred would live a long and healthy life.
Chapter 1
A thousand years have passed since the beginnings of a city rose above the water-meadows where the Cherwell meets the Thames. The low slope, climbing up from the two rivers to the crossing of the four ways at the top, gave its shape to the narrow rectangle of the town. Saxons, Danes and Normans built upon it, crowned it with churches, encompassed it with walls. Monks set up in the fields around it altars and cloisters for pilgrimage and prayer. The Middle Ages took possession of it, and filled it with their genius and their dreams, their high-wrought, restless enterprise, their vain debates. And, as superstition widened into study, and the demand for knowledge refused to be repressed, teachers and scholars gradually made the place their own...
—From A History of the University of Oxford, Volume I, by Charles Edward Mallet
March 1161, Oxford
“Duck, Father!”
Rainulf of Rouen, also known as Rainulf Fairfax—Doctor of Logic and Theology, Magister Scholarum of Oxford, and ordained priest—lowered his head just in time to avoid being struck by a flying tankard of ale.
“What the—?”
“It’s Victor, Father,” said Thomas. The young, sandy-haired scholar pointed to the rear of the alehouse, where Victor of Asekirche was climbing on top of a table, cheered on by his rowdy friends. “He wasn’t aiming for you,” Thomas explained. “He’s got a quarrel with Burnell.”
Rainulf turned to see the tavern keeper—a huge, barrel-chested brute in a greasy apron—reach beneath the counter, from which he dispensed his ale and meat pies.
“Uh-oh...” Rainulf swiftly drained his tankard and stood as Burnell produced an oaken club studded with nails. He didn’t particularly want to involve himself in this altercation, and he wouldn’t, were it not for Burnell’s reputation for viciousness. He’d savagely beaten more than one scholar since they began flocking to Oxford just a few short years ago. It was even rumored he’d been responsible for a young man found bludgeoned to death last August in an alley off Fish Street. Victor, despite his many faults, did not deserve such a fate.
“Put it down, Burnell,” Rainulf said quietly.
“This is none of your affair, priest,” Burnell growled in anglicized French. He hefted the club in a beefy hand as he muscled his way through the boisterous assemblage of half-drunk students. “I told that one not to come in here no more, but he don’t listen too good.” Gripping the spiked club with both hands, he swung it back and forth through the dark, stale air of the tavern, sending his young patrons scattering. “He’ll mind me now, I wager.”
“He’s afraid to have me come in here!” Victor declared to the black-robed scholars crowded around the table on which he stood, hands on hips. “And do you know why?”
Rainulf ran a weary hand through his short hair. Young Victor, with his darkly striking looks and firebrand temperament, exercised tremendous influence over his fellow scholars. Were he of a mind to, he could use that influence to help dampen the spark of discord between the students of Oxford and the city’s businessmen. Instead, he chose to fan it into flames of rage.
Burnell advanced a step, shaking his weapon in the air. “I’ll tell you why I don’t want you here! ‘Cause you’re a troublemaker, plain and simple. You don’t know when to shut up.”
Victor crossed his arms over his chest and adopted a careless, hip-shot stance. “Oh, I know when to shut up, all right, and I will. After I’ve told everyone about the sewage-tainted water you brew your ale with.”
Burnell’s face darkened with fury. “What? You’ve got no proof—”
“And God knows what’s in those meat pies.”
Burnell raised the club. “You little—”
“If you charged a fair price, I might not mind so much,” Victor said. “But on top of it all, you’re a thief!”
“That’s it! Come down here and fight me like a man!” Victor withdrew something from beneath his black robe. Rainulf saw the flash of steel and cursed under his breath. The young man jumped down from the table and sliced the dagger through the air.
“Victor!” Rainulf stepped between the two men. “Both of you. Let’s go outside and talk about—”
“No more talk, Father,” Victor spat out. “It’s time for action.” He raised his voice and looked around at his inebriated audience. “It’s time to let the brewers and innkeepers and landlords of Oxford know that those of us who’ve come here to study will not lie down for this kind of treatment anymore! It’s time to demand decent food and drink and clean, safe rooms for our money!”
Cries of “Hear, hear!” filled the tavern.
Rainulf gestured toward the blade in Victor’s hand. “And you think that’s the way?”
“It’s the only way his kind” —he nodded toward Burnell— “understands.”
Burnell took a step toward Victor. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Victor stepped forward as well. “Let me state it simply, so you’ll grasp my meaning. If I have a dog and it does something wrong, do I try to reason with it? Nay, ‘twould be a waste of breath. I beat it, because that’s all it understands. ‘Tis the same with those men who are little more than beasts themselves—”
Burnell brandished the club. “Get out of my way, Father.”
“Nay.” Rainulf reached for the club. “Hand it over.”
Burnell yanked it away and stepped around him, raising the weapon high as Victor turned toward him. In the space of a heartbeat Rainulf seized a small bench off the floor and brought it swiftly upward. It shattered on impact with the club, but succeeded in halting its downward progress. The priest wrested the weapon from Burnell and hurled it into the sawdust that covered the floor.
Grabbing the plank that had formed the bench’s seat, Rainulf wheeled to face Victor as he thrust his dagger toward the dazed tavern keeper. Throwing himself between the two, he slammed the plank into Victor’s midsection. For a moment the hotheaded young scholar froze, looking slightly confused. Then he sank to his knees in the sawdust, the dagger slipping out of his fingers. Rainulf kicked it away and tossed aside the plank.
Raking both hands through his hair, Rainulf addressed the wide-eyed onlookers. “It’s over. Go back to your ale.” As the crowd dispersed, Burnell’s wife guided her husband into the back room. Rainulf hauled Victor to his feet and aimed him toward the door. “I won’t always be around to protect you from your own foolishness, Victor. Take my advice and keep clear of Burnell.” He gave a not-so-gentle shove, and the young man lurched out into the bright noon sunshine and stumbled away.
Thomas stared at him. “You handle yourself well, Father. Did you learn to fight like that in the Holy Land?”
“Nay—at the University of Paris. I didn’t fight like that in the Holy Land.”
Thomas frowned. “But surely, on crusade, you fought—”
“To kill,” Rainulf finished shortly. “That’s a different kind of fighting.”
Thomas seemed to digest that for a moment, and then he nodded
toward the front door. “Do you know that fellow?”
The man standing in the doorway had hair the color of polished copper and a milk white face showered with hundreds of freckles. He wore a plain, clean tunic and clutched a leather bag.
Rainulf shook his head. “I would have remembered those freckles.”
The stranger scanned the room, stilling when his gaze lit on Rainulf. This interest surprised Rainulf not in the least. His height alone often drew attention. And in this dank little student tavern, he would seem sorely out of place, being the only master present and—and six and thirty years—by far the oldest man.
“Are you the one they call Rainulf Fairfax?” the stranger asked, his gaze resting on the priest’s flaxen hair—the feature that had earned him the surname from his students.
“Aye.”
He looked down at Rainulf’s black robe—not a clerical robe, as would be expected, but the cappa of a secular master, the open front of which revealed an ordinary brown tunic and chausses beneath. “They told me you were a priest.”
Someone cleared his throat; someone else chuckled.
“They were right—more or less,” Rainulf answered. A few of the scholars laughed good-naturedly, but Rainulf maintained his neutral expression.
“Are you or aren’t you?”
“Why is it so important?” Rainulf demanded.
“I need a priest who’s had smallpox,” said the red-haired man. “They told me you fit that description.”
“They?”
The man shrugged. “A couple of the other masters. If they were mistaken, kindly advise me so and I’ll trouble you no further.”
“They weren’t mistaken. But what’s this about the pox?”
“There’s been a lot of it in the village of Cuxham the past few weeks. I need you to perform last rites.”
“I’m a teaching priest,” Rainulf said. “I haven’t performed the offices of the church in years. There must be a parish priest in Cuxham. Can’t he do it?”
“He’s been doing it,” said the stranger. “Only now he’s come down with it himself. A bad case, too, but hopefully one of the last ones—I think this outbreak has run its course. Anyway, Father Osred’s dying, most likely, and I promised Sir Roger Foliot I’d bring back a priest to give him last rites. Only, I’ve got to find one who’s already had the pox, so as not to spread the contagion.”
He spoke like a man who knew something of disease. Rainulf glanced at the stranger’s bag. “Are you a physician?”
“A traveling surgeon. My name’s Will Geary. So, will you go?”
Rainulf spent a moment trying to summon up a good reason for refusing. Failing to do so, he sighed heavily and nodded. “I’ll go.”
* * *
Stopping briefly at his Saint John Street town house, Rainulf changed into sturdy traveling clothes and packed the things he’d need into his saddlebag. As an afterthought, he searched for and found a tiny silver reliquary containing a lock of hair of Saint Nicaise, and slipped it in among the vestments and vials.
It was unusually warm for March, and despite his grim mission, Rainulf found the journey to Cuxham a pleasant one. Keeping to the route suggested by Will Geary, he rode twelve miles to the southeast until he reached the mill that marked the northern boundary of Cuxham. From thence he followed the stream south through woods and farmland, until presently he came upon the small stone and thatch parish church. Behind it stood the rectory, as he had been told, and he would have ridden directly to it had his eye not been drawn to a figure in the churchyard, digging a grave. He drew up his mount and watched from a distance, strangely captivated by the sight.
It was a woman—her age indeterminate, for she faced away from him—dressed in a homespun kirtle, her black hair plaited in two long braids tied together in back. Next to her on the ground, shaded from the midafternoon sun by a yew tree, lay a corpse beneath a blanket.
Dismounting, Rainulf hobbled his bay stallion by the stream and approached the woman, who still seemed unaware of his presence. As he got closer, he saw not one but two empty graves dug into the earth. One appeared to be finished, given the sizable mound of dirt next to it. The other was still but a shallow trench. It was this second, just begun grave on which the woman labored so industriously, yet hampered by fatigue, if the slowness of her movements was any indication.
Rainulf looked around for a second corpse, but could see none. He did notice, scattered among the weathered headstones in the churchyard, several fresh graves—victims of the pox, no doubt.
He paused about ten feet from the woman and cleared his throat. She gasped and spun around, holding the shovel as if to swing it. Her face bore a bright red flush, and her hands shook. Rainulf saw fear in her wide brown eyes, then confusion. “You’re not...” she began in the old Anglo-Saxon tongue. “I thought perhaps you were Sir...” She took a deep breath, as if relieved, and lowered the shovel. “Who are you?”
Rainulf took a step toward her, but she raised the shovel again, and he stopped in his tracks.
“Don’t come any closer,” she said. She had an odd, husky voice, unexpected in a woman of such slight build.
Rainulf held both hands up, palms out. “Easy,” he said in English. “I’m Rainulf Fairfax. Father Rainulf Fairfax, from Oxford.”
Her gaze took in his short, tousled hair, over which he wore no skullcap, and his rough traveling costume. “You don’t look like much of a priest.”
“I’m not,” he dryly agreed.
A spark of amusement flashed in her eyes. Taking this for encouragement, Rainulf stepped forward again, but she thrust the shovel at him. “Get back!”
“I won’t hurt you,” he said reassuringly.
She smiled somewhat wryly. “I didn’t think you would. It’s just that I’ve got the yellow plague, and I wouldn’t want you to catch it.”
Rainulf’s gaze narrowed on her reddened face. What he’d thought at first to be a flush of fear had not subsided, nor had the trembling of her hands. He suspected that, were she to let him touch her, her skin would be burning hot. This was how this awful disease began, he knew—with fever and chills and that strange scarlet tinge to the face and body. The pox themselves would appear later.
“Rest your mind, then,” he said. “I’ve had this affliction already. I can’t catch it again.”
Her eyes searched his face. “You’ve had this?”
“I had several interesting diseases while a guest of the Turks some years back. Smallpox—what you call the yellow plague—was one of them.” He tilted his head, pointing at the two minuscule indentations on the side of his jaw.
Lowering the shovel, the woman approached him slowly, her gaze riveted on the scars. “That’s all the pockmarks you’ve got?” she asked incredulously. “Just those?”
“I was lucky,”
“I’ll say.” She inclined her head toward the corpse under the yew. “Father Osred didn’t get off so easily.”
Rainulf walked over to the body and squatted down. He reached for the edge of the blanket to uncover the face but hesitated, smelling, in addition to the stench of death, the distinctive, sickening odor of the final stages of smallpox. It was an odor that conjured up vivid memories. Closing his eyes, he found himself transported back to the Levant, to that foul underground cell in which he and two dozen other young soldiers for Christ endured a year of hellish suffering. Their torment found new depths when the pox swept through their stinking hole, claiming one out of every four men and leaving most of the rest wishing they’d been taken.
Peeling back the blanket, Rainulf sucked in a breath and executed a hasty sign of the cross. The face on which he gazed was so densely covered with yellowish pustules as to completely mask its features. The poor creature’s thin white hair was the only indication of age. Had Rainulf not known the body to be that of the rector, he might even have thought it to be female.
“It’s best this way,” the woman said. Rainulf turned to find her standing right behind him, leaning on th
e shovel and staring thoughtfully at the dead priest. “He went blind in the end. Some of them do, you know.”
“I know.” He swallowed hard. She looked at him inquiringly, and he met her eyes, drawn to something in them that surprised and touched him. Compassion. She felt compassion... for him! Here she was, suffering from this appalling malady that killed and blinded and disfigured; yet, sensing his own grief, his own nightmare, she had it within her to feel sympathy for him.
A most strange woman, he thought, holding her gaze. In their warm depths he saw curiosity and humor, and something else... wisdom. The wisdom of the ages.
“How old are you?” he asked.
She laughed, displaying teeth so straight and white as to be the envy of the noblest lady. Her smile was delightful, and infectious. Rainulf was actually tempted to laugh himself—odd, given that he hadn’t laughed in a very long time, and somewhat inappropriate under the circumstances. Instead, he marshaled his expression and asked, “What’s so funny?”
“You,” she said. “You’re rather an odd person, that’s all.”
“Me?” He pulled the blanket back over the body and stood. “What’s odd about me?”
She shook her head, grinning. “Asking my age like that, out of the blue, and before you’ve even asked my name. That’s the kind of thing I do.”
“What?”
“Ask the wrong questions at the wrong time.” He noticed a shiver course through her; she shook it off and smiled gamely. “Or so Father Osred used to say. He said I was like a little child, always asking questions.”
“I’m very much the same, but then, I’m a teacher. It’s in my nature to ask questions—and, of course, to question the answers.”
She nodded knowingly. “Disputatio.”
Rainulf was taken by surprise that this obviously lowborn woman knew the Latin term for academic debate.
She laughed again. “I know many things.”
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