Heaven's Fire

by Patricia Ryan

  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.

  Chapter 3

  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.

  Will chuckled. “Your ears are turning the most remarkable color... Father.”

  Rainulf’s body reacted to her lewd suggestions, even as he sought some graceful way to extricate himself from her clutches. Hulda felt his grudging response. “Ah,” she murmured, lifting her skirt and placing his hand between her warm thighs, “this is what you need.”

  “Yes,” said Rainulf, realizing how pointless it would be to deny what was patently obvious. Nevertheless, he withdrew his hand and lowered her skirt. “But I am obliged to resist.” Grinning, he nodded toward Will. “Perhaps my companion...”

  “Him?” Hulda snorted in derision and rose from his lap. “That one never goes with any of the girls.”

  “They’re diseased, most of them,” Will said.

  “Liar!” Hulda spat out.

  Ignoring her, Will lifted his tankard. “I seek my... diversion... elsewhere, and if you value your health, I’d counsel you to do the same.”

  The girls dispersed in a huff, whereupon Will leaned across the table toward Rainulf and said, in a low voice, “If it’s a woman you want, I’ll find you a clean one.”

  Rainulf swallowed down a goodly portion of his ale. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. I’ve resisted the temptations of the flesh for eleven year
s now. I think I can manage to continue doing so.”

  “But why should you? You’ve been released from your vow of chastity, have you not?”

  “I’m sure you know that even lay teachers are, by custom, celibate.”

  Will chuckled. “You and I both know that’s more a matter of appearances than practice. Half the teachers keep mistresses, and some are even married.”

  “Aye, but they’re at a disadvantage for promotions.”

  He smiled. “Ah, so you have ambitions.”

  “I’ve been approached by the Bishop of Lincoln. He’s got ultimate jurisdiction over Oxford and any teaching that goes on here. Right now we’re just an informal little studium generale, loosely overseen by myself as Magister Scholarum, the Abbot of Osney, and the Prior of St. Frideswides. But Bishop Chesney thinks we’ll someday be a great university. He wants to speed that process by appointing a chancellor to organize the masters into a guild and oversee the growth of the schools.”

  Will motioned for a refill of their tankards. “And he offered you this position?”

  “Not yet, but I’m the leading candidate. It doesn’t even seem to much bother him that I’ve renounced my vows. He wants a man the teachers will respect, and since they’ve already elected me Master of Schools, he feels that man should be me.”

  “They elected you Master of Schools after only... How long have you been in Oxford?”

  “Just six months,” Rainulf said. “But I had something of a reputation in Paris.” The most beloved teacher in Paris, they’d called him. A worthy successor to Abelard. And now he could never go back. “Apparently that reputation preceded me. All the masters and Church officials here knew of me before I arrived.”

  Will nodded. “I’m impressed. But what has the chancellorship to do with your celibacy?”

  “As Chancellor of Oxford, I’d no longer be a mere teacher—in fact, I wouldn’t teach at all. I’d be an officer of the bishop, and therefore required to be chaste.”

  “Parish priests are bound by the same requirement, yet everyone knows what goes on behind the doors of their rectories, and no one much cares.”

  “Aye, but I’d be much more visible than your average parish priest. And I understand Bishop Chesney is especially uncompromising about the reputations of his officers. I’ll be watched constantly, my behavior carefully monitored.”

  “But you haven’t been appointed to the position yet.”

  “Nay, nor will I be for another five months. My lord bishop will make his decision at the end of the summer.”

  Will brightened. “Ah! So in the meantime—”

  “In the meantime, I must conduct myself as befits the position for which I’m being considered. Any hint of impropriety, and my chances are ruined. I have no intention of jeopardizing this opportunity, Will.”

  “It means that much to you?”

  “More than you can know.”

  Will looked at Rainulf curiously, but questioned him no further, for which he was grateful. He had no desire to discuss the self-doubt that had made teaching—once the joy of his life—so painful. He still craved the excitement of disputatio, the thrill of imparting knowledge to eager young minds. But his pleasure in teaching was one he had no right to, inasmuch as he was unfit for the task. His students trusted him, even revered him, hanging on every word from his mouth as if it were Gospel, even those who clearly couldn’t fathom what he was talking about. They assumed he was a man of faith, a man sure of his convictions and fully qualified to guide them through the moral and intellectual complexities of logic and theology. In reality, he was a fraud. He didn’t even know what he himself believed; what right did he have to train young minds when his own was filled with doubt and uncertainty?

  All he wanted was to retreat from his students—from everyone—into the safe and undemanding administrative position to which Bishop Chesney seemed disposed to appoint him. In the meantime, he must do nothing to cause the bishop to question his suitability—certainly not consort with a whore in a Pennyfarthing Street brothel. In truth, he should have left the moment he realized what this place was. He would have, had he not been waiting for an opportunity to steer the conversation toward the subject that had obsessed him for the past fortnight.

  Seizing upon a moment of silence, he asked, “Have you been back to Cuxham since I saw you last?”

  Will nodded. “Just yesterday. I’m there quite a bit. Sir Roger frequently calls upon my services.”

  “How did you come to meet him?”

  Will hesitated almost imperceptibly, as if weighing whether to answer the question, then cleared his throat. “‘Twas eight or nine years ago. I was traveling home through Cuxham, and I stopped by the manor house to ask for a bite of supper. Sir Roger seemed unusually glad to see me, when he discovered my profession. He told me he’d be happy to feed me if I’d set a villein’s broken legs afterward. I told him I’d do it right away—that such a job shouldn’t wait. ‘Suit yourself,’ he said, and he led me downstairs to the undercroft. He had a young man in irons—a young man who, it turned out, had tried to escape. I said, ‘But there’s nothing wrong with his legs.’ Sir Roger just laughed. Then he picked up a mallet and smashed both legs, one after the other.”

  Rainulf lowered his tankard slowly to the table. “Good God.”

  “Indeed. Sir Roger said, ‘Mind you do a good job on those legs. I want him back in the fields in time for the harvest.’ So I set the legs, and then I ate my fill of stag and turnips and went on my way.” He drained his tankard. “When I went back to take the boy’s splints off, Sir Roger had another job for me. I don’t remember what it was—probably someone had taken ill. And then there was another, and another... He sends for me when he needs me. I seem to be the only surgeon he trusts.”

  Rainulf shook his head. “I wouldn’t be too pleased about that, if I were you. He sounds like a monster.”

  Will laughed. “He’d love to hear you say so. He so desperately wants to strike terror in the breasts of all who know him. But the fact is, every man has his weakness, his secret fear—the thing that makes him vulnerable. In Sir Roger’s case, it’s Hell. He’s an evil and petty creature, and he knows it. He’s desperately afraid that he’ll die and roast for eternity in everlasting torment. So, despite his wicked nature—or because of it—he’s become something of a slave to the Church and her priests. It’s all a rather pathetic effort to save himself when the time comes. The only man in Cuxham who had his respect was that old rector, Father Osred, and he’s dead now.”

  “Aye, God rest his soul.” Rainulf crossed himself and said, in a deliberately offhand way, “Do you happen to know what became of his housekeeper?”

  “Housekeeper...” Will shrugged. “Didn’t even know he had one. Sorry.”

  Rainulf sighed dejectedly. “Girl by the name of Constance. She had the pox, too. I was just wondering—”

  “Constance, did you say?”

  “Aye.”

  “She’s dead.” Will drank his ale and held his hand up for another.

  Rainulf felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach. He sat perfectly still, watching Will accept a new tankard and start in on it. “Are you sure?”

  Will nodded and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “I saw her name on the tombstone myself. They buried her right next to the priest. What’s wrong? You look pale.”

  Rainulf couldn’t stop shaking his head. “But I don’t understand. Her fever had subsided.”

  “Was it the first fever, or the second?”

  Rainulf just stared at him.

  “The first fever,” Will explained, “comes before the rash. If the victim survives it, he generally feels much better afterward. But then a secondary fever sets in after the pox arrive, and it’s just as deadly as the first. It must be this second fever that claimed the girl.”

  Nodding numbly, Rainulf rose from his bench. “I... have to go.”

  Will stood, too, his manner solemn. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you’d formed an attach
ment.”

  “I didn’t,” Rainulf said quickly.

  “Was she pretty?”

  “Nay.” Then he remembered her eyes, full of laughter and wonder, and her smile “Yes. Listen... I have to go.”

  Will grabbed for his arm, but he pulled away. “I have to go,” he insisted as he bolted out the door.

  * * *

  “Can’t you dig any faster?” growled Roger Foliot to the two villeins, visible only from the shoulders up as they steadily deepened the hole.

  Hugh Hest drew in a calming breath and let it out slowly. “Patience, Sir Roger,” soothed the reeve. “It won’t be much longer now.”

  “Little bitch...” the fat knight muttered. He ceased his relentless pacing and flicked his horsewhip against his leg, his porcine eyes fixed on the block of stone inscribed with a cross and a single word: Constance. “Little bitch.”

  His lapdog ran toward him, yipping and dancing about his heels. “Not you, Detinée,” he purred, gathering the ratlike creature in his arms. “Another little bitch.”

  Drifting clouds shrouded the full moon, immersing the Cuxham churchyard in darkness. Hugh wished he had a lantern. He wished it weren’t so chilly. But most of all he wished he were anywhere—anywhere—than in this damn graveyard in the middle of the night, overseeing the exhumation of poor Constance’s body.

  He’d thought Roger Foliot’s fixation with the girl would die when she did, but he’d been wrong. During the past few weeks, he’d become obsessed with her to the point of derangement, culminating in this determination to unearth her corpse. What point he hoped to prove was quite beyond Hugh’s ken. He prayed that the nasty business would be done with quickly, so that he could get home to Ella and his warm bed.

  “Sir Roger,” said one of the villeins in a coarse English accent; Hugh recognized the voice of the larger of the two men, a slack-jawed giant named Frick. “This may be it.”

  Hugh and his master approached the edge of the open grave as the moon emerged from cloud cover, illuminating a patch of unbleached linen peeking out from the dirt.