* * *
Burnell’s wife tilted the pitcher over Rainulf’s tankard, but he covered it with his hand. “I’ve had enough.”
“Aye, and that’s just the problem!” exclaimed Walter Kent, the young master of dialectic who’d finished second in the race. “You’ve ‘had enough,’ when you ought to have had far too much!” He emptied the contents of his own tankard into that of the Magister Scholarum.
“Hear, hear!” cried the others, all of whom, with the exception of Corliss and Father Gregory, were reeling drunk. It was a condition Rainulf had not experienced since his university days. He’d come to hate that out-of-control, off-balance feeling brought on by an excess of drink. It made him feel helpless—no, terrified—to have his unchanging, orderly world replaced by one that spun and shifted, to have his most secret, deeply buried thoughts and feelings push through to the surface.
He glanced across the table at Corliss, laughing as she accepted her shilling from Thomas and Brad, her eyes alight, her teeth glowing like pearls in the dim tavern. In public, she acted the part of the amiable young man; in private, she was becoming more and more the lady. Her gestures had had a natural grace to them even before he’d taken it on himself to refine them; under his tutelage, they were developing a polished layer of elegance that he found enchanting. And her accent had faded remarkably in quite a short time, replaced, for the most part, by the cultivated tones of an educated member of the nobility.
“Nay, I must be leaving,” he said, rising and straightening his leafy crown, which they hadn’t let him take off. He had, however, exchanged the ermine mantle for a blessedly ordinary shirt and tunic. He couldn’t believe he’d let Corliss and Gregory talk him into this. Not that he hadn’t enjoyed the race. In truth, it had been exhilarating, and he could think of worse ways to have spent the rest of the afternoon than in an alehouse, celebrating his victory. The only unpleasant moment had occurred about an hour ago, when Victor had shown up and leaped onto a table. Three men had had to hold Burnell back, but the young firebrand never once mentioned unfair prices or rancid meat pies. Instead, he bowed dramatically in Rainulf’s direction and made a surprisingly gracious speech congratulating him on the win. Then, with another grinning half bow toward the incensed tavern keeper, he quickly took his leave.
Corliss stood, as well. “I’ll walk back with you.”
Rainulf breathed a sigh of relief. He hated to think of her on the streets alone, even during the daylight hours. In truth, he should have continued her fighting lessons, only that seemed most unwise after what had happened in the stable yard. Since she was ill equipped to defend herself, he felt obliged to escort her whenever possible.
As soon as they were outside, Rainulf swept the crown off and, on impulse, placed it on Corliss’s head. It made her look like a forest sprite—a childlike creature with extraordinary powers. He smiled. “It suits you.” Her musical laugh was absurdly gratifying.
“Good afternoon.” They turned to find Will Geary leaning against the outside wall of the tavern.
“Will! Were you waiting for us?”
Will nodded, his expression growing sober. “I asked around, and they said you were here. Have you got a moment?”
“Of course.”
The surgeon’s gaze lit on Corliss and her crown. She took it off as Rainulf introduced them.
“I’ll walk with you,” said Will, glancing around.
“As you wish.”
Will said nothing until they’d crossed High Street and turned down Grope Lane. Twice he looked back over his shoulder, before saying, “I just got back from Cuxham. First time I’ve been there since I saw you last.”
Rainulf nodded, feeling a cold wave of trepidation. “Aye?”
Will inclined his head toward Corliss, walking in front of them, and directed a questioning look toward Rainulf.
“You can speak freely in front of Corliss,” Rainulf assured him.
“I just thought you should know that Roger Foliot’s been talking about you.”
“Really?” said Rainulf, trying to appear unruffled. “I don’t even know the man.”
“Well, he knows you. Or of you, at any rate. He seems to think you were somehow involved with that woman named Constance, who kept house for the rector you delivered last rites to.” He raised an eyebrow. “Served him in other capacities as well, if you believe the talk.”
Rainulf felt the hairs on the back of his neck spring up.
“Is it true?” Will asked. “Was she the priest’s whore?”
Rainulf’s hands curled into fists; he saw Corliss’s back stiffen. “She did not strike me as a whore.”
Will shrugged. “Well, Sir Roger seemed to think she was letting the old fellow under her skirts.” He paused, adding quietly, “And perhaps you, as well.”
Rainulf stopped walking and turned to face Will. Corliss stood stiffly, her back to them. “That’s preposterous.”
The surgeon held his hands out. “Easy. I’m only reporting what I heard. I thought you should know—”
“Of course,” said Rainulf. Corliss looked back over her shoulder at them; he saw that the color had leached from her cheeks. “I appreciate your telling me this. Is that all?”
“Hardly.” With another furtive glance behind him, Will motioned for them to continue walking. “Apparently the girl faked her death and ran off. Hugh told me all about it. That’s Hugh Hest, his reeve—a decent fellow. He said Sir Roger’s foaming at the mouth over it. Seems he’d wanted a piece of her for himself. Still does. Anyway, he seems to think she might come to you.”
Damn! Rainulf maintained a granite silence as they turned onto St. John Street. He knew she’d come to me! How could he have known? Corliss crossed her arms and hugged her chest as she walked.
“If that’s likely,” Will continued softly, “then you’d best watch your back. Hugh says he’s sent someone after the girl. A human bloodhound, by all accounts, and a crazy bastard to boot. He’s supposed to be watching you, hoping the girl shows up.”
Dear God, I was right all along. Someone’s watching us. Rainulf said nothing until they stopped in front of the big stone house. “Thank you for telling me this.”
“Like I said, I thought you should know. It’s my fault you got involved in this mess in the first place. I’m the one who sent you to Cuxham.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” Rainulf said. “You couldn’t have known how it would turn out.” He waved a hand toward the front door. “Will you come inside and join us for some supper?”
“Thanks, but I have a patient waiting for me.” Raising a hand in farewell, he walked a few paces in the direction from which they’d come, then turned and added, “Be careful, Rainulf. Don’t trust a soul.”
* * *
Corliss studied Rainulf as he picked at his spiced meatballs, a dish he normally made short work of. He’d said hardly a word throughout supper. Now he pushed his trencher back and gazed with preoccupied eyes toward the fire.
Presently he expelled a great lungful of air, as if he’d been holding his breath. “I want you to come to Sussex with me.”
“Sussex?”
“Blackburn Castle.”
“Ah, Blackburn...” He’d mentioned the planned visit to his sister’s home only once, quite some time ago. “When? And for how long?”
“Next week.” He poured them each some brandy. “For perhaps a fortnight. Perhaps longer. I won’t want to leave until Martine’s baby is born.”
Corliss sipped some of the dark amber liquid; it left a trail of honeyed fire as it trickled down her throat. Blackburn Castle. She’d never been in a castle before, never even seen people of Thorne and Martine Falconer’s rank, much less spoken to them. “Would I have to maintain my disguise?”
“Only while we travel. It’s a two-day ride. Once we’re at Blackburn, you’ll be in no danger. You can wear a kirtle again. Would you like that?”
“I don’t own a kirtle.”
“Martine will find you one.”
<
br /> “Do they know about me? Your sister and her husband?”
“Nay.”
“Won’t they be shocked when you arrive with me in tow?”
He smiled, and as always, it struck her how devastatingly handsome he looked when he wasn’t frowning. “They’re not easily shocked, either one of them. Don’t trouble yourself over what they’ll think.”
She bit her lip, and now it was she who scrutinized the leaping flames. “What of my obligation to Mistress Clark?”
“She doesn’t own you, Corliss. She’ll simply have to do without your services for a fortnight.” His brow furrowed. “Don’t you want to come?”
She took a deep breath. “Will I be a guest, or...” Heat scalded her face as Rainulf stared at her, his eyebrows gradually rising.
“Or what?” he asked, leaning forward on his elbows. “Sleep in the barn with the stablehands? Of course you’ll be a guest. I’ll have brought you. You’ll be treated as my...” He appeared to be groping for words. “You’ll be treated as a guest.”
Rising, he grabbed his trencher and tossed it in the bucket, then stood with his back to her, hands on his hips, inspecting the fire. “I can’t leave you here, Corliss. It’s not safe. Especially after what Will told us today. Sir Roger knew you’d come to me! I can’t imagine how, but...” He shook his head. “I can’t leave you alone in Oxford. And I must go to Blackburn to be with my sister.”
He turned to face her. “Please come with me. I couldn’t bear it if...” Shaking his head again, he turned around. “I don’t want anything to happen to you,” he said gruffly. “I just want to keep an eye on you, that’s all.”
She thought about it for a moment, but in truth she had known all along what her answer would be. “All right,” she said. “I’ll come.”
Chapter 9
They set out at dawn on the first of July. It was cool for the time of year, and Corliss was glad of it; the weather made for swift traveling. It was also overcast, although thankfully it didn’t rain until that night, and by then, they’d found shelter in a monastic guest house. Rainulf’s rank should have assured them of private chambers in the abbot’s lodge, but those had already been granted to a passing bishop and his entourage.
“This isn’t so bad, is it?” he asked her as he unrolled his blanket in the straw that covered the earthen floor of the guest house.
Corliss cast a quick glance over her shoulder at the motley assortment of indigent travelers, beggars, and knaves bedding down around them. The quarters were close, forcing perfect strangers to sleep pressed up against one another. They smelled like what they were—men who’d lived and slept in the same clothes without bathing for months, perhaps years.
“Lay your blanket out here,” Rainulf said, indicating a narrow space between him and the stone wall. He raised his eyebrows fractionally and glanced meaningfully toward the other guests. His message was not lost on her: Better to sleep squeezed between Rainulf and the wall than next to some strange and possibly dangerous man.
She nodded and spread out her bedroll. Someone extinguished the single hanging lantern, and she closed her eyes and tried to get comfortable. For some time she lay awake, her senses focused solely on Rainulf’s closeness—the heat from his body, the whisper of his breath, his presence, so near. Unable to sleep, she tried to think of other things, anything but Rainulf sleeping mere inches away. She listened to the tapestry of sounds surrounding her: Rain pattering softly on the thatched roof... straw rustling beneath fitful bodies... snores and grunts and coughs.
Presently the rain eased off and ceased, and another sound replaced it—a high, stately chanting that drifted on the night breezes through the small window above her head. She opened her eyes, startled to find Rainulf sitting up and gazing out the window. Watery moonlight bathed his face, adorning his broad forehead and straight nose and resolute chin with soft brushstrokes of silver. His eyes, transparent as clear gems, shone with some emotion she couldn’t identify—not sadness, but something close. Regret? Longing? Remembrance?
He looked down at her and whispered, “I can’t sleep, either.” He nodded toward the window. “It’s the midnight service. Matins.”
She turned her head toward the window. “It’s lovely.”
“You should hear it up close.” Something almost mischievous flickered in his crystalline eyes. He took her hand in his and rose, pulling her to her feet. “Come with me.”
“What?”
“Shh...” He guided her carefully through the somnolent bodies and out the door, into the damp night. “This way.” As he led her by the hand across the abbey’s public courtyard, she reflected on how relaxed—almost carefree—he had seemed all day. Almost like a different person. Father Gregory seemed to think she was responsible for the lifting of Rainulf’s melancholy, but she doubted she had that much influence over him. More likely, it was simply being away from Oxford that had done the trick.
He guided her into the church and closed the door behind them. Sound blossomed around her, and she gasped, momentarily stunned by its beauty and power. She caught a quick glimpse of rows of hooded monks and dozens of lit candles before he quickly pulled her into one of the nave aisles, where they wouldn’t be seen. “We shouldn’t be here,” he whispered. “I just wanted you to hear this.”
The chanting—amazingly loud, yet ethereal as a silken veil—resonated throughout the enormous church. Corliss had never heard anything quite like it. Rainulf released her hand and grasped her upper arms gently from behind. “Close your eyes,” he murmured into her ear. “Let it inside you.”
She did as he instructed, opening her ears and mind and body to the celestial tones of a hundred voices raised in sacred song. He held her pressed back against his chest, and she felt the drumming of his heart in primitive counterpoint to the airy chanting. The steady heartbeats reverberated throughout her as the voices rose in unison, filling her up, lifting her to a place of weightless serenity, of earthly ecstasy and holy perfection.
All too soon it ended, and the brothers filed out through the transept. Rainulf’s hands eased their grip, and he lightly stroked her arms, causing her heart to trip wildly. “What did you think?” he whispered, his hot breath tickling her ear.
She turned to face him. “It sounded... amazing. Like Heaven.”
He glanced over her shoulder, then abruptly seized her and pushed her back against a pillar, pressing himself against her.
“Rainulf! What—”
He clamped a hand over her mouth and lowered his mouth to her ear. “The abbot.”
Corliss listened and heard soft, sluggish footsteps advancing toward them. Rainulf touched her lips with a finger and she nodded. The footsteps passed excruciatingly slowly, the abbot being well advanced in years. Rainulf flattened himself against her in an effort not to be seen. With the cold, hard marble at her back, and his unyielding warmth in front, she could barely breathe. A flood of giddy intoxication overcame her, and she stifled a giggle that bubbled up in her throat.
He covered her mouth again, whispering, “Shh,” but she felt his chest shake, and knew that he, too, was fighting to maintain his composure. A kind of gasping chuckle escaped him, and she slapped her hand across his mouth. The absurdity of the situation—each of them covering the other’s mouth—struck them both at once, and they fairly choked with laughter, spurred on as much by fatigue as by their predicament.
They both peeked around the pillar and watched the old abbot shuffle down the nave and out of the church, seemingly oblivious to their presence. “He must be hard of hearing,” Rainulf said.
“Thank goodness.”
He took her hand and drew her to the door. They watched until the abbot disappeared into his lodge, then sprinted across the courtyard, holding hands and laughing like prankish children. At the door to the guest house, he turned her to face him and rested his hands on her shoulders. He was breathless, and still smiling. Regardless of the cause of his surprising good humor, it utterly delighted her.
&n
bsp; “Shame on you, Corliss.”
“What?”
“You’re a bad influence on me.”
“It was your idea!” she pointed out huffily.
“I never would have done it with anyone but you.” He trailed the back of one hand down the side of her face, his gaze wandering from her eyes to her mouth. She saw his lips open slightly, and thought—or imagined—that he moved a hairsbreadth closer to her. Then his smile faded, and he backed away. “We’d better get some sleep. We’ve another long ride ahead of us tomorrow.”
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and followed him into the guest house.
* * *
It was late the next afternoon when she first saw the round, whitewashed castle keep rising in the distance above the rolling pastures and woodlands through which they rode. A crenellated stone wall surrounded the castle, and a banner snapped on its high tower.
“Is that Blackburn?” she asked in a small voice.
“That’s Blackburn. We have just one stop first.” He pointed, and Corliss saw, nestled in the river valley below them, a low arrangement of neat stone buildings.
“Another monastery?” she asked.
He nodded. “St. Dunstan’s. The prior, Brother Matthew, is an old friend of mine from university. We’ll just say a quick hello and be on our way.”
A black-haired monk was waiting for them as they rode through the front gates.
“Matthew! How goes it?” Rainulf leapt down from his horse and embraced the prior.
“I’m well. And very happy to see you!”
Corliss dismounted and tried to be inconspicuous, but the prior’s keen, dark eyes quickly settled on her. “Is this boy with you? Do famous magisters have pages now?”
“This is Corliss,” Rainulf said, then hesitated, glancing uneasily at the monks, lay brothers, and servants who’d gathered around. “Corliss is...” He met her eyes; she grinned and shrugged, as if to say, Tell them. “Well, it’s a rather involved story, but Corliss is actually—”
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