Heaven's Fire

by Patricia Ryan

  “Aye, well, Father’s far too generous for his own good. ‘Twill serve him ill someday. Be off with you.”

  She turned to leave. Pigot grabbed her arm, and she shrieked as she wheeled around. She stared at the spot he’d touched, her expression a mixture of fear and fury. “You’ve got no business touching me. Now I’ll have to burn this kirtle.”

  “Father Rainulf always gives me tuppence,” he repeated, jiggling the cup.

  She backed away, her eyes on him as he slowly advanced. “Well, Father Rainulf’s not here. I am, and I give beggars a penny, if I give anything. Now, off with you!”

  “I need my tuppence. I’ll wait here for Father Rainulf.”

  “You’ll have a long wait. He’s visiting family in Sussex and won’t be back for a fortnight.”

  “Where in Sussex?”

  She laughed shortly. “And what business is that of yours?” She spun around. “Be off before I put the sheriff on you.”

  He let her go, and returned to his hiding place in the alley across from the big stone house to take off his disguise.

  Visiting family, eh? He might be. Or he might be hiding Constance of Cuxham. There was no way for Pigot to know unless he found out where these Sussex relations lived and followed him there. If, indeed, Fairfax was just visiting family, the journey would have been for naught, and he’d have risked exposing himself. If Fairfax wasn’t there—if he was spiriting the priest’s whore out of the country—the trip would still be a waste of time, and he’d be no closer to apprehending her.

  Traveling to Sussex was pointless. The prudent move now was to wait for the magister’s return. If the whore was with him, he’d make his move the instant she was alone. If she wasn’t with him, he’d damn well find out where she was. This endless watching and waiting was a waste of his valuable time.

  He took the coin from the cup and tossed it in the air. At least this afternoon had proved fruitful, if only to a small degree. He’d saved himself two weeks of worthless surveillance... and earned a penny in the process. He’d keep it, he decided, slipping it into his boot. Perhaps it would bring him luck.

  Chapter 10

  Peter stared at Rainulf as if he were mad. “You went riding?”

  “You’ve just spent two days on a horse,” Guy pointed out.

  Rainulf shrugged distractedly and drained his pre-supper brandy in one burning gulp as the two knights—sitting across from him at the high table in the great hall—exchanged raised eyebrows. In appearance, they were the antithesis of each other. Peter was tall and Nordic, with kinky blond locks that tumbled halfway down his back; his shorter, burly companion wore his dark hair cut close to his scalp in the Norman style. Where it mattered, however, they were much the same. They shared a consummate mastery of soldiering skills and an unwavering dedication to their friend and overlord, Thorne Falconer. Thorne insisted that they—along with all of his vassals and villeins—speak English, a tongue they pronounced with thick Norman accents.

  Thorne, sitting to Rainulf’s right, beckoned to the page with the jug and asked him to pour them each a refill. Rainulf thought about refusing it, as he had an empty stomach, but he let the boy fill the little cup to the brim.

  “Rainulf is a creature of the intellect,” Thorne laughingly told his men. “He doesn’t get saddle sore like the rest of us. ‘Tis some arcane philosophical problem that’s making him squirm on his bench, not a bruised ass.”

  Peter and Guy got a chuckle out of this. Rainulf smiled to be polite and swiftly tossed the brandy down his throat.

  Guy nudged Peter and both stared fixedly at something beyond Rainulf’s shoulder. Thorne followed their line of sight, and after a moment he looked pointedly at Rainulf, his expression an odd blend of amusement and respect. “Well, Magister. You’ve got excellent taste, after all. What I’d thought to be a common pebble has polished up into quite a gem.”

  Rainulf turned to find Martine standing with another luxuriously gowned woman at the sink near the stairwell. When he realized the second woman was Corliss, the empty brandy cup slipped from his fingers and rolled onto the floor. He leaned over to pick it up, never taking his eyes off the young woman in the gleaming purple kirtle.

  Her raven hair was caught up in a snood of glittering golden mesh, effectively disguising its short length; a circlet of gold filigree held the snood in place. The purple gown was laced tightly up the back in the Parisian style. It conformed mercilessly to her graceful curves, curves he rarely had had the opportunity to admire. The kirtle’s snug, low-cut bodice revealed much of her pale shoulders and upper chest, and accentuated her high, firm breasts. From there his gaze was drawn to the jeweled sash looped low around hips that flared from an exquisitely narrow waist.

  She was so thoroughly and unquestionably feminine. Not for the first time, he found himself awed at her ability to pass so well for a male.

  Martine washed her hands first. Because Rainulf’s gaze was trained on Corliss, he saw her intent observation of everything his sister did—the way she flipped the long sleeves of her tunic over her arms to get them out of the way, accepted the soap from a waiting page, and turned the brass spigot. For just a moment there, when water began to run from the faucet, Corliss lost her composure. Her eyes widened and a grin of delight broke out on her face. Indoor plumbing, courtesy of a rooftop cistern, was one of the more extraordinary innovations in this immense, newly built castle.

  Corliss wrapped her own trailing sleeves around her arms, took the soap from Martine, and turned on the water, as casually as if she’d done it a hundred times. As she leaned over the sink, her bosom strained against its silken confinement, the milky upper slopes of her breasts swelling above the heavy gold braid that edged the gown’s neckline. Rainulf’s hand tightened reflexively around the little brandy cup; his loins stirred. Perhaps bringing Corliss to Blackburn hadn’t been such a good idea after all.

  “Who is she?” Peter asked quietly.

  Not a good idea at all. Without wresting his gaze from Corliss, Rainulf opened his mouth to answer, but Thorne beat him to it. “She’s Corliss of Oxford. She arrived with Rainulf.”

  Guy turned to Peter. “She looks exactly like Lady Magdalen.”

  A stricken expression crossed Peter’s face. “I’ve asked you not to speak of her,” he said.

  Thorne leaned toward Rainulf and said quietly, “‘Twas a great tragedy. They were betrothed since infancy, and he loved her to distraction. In March she died of smallpox.”

  “Oh, God.” It seemed Cuxham hadn’t been the only place in England affected by that cursed disease last spring. Rainulf recalled his grief on hearing of Corliss’s death, yet he’d barely known her. How much more devastated must Peter have been—must still be—to have lost the woman he’d loved all his life.

  Thorne shook his head. “He hasn’t been the same since.”

  Peter had seemed preoccupied... Nay, not preoccupied, Rainulf decided, regarding him thoughtfully. Haunted. Peter’s jaw clenched, and he quickly swallowed the contents of his cup. But then he returned his attention to Corliss, and the pain left his eyes.

  Rainulf’s gaze sought out the young woman who had so captivated the grief-stricken knight. Corliss accepted a towel from a second page. As she dried her hands, she discreetly inspected her surroundings. Rainulf tore his eyes from her to follow her line of sight, trying to see the great hall of Castle Blackburn as if for the first time. It was a magnificent hall, round like the keep that surrounded it, handsomely plastered and wainscotted, and with a high, vaulted ceiling. A gallery, onto which many of the upstairs chambers opened, completely encircled the massive room. The floors were covered not with rushes, but with a scattering of colorful Saracen carpets, gifts from Queen Eleanor when she made Thorne a baron.

  But the most remarkable aspect of the hall was its many tall, arched windows. It wasn’t their number or size that made Corliss’s mouth fall open, he was sure, but the fact that they were glazed—something she had undoubtedly never seen outside of a cathe
dral. Each one was fitted with a panel composed of dozens of panes of sea-green glass set into lead. The panels could be opened, and in fact, they all were, revealing a brilliant orange-gold sunset and allowing the summer evening’s warm breezes to circulate through the hall.

  The table at which Rainulf and his companions sat was situated before a massive fireplace, larger even than that in his Oxford town house; the servants’ tables were arranged around the edge of the hall. Corliss’s attention was drawn first to the enormous hearth, in which a low fire flickered, and then to Rainulf. She met his gaze, her expression one of both amazement and amusement. With ingenuous deliberation, she made her laughing brown eyes go wide, just for the briefest moment, before Martine spoke to her and she turned away. Rainulf smiled, pleased by her disclosure of her amazement to him and him alone, warmed by the intimacy of it.

  “She came with you, Rainulf?”

  He turned to face Peter, sensing an undercurrent of disappointment beneath the civil question. “Aye.” He wished he didn’t know where this was leading.

  Peter leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Is she your mis—”

  “Nay!” Rainulf said, a bit too sharply. “I’m offering her protection from someone who would do her harm. She’s naught to me but... a friend.”

  “A friend,” said Thorne, with a glimmer in those blue Saxon eyes. “Of course.”

  Rainulf had taken Thorne and Martine aside when he returned from his ride and explained the situation, but asked them not to discuss the details with others. For this reason, only his sister and brother by marriage knew of Corliss’s humble origins and their living arrangement. But despite his protestations to the contrary, they both apparently still thought of her as his lover.

  Rainulf looked back at Corliss chatting with his sister and the squires and ladies’ maids gathering around the sink. He heard her throaty laughter as she made conversation with those highborn attendants, and felt both pride and a certain measure of vague discomfort at the ease with which she handled herself.

  “Is she marriageable?” Peter asked.

  Marriageable! Rainulf stared at the handsome young knight who, judging from his sincere expression, was completely serious. “She has no property,” Rainulf said.

  “I have no need of property. Thorne’s granted me a choice holding. Has she a husband somewhere?”

  Rainulf heard himself say, “She’s widowed.”

  “And not promised to anyone?”

  Waving over the boy with the jug, Rainulf mumbled, “Nay. She’s...” He grimaced and shook his head as the page filled his cup with brandy. “Nay.”

  Martine and Corliss and the rest of the ladies approached the table, the squires behind. Peter smiled and tossed back his sandy mane as he rose, his gaze fixed on Corliss. The men all stood as the ladies took their seats.

  Martine introduced “Lady Corliss” to the knights and motioned for her to sit next to Rainulf. He saw the relief in Corliss’s smile as she walked over to him, and felt gratified that she viewed his nearness as a source of comfort in this strange place.

  Her silken gown rustled as she settled down beside him, keeping her back straight and her chin raised, just as he had shown her. A warm, evocative scent rose from her and enveloped him like an enchanted mist. There was something darkly exotic about the scent, something compelling and enigmatic that reminded him of the East—of fragrant blossoms that opened only at night, of aromatic spice markets, and hot, swirling windstorms.

  Martine, seated across the table from him, met his gaze and smiled in a self-satisfied way, then cocked her eyebrows as if to say, Well? What do you think of my handiwork? She’d dressed and adorned Corliss just for him, he realized. The intoxicating perfume rising from Corliss’s warm skin was one of Martine’s obscure herbal concoctions. The sapphires encircling her slender throat, the tiny gold rings flashing on her tapered fingers, catching his eye again and again, were all part of Martine’s vision.

  Smiling politely, Rainulf nodded and raised his cup toward his sister, acknowledging the skill with which she had transformed his—how had Thorne put it?— smooth little pebble into a precious gem.

  Peter cleared his throat. “My lady?”

  Corliss, seemingly oblivious to the knight, thanked the page who poured her wine and took a sip.

  “My lady? Lady Corliss.”

  She lowered her goblet slowly, her expression of surprise giving way to a gracious smile. “I’m sorry, Sir Peter. I didn’t realize you were speaking to me.”

  He returned the smile. “Of course I was speaking to you. You might as well be the only person at this table, for your beauty is so blinding that I can barely see the others.”

  Rainulf gulped down his brandy and gestured grimly for another.

  * * *

  Corliss watched Rainulf hand the two books to his sister and then slowly circle the table and return to his seat next to her. She smiled and pretended interest as Martine exclaimed over the gifts, all the while keeping a close watch on Rainulf out of the corner of her eye.

  He was drunk. Very drunk. He’d barely nibbled at his supper, and now his almond-spice cake sat untouched before him while he poured himself yet another goblet of wine. She’d often seen men drink to excess, but never Rainulf Fairfax. Once, he’d told her how much he hated the unbalanced feeling that came with drunkenness, and she’d gotten the impression it almost frightened him. Yet he’d spent this entire meal getting steadily—and, it seemed, deliberately—intoxicated.

  He was the only person at the table who was truly in his cups, but she seemed to be the only one who recognized his condition. Conversation had been lively during the meal, and no one seemed to notice Rainulf’s silence, or the increasing lack of focus in his eyes. All his movements were slow and deliberate, as if it was important to him to seem his normal, coolheaded, unflappable self. He’d fooled the others.

  But not me. Perhaps it was because she sat right next to him, and could see the slight unsteadiness in his careful gestures. Or perhaps it was simply that she’d come to know him so well—too well to be taken in by his feigned sobriety.

  “My lady? Did you hear me?”

  She started, and met Sir Peter’s intent gaze. “Aye... She grinned sheepishly. “Nay.”

  He smiled compassionately. “You’re fatigued from your journey. I understand. I had asked you if you would care to join me for some hawking tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Hawking?” She saw Rainulf’s knuckles turn white as he gripped his goblet, then brought it to his mouth and emptied it swiftly. “I’m afraid I’ve never... I don’t know how—”

  “Oh, I’ll show you everything you need to know. And the baron can supply you with a gauntlet and a suitable bird. What say you, Thorne? Have you a tame little falcon for my lady to hunt with?”

  Corliss saw the Saxon’s amused gaze flick toward Rainulf before turning to her. “I’ve got a lovely little merlin who’ll serve you well, my lady. Meek as a newborn pup—till she lands her prey, of course. Then she shows her true colors. Falcons need meat like they need to breathe.”

  Thorne popped the last bit of his cake into his mouth and dusted off his hands, his azure eyes trained on Rainulf. “No creature can keep its true needs in check forever. One can go years pretending they don’t exist. But nature despises pretense, and eventually the desire to satisfy them becomes... overpowering. Impossible to resist.”

  Rainulf glowered at him. Thorne grinned and said to Corliss, “The merlin’s name is Guinevere, after Arthur’s queen. I’ll introduce you to her on the morrow.”

  With a mumbled “Excuse me,” Rainulf stood. For a moment he clutched at the tablecloth. His wavering gaze took in the diners and then rested on Corliss. He started to say something, but then seemed to change his mind. Beneath the wine-induced haze in his eyes she thought she saw a hint of uneasiness, even dread.

  He hates being drunk. It scares him. She watched him as he took his leave, crossing the great hall with cautious, unhurried steps.

&nbs
p; “Do you play chess, Lady Corliss?”

  She glanced briefly at Sir Peter, then returned her attention to Rainulf as he made his way to the stairwell. “Nay, I never learned how.”

  “Then I’d be honored if you’d let me teach you after supper.”

  “Tonight?” she asked distractedly as Rainulf ducked into the stairwell and disappeared from view.

  “Aye. Unless... That is, if you’re too tired from your trip—”

  “I am, I’m afraid.” She rose, and the men all stood. “More tired than I’d realized. I hate to retire so early, but...”

  “Of course,” Peter said. “But you must let me walk you upstairs.”

  “Nay, don’t trouble yourself.”

  “But it’s no—”

  “Please. I’ll be fine.”

  “But—”

  “What time shall I meet you tomorrow, Sir Peter?”

  “Ah.” Her ruse worked; he left off arguing and smiled in anticipation. “After the noon meal? At the hawk house?”

  “I shall be there.” She bid the company a hasty good night and followed Rainulf into the torchlit stairwell.

  Halfway up the circular stairs, she came upon him sitting on one of the cold stone steps and leaning against the wall.

  “Oh, Rainulf.”

  He groaned when he saw her.

  “Let me help you.” She went to lift him under the arms, but he grabbed her hands.

  “I’m fine,” he said thickly.

  “You’re not fine. You’re drunk.”

  “Nay, I’m fine. Just don’t make me move.”

  “You can’t stay here.” She tried to raise him up by the hands, but he resisted her, pulling her down until she sank to her knees on the step beneath him, his long legs flanking her.

  “I can damn well stay wherever I want.”

  She’d never heard him sound so surly. “Come on,” she said, struggling to her feet. “I’m taking you to—”

  “Stop it!” Releasing her hands, he seized her shoulders and lowered her roughly. “I just...” He shook his head helplessly. “I can’t...”