Heaven's Fire

by Patricia Ryan

  Felda pronounced Corliss “magnificent,” pinched her cheeks, and left. Corliss wished she didn’t have to go down to supper alone, but she finally got her courage up and slowly descended the stairs. As she neared the great hall, she heard men talking, and paused to listen.

  Rainulf, Peter, and Guy were congratulating Thorne on Wulfric’s birth.

  “A son,” Thorne said proudly. “And all boy!”

  “Ah, you checked, did you?” Rainulf asked, sounding amused and a good deal more relaxed than the last time she spoke to him.

  Thorne chuckled. “Aye, and it’s the size of your thumb!”

  There was a moment of silence. Corliss grinned at the mental image of Rainulf and the two knights examining their thumbs. Presently there came a chorus of whistles and exclamations of awe. Corliss cleared her throat and stepped out of the stairwell, whereupon the men rushed to hide their hands behind their backs.

  Thorne coughed. “My lady.”

  “Gentlemen.”

  Peter quickly recovered his composure and took Corliss by the arm. “Would you do me the honor of sitting next to me at supper, my lady?”

  She glanced at Rainulf and found him frowning. For a moment, he seemed about to speak, and she thought—hoped—he might ask her to sit with him. But then he schooled his expression and—almost reluctantly, it seemed—turned away.

  “Aye, Sir Peter,” she said, forcing a tactful smile, “I’d be happy to.”

  Chapter 12

  “We’d like you to be godmother to Wulfric,” said Martine, sitting up in bed with the baby asleep in her arms. Thorne, sitting by her side, reached over to caress Wulfric’s thick shock of gold hair and wipe away the trickle of milk that escaped from his half-open mouth.

  “Me?”

  “If it weren’t for you, there would be no baby to baptize tomorrow.” Martine smiled toward her brother, standing near the bedchamber door. “Rainulf will be his godfather.”

  “I’m... I’m honored,” Corliss said. “Truly.”

  Father John, the barony chaplain, cleared his throat. “There is something I’m obliged to mention before you agree.” He glanced uneasily between Corliss and Rainulf. “The sacrament of baptism spiritually binds the godparents not only to the child, but to each other. Under canon law, lifting up the same child from the font is an impediment to marriage.”

  “We didn’t realize...” Thorne began, his brow furrowed.

  “Ah,” Father John said. “Then perhaps you ought to think about choosing another godmother.”

  A great silence descended on the chamber. Presently Rainulf cleared his throat. “She can serve as godmother,” he said tightly. Drawing in a breath, he added, “We can both serve. There’s no problem.”

  Thorne and Martine exchanged a look. A great sadness welled up within Corliss, a sadness reflected in Rainulf’s expression of grim resignation.

  “He’s right,” Corliss said in a monotone. “There’s no reason we can’t both serve as godparents. Thank you for asking me. I gladly accept.”

  * * *

  Rainulf received the naked infant and held him above the big marble font, nodding to Corliss, who took hold of the feet. The afternoon sun streaming in through the stained-glass window overhead bathed her face in multicolored light. The sight transfixed him for a long, breathless moment.

  A hand closed over his arm. “Immerse the child,” Father John whispered.

  Together, he and Corliss dipped a squalling Wulfric into the water, then lifted him up. Father John anointed the babe’s forehead with sacred chrism and tied a white cloth around it, then took him into his arms.

  Corliss smiled at Rainulf, and after a moment’s hesitation, he smiled back.

  So this is how it’s to be. I’m to continue on as if I don’t ache with wanting her, as if it doesn’t hurt just to look upon her.

  We’re to act as if we don’t care.

  So be it. If she can do it, so can I.

  * * *

  Corliss lay in bed, gazing at the light from beneath the door to Rainulf’s chamber. Tomorrow they would begin their return journey to Oxford. She looked forward to the trip with a fair measure of anticipation, for it meant they’d have two days alone together.

  She’d missed him during their visit to Blackburn. In truth, she’d seen him only at supper, for he spent his days at St. Dunstan’s and his evenings closeted in his chamber reading books borrowed from the priory’s library. When she awoke during the night—as now—she would see the light beneath his door, no matter how late it was. Sometimes, if she lay very still and held her breath, she fancied she could hear the soft whisper of pages being turned... the creak of his chair.

  She’d had little opportunity to talk to him, and none to ask him the question that had obsessed her for the past fortnight, ever since their arrival at Blackburn. It was a question she couldn’t ask just anybody, only a trusted confidant, someone who wouldn’t laugh at her ignorance or look askance at her for asking such things.

  Only Rainulf. He was the only one she could have asked, except they hadn’t been alone together for two weeks, and it wasn’t a question one blurted out over roast stag at supper.

  She studied the pale strip of lamplight beneath his door—the only light in her pitch-black chamber, it being well past midnight.

  She could ask it now. She could get up and throw a wrapper over her shift and knock on the door of his chamber. They’d be alone. No one to overhear her foolish question or laugh at her ignorance or think her immoral for contemplating such matters.

  Biting her lip, she stared at the ribbon of golden light.

  She could.

  * * *

  Rainulf thought he heard something as he turned a page of the Decretum—two soft thumps. He listened for a moment, heard nothing more, and returned his attention to the volume of canon law on the desk in front of him. The prohibition against godparents marrying had come as news to him, and he sought—for the sake of curiosity only—to confirm it in print. Not that he doubted Father John’s knowledge, and not that it mattered. It didn’t. Not to him personally, at any rate—

  There it was again, a little louder. He turned toward the door to the chamber adjoining his. Corliss?

  Saving his place with a piece of straw—a habit acquired during his university days—he donned a shirt over his chausses and opened the door.

  He forgot to breathe when he saw her standing there in a silken shift and wrapper, her sleep-tousled hair curling around her face—the very picture of seductive innocence. She had her lower lip caught between those perfect white teeth; when she released it, the lip was reddened and swollen. He did breathe then, a sharp inhalation that filled his senses with that exotic, maddening perfume of hers.

  A jolt of sexual longing shook him, and he turned away abruptly, wondering what she was doing here in his chamber in the middle of the night. To cover his awkwardness, he sat back down and picked up his book. “Couldn’t you sleep?” he said, his voice rougher than he would have liked.

  “There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you about.”

  He hesitated, uncomfortably aware of her breasts and hips beneath the thin silk.

  She took a step back. “I suppose this isn’t a good—”

  “Nay. Come in.” He laid the book aside. “Have a seat.”

  He followed her gaze as she looked around the chamber, realizing belatedly that his bed was the only place left to sit, since he’d taken the one chair. “You can sit here,” he offered, rising.

  “That’s all right.” She drew aside the curtain and sat on the edge of the big bed. “I’m comfortable here.”

  He had often—too often—envisioned her on his bed in her nightclothes... or less. During the past fortnight he had struggled to keep from entertaining such thoughts, immersing himself in monastic life and exhausting himself with endless nights of reading while the rest of the household lay sleeping. He’d been successful, for the most part—at least during his waking hours. At night, she still came to
him in his dreams... dreams in which they surrendered to each other, heart and soul and flesh... dreams from which he awoke shaking and sweating and moaning her name.

  It was getting harder and harder to keep his desire for her in perspective. When she’d first come to Oxford, it had been easier; he’d been long used to self-denial. You were proud of it, you sanctimonious bastard. Proud and complacent and self-righteous. Better than everyone else because you could resist the human needs that held them captive.

  When had it started to change? When you started to change... When Corliss changed you. When she made you smile. When she made you want. When she made you care.

  Whatever it was she’d wanted to ask him was evidently difficult for her. She fingered her wrapper nervously as though working up her courage. In the uneasy silence, he found himself reflecting, as he often did lately, on how much simpler his life would be if he’d never met her. As it was, all he wanted anymore was to be with her. To talk to her. To touch her. God help him, to make love to her. The need for restraint, although he hated it more than ever, hadn’t changed; he still wanted the chancellorship, didn’t he? But the effort it took to exercise that restraint had increased a hundredfold.

  He watched her run her hand over the quilt. She regarded him thoughtfully for a moment and then looked at the carpeted floor. “What I wanted to ask you is a little embarrassing.”

  “You needn’t be embarrassed with me.”

  She took a deep breath. “It has to do with the story Thorne told when we first arrived. The story about the Rhineland widow. What was her name...?”

  “Sigfreda.” He wasn’t sure he liked where this might lead.

  “That’s right. I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and there’s a part of it that I just don’t understand. The part where she... screamed.”

  No, he was definitely sure he didn’t like where this was going. “What don’t you understand about it?” he asked carefully.

  She met his gaze for a moment and then looked away again. “Why she did it. Why she screamed.”

  “You don’t know?” She shook her head. He wished he had a brandy. “‘Twas exactly as Thorne said. She was... enjoying herself.” Very much.

  “Enjoying herself.”

  Rainulf nodded.

  “I still don’t understand.”

  Oh, for pity’s sake. “Climaxing,” he said shortly.

  Her eyes grew wide as wagon wheels, then narrowed. “Women don’t...” Her expression became indignant. “You’re teasing me. I trusted you to tell me the truth.”

  “Teasing you! Have you never—” He bit back the question, since it was evident that she never had. “Don’t you know that women can... achieve that kind of pleasure, too?”

  She cast him a skeptical look. “Nay. I’ve never heard of such a thing. And I’ve certainly never...” A hot blush spread upward along her throat, staining her face pink.

  This revelation surprised Rainulf. After all, she was so earthy, so comfortable with herself. And she was hardly inexperienced. She’d been married at sixteen. To an old man, he reminded himself. The mistress to another old man. Men who clearly had never bothered to satisfy her. What fools they had been, to have such a woman in their beds—so young and beautiful and passionate—and use her so uncaringly. How often had he imagined Corliss writhing in ecstasy beneath him, crying out as she dug her fingers into his back... He adjusted his long shirt to hide his sudden, fierce erection.

  Her eyes searched his. “You’re telling me the truth, aren’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “What does it feel like?”

  He licked his dry lips. “Corliss, I’m sorry. I can’t discuss this with you.

  “But—”

  “Ask Martine about it. She’s a woman. And you two seem to get along so well.”

  “Aye, but I’ve only known her a short time, and... I’ve always been able to ask you everything.”

  “Ask Martine,” he repeated.

  “I’m asking you. Tell me what it feels like. I just want to know. I feel so ignorant, so foolish, not having even known such a thing was possible.”

  “Corliss... Nay. I can’t. Besides, I really don’t think it can be described. Perhaps someday you’ll remarry and have a husband who cares enough to show you—”

  “I’ll never remarry! I’ll never know what other women know, I’ll never feel what they feel.” Her voice quavered; her eyes glistened.

  “God, Corliss, don’t cry...”

  “I never cry!” She raised her chin defiantly. That was true, Rainulf realized. Although generally free with her emotions, he’d never seen her shed a tear—evidently a point of pride with her. “And I certainly wouldn’t cry over this. I just want to know what it’s like for other women, women who live normal lives and have husbands who love them. I just want you to tell me what it is they feel—”

  “I don’t know what it feels like for a woman.”

  “What does it feel like for a man?”

  “I told you. It can’t be described. I can’t help you.”

  She studied him in silence for a moment. “I think you can,” she said quietly. “You just won’t. You’re afraid.”

  He bolted up out of his seat and strode to her chamber door. “I can’t and I won’t.” He held the door open. “I think you should go back to bed, Corliss.”

  She stood, but made no move to leave. “Are you—” she took a deep breath. “Are you sorry you have to put up with my ceaseless questions and my...” She met his gaze squarely. “Do you wish I’d never come to Oxford?”

  He looked away, rubbing his eyes, trying to obliterate a torrent of images—her breasts through sheer linen, her hips encased in snug chausses, a thin ribbon of steaming flesh viewed through a doorway. They were images that tormented him, stirring up unwanted feelings, complicating his well-ordered life.

  Did he wish she’d never come to Oxford? “Sometimes, yes. Frequently.”

  He heard her rapid footsteps, felt the door yanked out of his hand, flinched at the reverberation as she slammed it closed. He opened his eyes on the empty chamber, feeling a sudden, ungovernable sense of loss.

  Without thinking, he wheeled on the door and slammed his fist into it, hard. Pain sucked the breath from his lungs. “Damn!”

  Lurching to the washstand, he plunged his hand into the ewer, letting the cold water numb it. “Damn.” He closed his eyes and filled his lungs with air, letting it out slowly. Then again, and again.

  He remembered the things she’d done and said in the stairwell after Wulfric’s birth, recalled the cool pressure of her palm against his cheek, and her artless wisdom: Just be in your skin... feel what you feel... Don’t fight it.

  Withdrawing his hand from the water, he dried it off, then flexed his fingers thoughtfully.

  He returned to the door and hesitated, questioning the wisdom of this. You scrutinize everything... question everything. Just listen to your instinct.

  His instinct told him to turn the handle of the door, and he did.

  Chapter 13

  Corliss heard the door open and turned toward the sound. The bed curtains enclosed her. A brief shaft of lamplight glowed through the filmy linen, then winked out as the door closed, plunging the chamber once more into absolute darkness.

  She held her breath, but heard nothing for several long moments. Presently there came a soft footfall, and another. She turned to face the wall, pulling the quilt up around her as he approached the bed.

  Go away. Just go away. If he spoke one more word to her, she feared she would burst into tears, and she didn’t want to cry. She hated to cry.

  There came a whispery rustle as the curtains parted. For a breathless interval nothing happened, and then she felt the quilt shift behind her as he turned it down. She sensed his weight on the mattress, and thought insanely that he was going to get under the covers with her, but of course, he didn’t. He sat, then waited, as if letting her get used to his being there.

  Presently she felt the fi
rst soft suggestion of his fingers on her hair. He tucked the unruly waves behind her exposed ear; then lightly touched her face, as if searching for something. Tears, she realized. He wanted to know whether she’d been crying, despite her proud insistence that she never did. She was glad she’d managed to keep the tears at bay.

  His hand slipped under the quilt to caress her shoulder, and then her back, massaging her slowly through the sleek silk in an obvious effort to comfort her. It was comforting, she realized. His touch told her, more effectively than words, that nothing all that dreadful had happened between them, that he still cared for her, that he had always cared for her. What surprised her was that he chose this way to reveal his feelings, rather than the tiresome and endless words on which he relied overly much. Was it possible that he’d taken to heart her admonition to save his complicated analyses for the lecture hall?

  He closed his hand over her shoulder and urged her onto her back. She looked up at him, but all she could make out was an indistinct form that might have been slightly darker than the blackness surrounding it. His hand glided lower beneath the quilt, along her bare arm, leaving a hot trail of sensation in its wake.

  Her heart accelerated as his fingertips moved from her wrist to her hip. He paused, resting his hand on her thigh, its warmth nearly scorching her through the silken shift. His fingers tightened, gathering the silk and pulling it up. He slowly raised her shift until her legs were bare beneath the quilt.

  She swallowed hard, but her voice emerged as an unsteady whisper. “Rainulf?”

  “Shh.”

  When she felt his light touch on her bare thigh, she bit her lip so hard it hurt. He smoothed his hand upward, over the ridge of hipbone and then, slowly, across her lower belly until it brushed the patch of hair there.

  She clutched the linen sheeting, her heart hammering, her mind a storm of emotions. What was he doing, touching her like this? What was he—

  He was showing her, she realized as he softly caressed her, his touch so feathery, so insubstantial, that she might have been imagining it. He was showing her that which she’d begged him to tell her about, but which he’d said could not be described.