She hesitated. “After you slept with these women, and it was all over, did you remain friends?”
“For the most part, we were never friends to begin with. I barely knew most of them. It wasn’t like it is with you and me.”
She snuggled against him contentedly, clearly pleased that he considered her a friend. “So you just said ‘Good-bye, and oh, yes, thank you for having sex with me?’”
He laughed again; it was becoming habitual. “I generally thought up something a bit more elegant to say. And I usually bought them a gift of some sort.”
“A gift...”
“A parting gift. A jeweled girdle, a brooch, perhaps a book if she could read. There was one who liked to hunt, so I gave her a litter of deerhound pups.”
Corliss grew still. In the ensuing silence, it occurred to him that she was wondering whether he’d give her a parting gift when the time came. He felt the tension in her, and knew this prospect displeased her, inasmuch as it would reduce her to just another of his faceless non-mistresses. An absurd notion, of course, yet this talk of gifts did give him an idea...
He smiled to himself. A very good idea, actually.
She looked at him. “You’re laughing at me. You think my ceaseless questions are ridiculous.”
“I love your ceaseless questions.”
“I only ask you about these women because such affairs are so foreign to me. The idea of giving oneself to men one hardly knows, and then getting dogs in return...” She shook her head against his chest. “You must think me hopelessly unsophisticated, but it strikes me as very strange. Then again, I’ve never even been to Paris. I’m just a simple Oxfordshire peasant.”
He tightened his arms around her. “There’s nothing simple about you, my love.”
She fell silent for a moment. Although she didn’t look at him, he felt her face heat up; was she blushing?
“Call me that again?” she asked.
“My love,” he said softly. He kissed the top of her head. “My love.” He kissed the hotly flushed edge of her ear. “My love... my love...”
He kissed every part of her he could reach, and then he laid her on her back and kissed the rest—slow, sweet, hot, endless kisses that tasted of night-opening flowers and sweaty lovemaking and honey—whispering, over and over, “My love... my love... my love...”
* * *
Pigot stood in the shadows of his St. John Street alleyway, watching the windows of Corliss’s chamber until they went dark some time after midnight.
Corliss indeed... It was Constance of Cuxham up there, spreading her legs for the magister in exchange for a roof and four walls—in which she’d hidden from Pigot all damned summer. It was Constance of Cuxham, whoring still because she knew no other way.
It was Constance of Cuxham, after all, who had trotted alongside Rainulf Fairfax for four months, right out there in the open for all the world—himself included—to see. It was Constance of Cuxham, in her tunic and chausses, who laughed at everyone—at him, most especially—for not seeing through her deception.
And it was Constance of Cuxham who would pay for that deception with the very female charms she seemed so eager to deny. He’d start, as always, with the face: those wide, childish eyes; and that lovely mouth, with its quick tongue. The tongue would go first, he decided. That way she couldn’t scream when he did the rest of it. He’d found that constant screaming in his ear gave him a headache.
This ceaseless waiting gave him a headache, too. How frustrating, to have discovered her disguise—to have located his prize!—yet be denied the capture simply because she was always with someone, usually Fairfax. One lesson he’d learned during his years of finding runaways for Roger Foliot: wait till they were alone. That way, there’d be no bothersome witnesses to deal with. But he’d never had to wait as long as this, and it was beginning to wear on him. His knife hand itched with the need to slice, to excise.
With a heavy sigh, he left the alley and began walking home. On the way, he passed a whore with yellow hair. She reminded him of Fabienne, the first woman he’d punished with his knives, so long ago. Fabienne, who had scorned him when he was young and easily stung. She had laughed at his face, had compared him to a spotted toad. But he’d taught her a lesson in humility. His clever steel had transformed her from a beauty into a monster, and then he was the one who’d laughed. It made him hard just to think about what he’d done to her.
He considered offering the wench with yellow hair tuppence for her services. Then, when she took him to whatever private place she’d set aside for her whoring, he could, among other things, appease his itchy knife hand...
No. That was messy, risky. And ultimately unsatisfying, for she wasn’t the woman he wanted, merely a convenient substitute. He’d have Constance of Cuxham herself soon enough. Until then, he should do nothing to distract himself from his goal of apprehending her. He must return to the alley on St. John Street before dawn and follow her every move.
The moment she was alone, he’d pounce.
Chapter 18
Felice lit up when Corliss walked into Mistress Clark’s establishment on Catte Street, accompanied by Thomas and Brad. The young girl seemed to barely notice the two scholars, who busied themselves by perusing the pattern books and exemplars lying about; she gazed at Corliss, grinning in delight.
“Is your mother in?” Corliss asked her.
“Nay!” barked a voice from behind. Corliss turned to find Bertram glaring at her as he nailed a board across the largest of the shop’s big front windows.
This wasn’t the only storefront being boarded up that morning. All along Catte Street—and all over Oxford—merchants were securing their businesses and fleeing, a response to the unrest rapidly sweeping through the city. During the past few days, scholars had advanced from beating the occasional townsman to looting and burning shops. The locals had retaliated by arming themselves, attacking with clubs and knives anyone foolish enough to go out alone wearing a cappa. The situation reminded Corliss of a cauldron of water hanging over a fire. The water grows hotter and hotter, until at last the pot can contain it no longer.
The streets through which Thomas and Brad had escorted her—at the request of Rainulf, who was occupied with trying to quell the impending riot—were filled with chaos. It seemed to Corliss as if everyone in Oxford—scholar and townsman alike—was running somewhere, weapon in hand. Most of them were screaming. Fights broke out at regular intervals. The pot was boiling over.
Bertram drove a nail into the board with one angry whack of the hammer, his gaze never leaving Corliss. “Mistress Clark ain’t in. You’d best be on your way.”
“I’ve got the last signature with me,” Corliss said, dumping her satchel on a desk and withdrawing the gathering of pages. “I need to give it to her and get my money.”
“You finished it already?” Felice asked. “You’ve only had it three days.”
“‘Twas naught but capitals and paragraph marks. Those don’t take long.”
Felice smiled shyly. “Only because you’re so good at it. Mama says you’re the most talented illuminator she’s ever—”
“Your mama,” Bertram interrupted, “is too kind by far.”
“‘Tis the truth and you know it!” Felice snapped. “You’re just jealous because all you can do is copy—”
“I am not!”
Corliss left the two to their bickering—and Thomas and Brad to their snooping—and carried the signature through the leather-curtained doorway into the back room. The completed pages of Master Becket’s Bible were arranged on the long worktable in neat stacks, ready to be sewn. She studied the stacks to determine their order, then inserted her signature where it belonged.
Hearing the leather curtain open and close, she turned. Felice, her eyes huge in the semidark chamber, stood twisting her hands in the skirt of her kirtle. “Mama found a buyer for the shop. We’re leaving Oxford as soon as Master Becket has his Bible. A fortnight from now at the latest.”
“Where are you going?”
“Up around Wolvercot,” Felice replied miserably. “To raise goats and chickens.”
“Yes, well...” Corliss shrugged. “I hope you’ll be very happy.”
“I’ll be wretched.” Felice crossed to her, her big eyes glimmering. “Heartbroken,” she whispered hoarsely.
Corliss took a step back and felt the table behind her legs. “Ah. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Don’t you want to know why?” Felice asked in a tremulous voice.
Corliss shook her head. She suspected she knew the source of this heartbreak and had no desire to hear the sentiments voiced.
Felice closed in on her, yet still Corliss had to strain to hear her when she spoke: “Because you won’t be there.”
“Uh...” Corliss tried to sidestep along the edge of the table, but Felice clutched the front of her tunic.
“I can’t stand this,” she choked out as her arms encircled Corliss’s waist. “I might never see you again. It’s unendurable.”
“Felice...” Corliss tried to pry the young girl’s arms from around her, but she held on tight.
“I love you!” Felice blurted out.
“No, you don’t,” Corliss said gently.
“I do! I’ll wither up and die without you.”
“You barely know me, Felice. You don’t love me. You love the person you think I am—some man I can never be.” Felice had needed someone to fall in love with, Corliss realized, just as Peter had. But they’d both fallen in love with someone who didn’t even exist—an imagined, idealized lover with Corliss’s face.
Felice sniffed. “You sound like Mama. She wants me to marry Bertram.”
“Perhaps you should. He loves you.”
“But I love you!”
Before Corliss could react, Felice locked her hands around the back of her neck and kissed her on the mouth.
“Mmph!” Corliss wrested free, pushing Felice away. The girl lost her footing and slipped, pulling Corliss down with her. They landed on the floor, Corliss on top.
“Marry me,” Felice pleaded, gripping Corliss around the back of the head and tugging her down for another kiss.
“Stop this!” Corliss grabbed Felice’s hands and pinned them to the floor.
“Please,” Felice begged. “Oh, please
The leather curtain flew aside and Bertram charged into the room. “What the devil—!”
“Oh, hell,” Corliss moaned as Bertram seized her and hauled her off Felice. Enraged, he flung her roughly across the room. She thudded against the wall.
Bertram advanced on her, hands in fists. “You’ll pay for this!”
Felice scrambled to her feet. “Bertram! What are you going to—”
“He tried to force himself on you. I’m going to kill him.”
If Corliss had expected Felice to beseech Bertram on her behalf, she was soon to be disappointed, for the girl merely blinked like a young owl... before smiling in a very feminine and self-satisfied way. “Really? You’d really kill him? For me?”
Oh, that’s just fine, thought Corliss as Bertram puffed himself up, trying his best to look the avenging champion. “I would and I will,” he said. “You just watch me.” Corliss tried to run past Bertram, but he grabbed her and slammed her back against the wall. “Not so fast.”
“Corliss?” Thomas swept aside the curtain and stepped into the room, followed by Brad. “Oh, here you are.”
“It’s about time,” she said. My protectors!
Thomas frowned as he took in the scene. “What’s going on?”
“He was attacking Felice,” Bertram said.
Thomas and Brad exchanged a look. “That’s not possible,” Thomas said with a lopsided grin.
“Why not?”
Brad couldn’t suppress a gust of laughter. “It’s just not.”
Bertram turned his back on Corliss to argue the point. Taking advantage of the distraction, she darted between the men and through the doorway to the front room. Without stopping, she grabbed her satchel and ran outside.
“Come back here!” Bertram screamed as he pursued her through the unruly throng hurrying to and fro along Catte Street. She hadn’t gotten far when she felt him grab her by the back of the tunic and swing her around.
The punch—a swift blow to the stomach—dropped her like a stone. She rolled into a ball, her arms clamped around her middle, fighting the urge to vomit.
Bertram grabbed the neck of her tunic, made a fist, and hauled back, aiming for her face. She kicked him hard in both shins before he could connect. His feet flew out from under him, sending him sprawling. As she clambered to her feet, so did he.
“Leave her alone!” someone yelled. Thomas. He wrapped his arms around Bertram, immobilizing him. Corliss saw that a crowd had gathered.
“Don’t hurt her!” Brad pulled her erect. “Are you all right, Corliss?”
Some of the bystanders looked at her strangely. Through her haze of pain and nausea, a warning bell tolled. Her. They were saying her. She shook her head frantically as Thomas and Brad helped her to her feet.
“You’re not all right?” Brad looking helplessly toward Thomas. “Master Fairfax told us to look after her, and—”
“Shut up!” she croaked, holding her stomach. “For God’s sake...”
“Well, I’ll be damned.” Bertram’s astonished gaze inspected her from head to toe.
Behind him, a breathless Felice gaped at Corliss. “Nay...”
“Aye,” Bertram said quietly. “I can see it now. The softness around the face... she’s a woman, all right.” A slow smile spread across his face, the cause of which was obvious: His rival was no rival after all.
“Nay,” Felice repeated.
The spectators whispered and gasped. Corliss heard the same words over and over: “...a woman... men’s clothes...” How long, she wondered, would it take for them to connect her to Rainulf? Would Bishop Fresney find out she’d been living with him? Would Rainulf be ruined?
Thomas and Brad groaned softly when they realized what they’d done.
Felice’s chin trembled as she stared at Corliss. She shook her head slowly, her eyes glassy. Bertram embraced her and she collapsed in his arms, sobbing. “There there,” he murmured, smiling slightly—clearly relishing this opportunity to comfort the girl who had spurned him up till now. “Come along.” He guided her back toward the shop, and they disappeared in the crowd.
Thomas looked stricken. “Corliss, I...” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, I...”
“Me, too,” Brad offered.
The spectators still gawked and commented. There was some laughter, but mostly just expressions of surprise and bewilderment.
They knew now. Dozens of people knew. By nightfall, all of Oxford would know. The truth had asserted itself, just as Rainulf had warned her it would.
It was over. Just like that, it was all over.
“What do we do now?” Thomas asked her. “What should we—”
“Take me to Rainulf,” she said woodenly. “I have to talk to Rainulf.”
Thomas and Brad guided her through the mayhem of Catte Street to the corner of High, where an enormous, black-robed horde had assembled around one tall figure on the steps of St. Mary’s: Rainulf.
“...settle our differences like civilized men,” he was intoning.
“What’s civilized about them?” a voice called out. “After what they did to Victor, we should burn down the whole damned city!”
Rainulf gestured to someone who came to stand alongside him: Victor of Aeskirche. Corliss hadn’t seen him in the five days since Pyt and his friends had dragged him from his bed, beaten him, and thrown a noose around his neck. The sight of his once handsome face, still bruised and swollen, prompted a flurry of indignant exclamations from the assembled scholars.
“No one,” Victor said loudly, “knows better than I what was done to me.” He paused meaningfully, his piercing gaze sweeping the crowd; he was nearly as good at this as Rainulf, if a bit
more dramatic. “And no one knows better than I how well I deserved it.”
A chorus of denials greeted this statement. “You deserved nothing of the kind!” someone yelled. “They’re savages!”
“And we’re not?” Rainulf demanded, scanning the audience. His gaze lit on Corliss, and for a fleeting moment he focused only on her, his eyes smiling their secret smile, as the hundred or so scholars faded into a dark, shadowy mass; and then he wrested his attention from her and continued his impassioned plea for restraint and reconciliation.
What will I say to him? How can I tell him it’s all over, just like that? Her disguise was a disguise no longer. She had to leave him. And not just his home, she realized suddenly; she would have to leave Oxford. This was Rainulf’s city. As chancellor, he would all but own it. She could never escape him, never hope to forget him—or at least learn to live without him—if she stayed here. And her continuing presence in the community could hurt Rainulf. If she left now, it was possible that the bishop would never even find out she’d lived with him. Even if he did, he’d most likely forgive Rainulf a brief transgression; a continuing relationship with a woman would never be tolerated, though. The man she loved would be destroyed.
Saying good-bye to him would be agonizing. Would he make it even harder by trying to talk her into staying, or would he grit his teeth and send her on her way? Would he kiss her good-bye? Would he call her “my love” one more time? She hoped he would know better than to give her some trinket, as he had his Parisian conquests—some parting gift intended to soften the pain.
The pain can’t be softened. ‘Tis unendurable. I can’t bear this.
How would she ever be able to walk away from him? How could she say good-bye?
I can’t. Not to his face.
“We’ve answered rage with rage,” Rainulf was saying. “Violence with violence. Fear with fear. We should know better than that—all of us! We live in one of the greatest centers of learning in the world, during the most enlightened time in the history of man...”
As he spoke, the students gradually quieted. They ceased their restless fidgeting, their interruptions, and lapsed into a rapt silence. Rainulf spoke calmly, but with fervor and conviction. He talked of the need to abort the cycle of violence that threatened to destroy the city of Oxford, and with it, the great university that might someday flourish here.
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