“Do you take the name of our Lord in vain even while you seek to make this girl your unwilling mistress? Do you?”
This forceful speech surprised Constance, and Sir Roger as well, judging from his perplexed expression and hasty sign of the cross. “I... it’s just not right, Father. She’s to be mine now.”
“She’s to serve the Church now,” the priest corrected, “by serving me. She will keep the rectory tidy and prepare my meals and tend to my needs.”
The petty knight nodded slowly, a salacious grin curling his fleshy lips. “Your needs, eh?” A flutter of apprehension tickled Constance’s scalp.
Father Osred took a step toward Sir Roger, who, to Constance’s astonishment, took a step back. “Such speculation is unseemly. As I said, young Constance is to serve the Church. And I daresay there must be a special place in Hell for one who would force a girl to commit sins of the flesh rather than serve as housekeeper to a harmless old priest.”
A flood of red stained Sir Roger’s corpulent face. Constance swore she saw a flicker of fear in his eyes before he composed his features. But by the time he met her gaze, all she detected was a cold rage that made her tremble. “You win,” he said softly. “For now.”
Emboldened, Constance stepped out from behind Father Osred. “For always,” she declared in her awkward, heavily accented French. “I’ll never be your whore, Roger Foliot. The very thought sickens me.”
Sir Roger arched an eyebrow. “‘Never’ is a terribly long time, is it not? Especially when one insists on seeking the protection of such very old men. Old men, you see, tend to die. Someday our dear Father Osred” —he nodded in the priest’s direction— “will leave you to join his Maker, and then, rest assured that you will be mine.”
Constance lifted her chin. “If you think for a moment I’d ever give myself to you...”
The fat knight chuckled. “Give yourself to me? Whatever makes you think I’d want you to? Aye, there are some men who like their pleasure handed to them like a tray of sweets. But I find there is greater pleasure to be gained by taking that which is not so freely offered—and I’ve the scratch marks to prove it. So don’t comfort yourself with the naive notion that your resistance will deter me. And don’t think for a moment that we’re through with each other. You’ve outwitted me twice, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let it happen a third time.”
He glanced again at the priest before adding, in measured tones, “If I were you, dear Constance, I’d make it a point to pray that the good Father Osred lives a long and healthy life. For when he is taken, I swear that nothing will keep you from me.”
Turning, he heaved himself with a grunt into his saddle.
Constance shut the door, leaned back against it, and closed her eyes. “Thank God,” she whispered.
When she opened her eyes, she saw Father Osred looking at her strangely. He cleared his throat. “Come.”
Constance followed him into the other room, a small chamber as bare and gloomy as the rest of the house. She saw a large crucifix next to a window, and below it, a washbasin on a stand. Robes and vestments hung from hooks on the walls, against which stood several large wooden chests, and a bed. Father Osred swept aside the bed curtains, pulled down the quilt, and pressed a bony hand into the mattress. “Feathers,” he said with a smile. He beckoned her over. “I don’t imagine you’ve ever lain on a feather mattress.”
“Nay, Father.” Constance began to feel curiously chilly all over. This was the only bed in the two-room rectory.
The priest nodded cheerfully and began untying his robe. “You’ll find this bed to your liking, I wager. Maida said she could never go back to a straw pallet after sleeping here.”
Stunned, Constance crossed to the window and stared out at the churchyard as Father Osred continued to disrobe. “Father, I...” I what? Be careful what you say or you may find yourself turned away from here, and easy pickings for Sir Roger.
She’d heard the whispers about Father Osred and Maida, but had paid them no heed. Now that marriage was forbidden to priests, many kept mistresses instead, a practice merely winked at by parishioners and church officials alike. But Father Osred was so old, and Maida, although much younger, had been plain and pious. But it appeared the whispers had been true. Constance had been such a fool...
I’ll do everything Maida used to do. And now he was taking her at her word.
“Constance?” She looked back over her shoulder to find him wearing naught but a long shirt, and pointing to an empty hook. “You can hang your things up here.”
Dismayed at the bargain she had unwittingly struck, Constance considered her options. If she were to flee, Sir Roger would have her found and brought back. From among the many headstones in the churchyard, her eyes sought out that of young Hildreth, who had run away from Roger Foliot last summer and been returned in pitiful condition. Her body had been discovered that day, facedown in the river. Although the death had been judged accidental, Constance suspected she had taken her own life rather than spend the rest of her days freakishly disfigured.
She felt Father Osred unlacing the back of her kirtle. His touch, like Sully’s, was ice-cold, but the resemblance ended there. The smithy’s hands had been huge and work-roughened, the priest’s were as soft and delicate as a gentlewoman’s.
All her life she’d dreamed of freedom—freedom from Sir Roger, from Cuxham, from the servitude demanded by her poverty and her sex. But it was a dream that would have to wait—for now. She must be patient. She must bide her time, but keep her eyes and ears open, alert to any opportunity to get away without drawing attention to herself. It might take years; she only hoped Father Osred lived that long.
Father Osred tugged the kirtle over her head and hung it up. But when he reached for her linen shift, she pushed his hands away. “Nay, let me keep this. It’s chilly.”
He nodded understandingly. “Of course.” Taking her by the hand, he led her to the bed and urged her to lie down. “Are you cold? Do you want the quilt?”
“Yes. Please.”
He’s not really such a bad sort, she thought as he covered them both and fumbled with her shift. Since he was a much smaller man than Sully, there was considerably less discomfort when he got on top of her. The act itself was over scarcely before it had begun, for which she was grateful. Her husband used to take forever, leaving her painfully raw.
He rolled off her, and presently she heard a high-pitched, whistling snore from his side of the bed. She felt drowsy herself, remarkable given the day’s turbulent events. Must be the feathers, she thought, snuggling into the fluffy mattress. No wonder Maida had liked this bed so much.
Just before she drifted off, a thought occurred to her. Taking pains to be quiet, she rose and knelt in the rushes at the side of the bed. And then she prayed with all her heart that Father Osred would live a long and healthy life.
Chapter 1
A thousand years have passed since the beginnings of a city rose above the water-meadows where the Cherwell meets the Thames. The low slope, climbing up from the two rivers to the crossing of the four ways at the top, gave its shape to the narrow rectangle of the town. Saxons, Danes and Normans built upon it, crowned it with churches, encompassed it with walls. Monks set up in the fields around it altars and cloisters for pilgrimage and prayer. The Middle Ages took possession of it, and filled it with their genius and their dreams, their high-wrought, restless enterprise, their vain debates. And, as superstition widened into study, and the demand for knowledge refused to be repressed, teachers and scholars gradually made the place their own...
—From A History of the University of Oxford, Volume I, by Charles Edward Mallet
March 1161, Oxford
“Duck, Father!”
Rainulf of Rouen, also known as Rainulf Fairfax—Doctor of Logic and Theology, Magister Scholarum of Oxford, and ordained priest—lowered his head just in time to avoid being struck by a flying tankard of ale.
“What the—?”
“It’s Victor, Father,” said Tho
mas. The young, sandy-haired scholar pointed to the rear of the alehouse, where Victor of Asekirche was climbing on top of a table, cheered on by his rowdy friends. “He wasn’t aiming for you,” Thomas explained. “He’s got a quarrel with Burnell.”
Rainulf turned to see the tavern keeper—a huge, barrel-chested brute in a greasy apron—reach beneath the counter, from which he dispensed his ale and meat pies.
“Uh-oh...” Rainulf swiftly drained his tankard and stood as Burnell produced an oaken club studded with nails. He didn’t particularly want to involve himself in this altercation, and he wouldn’t, were it not for Burnell’s reputation for viciousness. He’d savagely beaten more than one scholar since they began flocking to Oxford just a few short years ago. It was even rumored he’d been responsible for a young man found bludgeoned to death last August in an alley off Fish Street. Victor, despite his many faults, did not deserve such a fate.
“Put it down, Burnell,” Rainulf said quietly.
“This is none of your affair, priest,” Burnell growled in anglicized French. He hefted the club in a beefy hand as he muscled his way through the boisterous assemblage of half-drunk students. “I told that one not to come in here no more, but he don’t listen too good.” Gripping the spiked club with both hands, he swung it back and forth through the dark, stale air of the tavern, sending his young patrons scattering. “He’ll mind me now, I wager.”
“He’s afraid to have me come in here!” Victor declared to the black-robed scholars crowded around the table on which he stood, hands on hips. “And do you know why?”
Rainulf ran a weary hand through his short hair. Young Victor, with his darkly striking looks and firebrand temperament, exercised tremendous influence over his fellow scholars. Were he of a mind to, he could use that influence to help dampen the spark of discord between the students of Oxford and the city’s businessmen. Instead, he chose to fan it into flames of rage.
Burnell advanced a step, shaking his weapon in the air. “I’ll tell you why I don’t want you here! ‘Cause you’re a troublemaker, plain and simple. You don’t know when to shut up.”
Victor crossed his arms over his chest and adopted a careless, hip-shot stance. “Oh, I know when to shut up, all right, and I will. After I’ve told everyone about the sewage-tainted water you brew your ale with.”
Burnell’s face darkened with fury. “What? You’ve got no proof—”
“And God knows what’s in those meat pies.”
Burnell raised the club. “You little—”
“If you charged a fair price, I might not mind so much,” Victor said. “But on top of it all, you’re a thief!”
“That’s it! Come down here and fight me like a man!” Victor withdrew something from beneath his black robe. Rainulf saw the flash of steel and cursed under his breath. The young man jumped down from the table and sliced the dagger through the air.
“Victor!” Rainulf stepped between the two men. “Both of you. Let’s go outside and talk about—”
“No more talk, Father,” Victor spat out. “It’s time for action.” He raised his voice and looked around at his inebriated audience. “It’s time to let the brewers and innkeepers and landlords of Oxford know that those of us who’ve come here to study will not lie down for this kind of treatment anymore! It’s time to demand decent food and drink and clean, safe rooms for our money!”
Cries of “Hear, hear!” filled the tavern.
Rainulf gestured toward the blade in Victor’s hand. “And you think that’s the way?”
“It’s the only way his kind” —he nodded toward Burnell— “understands.”
Burnell took a step toward Victor. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Victor stepped forward as well. “Let me state it simply, so you’ll grasp my meaning. If I have a dog and it does something wrong, do I try to reason with it? Nay, ‘twould be a waste of breath. I beat it, because that’s all it understands. ‘Tis the same with those men who are little more than beasts themselves—”
Burnell brandished the club. “Get out of my way, Father.”
“Nay.” Rainulf reached for the club. “Hand it over.”
Burnell yanked it away and stepped around him, raising the weapon high as Victor turned toward him. In the space of a heartbeat Rainulf seized a small bench off the floor and brought it swiftly upward. It shattered on impact with the club, but succeeded in halting its downward progress. The priest wrested the weapon from Burnell and hurled it into the sawdust that covered the floor.
Grabbing the plank that had formed the bench’s seat, Rainulf wheeled to face Victor as he thrust his dagger toward the dazed tavern keeper. Throwing himself between the two, he slammed the plank into Victor’s midsection. For a moment the hotheaded young scholar froze, looking slightly confused. Then he sank to his knees in the sawdust, the dagger slipping out of his fingers. Rainulf kicked it away and tossed aside the plank.
Raking both hands through his hair, Rainulf addressed the wide-eyed onlookers. “It’s over. Go back to your ale.” As the crowd dispersed, Burnell’s wife guided her husband into the back room. Rainulf hauled Victor to his feet and aimed him toward the door. “I won’t always be around to protect you from your own foolishness, Victor. Take my advice and keep clear of Burnell.” He gave a not-so-gentle shove, and the young man lurched out into the bright noon sunshine and stumbled away.
Thomas stared at him. “You handle yourself well, Father. Did you learn to fight like that in the Holy Land?”
“Nay—at the University of Paris. I didn’t fight like that in the Holy Land.”
Thomas frowned. “But surely, on crusade, you fought—”
“To kill,” Rainulf finished shortly. “That’s a different kind of fighting.”
Thomas seemed to digest that for a moment, and then he nodded toward the front door. “Do you know that fellow?”
The man standing in the doorway had hair the color of polished copper and a milk white face showered with hundreds of freckles. He wore a plain, clean tunic and clutched a leather bag.
Rainulf shook his head. “I would have remembered those freckles.”
The stranger scanned the room, stilling when his gaze lit on Rainulf. This interest surprised Rainulf not in the least. His height alone often drew attention. And in this dank little student tavern, he would seem sorely out of place, being the only master present and—and six and thirty years—by far the oldest man.
“Are you the one they call Rainulf Fairfax?” the stranger asked, his gaze resting on the priest’s flaxen hair—the feature that had earned him the surname from his students.
“Aye.”
He looked down at Rainulf’s black robe—not a clerical robe, as would be expected, but the cappa of a secular master, the open front of which revealed an ordinary brown tunic and chausses beneath. “They told me you were a priest.”
Someone cleared his throat; someone else chuckled.
“They were right—more or less,” Rainulf answered. A few of the scholars laughed good-naturedly, but Rainulf maintained his neutral expression.
“Are you or aren’t you?”
“Why is it so important?” Rainulf demanded.
“I need a priest who’s had smallpox,” said the red-haired man. “They told me you fit that description.”
“They?”
The man shrugged. “A couple of the other masters. If they were mistaken, kindly advise me so and I’ll trouble you no further.”
“They weren’t mistaken. But what’s this about the pox?”
“There’s been a lot of it in the village of Cuxham the past few weeks. I need you to perform last rites.”
“I’m a teaching priest,” Rainulf said. “I haven’t performed the offices of the church in years. There must be a parish priest in Cuxham. Can’t he do it?”
“He’s been doing it,” said the stranger. “Only now he’s come down with it himself. A bad case, too, but hopefully one of the last ones—I think this outbreak has run its course.
Anyway, Father Osred’s dying, most likely, and I promised Sir Roger Foliot I’d bring back a priest to give him last rites. Only, I’ve got to find one who’s already had the pox, so as not to spread the contagion.”
He spoke like a man who knew something of disease. Rainulf glanced at the stranger’s bag. “Are you a physician?”
“A traveling surgeon. My name’s Will Geary. So, will you go?”
Rainulf spent a moment trying to summon up a good reason for refusing. Failing to do so, he sighed heavily and nodded. “I’ll go.”
* * *
Stopping briefly at his Saint John Street town house, Rainulf changed into sturdy traveling clothes and packed the things he’d need into his saddlebag. As an afterthought, he searched for and found a tiny silver reliquary containing a lock of hair of Saint Nicaise, and slipped it in among the vestments and vials.
It was unusually warm for March, and despite his grim mission, Rainulf found the journey to Cuxham a pleasant one. Keeping to the route suggested by Will Geary, he rode twelve miles to the southeast until he reached the mill that marked the northern boundary of Cuxham. From thence he followed the stream south through woods and farmland, until presently he came upon the small stone and thatch parish church. Behind it stood the rectory, as he had been told, and he would have ridden directly to it had his eye not been drawn to a figure in the churchyard, digging a grave. He drew up his mount and watched from a distance, strangely captivated by the sight.
It was a woman—her age indeterminate, for she faced away from him—dressed in a homespun kirtle, her black hair plaited in two long braids tied together in back. Next to her on the ground, shaded from the midafternoon sun by a yew tree, lay a corpse beneath a blanket.
Dismounting, Rainulf hobbled his bay stallion by the stream and approached the woman, who still seemed unaware of his presence. As he got closer, he saw not one but two empty graves dug into the earth. One appeared to be finished, given the sizable mound of dirt next to it. The other was still but a shallow trench. It was this second, just begun grave on which the woman labored so industriously, yet hampered by fatigue, if the slowness of her movements was any indication.
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