Lords of Conquest Boxed Set

by Patricia Ryan

  Rainulf opened a corner cupboard and discovered it filled with more books than he’d ever seen in such a humble place. Most were old and well worn—books of Gospel, lectionaries, a psalter, collections of model sermons, a handbook of parish duties, a manual of the sacraments, and several books of instruction in Latin. It was the handful of newer-looking volumes that most attracted him, though. He pulled one out and saw that it was a missal, flawlessly penned and illuminated. Turning to the last page, he found the scribe’s signature enclosed in a wreath of twisting vines: Constance me fecit.

  Rainulf blinked and read the words again, then whispered them out loud. “Constance made me. Constance?” He glanced toward the bedchamber’s leather curtain, beyond which the ever-more-singular Constance lay in a fevered stupor.

  “Nay...” Replacing that volume, he slipped out another—a thick little breviary with minuscule writing on tissue-thin parchment—and flipped to the end. Shaking his head in disbelief, he read the words out loud: “Completed by Constance of Cuxham, 18 April 1159.”

  The largest of the newer books turned out to be the most unusual. Rather than leather, it was bound in wooden boards, which had been covered with fancifully embroidered linen, on which was stitched the title Biblia Pauperum. A Bible for the poor? On the last page he found the legend De una manu, and under it, the English translation: By one hand. Beneath that appeared the twisting vine device, enclosing Con-stance’s name and a recent date. Clearly she was proud of her work, and why shouldn’t she be? On leafing through the oversize volume, he discovered it to be an elaborately illustrated album of Bible stories, with quotations from the prophets... in English!

  Rainulf chuckled incredulously. English. She must have written this one herself. To have conceived of such a project was remarkable. To have actually executed it, in such ambitious fashion...

  A moan from beyond the leather curtain interrupted his reverie. Tucking the book back into its slot, he hurried into the bedchamber, to find Constance thrashing and yanking at her bedclothes, her flushed face glazed with perspiration, her eyes wild.

  He touched her cheek, and she shook him off, but not before he felt how feverish she’d become. He growled a raw oath and crossed himself. Rushing outside, he drew a bucket of water, found a clean cloth, and returned to bathe her face and throat as he sat on the side of the bed.

  After a while, her senses returned. She even smiled. “I can still see,” she said hoarsely, her eyes half-closed. “Father?”

  “Aye?”

  “Would you give me last rites?”

  Rainulf held the cloth over the bucket and twisted it hard in his fists, wringing out every last drop until his hands trembled.

  He drew a deep breath. “Of course,” he said as her eyes drifted closed again. “I’ll get what I need.”

  * * *

  Constance heard her name whispered. Opening her eyes with some effort, she saw Father Rainulf, once again looking every bit the man of God in his white surplice and stole. Warm yellow lantern light provided the only illumination in the room, since it was night. On the bedside table, she saw, neatly laid out on a linen cloth, the items required for the sacrament of Extreme Unction. Her heart raced, and she felt queasy. She hadn’t thought she was afraid of death, but now that it hovered so close, she wasn’t so sure.

  His large, cool hand closed over hers, and he squeezed gently. It aggravated the burning sensation, but felt so comforting that she was loath to ask him to release her. “Are you up to making confession?”

  Constance nodded. Summoning all her strength, she confessed in a clear voice to her sinful relationship with Father Osred, but felt obliged to add, “It’s not as if I was sinning all that much. I mean, Father Osred was an old man. And old men... well...” She shrugged.

  “Yes, well...”

  “I mean, it’s been months since he’s wanted to—”

  “Yes. I under—”

  “And even before that, it was hardly what you’d even call sinning, if by sinning one means the pleasures of the flesh, because as far as pleasure was concerned—”

  “You’re forgiven, Constance. It’s all right.” His ears, Constance noted, had turned pink again.

  Father Rainulf anointed her eyes, ears, lips, and hands with consecrated oil, his expression grave, his touch gentle. At his prompting, she spoke the words, “Into thy hands I commend my soul,” and then he sat her up and supported her while he administered Communion.

  “Now sleep,” he said quietly, looking terribly sad.

  * * *

  Rainulf watched helplessly as Constance grappled with her ever-worsening delirium. It was close to midnight, by his guess. Unable to leave her in such condition, he’d decided to spend the night, but his cool compresses and whispered words of comfort seemed to be doing no good. From time to time, she regained her senses and spoke to him, as she had while he was giving her last rites, but those episodes were becoming shorter and less frequent, and he worried that, come dawn, he’d be carrying her to her newly dug grave.

  From his time in the Holy Land, Rainulf knew Moslem physicians to be more educated about smallpox than their Western counterparts. Their theory was that the blood had a natural tendency to ferment, producing waste that must pass through the pores of the skin. Certain atmospheric conditions interfered with this process, resulting in outbreaks of this cursed disease. The treatment of choice in the Levant was to sweat out the excess fermented humors.

  Constance groaned and muttered something. Rainulf sat next to her and laid a hand on her forehead. “Shh.”

  It grieved him to just stand by and watch her suffer—and, in all likelihood, die. Perhaps the sweating treatment had some merit; perhaps not. But it was the only remedy he knew of, so he had no choice but to try it.

  Bringing the lantern outside, he chopped a great deal of wood and heaped it on one side of the central fire pit in the main room of the rectory. On the other side, he made a pallet of quilts and blankets, and then he built and lit a sizable fire. He tacked parchment over the windows that were not already sealed with it, so that the only opening in the room was the smoke hole above the fire pit. Returning to the bedchamber, he gathered Constance in her quilt, grabbed her pillow, and settled her on the pallet.

  The great fire roared; Rainulf added more wood, flinching at the wall of heat that surrounded the blaze. In no time, the room became an oven, forcing him to shed first his tunic and then his sweat-soaked shirt. Still, perspiration ran in rivulets down his face and body. His damp chausses itched; unfortunately, he could not, under the circumstances, dispense with them.

  Constance, also sweating heavily, grumbled unintelligibly and tried repeatedly to tear off the quilt in which she was wrapped. Weary of wrestling with her, Rainulf finally lay down with her on the pallet and pinioned her body with his. “I know you’re uncomfortable,” he said, although it was doubtful she heard him. “But you have to sweat. That’s why I’ve gone to all this trouble. You have to get better.”

  She shivered and moaned, writhing beneath him as her body struggled to expel its scourge. The intimacy of their position suddenly struck him. It had been eleven years since he had lain atop a woman. The last time had been shortly before taking his vows, when the beguiling Lady Fayette had endeavored one last time to dissuade him from Holy Orders. She’d done a workmanlike job of it, too, he recalled with a smile. The memory of that night, and Constance’s movements beneath him, stirred his loins. He shifted position and chastised himself for entertaining carnal thoughts at such a time.

  Fayette had given it her best effort, as had her sister, Petronilla, before her. And then there had been their charming friend, Estelle... But his mind had been made up. All his life he had known that he would become a priest. At one time, his faith had been pure and uncomplicated, his vocation a given. Now... well, now was a very different matter, indeed.

  Reflecting on his faith reminded him of the little reliquary in his saddlebag. When Constance finally lapsed into a fitful sleep, he retrieved it
and placed it next to her head on the pillow. Then he added more fuel to the fire and lay down beside her in the rushes, thinking to rest his eyes for a moment.

  “It’s hot.”

  Rainulf awoke with a start, disoriented at first to find himself half-naked in a sweltering inferno, a bleary-eyed young woman lying next to him. Constance.

  “Aye,” he said, reclining on an elbow and wiping the sweat that ran into his eyes. “It’s how the Moslems cure smallpox.”

  Her gaze lingered on his bare chest for a moment, and then she looked away, blotting her face with the edge of the quilt. “What can infidels possibly know of healing?”

  He smiled crookedly. “A great deal more than we do, at times. It’s partly why they call us the infidels.”

  That seemed to amuse her, for she laughed tiredly and sat up, the quilt falling around her waist. “What is this?” she asked, lifting the reliquary from her pillow and inspecting it closely. Firelight outlined her delicate body through the thin linen of her shift. High, petite breasts with dusky nipples were just visible beneath the drenched fabric.

  Rainulf cleared his throat and combed both hands through his sodden hair. “It’s a religious relic. Supposedly it’s some hair from St. Nicaise.” Rising, he tossed two more logs onto the fire.

  Little frown lines appeared between Constance’s graceful black eyebrows. “St. Nicaise...”

  “The patron saint of smallpox sufferers.”

  She nodded and ran her fingertips reverently over the pearl-encrusted cross on the lid of the tiny silver casket. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” she murmured. “And to think it actually contains the hair of a saint!”

  “Well... so they say.”

  “You don’t believe it?”

  He shrugged as he settled cross-legged next to her. “False relics abound.”

  “But you’ve no proof that this one is false.”

  “Nay, but—”

  “Then I choose to believe it’s real. What’s more, I think you believe it, too, in your heart. You brought it here and laid it on my pillow, did you not?”

  Rainulf shook his head, defenseless in the face of her particular brand of ingenuous perception. She held the little token up and regarded it with an expression of awe. “Where did you get it?”

  “Queen Eleanor gave it to me when I took up the cross. There’s a great deal of smallpox in the Holy Land, and she’d hoped to keep me safe from it.”

  Constance gaped at him. “The queen of England gave you this?”

  “She was still the queen of France at the time,” he said. “It wasn’t till after I returned from Crusade and took my vows that she divorced Louis and married Henry.”

  “But you know her?” Constance persisted, wide-eyed.

  “We’re distant cousins.”

  “Truly?”

  Rainulf nodded.

  “You’re practically royalty, then.”

  He laughed shortly. “Hardly. As for the relic, I’m pleased if you find it comforting, but I’m not quite as convinced of its efficacy. After all, it didn’t keep me from coming down with the pox when I was imprisoned in the Levant.”

  “Is that where you had it?” He nodded. She grinned smugly. “But you got better.”

  “Aye, but—”

  “And you were left without scars.”

  “Not everyone ends up with scars.”

  “Nor did you go blind.”

  “Well...”

  “So it worked for you,” she concluded happily, and kissed the little silver box. “And it will work for me, as well. I feel much better already.”

  Her smile was rapturous, and more incandescent even than the blazing fire behind her.

  “I’m pleased that you feel better,” he said. Reaching out to touch her forehead, he added, “But you’re still burning with fever.” He pulled the quilt up over her shoulders. “You must stay bundled up until it breaks.”

  “But I’m sweating so.” She shoved the quilt down.

  Seating himself behind her, his long legs flanking her, Rainulf pulled it back up and wrapped his arms around her. “You’re supposed to sweat. Try to go back to sleep.”

  “I can’t. My skin feels like it’s on fire.”

  Rainulf remembered the maddening sensation of flesh that felt as if it would ignite at any moment. “Just try. Lean back and close your eyes.” She settled herself against him. Her plaited hair was soft as silk on his damp chest, and her weight felt wonderful against him. It had been so long since he’d held someone—anyone. He’d forgotten the simple pleasure of it.

  “Do you think I’m going to die?” she asked.

  He wanted to say, “No, of course not,” but Constance, with her childlike wisdom, would only scoff at such an easy answer. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “I don’t think so, but there’s no telling with this disease. If you are taken, have no doubt that the angels will welcome you into Heaven.” He wondered if she could tell how empty those words of comfort really were, for it had been years since Heaven had had any real meaning for him.

  “Oh, I know I’ll go to Heaven,” she said with seemingly complete assurance. “I mean, despite... well, Father Osred and all that... I’ve tried to be good. I think that counts for something with God. And, of course, I’ve just been shriven, so I’ll die in a state of grace. I’m not worried. I’ll go to Heaven, and then my soul will be free, and I’ll be at peace.”

  Rainulf smiled inwardly. Ah, to have that kind of faith! That was his idea of Heaven: no more doubt, no more uncertainty to plague him.

  “But,” she added, “I don’t quite like the idea of having to die before I can be free. Doesn’t seem quite fair, does it?”

  “Is anyone ever really free?”

  “You are.”

  Rainulf just grimaced. If only she knew how wrong she was.

  “As are many others,” she continued. “Noblemen and the clergy and merchants are much freer to do as they like than I ever was. That’s all I ever wanted—the freedom to go where I pleased and do as I thought best. I wish I’d been born a man, in some great city. Then I could ply a trade and earn a living and be happy. Instead, I was born female and the property of Roger Foliot of Cuxham, the randy old beast.”

  Rainulf suddenly felt chilly, despite the oppressive heat in the room. “Sir Roger... did he force you to—”

  “He tried. That’s why I married Sully, and why I took up with Father Osred. I had no choice. Sir Roger is... well, he’s little more than a savage, if the truth be told. He beats the women he lies with, and if they run away, he’s got someone he sends after them. Someone even worse than him. They come back... He uses a knife on them, and...”

  She shuddered. Rainulf held her closer.

  “The only reason he didn’t come for me when Father Osred died was because I’ve got the pox. He hasn’t had it yet, and he doesn’t want to catch it. If I die, at least I’ll be safe from Sir Roger.”

  “How will you protect yourself if you live?” Rainulf asked.

  She yawned. “I don’t know.” She chuckled sleepily. “John Tanner’s been sniffing around ever since Father Osred took sick. He’s not old, either, and I think he actually wants to marry me.” She curled into Rainulf’s embrace and mumbled, “Only I don’t know as I could take that smell of his day in and day out.”

  “Is that your only option?”

  She shook her head. “There are two others, besides the tanner... I’d probably have my pick.”

  Presently her breathing grew steady, and Rainulf knew she was sleeping. With careful movements he laid her back down on the pallet and made her comfortable. He fetched her Biblia Pauperum from the cabinet and sat with it by the fire, admiring the fanciful illustrations and struggling to decode the English text. Having little familiarity with the Anglo-Saxon tongue in written form, he couldn’t pass judgment on the quality of the writing, but the pictures were extraordinary.

  “Where did you learn to speak English?”

  Rainulf looked
up to find Constance staring at him, and wondered how long she had been awake. He reached out and stroked her face, still reddened but much cooler to the touch. Perhaps the sweat therapy had worked after all!

  “I learned it on Crusade,” he said. “After I was captured and imprisoned. One of my cellmates was an Englishman, and he taught it to me. His name was Thorne Falconer. He’s Baron of Blackburn now, and my brother by marriage.”

  “The Saxon baron,” she said, sitting up and adjusting the quilt around herself. “Aye, I’ve heard of him. How long were you imprisoned?”

  “A year. It was...” He shook his head. How could he possibly describe it? And why, after years of silence about that hellish time, did he want to speak of it to this woman he hardly knew?

  Her eyes, shining with curiosity and compassion and native intelligence, searched his. “You must have very sad memories,” she said quietly.

  “My memories of the men I killed are far worse than those of imprisonment. I thought of them as infidels, as less than human. I thought ‘twas God’s will that they be slain.” He swallowed the bitter reminiscence and shook his head. “I gained my freedom and returned to Paris, but my faith had been undermined. Mother Church had sent me halfway around the world to do an evil thing, and I found I could never trust her teachings again. Nothing was ever the same after that.”

  “Yet you took your vows.”

  He nodded. “I was educated for the priesthood, and I thought, perhaps in time, my faith would grow strong again. Instead, it slowly weakened, until...” He took in a lungful of hot air. “I returned to the Holy Land last year as a pilgrim, thinking that would help, but it’s hopeless.”

  “All this melancholy because you killed trying to retake the Holy Land?” she asked. “Don’t you think killing is justified sometimes?”