Sir Roger cleared his throat. “You’ll get the other pound when you bring her back.” He puffed out his stout chest. “With her face intact.”
Pigot pinned the obese knight with an unblinking stare.
“Please,” Sir Roger added sheepishly.
The corners of Pigot’s mouth turned up in a smile that never reached his eyes. “Don’t I always bring them back?”
“Aye, but—”
“And I’ll bring this one back, as well.”
“Aye, but I don’t want her—”
“Good day, Sir Roger... Master Hest.” He turned and began walking away.
Sir Roger sighed heavily. “Good day, Pig—” He winced. “G-Good day.”
Pigot paused, his head cocked to the side as if he were contemplating something; then he continued on his way.
* * *
“But what of Plato?” challenged a familiar voice from within the multitude of black-clad scholars crowded into dimly lit St. Mary’s Church. Rainulf sighed and rested his elbows on his lectern as Victor of Aeskirche, always overeager for confrontation, climbed onto his bench and planted his hands on his hips. “This ‘conceptualism’ of yours—this notion of universals as mere words—is in direct opposition to Plato’s teachings.”
“Had you listened more carefully,” Rainulf countered wearily, “you would know that conceptualism is not my notion at all, but that of Master Abelard and, I might add, of Aristotle. And incidentally, the point I’ve been making all evening is that universals are neither realities nor mere names, but concepts. I welcome debate, Victor, but in the future I would recommend that you get your facts straight before you go to the trouble of climbing atop your bench.”
There was some laughter at Victor’s expense, and several of his fellows called out to him to take his seat, which he did, rather sullenly.
“That will be all for tonight,” Rainulf announced, abandoning the Latin he used for his disputatio for French. “Those who care to may join me tomorrow morning in my home for a discussion of nominalism and how it relates to the doctrine of unity in the Trinity. The discussion will commence at terce.”
The scholars—ranging from grammar students of ten to doctoral candidates in their thirties—filed out into the rainy April evening, leaving Rainulf alone in the candlelit church. Or not quite. As he gathered his notes and books, he saw again, half-hidden behind a pillar in the nave, the shadowy figure of a young man clad in a coarse gray mantle, its hood drawn low over his forehead, a large satchel on his back. He had noticed the youth several times during the evening, and wondered why he had chosen to stand, although two benches were empty in the rear of the church. Perhaps he felt awkward because he lacked the black academic robe of the Oxford students, but he wouldn’t have been alone in that regard. Some of the better-educated locals—even a few of the ladies—frequented Rainulf’s disputatios, and none of them wore the cappa.
“A triumph, as usual.” Rainulf turned to see Father Gregory emerge from behind the altar.
“Have you been listening this whole time?”
“I frequently do.” Gregory leaned on the lectern and smiled, his kind eyes lighting with an almost mischievous humor—incongruous in a man of his advanced years. “You’re the most exceptional teacher I’ve ever known...”
Rainulf groaned. Here it comes...
“Brilliant, perceptive,” Gregory continued. “The students worship you.”
“They might save their worship for a worthier sort. You, of all people, know of my many flaws.” As Rainulf’s intimate friend and confessor, Father Gregory was the only man in Oxford privy to the crisis of faith that had driven him from the priesthood.
“I know that you’re but a man, with a man’s weaknesses... and strengths. Your strength is in teaching, Rainulf. It’s a gift from God. A man with such gifts shouldn’t waste them in administration.”
“The chancellorship—”
“Will smother you,” Gregory stated flatly. “And it will deprive Oxford’s scholars of their most valuable resource.”
“Anyone could do what I do.”
“But not nearly as well.”
Rainulf shouldered his bag and turned to leave. “I doubt that.”
Gregory held him back, placing a hand on his arm. “You doubt yourself, friend. It’s all right to doubt what you’re taught. Brilliant men can’t help but question what others unthinkingly believe. Such doubt is understandable, even expected. But when they doubt themselves, and retreat from the world, as you’re trying to do, their brilliance fades... and the world is poorer for it.”
Rainulf raked a hand through his hair. “Gregory, you don’t know how frustrated I’ve been, how desperately I need this change—”
“Perhaps not,” his friend said quietly. “But just promise me one thing. Promise me you’ll take the time to consider whether this chancellorship is really what you want. You have all summer, and there’s no reason you can’t turn it down, even if it is offered to you. Will you promise me that, as a friend?”
“I don’t understand,” Rainulf said. “You’re the bishop’s representative. You’re supposed to encourage me to accept this position, not turn me against it.”
Gregory shrugged and smiled sagely. “I’m God’s representative, too. And I can’t help but think He would want you to continue teaching.” His expression sobered, and he closed his hand over Rainulf’s shoulder. “Just think about it. That’s all I’m asking.”
Rainulf knew in his heart there was nothing to think about—he needed the chancellorship—but out of politeness, he nodded in agreement before bidding the elderly priest good night and taking his leave. As he passed the nave, a movement in the shadows behind a pillar caught his attention.
“Father Rainulf?”
The magister paused and peered at the cloaked figure waiting in the darkness—the young man who had declined to take a seat. “It’s not ‘Father’ anymore,” Rainulf said.
The hooded head nodded. “Aye, I meant ‘Master Fairfax,’” he said in English.
The sandy voice was familiar, but before Rainulf could recall where he’d heard it before, the youth extended his hand, in which he held something shiny. “This is yours.”
Rainulf took a step closer and accepted the small object, turning it over in his hands. It was the tiny silver casket with the pearl-encrusted cross on top, the reliquary containing the hair of St. Nicaise.
“It worked.” A hand reached up and lowered the gray hood. “I got better.”
Chapter 4
He saw the warm brown eyes, wide in the dusky nave, smiling at him; he saw the gleaming white teeth. Rainulf stopped breathing for a moment. The reliquary slipped from his fingers and clattered on the stone floor. He and his visitor both crouched to pick it up, their hands meeting on the little silver box. The skin that Rainulf touched was warm and smooth, the skin of a woman. Rainulf looked up at the face just inches from his. “My God! Constance?”
“It’s Corliss now.” She glanced around furtively. “You mustn’t call me Constance.”
Rainulf’s incredulous gaze took in her wavy black hair, now shorn to chin length, and her face—her very singular face—free of any scars that might betray her bout with the pox... and her clothes! With her slight build, and her heavy tunic and chausses, she looked remarkably like an adolescent boy, if a delicate one.
He shook his head in grateful disbelief. “I... my God! I don’t believe it!” His bag slipped off his shoulder; his arms encircled her without his willing it, and he drew her close. She set down her satchel and returned the embrace. For a precious, mindless moment that seemed to stretch beyond time, he held her tight, reveling in the feel of her in his arms—her substance, her solidity, the faint tickle of her warm breath on his neck. With a curious detachment he saw himself, as if from above, holding this woman as one would a lover. His rational mind, long accustomed to absolute authority over his actions, scolded him for imprudence; but an unfamiliar force deeper within him—an urge both elemental an
d profoundly needful—refused to let her go.
“You’re real,” he whispered. “You’re alive.” His fingers threaded themselves through her hair; he breathed in the scent of green herbs and sweet blossoms. An astonished chuckle rose from his throat. It was the first time in a long time that he had laughed, and it enhanced his feeling of unreality—the impression that this was all happening to someone else. “You’re alive!”
“Aye,” she murmured into his chest.
“My God, Constance, I thought you were dead. I thought—”
“Don’t call me that.” She pulled away from him and stood, raising her hood as she retreated behind the pillar. “Please. No one must hear you call me that.”
Feeling unexpectedly bereft at the loss of contact, Rainulf retrieved the reliquary and slowly gained his feet. “You’re in hiding?” he asked her. She nodded. “From Sir Roger?”
“From the man he sends out to capture runaways. I don’t know who that is.”
“How did you manage to... I mean, there’s a gravestone with your name on it!”
“Ella helped me. It wasn’t hard. We filled a shroud with straw so that anyone passing would think she was burying me.” She shrugged. “No one questioned her, and I merely waited until dark and went on my way.”
“Where did you go?”
“I have a cousin in Bagley Wood, who I stayed with for a few weeks. But I should have known better than to remain so close without a disguise. About a week ago, I got careless. I was heading into church for mass when I saw Sir Roger, along with Hugh Hest, coming down the road. I think they saw me, too.”
“What did you do?”
“I slipped out the back and ran as hard as I could,” she said. “Came here to Oxford.” She fingered the short tendrils of hair framing her face. “Cut my hair, traded my kirtle for chausses.” Grinning, she extended her booted leg. “What do you think?”
Rainulf shook his head helplessly. “I don’t know what to think. How long do you propose to maintain this disguise?”
“Until Sir Roger gives up on trying to find me. It may takes months—perhaps years—but eventually he’ll tire of the search. If I stay here in Oxford, perhaps I can keep track of his progress through my friend Ella. If I were to flee to some far-off place, I’d lose that advantage, and most likely I’d still be found.”
“Where have you been staying?” Rainulf asked. “Have you any silver?”
She shook her head. “What little I had is long gone. I’ve been sleeping in an alley off Beefhall Lane till I can find work.”
“An alley! You could get your throat cut in your sleep! And what do you do when it rains?”
“The weather’s been fair. I’ve been lucky. She glanced toward the downpour visible through the open front door of the church. “Until now.” She shrugged. “Perhaps Osney Abbey will take me in for the night.”
Rainulf conjured up a disconcerting mental picture of Constance—or rather, Corliss—bedded down in the straw in a monastic guest house with dozens of indigents... all male, and many the lowliest form of knave. Granted, she passed amazingly well for a boy, but that alone wouldn’t protect her as much as she seemed to think. There were those who would just as soon force themselves on a defenseless-looking youth as on a girl. And when they discovered her true sex, she’d be fair game for them all. Doubtless the young woman standing before him, so secure in her tunic and chausses, knew little of such matters.
“I’d better go now,” she said, “or they may not have room for me by the time I get there.” She nodded toward the reliquary clutched in his fist. “I just wanted to give that back. Thank you for... everything.” She looked down momentarily. Even in the shadowy nave, Rainulf thought he could see a slight blush suffuse her cheeks. “I was sad to wake up and find you gone.”
“I was sad to leave,” Rainulf said quietly. She looked directly at him, her eyes huge in the darkness, as if his declaration had surprised her. He cleared his throat and held the reliquary out to her. “I’m not taking this back. It was meant as a gift. It’s yours now.”
“Mine?” Her disbelieving gaze met his. “Nay, I couldn’t keep it!”
“Whyever not?”
“It’s... it’s much too fine.”
“You deserve fine things.” He took her hand, opened her fingers, and closed them around the reliquary. “Keep it.” Wrapping both his hands around her small fist, he added, “Please.”
She nodded gravely, her gaze locked with his. “I’ll treasure it. ‘Twill be a reminder of you and... and everything you’ve done for me. And perhaps it will continue to bring me good luck.”
Rainulf looked down at his hands enclosing her small fist. He didn’t want to release her, but he did, and took a step back. Constance—Corliss—stepped back as well. Lifting her satchel from the floor, she secreted the little reliquary in it. For a moment they simply looked at each other, and then she said, “Good-bye, Master Fairfax.”
She walked to the front door, adjusted her hood, and stepped into the driving rain.
“Wait!” Rainulf crossed to the door in two long strides and pulled her back into the church.
She looked startled. “Is something wrong?”
“No. Yes. It’s not safe, you staying at Osney. I don’t like it. You need proper lodgings.”
She wiped the rain from her face with the edge of her mantle. “Proper lodgings cost money. I hope to be earning some soon, but in the meantime—”
“Come home with me.”
She blinked at him.
“For a decent meal,” he hastily added. “How long has it been since you’ve had one?”
She smiled a little self-consciously. “Too long. But I couldn’t trouble you after everything—”
“It’s no trouble. And while you’re eating, I’ll set my mind to the problem of your lodgings.”
She nodded slowly, then smiled her extraordinary smile; it was as if the dusky church had just been flooded with heavenly light. “All right.”
* * *
Corliss paused in the middle of muddy St. John Street and stared up at the building to which Rainulf Fairfax had led her—a massive two-story stone edifice that loomed darkly against the night sky, dwarfing the adjacent timber houses. Shielding her eyes against the rain, she could make out a long row of large, arched windows on each of the two floors; warm, inviting light glowed around the edges of their closed shutters. Smoke drifted from a chimney on the far left side of the shingled roof.
There were two doorways at street level. Master Fairfax opened the one on the right and motioned her to precede him up a steep, narrow staircase.
“Where does the other door lead?” she asked as she climbed the stairs.
“To my lecture hall, which is half below ground. It’s where I teach smaller groups.”
That he had his own lecture hall here came as a surprise to Corliss. But even more of a surprise was what she found when she got to the second floor. She had expected a corridor leading to a number of apartments, one of which would be the magister’s. Instead, she found herself in one long rectangular hall with a high, vaulted ceiling and whitewashed walls, majestic in size but sparsely appointed. To the right, a leather curtain spanned the width of the space, so it was clearly even larger than it first appeared.
A savory aroma made her mouth water. Her gaze sought out the cavernous fireplace on the far left wall, in which an iron cauldron hung over a sputtering fire. Fish stew, if she had to guess, with plenty of wine and spices and leeks—a good Lenten supper. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday and felt hungry, exhausted, and soaked to the bone. Thank God she’d finally get to sit down in a warm place and partake of a decent meal!
In front of the hearth stood a table, at which two black-robed scholars sat before tankards of ale and soggy trenchers of snowy white bread with thick crusts. “Hello, Master Fairfax!” called the sandy-haired one, laughing. He and his companion, a pleasant-looking youth with dark, cropped hair, greeted the teacher in slightly slurred French.
> Master Fairfax tossed his bag in a corner. “Corliss, these drunken mongrels are Thomas and Brad, two of my most leechlike students.”
She cleared her throat and tried to speak in a low pitch. “Pleased to meet you.”
“I don’t believe I’ve seen you before, Corliss,” said Brad, the dark one. His English accent pleased her; he was a Saxon, like her. “What do you study?”
Corliss hesitated. “I... I came to Oxford to work, not to study.” She set her satchel on the rush-covered floor, retrieved her Biblia Pauperum, and handed it to Brad. “I’m an illuminator.”
The young men praised her workmanship, and she flushed with pride. “You must go to Catte Street,” Thomas said. “That’s where the booksellers and scribes and such have their shops.”
“I know,” she said, taking back the volume and carefully replacing it in the satchel. “I went there today, but had no luck. Perhaps tomorrow.”
The magister nodded toward the empty trenchers. “Have you two eaten all my supper again?”
Thomas shook his head, grinning. “Luella has taken to cooking extra. She’s used to us by now.”
“Where is she?”
“Downstairs,” Brad said.
Master Fairfax crossed to an arched opening in the corner to the right of the hearth, through which Corliss could see a spiral staircase leading to the lower level. “I’m home, Luella!” he called down.
An odd twist of discomfort burned in Corliss’s stomach. She had wondered about women, had considered the possibility that the robust priest—now ex-priest— kept a mistress in some convenient place. What more convenient place than one’s own home?
As if sensing her speculation, the ex-priest in question said, “Luella is my housekeeper.”
Just as I was Father Osred’s housekeeper. Corliss heard footsteps ascend the curving staircase. Slow and heavy footsteps, she realized as they neared, and accompanied by stentorian breathing.
“It’s about time!” came a gravelly, English-accented voice just as its owner—a very large, red-faced, and breathless woman of advanced years—appeared at the top of the stairs. “I was just tidying up the lecture hall for tomorrow, though I don’t know as I should bother, seeing as how it’ll look once that herd of yours is done with it.” Her sharp little eyes settled on Corliss. “Who the devil are you, young man, and what are you grinning at?”
Lords of Conquest Boxed Set Page 182
