Lords of Conquest Boxed Set
Page 189
When she reached the corner of Shidyerd, she turned to face him squarely. “I see you.”
He shrank back into the doorway of a wine shop. She walked directly up to him. “You mustn’t do this, Rad. Rainulf wouldn’t like it. He told you not to come near me.”
Rad shook his big head helplessly. “J-just w-w-want to k-keep you safe.”
“From what?”
“There are b-b-bad people.” He scowled as if to emphasize his point. “Bad people. I know.”
Corliss was sure he did. She shuddered to think of the abuse he’d come to accept as an everyday thing. “No one wants to hurt me, Rad.” Perhaps not quite the truth, but Rad knew nothing of Sir Roger and his plans for her; why worry him?
“Some b-bad men hurt w-w-women.”
She lowered her voice and glanced around. “Everyone thinks I’m a boy, Rad.”
“I kn-knew you weren’t.”
Rainulf had told her about the silvery, feminine light Rad claimed she emitted. “Yes, well
“Others must kn-know as well.”
“No one knows, Rad. No one but you and Rainulf and Father Gregory. I’m perfectly safe. You must stop spying on me all the time. I see you watching the house when Rainulf isn’t there. And I see you sometimes, walking behind me when I go to Catte Street, or to St. Mary’s for a lecture.”
He blinked in surprise.
“Oh, I see you, all right. I know you’re there. And I know you don’t mean any harm. I know you just want to look after me, but you mustn’t. If Rainulf knew, he’d... I don’t know what he’d do.”
He nodded furiously, twitching.
“Rad, please. Promise me you’ll stop this.”
He hunched his shoulders up, shaking his head fractionally. “Got to k-keep you—”
“No, you don’t!” she said more firmly. “I have Rainulf to protect me. And when he’s not there, he always gets someone...”
Rad adopted a surprisingly astute look that could only be described as skeptical, and glanced around. Corliss followed his gaze to the sparsely populated street behind her. “Ah... right. There’s no one with me now. You see, Brad and Thomas...”
His eyebrows shot up, and she smiled and shook her head. “Brad and Thomas fell down on their duty, I suppose. And I encouraged them to. But that doesn’t mean you have to—”
He nodded vigorously.
“Rad, please...”
A din of raised voices advanced steadily from the west. The crowd was returning. She backed away from the wine shop. “Go, Rad. Rainulf may be with them. Go before he sees you.”
Rad pulled his cowl down over his forehead and ducked between two buildings just as the black-clad horde appeared. The group in front, which included Thomas and Brad, were laughing and cheering... and carrying Rainulf on their shoulders!
He won! Rainulf won! The sheepishly grinning victor wore an ermine-lined mantle and a crown of something resembling laurel. On another man, such trappings might have seemed ridiculous, but they only enhanced Rainulf’s aristocratic good looks. With his silver-blond hair, broad shoulders, and natural poise, he looked like a warrior chief of the Northmen, being honored by his people after a glorious victory in battle.
His regal costume made it easier to remember that he was, in fact, of noble blood—the son of a Norman baron, and a cousin of the queen. He came from the very top of the inviolable social order, she from the bottom. It was pointless to deny her feelings for him to herself, but she must be careful to keep them in their place.
The most difficult time to remember this was during their lessons, when he had her read aloud in French, or tutored her in the seven disciplines. It was always a challenge to keep her mind on her work, with him hovering so close, watching her with those perceptive eyes, instructing her endlessly. Teaching was an ingrained passion with him, and once he got started on remaking her, he couldn’t keep himself from refining her demeanor, as well as her accent: If you’re going to speak like a wellborn lady, Corliss, you may as well sit like one. Tilt your chin up just a bit... That’s right. Now, straighten your back. You look lovely!
Those occasional compliments were what kept her going, try as she might not to read too much into them. Even if Rainulf were of a mind to take a mistress, and willing to risk the chancellorship by doing so, he wouldn’t want a simple peasant like her, no matter how well she’d been trained to speak and carry herself—and regardless of fleeting urges in stable yards. And if he did, what would become of her independence? The best way to protect her precious freedom was to avoid entanglements with men.
Rainulf caught her eye, and to her astonishment, the grin widened. Someone thrust a tankard into his hand. “Drink! Drink! Drink!” the crowd chanted. He upended the vessel and swiftly drained it to a roar of approval. It was snatched away and quickly replaced by another.
“Look at him.” Corliss turned to see Father Gregory standing next to her, gazing in Rainulf’s direction. “I think he’s actually happy.”
Corliss chuckled disbelievingly. “You may be right.”
The priest smiled at her. “It’s your influence, you know. Somehow you’ve managed to crack that armor of his. As well as I know him, and as hard as I’ve tried, I could never even dent it.”
“I hardly feel as if I know him at all,” Corliss said, watching the subject of their conversation being lowered to the ground and dragged into Burnell’s Tavern. “He’s something of a mystery to me.”
“And to himself as well, I think,” said Father Gregory, leading her across the street, toward the tavern. “Come.” He grinned. “He’ll want you to be there with him in his moment of glory.”
* * *
Burnell’s wife tilted the pitcher over Rainulf’s tankard, but he covered it with his hand. “I’ve had enough.”
“Aye, and that’s just the problem!” exclaimed Walter Kent, the young master of dialectic who’d finished second in the race. “You’ve ‘had enough,’ when you ought to have had far too much!” He emptied the contents of his own tankard into that of the Magister Scholarum.
“Hear, hear!” cried the others, all of whom, with the exception of Corliss and Father Gregory, were reeling drunk. It was a condition Rainulf had not experienced since his university days. He’d come to hate that out-of-control, off-balance feeling brought on by an excess of drink. It made him feel helpless—no, terrified—to have his unchanging, orderly world replaced by one that spun and shifted, to have his most secret, deeply buried thoughts and feelings push through to the surface.
He glanced across the table at Corliss, laughing as she accepted her shilling from Thomas and Brad, her eyes alight, her teeth glowing like pearls in the dim tavern. In public, she acted the part of the amiable young man; in private, she was becoming more and more the lady. Her gestures had had a natural grace to them even before he’d taken it on himself to refine them; under his tutelage, they were developing a polished layer of elegance that he found enchanting. And her accent had faded remarkably in quite a short time, replaced, for the most part, by the cultivated tones of an educated member of the nobility.
“Nay, I must be leaving,” he said, rising and straightening his leafy crown, which they hadn’t let him take off. He had, however, exchanged the ermine mantle for a blessedly ordinary shirt and tunic. He couldn’t believe he’d let Corliss and Gregory talk him into this. Not that he hadn’t enjoyed the race. In truth, it had been exhilarating, and he could think of worse ways to have spent the rest of the afternoon than in an alehouse, celebrating his victory. The only unpleasant moment had occurred about an hour ago, when Victor had shown up and leaped onto a table. Three men had had to hold Burnell back, but the young firebrand never once mentioned unfair prices or rancid meat pies. Instead, he bowed dramatically in Rainulf’s direction and made a surprisingly gracious speech congratulating him on the win. Then, with another grinning half bow toward the incensed tavern keeper, he quickly took his leave.
Corliss stood, as well. “I’ll walk back with you.”
Rainulf breathed a sigh of relief. He hated to think of her on the streets alone, even during the daylight hours. In truth, he should have continued her fighting lessons, only that seemed most unwise after what had happened in the stable yard. Since she was ill equipped to defend herself, he felt obliged to escort her whenever possible.
As soon as they were outside, Rainulf swept the crown off and, on impulse, placed it on Corliss’s head. It made her look like a forest sprite—a childlike creature with extraordinary powers. He smiled. “It suits you.” Her musical laugh was absurdly gratifying.
“Good afternoon.” They turned to find Will Geary leaning against the outside wall of the tavern.
“Will! Were you waiting for us?”
Will nodded, his expression growing sober. “I asked around, and they said you were here. Have you got a moment?”
“Of course.”
The surgeon’s gaze lit on Corliss and her crown. She took it off as Rainulf introduced them.
“I’ll walk with you,” said Will, glancing around.
“As you wish.”
Will said nothing until they’d crossed High Street and turned down Grope Lane. Twice he looked back over his shoulder, before saying, “I just got back from Cuxham. First time I’ve been there since I saw you last.”
Rainulf nodded, feeling a cold wave of trepidation. “Aye?”
Will inclined his head toward Corliss, walking in front of them, and directed a questioning look toward Rainulf.
“You can speak freely in front of Corliss,” Rainulf assured him.
“I just thought you should know that Roger Foliot’s been talking about you.”
“Really?” said Rainulf, trying to appear unruffled. “I don’t even know the man.”
“Well, he knows you. Or of you, at any rate. He seems to think you were somehow involved with that woman named Constance, who kept house for the rector you delivered last rites to.” He raised an eyebrow. “Served him in other capacities as well, if you believe the talk.”
Rainulf felt the hairs on the back of his neck spring up.
“Is it true?” Will asked. “Was she the priest’s whore?”
Rainulf’s hands curled into fists; he saw Corliss’s back stiffen. “She did not strike me as a whore.”
Will shrugged. “Well, Sir Roger seemed to think she was letting the old fellow under her skirts.” He paused, adding quietly, “And perhaps you, as well.”
Rainulf stopped walking and turned to face Will. Corliss stood stiffly, her back to them. “That’s preposterous.”
The surgeon held his hands out. “Easy. I’m only reporting what I heard. I thought you should know—”
“Of course,” said Rainulf. Corliss looked back over her shoulder at them; he saw that the color had leached from her cheeks. “I appreciate your telling me this. Is that all?”
“Hardly.” With another furtive glance behind him, Will motioned for them to continue walking. “Apparently the girl faked her death and ran off. Hugh told me all about it. That’s Hugh Hest, his reeve—a decent fellow. He said Sir Roger’s foaming at the mouth over it. Seems he’d wanted a piece of her for himself. Still does. Anyway, he seems to think she might come to you.”
Damn! Rainulf maintained a granite silence as they turned onto St. John Street. He knew she’d come to me! How could he have known? Corliss crossed her arms and hugged her chest as she walked.
“If that’s likely,” Will continued softly, “then you’d best watch your back. Hugh says he’s sent someone after the girl. A human bloodhound, by all accounts, and a crazy bastard to boot. He’s supposed to be watching you, hoping the girl shows up.”
Dear God, I was right all along. Someone’s watching us. Rainulf said nothing until they stopped in front of the big stone house. “Thank you for telling me this.”
“Like I said, I thought you should know. It’s my fault you got involved in this mess in the first place. I’m the one who sent you to Cuxham.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” Rainulf said. “You couldn’t have known how it would turn out.” He waved a hand toward the front door. “Will you come inside and join us for some supper?”
“Thanks, but I have a patient waiting for me.” Raising a hand in farewell, he walked a few paces in the direction from which they’d come, then turned and added, “Be careful, Rainulf. Don’t trust a soul.”
* * *
Corliss studied Rainulf as he picked at his spiced meatballs, a dish he normally made short work of. He’d said hardly a word throughout supper. Now he pushed his trencher back and gazed with preoccupied eyes toward the fire.
Presently he expelled a great lungful of air, as if he’d been holding his breath. “I want you to come to Sussex with me.”
“Sussex?”
“Blackburn Castle.”
“Ah, Blackburn...” He’d mentioned the planned visit to his sister’s home only once, quite some time ago. “When? And for how long?”
“Next week.” He poured them each some brandy. “For perhaps a fortnight. Perhaps longer. I won’t want to leave until Martine’s baby is born.”
Corliss sipped some of the dark amber liquid; it left a trail of honeyed fire as it trickled down her throat. Blackburn Castle. She’d never been in a castle before, never even seen people of Thorne and Martine Falconer’s rank, much less spoken to them. “Would I have to maintain my disguise?”
“Only while we travel. It’s a two-day ride. Once we’re at Blackburn, you’ll be in no danger. You can wear a kirtle again. Would you like that?”
“I don’t own a kirtle.”
“Martine will find you one.”
“Do they know about me? Your sister and her husband?”
“Nay.”
“Won’t they be shocked when you arrive with me in tow?”
He smiled, and as always, it struck her how devastatingly handsome he looked when he wasn’t frowning. “They’re not easily shocked, either one of them. Don’t trouble yourself over what they’ll think.”
She bit her lip, and now it was she who scrutinized the leaping flames. “What of my obligation to Mistress Clark?”
“She doesn’t own you, Corliss. She’ll simply have to do without your services for a fortnight.” His brow furrowed. “Don’t you want to come?”
She took a deep breath. “Will I be a guest, or...” Heat scalded her face as Rainulf stared at her, his eyebrows gradually rising.
“Or what?” he asked, leaning forward on his elbows. “Sleep in the barn with the stablehands? Of course you’ll be a guest. I’ll have brought you. You’ll be treated as my...” He appeared to be groping for words. “You’ll be treated as a guest.”
Rising, he grabbed his trencher and tossed it in the bucket, then stood with his back to her, hands on his hips, inspecting the fire. “I can’t leave you here, Corliss. It’s not safe. Especially after what Will told us today. Sir Roger knew you’d come to me! I can’t imagine how, but...” He shook his head. “I can’t leave you alone in Oxford. And I must go to Blackburn to be with my sister.”
He turned to face her. “Please come with me. I couldn’t bear it if...” Shaking his head again, he turned around. “I don’t want anything to happen to you,” he said gruffly. “I just want to keep an eye on you, that’s all.”
She thought about it for a moment, but in truth she had known all along what her answer would be. “All right,” she said. “I’ll come.”
Chapter 9
They set out at dawn on the first of July. It was cool for the time of year, and Corliss was glad of it; the weather made for swift traveling. It was also overcast, although thankfully it didn’t rain until that night, and by then, they’d found shelter in a monastic guest house. Rainulf’s rank should have assured them of private chambers in the abbot’s lodge, but those had already been granted to a passing bishop and his entourage.
“This isn’t so bad, is it?” he asked her as he unrolled his blanket in the straw that covered the earthen floor of the guest house.
“Lay your blanket out here,” Rainulf said, indicating a narrow space between him and the stone wall. He raised his eyebrows fractionally and glanced meaningfully toward the other guests. His message was not lost on her: Better to sleep squeezed between Rainulf and the wall than next to some strange and possibly dangerous man.
She nodded and spread out her bedroll. Someone extinguished the single hanging lantern, and she closed her eyes and tried to get comfortable. For some time she lay awake, her senses focused solely on Rainulf’s closeness—the heat from his body, the whisper of his breath, his presence, so near. Unable to sleep, she tried to think of other things, anything but Rainulf sleeping mere inches away. She listened to the tapestry of sounds surrounding her: Rain pattering softly on the thatched roof... straw rustling beneath fitful bodies... snores and grunts and coughs.
Presently the rain eased off and ceased, and another sound replaced it—a high, stately chanting that drifted on the night breezes through the small window above her head. She opened her eyes, startled to find Rainulf sitting up and gazing out the window. Watery moonlight bathed his face, adorning his broad forehead and straight nose and resolute chin with soft brushstrokes of silver. His eyes, transparent as clear gems, shone with some emotion she couldn’t identify—not sadness, but something close. Regret? Longing? Remembrance?
He looked down at her and whispered, “I can’t sleep, either.” He nodded toward the window. “It’s the midnight service. Matins.”