Rainulf’s calm voice came to her as clearly as it had during their fighting lesson in the stable yard: Don’t panic. Get away if you can.
She turned to run as the hulking brute with the club advanced on her. Was it R ad? He was big like Rad, but he wore a sacklike mask over his head.
A dull burst of pain exploded in her lower back, hurling her sideways into the street. She landed hard, the air whooshing out of her lungs on impact. When she tried to draw a breath, she found she couldn’t. Panic found a foothold, and raced through her.
Victor still lay facedown on the road, unconscious. Struggling for air, Corliss watched as his assailant tossed the club away and yanked Victor’s purse from his belt, pocketing it. Then he searched his victim’s boot, withdrawing something that gleamed maliciously in the moonlight.
A dagger. Victor’s dagger. “A taste of your own steel,” the masked man growled. “That’s what you’re needin’, you goddamn troublemaker.”
Exerting an enormous effort, Corliss managed to suck in a breath. The air seared her lungs, and she choked on it. At least I’m breathing.
The big man pressed a knee into Victor’s back, grabbed a handful of black hair, and yanked his head up. Victor groaned and blinked; a ribbon of blood ran from his mouth.
“What do you say?” His attacker held Victor’s own blade in front of his eyes. “Should I open up your throat quicklike or make it last a bit?”
“Burnell,” Victor rasped, “you bastard!”
“Guilty.” He tore the mask off. “Including the bastard part. I reckon that’s something we have in common, eh?”
My dagger! The brutal tavern keeper had his back to her. If she was very quiet...
Corliss reached down into her own boot, closed her fingers around the hilt of her dagger, and slid it out. Clutching the weapon in her fist, she crept stealthily toward the two men.
Burnell pressed the blade against Victor’s throat and chuckled harshly. “Do y’suppose I’ll get extra time in purgatory for killin’ the son of a priest?”
Victor bared his teeth. “You’ll roast in hell where you belong, you son of a bitch!”
“I’ll see you there, then.”
As Corliss approached Burnell, her nostrils flared at his ripe, greasy odor: stale sweat and rancid meat. Coming up behind the big man, she grabbed him by the neck of his tunic and held her dagger to his throat. “Drop it.”
Burnell froze; Victor grinned.
“Now!”
Burnell eased the blade away from Victor’s throat and let go of his hair...
Then he grabbed Corliss’s wrist, raised her hand to his mouth, and bit it, hard. Corliss yelped. The dagger fell from her fingers. She grappled for it, but Burnell got it first.
No!
Corliss and Victor both struggled to rise, but Burnell, laughing, was already on his feet, a dagger in each mammoth fist. He kicked Victor in the head. The young scholar flopped onto his back and groaned, then went limp.
Burnell wheeled on Corliss and kicked her in the stomach. She went down like a sack of rocks, gasping in pain.
Looking up, she saw his dark form looming over her, saw teeth and steel glinting in the light of the full moon. “You and him and them others been costin’ me money,” he growled, fumbling with the pouch on her belt. “You owe me some silver.” He tried to tear the pouch off, but it wouldn’t budge, so he jammed his fingers inside and felt around. “What the hell’s this?” he demanded as he fumbled with her little reliquary, which was all that the pouch contained. “Where’s your money?”
“I left it home,” she managed. It was the truth, but he clearly didn’t believe her. He knelt close to her, overwhelming her with his sickening smell. Gripping both daggers in one hand and pressing them to her throat, he shoved the other under the hem of her tunic and groped along the waist-cord of her chausses for a hidden purse.
The feel of his hand beneath her tunic filled her with revulsion... and fear. If he searched her thoroughly, he might detect the lack of more than a purse. She tried to writhe away, and he flicked the blades at her throat; she felt a stinging pain, followed by a hot trickle down her neck.
“Next time I’ll slice you open.” He ran his hand over her belly...
And back again.
And paused.
Desperately she tried to skitter back, but that only brought his meaty palm directly between her legs. His eyes widened and then narrowed. “What have we here?” He grabbed her hard, and she cried out. “More to the point, what don’t we have?”
His low, sinister laughter made her insides spin around slowly. Snatching his hand out from under her tunic, he ran it over her chest, frowning in puzzlement at its flatness. Keeping one blade at her throat, he used the other to slash open her tunic. A second pass slit her shirt down the front. A third tore into the linen bindings around her chest—and her skin as well.
She screamed in pain and tried to push his hand away. He raised it and slammed the hilt of the dagger into her forehead.
Bursts of light filled her vision and a blessed numbness overtook her... but not completely. She felt him push aside the shreds of linen, heard his awful chuckle as she lay exposed beneath him. Through slitted eyes she saw him shove one dagger into the sheath on his belt and hurl the other into the hard-packed earth, where it stuck, quivering.
Then she felt his hands on her.
No! No! She thrashed fiercely and he chuckled. “You’re a live one, are you?”
He grabbed her under her arms and pulled her between two buildings. For privacy? She struggled, but couldn’t dislodge his firm grip.
The space between the stone walls was very narrow, and black as hell. He dropped her; she landed with a thud. She tried to rise, but he was there, on top of her, pawing her, groping.
No! God, no!
He grabbed her knees. She focused all her strength on keeping her legs together, but he wrenched them apart and knelt between them. By what little moonlight penetrated the dark passage, she saw him untie his braies.
Don’t panic! Again she heard Rainulf’s voice of cool reason: Go for the nose... use the heel of your hand.
She cocked her wrist and whipped it down. It connected with a soft crunch, and he howled.
“Fuckin’ bitch!” He slapped her hard across the face. “I’ll teach you.” Breathing harshly, he lifted her tunic and fumbled with the cord that secured her chausses.
Or you can break a finger, Rainulf had instructed. Here’s how...
Reaching down, she grabbed one of his hands, located the little finger, and snapped it sharply. His roar of pain filled the alleyway. Yet she was too confined to escape. She couldn’t move, couldn’t maneuver in a space that was no wider than her opponent. Squeezing out between Burnell and the wall was impossible, so while he cradled his hand, moaning, she retreated quickly...
Only to find another wall at her back. On three sides of her there was stone; on the fourth, Burnell. Oh, God, no... She scrambled to her feet.
With a bellow of rage, he rose and charged her.
She ducked, grabbing him around his thick waist; she felt the wide leather belt, the sheath... the dagger! Her hand closed around the weapon’s hilt a split second before his would have. She yanked it out and rose. What now? Where do I strike? Taking advantage of her moment of indecision, Burnell seized her wrist and twisted. She felt her fingers open. No, no...
With a guttural cry of triumph, he took possession of the dagger and pointed its tip at her bare chest. “You’re a plucky little wench, I’ll give you that. You think you’re invincible, don’t you?”
Ah, you’re invincible now, are you? Rainulf had said. Right before she’d...
Yes. Do it.
She hooked her leg around Burnell’s, and they went down together, limbs tangled, grunting. They grappled savagely in the dark, confined space. She groped for the dagger. Burnell wrested it away and rolled on top of her as she flailed at him.
And then he cried out, a long, harrowing shriek that echoed
and echoed off the stone walls.
What... ?
He rose over her, quivering. She heard a wet, strangled gurgle and saw the dagger sticking out of his throat.
Jesus!
Eyes wild, he grabbed the weapon with both hands and yanked it free. Something warm and wet pulsed onto her. He collapsed on her, jerking as the blood pumped out of him, soaking her.
“No!” she pushed against him. But it was no use. His twitching body pinned her down; his garbled cries filled her ears. She tasted his blood in her mouth.
She closed her eyes and raised her voice in a long, hoarse scream.
Suddenly she felt his weight lift off her. She opened her eyes, and he wasn’t there anymore.
Rainulf. He stood over her, stricken with horror. “Corliss! Oh, God!” He crouched, touching her gingerly. “You’re hurt! What did he—”
His voice caught in her throat as his hands traveled from her face to her chest, encountering her shredded garments and bare skin, soaked with blood. His fingers brushed one of the dagger cuts and she winced.
“Oh, Jesus,” he rasped, gathering her in his arms. “Corliss. Oh, God.”
A sound from behind made them both turn to see Burnell lurching out of the alley with his hands clutching his throat, his braies around his ankles. Rainulf stiffened, his face contorting with hatred. A dark, unsteady figure—Victor, clearly still dazed—lunged at Burnell, but he managed to throw him off and stumble away.
Victor started after the wounded tavern keeper, but Rainulf yelled, “Let the bastard go, Victor! He’s done for.”
“Oh, no,” Victor moaned, staggering into the alley. “Corliss?”
“She’s hurt,” Rainulf managed. “Badly, I think.”
“She?” Victor peered down at her, his eyes widening in the dark.
Corliss pulled the two halves of her shirt together with trembling hands. “It’s not that bad.”
Victor looked stunned, whether from the blows Burnell had dealt him, or the revelation of her true sex, she couldn’t say.
Rainulf glared at him. “This is your fault, damn you.
For a moment, Corliss thought Victor was going to argue with him, but after a moment’s hesitation, he closed his eyes and nodded.
“Do some good for once,” Rainulf ground out. “Go fetch a surgeon.”
“Which one?” Victor asked.
“Will Geary,” Rainulf said as he lifted Corliss in his arms and stood. “He’s got a shop on Pennyfarthing Street. Bring him back to my house. And for God’s sake, hurry!”
Chapter 15
As Rainulf carried Corliss back to the house, she began to shiver in his arms. “Everything’s all right,” he soothed. Insipid words; nothing was all right. Corliss was hurt. He didn’t know how badly, and he dreaded finding out.
At his front door, he called, “Thomas! Brad!” Two sets of footsteps pounded down the stairs, and the door swung open. Rainulf muscled them aside and bounded up the steps with Corliss, ignoring their horrified gasps and offers of help. They’d told him the screams he’d heard must have been student horseplay; thank God he’d gone to investigate.
“Magister!” Thomas exclaimed as they followed him, stumbling over their feet and each other as they clambered up the stairs. “What happened?”
“Burnell attacked her.”
He heard them hesitate on the stairs, and could sense their bewilderment. Her? Rainulf winced inwardly, wishing he’d had more presence of mind than to slip up this way, not once, but twice. But could he hope for presence of mind when the woman he loved had been...
The woman he loved.
God help him.
In the well-lit main hall, he paused to look down at her. “Corliss. Oh, Corliss.” She was covered with blood, covered with it, especially her upper body. The remnants of her shredded clothes were saturated with it, although it seemed to have stopped flowing; it stained her face, matted her hair.
Please, God, let her be all right, he prayed, with more pure, simple faith than he had felt in years.
He strode into her chamber, shouting commands over his shoulder, which the young men hurried to obey: “Unfold that blanket on her bed. Bring me a bowl of water and some clean cloths. And a brazier. She needs warmth.”
Wrapping her in the blanket, he lay down beside her and enfolded her in his arms. Her trembling had grown into a convulsive shuddering that racked her body, as if a great hand shook her in its grip. “There now, it’s all right,” he murmured inanely as he stroked her hair, her face. He kissed her forehead, her eyelids, her temple, holding her as tightly as he could.
She freed her hands to grip his tunic. “It’s not that bad,” she whispered shakily. “It’s not—”
“Shh, it’s all right.” He kissed her cheek, her hair. “It’s all right. Rest.”
He glanced up to find Thomas and Brad exchanging a look, their expressions a mixture of astonishment and concern.
“Go outside,” Rainulf told them. “Watch for Victor and the surgeon.”
A pointless assignment, but one they eagerly accepted, colliding with each other in their haste to get downstairs. When they were gone, Rainulf gently drew back from Corliss. She clutched at him with palsied hands.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he assured her as he dipped a cloth in the water and wrung it out. “Just lie back. Yes, like that.”
He carefully dabbed her face with the wet cloth, breathing a sigh of relief to find it uninjured, except for a knot on the side of her forehead. For the second time since he’d met her, he silently thanked God that her face—that extraordinary, singular face—had been spared.
Rinsing out the cloth, he bathed her throat, blotting cautiously when he discovered the nick at its base, already scabbing over. He swore under his breath, imagining the fear that must have consumed her to be at the mercy of that animal. “He had a knife?”
“Victor’s dagger,” she rasped. “And mine.”
“Yours? You’ve been carrying...” Obviously she had. He grimaced and shook his head.
Her eyes clouded with anguish, and she squeezed them shut. “You were right. I was a fool to buy that dagger.” Her voice quavered so badly, he could scarcely understand her. “I—I didn’t know what to do with it. And-and he took it away from me, just as you said he would. Oh, Rainulf, I’m sorry.” Her quaking worsened. “I’m sorry.”
“Shh...”
She shook her head violently, her eyes glassy. “It’s all my fault. I should have listened to you. I shouldn’t have had anything to do with Victor. I shouldn’t have gone out at night. I shouldn’t have bought that—”
“Nonsense.” He took her face between his hands and forced her to look at him. “None of this is your fault. You’re not to blame. What happened was no one’s fault but Burnell’s. He’s a monster.” Or was a monster. Chances were good that even now he lay dead on some dark side street.
Rainulf dipped the cloth in the bowl again, parted her torn clothes slightly, and pressed it to her bloody chest. She sucked in a breath. “Easy,” he said. “I’ll be careful.”
As delicately as he could, he wiped the blood off her skin, revealing a long, shallow cut running halfway down her chest. He hissed a low oath.
“He kn-knew I was a w-woman,” Corliss said. “He wanted to... he tried to...”
“But he didn’t. Did he?”
She shook her head. “Nay, you came just in time. I fought him, but he was too strong for me. I broke his nose and his finger, though.”
He took her in his arms. “Good for you. You did well. I’m proud of you.”
Was that the only cut on her chest, he wondered, or were there others? How badly had the son of a bitch hurt her? “I need to get this tunic off you.” He unbuckled her belt and threw it on the floor, then eased her out of the ruined wool garment and tossed that aside as well. Her bleached linen shirt, once snow white, had turned the brownish red of drying blood. He left it on out of deference to her modesty, but ripped it open the rest of the way, pulling ou
t and discarding the shredded strips of linen that had bound her breasts.
He pushed aside the bloodied halves of the shirt, exposing more of her chest. Taking up the wet cloth, he cleaned the blood off, relieved to find no more wounds. He rinsed the cloth out again and passed it under her shirt at her waist, smoothing it up her side and over a breast. She shivered and threw an arm across her eyes.
“Did he cut you here?” She shook her head. “Anywhere else?” he asked as he tended to the other side.
“Nay.”
Thank God, thought Rainulf, realizing her injuries were far less than he’d supposed. Most of the blood must have been Burnell’s.
“But...” Corliss began.
“Aye?”
She turned her face away. “He-he touched me,” she whispered brokenly. “He t-touched—”
“Oh, Corliss.” He dropped the cloth in the bowl and wrapped her in his arms, breathing against her hair, “It’s over. It’s over. He can’t hurt you anymore. He’s probably dead by now.” That was Rainulf’s only consolation, the only thing that kept him calm and sane in the face of what had happened to Corliss. His rage toward Burnell was pure and savage; the bastard deserved to pay for his brutality with his life. Was it un-Christian to take satisfaction in his death? He felt a moment of guilt—a stab of self-doubt: What kind of man am I to rejoice in the death of another? And then Corliss’s voice came to him: Save your doubt for the lecture hall, where it belongs. Don’t turn it in on yourself.
How right she’d been. How wise she was. Wiser in many respects than he.
He threaded his fingers through Corliss’s hair and kissed the glossy black waves. Her trembling had abated, but not gone away entirely. He rubbed her arms and back, murmuring a litany of comforting words. It would have killed him, he realized, had anything happened to her. She’d gotten inside him, become a part of him. How had that happened?
He heard voices from the street, and then the door opening; footsteps on the stairs. “Will’s here.”
He sat up and pulled the two sides of her shirt together.
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