Bertram grabbed the neck of her tunic, made a fist, and hauled back, aiming for her face. She kicked him hard in both shins before he could connect. His feet flew out from under him, sending him sprawling. As she clambered to her feet, so did he.
“Leave her alone!” someone yelled. Thomas. He wrapped his arms around Bertram, immobilizing him. Corliss saw that a crowd had gathered.
“Don’t hurt her!” Brad pulled her erect. “Are you all right, Corliss?”
Some of the bystanders looked at her strangely. Through her haze of pain and nausea, a warning bell tolled. Her. They were saying her. She shook her head frantically as Thomas and Brad helped her to her feet.
“You’re not all right?” Brad looking helplessly toward Thomas. “Master Fairfax told us to look after her, and—”
“Shut up!” she croaked, holding her stomach. “For God’s sake...”
“Well, I’ll be damned.” Bertram’s astonished gaze inspected her from head to toe.
Behind him, a breathless Felice gaped at Corliss. “Nay...”
“Aye,” Bertram said quietly. “I can see it now. The softness around the face... she’s a woman, all right.” A slow smile spread across his face, the cause of which was obvious: His rival was no rival after all.
“Nay,” Felice repeated.
The spectators whispered and gasped. Corliss heard the same words over and over: “...a woman... men’s clothes...” How long, she wondered, would it take for them to connect her to Rainulf? Would Bishop Fresney find out she’d been living with him? Would Rainulf be ruined?
Thomas and Brad groaned softly when they realized what they’d done.
Felice’s chin trembled as she stared at Corliss. She shook her head slowly, her eyes glassy. Bertram embraced her and she collapsed in his arms, sobbing. “There there,” he murmured, smiling slightly—clearly relishing this opportunity to comfort the girl who had spurned him up till now. “Come along.” He guided her back toward the shop, and they disappeared in the crowd.
Thomas looked stricken. “Corliss, I...” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, I...”
“Me, too,” Brad offered.
The spectators still gawked and commented. There was some laughter, but mostly just expressions of surprise and bewilderment.
They knew now. Dozens of people knew. By nightfall, all of Oxford would know. The truth had asserted itself, just as Rainulf had warned her it would.
It was over. Just like that, it was all over.
“What do we do now?” Thomas asked her. “What should we—”
“Take me to Rainulf,” she said woodenly. “I have to talk to Rainulf.”
Thomas and Brad guided her through the mayhem of Catte Street to the corner of High, where an enormous, black-robed horde had assembled around one tall figure on the steps of St. Mary’s: Rainulf.
“...settle our differences like civilized men,” he was intoning.
“What’s civilized about them?” a voice called out. “After what they did to Victor, we should burn down the whole damned city!”
Rainulf gestured to someone who came to stand alongside him: Victor of Aeskirche. Corliss hadn’t seen him in the five days since Pyt and his friends had dragged him from his bed, beaten him, and thrown a noose around his neck. The sight of his once handsome face, still bruised and swollen, prompted a flurry of indignant exclamations from the assembled scholars.
“No one,” Victor said loudly, “knows better than I what was done to me.” He paused meaningfully, his piercing gaze sweeping the crowd; he was nearly as good at this as Rainulf, if a bit more dramatic. “And no one knows better than I how well I deserved it.”
A chorus of denials greeted this statement. “You deserved nothing of the kind!” someone yelled. “They’re savages!”
“And we’re not?” Rainulf demanded, scanning the audience. His gaze lit on Corliss, and for a fleeting moment he focused only on her, his eyes smiling their secret smile, as the hundred or so scholars faded into a dark, shadowy mass; and then he wrested his attention from her and continued his impassioned plea for restraint and reconciliation.
What will I say to him? How can I tell him it’s all over, just like that? Her disguise was a disguise no longer. She had to leave him. And not just his home, she realized suddenly; she would have to leave Oxford. This was Rainulf’s city. As chancellor, he would all but own it. She could never escape him, never hope to forget him—or at least learn to live without him—if she stayed here. And her continuing presence in the community could hurt Rainulf. If she left now, it was possible that the bishop would never even find out she’d lived with him. Even if he did, he’d most likely forgive Rainulf a brief transgression; a continuing relationship with a woman would never be tolerated, though. The man she loved would be destroyed.
Saying good-bye to him would be agonizing. Would he make it even harder by trying to talk her into staying, or would he grit his teeth and send her on her way? Would he kiss her good-bye? Would he call her “my love” one more time? She hoped he would know better than to give her some trinket, as he had his Parisian conquests—some parting gift intended to soften the pain.
The pain can’t be softened. ‘Tis unendurable. I can’t bear this.
How would she ever be able to walk away from him? How could she say good-bye?
I can’t. Not to his face.
“We’ve answered rage with rage,” Rainulf was saying. “Violence with violence. Fear with fear. We should know better than that—all of us! We live in one of the greatest centers of learning in the world, during the most enlightened time in the history of man...”
As he spoke, the students gradually quieted. They ceased their restless fidgeting, their interruptions, and lapsed into a rapt silence. Rainulf spoke calmly, but with fervor and conviction. He talked of the need to abort the cycle of violence that threatened to destroy the city of Oxford, and with it, the great university that might someday flourish here.
Rainulf was in his element—not just competent, but brilliant. He shone like the sun, radiating light and wisdom and strength. Corliss basked in his glow, absorbing him as he spoke—every nuance of his deep, commanding voice; every feature of his face; the way the sun glinted off his hair; the way he gestured with his hands; and the way he stood and moved...
I’m memorizing him, she realized. I’m searing him onto my mind, burning his image into my very soul. That way he’ll always be with me.
“I’ve been talking to representatives of the townsmen,” Rainulf announced to his engrossed audience. “And, for the most part, they want peaceful relations with the academic community. It seems they’re even willing to compromise on the matters that spawned this whole mess in the first place. I’m going to meet with them now, on their turf—St. Martin’s Church. Victor will come with me, and I urge the rest of you to do the same, as a gesture of support. Put away your weapons and come with me. Let’s see if talk can cure what violence could not.”
Rainulf caught her eye as he descended the steps, waving to her and her companions to join him.
“Let’s go with him,” Thomas urged as the crowd began following their magister toward St. Martin’s.
“Nay,” said Corliss, “I want to go home. You go on ahead.”
Brad shook his head. “We can’t do that. We promised Master Fairfax we’d look after you.”
Corliss shot him a look. He had the grace to blush in acknowledgment of the inept job he and Thomas had done “looking after” her.
“Then walk me home,” she said. “After that, you two can go wherever you want. I’ll be safe at home.”
* * *
Alone in the big stone house—Luella, like many others, had chosen to leave Oxford until things cooled down—Corliss packed up as many of her clothes, tools, and supplies as would fit in her satchel. She retrieved her saltcellar of coins from beneath the bed and emptied it into her purse, which she stowed in the bottom of the satchel. Pushing aside the saffron curtains, she gazed at the huge featherbed heape
d high with pillows, burning hot, sweet memories into her soul alongside images of Rainulf.
She brought her precious Biblia Pauperum to her big desk in the main hall and set it down in the middle, running her fingers for the last time over its delicately embroidered cover. Her only parchment was a large scrap with a hole in it, on which she had tested pigments, scribbled ideas, and sketched out preliminary versions of monkeys and angels and fanciful borders. There was a relatively clean area on the back, surrounded by a procession of little lions, each holding in its mouth the tail of the one in front—practice for the fireplace decoration. She sharpened a quill, dipped it in the inkhorn, and bit her lip.
My love, she wrote in the lion-encircled space, By now, you will know what has happened. You will know that I can remain here no longer. I must leave not just your home, but this city. By the time you read this, I will be far from Oxford, and I doubt that I shall ever return.
Moisture welled in her eyes; the words swam on the page. Forgive me for not having the courage to say good-bye to you in person. I’m weak, and I love you so much—
A tear dropped onto the wet ink, which ran in a little rivulet down the page. Wiping her eyes, she dipped her pen and wrote Please keep my Biblia Pauperum. Look at it from time to time and think of me. And I will always carry with me your little reliquary containing the hair of St. Nicaise. I was right—it did bring me good luck. It brought me you.
Another tear marred her words. Reinking her quill, she wrote I will love you forever. Corliss.
* * *
Closing the door behind her, Corliss looked up at Rainulf’s big stone house for the last time. She’d grown to love this house, and this city, and him far more than she would ever have dreamed. And leaving was more inexpressibly painful than she could have imagined.
Don’t think about it. Just go.
But where? As she walked up St. John Street, her satchel over her shoulder, she set her mind to the problem of her destination. London was the only English city besides Oxford where she’d have any hope of finding work as an illuminator. There were opportunities on the Continent—Paris, Bologna, Salerno—but the prospect of traveling so far on her own was daunting to a young woman who’d never been farther than twelve miles from the village of her birth.
On her own. Only then did it dawn on her that she was walking the streets of Oxford alone for the first time in weeks. Rainulf wouldn’t like her taking such a chance, what with Pigot on her trail. She didn’t much like it, either, but she didn’t know that she had any real choice.
The streets were chaotic and crowded, and she was still dressed as a male; that should help her to blend in until she could... Until she could what? Where was she going? She needed to find transportation to London as soon as possible. Perhaps she could find one of the merchants fleeing eastward from the city, and pay him to take her as far as he was going.
Lost in these ruminations, she turned north onto Shidyerd. As she did so, she noticed out of the corner of her eye a dark form ducking into a doorway. She kept walking, prickles of foreboding tightening her scalp.
She wove her way through the riotous noise and activity of Shidyerd, alert and wary.
There he is again. This time she turned quickly, catching a glimpse of him before he disappeared between two shops. She saw the hulking body, the cowl drawn down low, and a glimpse of his grotesquely spotted face.
Rad. It was just Rad.
She willed calmness upon herself as she continued walking. It was just Rad, after all, just harmless Rad—but wearing an expression she’d never seen on him before. There was something in his eyes—something grim and resolute—that she couldn’t help but find unnerving.
She walked faster, threading through the roiling crowd until she came to the corner of High Street. Which way should she go? Was Rad still following her?
Not wanting to linger too long in any one spot, she made a quick decision and turned left. Someone bumped into her. She gasped, but it was just an excited young boy not looking where he was running. “The troubles are over!” he was yelling. “Everyone lay down your weapons!”
She saw Rad again, on the edge of her vision. He was closer now. As she picked up her pace, so did he. He gained on her swiftly, looking fiercely determined. A student got in his way; he pushed the young man aside without a glance, and began running.
Oh, God! Corliss ran, too. “Get out of my way!” she rasped as she struggled through a sea of black robes. “Get out of my—”
A hand closed over her arm from behind, seizing her in a viselike grip. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”
Don’t panic.
Corliss wheeled toward the voice, swinging her satchel. It hit his face with a whump. He released her arm and fell backward.
As she turned to flee, she saw his thicket of coppery hair gleaming in the noon sun...
What—? She turned, gaping at the man she had felled as he gained his feet, dusting off his tunic. “Will?” She released a shaky breath, her legs like water. “Oh, God, Will, I thought...”
She looked behind her, but couldn’t see Rad; a herd of scholars was crossing the street between them. “I didn’t know it was you. I... I’m sorry! Look—I can’t stay here. I have to go.”
The surgeon fell in step with her as she quickly walked west along High Street. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?” he asked with smile.
“I was being followed.” She glanced over her shoulder, but all she could see was a solid wall of black cappas. “A peddler. I think he may be Sir Roger’s bloodhound. The one they call Pigot.”
“Pigot’s following you?” Will’s expression sobered. “You oughtn’t to be on the streets by yourself, especially in the midst of all this bedlam.”
There was much cheering and whooping on High Street. Scholars coming from the direction of St. Martin’s called out news about lowered rents and a reduction in the price of ale. Each announcement was greeted by a roar of approval.
“I know, but I have to leave Oxford. Thomas and Brad let it slip to all of Catte Street that I’m a woman. Rainulf will be ruined if I stay here. I’m going to try to get to London if I can.”
He brightened. “I’m on my way to Wallingford to see some patients. That’s on the way to London. I’d be happy to escort you that far, if you’d like.”
Relief flooded Corliss. “Would you? I’d be so grateful.”
“Of course. I’d be glad to have the company.”
Will had two mounts stabled behind his shop, so that was where they headed. They negotiated the teeming streets as quickly as they could, mindful that Rad—or rather, Pigot—might be trying to follow.
The front of Will’s place of business, like the rest of the storefronts on Pennyfarthing, was boarded up. He unlocked the door and let them in, then relocked it. The only light came from the open back door and a large side window that looked out onto an alley.
“I’ve never been in a surgical shop,” Corliss said as she inspected it curiously: the sawdust-covered floor, the big oak table with the leather shackles dangling from iron rings, the open cupboard lined with mysterious flasks and rolls of bandages, the coffins stacked against the back wall. She shivered. “How can you bear it? I mean, all the pain and death.”
He closed and latched the back door, then the window shutters, muffling the street noise and plunging the shop into a dim twilight. When he turned to face her, she could barely see him, although she thought he smiled. “One gets used to pain.” He set his bag down on a small table next to the larger one fitted with restraints. “And death.”
With the sunlight blocked out, Corliss felt chilly, although it was a warm day. She watched the surgeon light a lantern and lift it up to a hook over the big oak table. It swung back and forth as he hung it, casting his pale, densely freckled face alternately in light and shadow.
The bright light revealed a detail about the table that she hadn’t noticed before: a channel carved all around its edge, which tilted toward a hole at the foot. Will rea
ched beneath the table for a bucket, which he positioned carefully under the hole. Corliss noticed dark spots in the sawdust, and realized it was blood.
She took a step back. “Are we leaving soon?”
The surgeon didn’t answer her or even look in her direction. Instead, he opened his bag and brought out a small, curved knife. Corliss saw the white flash of steel as he laid it on the table. He reached back into the bag and brought forth another blade, this one straight and pointed. He set it next to the other, taking care, it seemed, to line them up neatly. More instruments emerged from the bag—cutting tools of all shapes and sizes—which he arranged painstakingly on the little table.
Corliss’s heart beat so fast that it shook her entire body from head to toe. She heard herself breathe, and wondered if Will did, too. “I want to leave now.”
Will set his empty bag in a corner, pulled off his tunic, and hung it up. He plucked a bloodstained leather apron off the hook next to it and tied it over his shirt and chausses.
Corliss backed up to the door and tried the handle with trembling fingers; pointless, of course, since it was locked. She swallowed hard, her mouth dry as ashes. “I said I want to leave now.”
He walked toward her, saying softly, “I’m quite sure you do.”
Chapter 19
Rainulf flung open his front door and bounded up the stairs, grinning. “Corliss?”
Thomas and Brad followed behind him, their arms loaded with fresh bread, savory meat pasties, hot dumplings, and sweet puddings—provisions for a celebratory feast. The delicacies were gifts from merchants who’d reopened their shops on learning that Rainulf Fairfax had gotten matters in hand, his mediation having resulted in a truce between the scholars and the townsmen.
The two young scholars had been shocked when Rainulf had invited them back to the house. They’d assumed he’d be furious at them for exposing Corliss’s true sex; his sanguine acceptance of their blunder clearly confused them.
“Corliss!” Rainulf called from the main hall. He wanted to celebrate his victory with her—wrap his arms around her and kiss her. He wanted to brag like a little boy, whispering “I did it!” for her ears only.
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