Heaven's Fire Page 4

  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.”

&nbs
p; 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?”

  “Nay. Not anymore.”

  “How awful to live with such torment,” she said. “And how silly.”

  Rainulf let out a disbelieving little laugh. “Silly?”

  “You make everything so complicated, so troublesome. You can’t accept anything for what it is.”

  “Constance... you really don’t understand.”

  She laughed and waved her hand in airy dismissal. “I understand much more than you realize.” Her gaze traveled to the book in his lap. “What do you think of it?”

  He closed it and ran his hand over the lavishly embroidered cover. “I think it’s extraordinary. Where did you learn to do such work?”

  “Father Osred, of course. He used to copy books for himself, and also some to sell in Oxford. But by the time I came to live with him, his hands had become all gnarly and sore.”

  “So he taught you copying and illuminating,” Rainulf finished. “And Latin as well, I take it?”

  “Aye. I love making books—the pictures especially.” She nodded toward the Biblia Pauperum. “I’ve just finished that one. It’s my masterwork. If I do die, at least I’ll know I’ve done something special first.”

  “It’s very special,” he said, rising to return the book to its cupboard. “‘Twas good of Father Osred to teach you this craft.”

  Constance regarded him thoughtfully as he replaced the volume and squatted next to the fire, stirring it up with the poker. She said, “You probably think... You must think I’m a... a common woman. A whore.”

  He set the poker aside and wiped his sweaty hands on his chausses. “It’s not my place to pass judgment on you, Constance.”

  “Aye, but I know what you think.”

  He looked her straight in the eye and said quietly, “No, you don’t.” Moving closer to her, he gently tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “Our thoughts are private. And our actions, even if they be sinful, are rarely without cause. God understands this. It’s men who don’t.”

  She inspected him with discerning eyes. “You don’t talk like other priests, Father.”

  “I’m not like other priests,” he said soberly.

  “Do you want to be?”

  “Oh, yes. Yes. Very much. I want their easy faith, their unquestioning devotion. But instead, I question ceaselessly.”

  “Is that really so wrong?”

  “I didn’t use to think so. Do you know who Peter Abelard was?”

  She shook her head.

  “He was the greatest thinker in Europe, a man of extraordinary brilliance. I studied under him in Paris. He encouraged us to doubt what we were told. He said, ‘It is not because God has said something that we believe it, but because we are convinced that it is so.’”

  “What nonsense,” Constance said.

  Rainulf chuckled incredulously. “What?”

  “Utter nonsense. No wonder you’re miserable, having to struggle to convince yourself of things before you can believe them!”

  “I’m not miserable.”

  “Of course you are. Look at you. I’ve never seen anyone so grim.” She bit her lip, and then said, “Is it so very awful, being a priest who asks questions?”

  He stared into the fire. “Yes, actually. It is. When I returned from pilgrimage six months ago, I went to Paris and immediately petitioned to renounce my vows.”

  Her brow knit. “To stop being a priest?” He nodded. “Can you do that?”

  “No, not... not ordinarily. It’s very rare and exceedingly difficult.”

  “Ah, but not for a cousin of the queen, I’ll wager. Was there royal intercession on your behalf?”

 
“There was,” he conceded, amused at her savvy. “But it still wasn’t enough. You have no idea what an outrage it is to ask for release from the priesthood. I had to come up with a better reason than my relation to the queen.”

  “And what was that?”

  He sighed dispiritedly. “I claimed that the bishop who ordained me wasn’t qualified to do so, because he was a heretic.”

  “Was he?”

  Rainulf shrugged. “He was excommunicated for heresy, but only because he had dared to align himself with Abelard. All of Abelard’s supporters were excommunicated after Abelard was condemned as a heretic by the Council of Sens. One of them—Arnold of Brescia—was even burned.”

  “Burned!”

  “That’s the punishment for the most serious forms of heresy. My sister, Martine, was condemned of heretical sorcery a year ago, and sentenced to the stake, merely for being a healer. ‘Tis a miracle that she managed to prove her innocence.”

  “My God!”

  “The bishop who ordained me was luckier. He got away with a flogging and banishment. I was loath to use this poor man’s misfortune to benefit my own ends, but he himself encouraged me to do so. He said his reputation was already ruined—that I could do no more harm than had already been done. Still, I was consumed with guilt over the whole matter. And, of course, my petition has created quite a scandal. I’m a pariah in Paris. I used to teach there, but they’ve asked me not to come back. I knew that would happen, but I had to do it anyway.”

  She yawned and shook her head. “I’m sorry for your troubles.”

  “And I’m sorry for yours.” He rested the back of his hand on her forehead and smiled. “Much better. I believe you’re out of danger.”

  She took hold of his hand and brought it to her mouth, lightly kissing the palm. The warmth of her lips sent delicious shivers up Rainulf’s arm. “Thank you. I think you may have saved my life.”

  He gently disengaged his hand from hers and urged her to lie back down. “You need your strength. Sleep.”

  She closed her eyes, and within moments was sleeping soundly.

  * * *

  “What’s this?”