Patricia Ryan - [Fairfax Family 01] (54 page)

It is a world of superstition and salvation, betrayal and enlightenment... a time of devastating ignorance and startling new ideas. In an era of arranged marriages and strict rules of behavior, there bubbles an irrepressible undercurrent of desire and intrigue, as natural human passions struggle to assert themselves.

One of this story’s more enigmatic characters is Martine’s brother, Rainulf, a freethinking teaching priest who epitomizes the intellectual awakening of the twelfth-century mini-Renaissance. He is a man of great honor and virtue... and grave self-doubt.

After Rainulf left for the Holy Land, I kept wondering what would happen to him. Would his pilgrimage cure him of his crisis of faith, or worsen it? Would it be possible for him to learn to live with his human frailties–even embrace them? Could a tormented and disillusioned medieval academic find redemption through the love of a woman? What kind of woman could crack his armor and teach him to love life and himself? And what of his vows?

The result of these musings is
Heaven’s Fire
, in which Rainulf, during a visit to a humble village to administer last rites to a smallpox victim, comes upon a remarkable young woman digging her own grave.
Heaven’s Fire
is a journey of suspense, rebirth, and liberating love, set in the medieval college town of Oxford. It’s another journey I hope we’ll make together.

An Excerpt from Rainulf’s Story

by Patricia Ryan

Available as an electronic book.

“With
Heaven's Fire
, Patricia Ryan establishes herself as a major voice in the medieval romance genre. For originality, drama and passion,
Heaven's Fire
can't be beat.”

Romantic Times

March 1161, Oxford

“Duck, Father!”

Rainulf of Rouen, also known as Rainulf Fairfax—Doctor of Logic and Theology, Magister Scholarum of Oxford, and ordained priest—lowered his head just in time to avoid being struck by a flying tankard of ale.

“What the—?”

“It’s Victor, Father,” said Thomas. The young, sandy-haired scholar pointed to the rear of the alehouse, where Victor of Asekirche was climbing on top of a table, cheered on by his rowdy friends. “He wasn’t aiming for you,” Thomas explained. “He’s got a quarrel with Burnell.”

Rainulf turned to see the tavern keeper—a huge, barrel-chested brute in a greasy apron—reach beneath the counter, from which he dispensed his ale and meat pies.

“Uh-oh...” Rainulf swiftly drained his tankard and stood as Burnell produced an oaken club studded with nails. He didn’t particularly want to involve himself in this altercation, and he wouldn’t, were it not for Burnell’s reputation for viciousness. He’d savagely beaten more than one scholar since they began flocking to Oxford just a few short years ago. It was even rumored he’d been responsible for a young man found bludgeoned to death last August in an alley off Fish Street. Victor, despite his many faults, did not deserve such a fate.

“Put it down, Burnell,” Rainulf said quietly.

“This is none of your affair, priest,” Burnell growled in anglicized French. He hefted the club in a beefy hand as he muscled his way through the boisterous assemblage of half-drunk students. “I told that one not to come in here no more, but he don’t listen too good.” Gripping the spiked club with both hands, he swung it back and forth through the dark, stale air of the tavern, sending his young patrons scattering. “He’ll mind me now, I wager.”

“He’s afraid to have me come in here!” Victor declared to the black-robed scholars crowded around the table on which he stood, hands on hips. “And do you know why?”

Rainulf ran a weary hand through his short hair. Young Victor, with his darkly striking looks and firebrand temperament, exercised tremendous influence over his fellow scholars. Were he of a mind to, he could use that influence to help dampen the spark of discord between the students of Oxford and the city’s businessmen. Instead, he chose to fan it into flames of rage.

Burnell advanced a step, shaking his weapon in the air. “
I’ll
tell you why I don’t want you here! ‘Cause you’re a troublemaker, plain and simple. You don’t know when to shut up.”

Victor crossed his arms over his chest and adopted a careless, hip-shot stance. “Oh, I know when to shut up, all right, and I will. After I’ve told everyone about the sewage-tainted water you brew your ale with.”

Burnell’s face darkened with fury. “What? You’ve got no proof—”

“And God knows what’s in those meat pies.”

Burnell raised the club. “You little—”

“If you charged a fair price, I might not mind so much,” Victor said. “But on top of it all, you’re a thief!”

“That’s it! Come down here and fight me like a man!” Victor withdrew something from beneath his black robe. Rainulf saw the flash of steel and cursed under his breath. The young man jumped down from the table and sliced the dagger through the air.

“Victor!” Rainulf stepped between the two men. “Both of you. Let’s go outside and talk about—”

“No more talk, Father,” Victor spat out. “It’s time for action.” He raised his voice and looked around at his inebriated audience. “It’s time to let the brewers and innkeepers and landlords of Oxford know that those of us who’ve come here to study will not lie down for this kind of treatment anymore! It’s time to demand decent food and drink and clean, safe rooms for our money!”

Cries of “Hear, hear!” filled the tavern.

Rainulf gestured toward the blade in Victor’s hand. “And you think that’s the way?”

“It’s the only way his kind” —he nodded toward Burnell— “understands.”

Burnell took a step toward Victor. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Victor stepped forward as well. “Let me state it simply, so you’ll grasp my meaning. If I have a dog and it does something wrong, do I try to reason with it? Nay, ‘twould be a waste of breath. I beat it, because that’s all it understands. ‘Tis the same with those men who are little more than beasts themselves—”

Burnell brandished the club. “Get out of my way, Father.”

“Nay.” Rainulf reached for the club. “Hand it over.”

Burnell yanked it away and stepped around him, raising the weapon high as Victor turned toward him. In the space of a heartbeat Rainulf seized a small bench off the floor and brought it swiftly upward. It shattered on impact with the club, but succeeded in halting its downward progress. The priest wrested the weapon from Burnell and hurled it into the sawdust that covered the floor.

Grabbing the plank that had formed the bench’s seat, Rainulf wheeled to face Victor as he thrust his dagger toward the dazed tavern keeper. Throwing himself between the two, he slammed the plank into Victor’s midsection. For a moment the hotheaded young scholar froze, looking slightly confused. Then he sank to his knees in the sawdust, the dagger slipping out of his fingers. Rainulf kicked it away and tossed aside the plank.

Raking both hands through his hair, Rainulf addressed the wide-eyed onlookers. “It’s over. Go back to your ale.” As the crowd dispersed, Burnell’s wife guided her husband into the back room. Rainulf hauled Victor to his feet and aimed him toward the door. “I won’t always be around to protect you from your own foolishness, Victor. Take my advice and keep clear of Burnell.” He gave a not-so-gentle shove, and the young man lurched out into the bright noon sunshine and stumbled away.

Thomas stared at him. “You handle yourself well, Father. Did you learn to fight like that in the Holy Land?”

“Nay—at the University of Paris. I didn’t fight like that in the Holy Land.”

Thomas frowned. “But surely, on crusade, you fought—”

“To kill,” Rainulf finished shortly. “That’s a different kind of fighting.”

Thomas seemed to digest that for a moment, and then he nodded toward the front door. “Do you know that fellow?”

The man standing in the doorway had hair the color of polished copper and a milk white face showered with hundreds of freckles. He wore a plain, clean tunic and clutched a leather bag.

Rainulf shook his head. “I would have remembered those freckles.”

The stranger scanned the room, stilling when his gaze lit on Rainulf. This interest surprised Rainulf not in the least. His height alone often drew attention. And in this dank little student tavern, he would seem sorely out of place, being the only master present and—and six and thirty years—by far the oldest man.

“Are you the one they call Rainulf Fairfax?” the stranger asked, his gaze resting on the priest’s flaxen hair—the feature that had earned him the surname from his students.

“Aye.”

He looked down at Rainulf’s black robe—not a clerical robe, as would be expected, but the
cappa
of a secular master, the open front of which revealed an ordinary brown tunic and chausses beneath. “They told me you were a priest.”

Someone cleared his throat; someone else chuckled.

“They were right—more or less,” Rainulf answered. A few of the scholars laughed good-naturedly, but Rainulf maintained his neutral expression.

“Are you or aren’t you?”

“Why is it so important?” Rainulf demanded.

“I need a priest who’s had smallpox,” said the red-haired man. “They told me you fit that description.”

“They?”

The man shrugged. “A couple of the other masters. If they were mistaken, kindly advise me so and I’ll trouble you no further.”

“They weren’t mistaken. But what’s this about the pox?”

“There’s been a lot of it in the village of Cuxham the past few weeks. I need you to perform last rites.”

“I’m a teaching priest,” Rainulf said. “I haven’t performed the offices of the church in years. There must be a parish priest in Cuxham. Can’t
he
do it?”

“He’s
been
doing it,” said the stranger. “Only now he’s come down with it himself. A bad case, too, but hopefully one of the last ones—I think this outbreak has run its course. Anyway, Father Osred’s dying, most likely, and I promised Sir Roger Folios I’d bring back a priest to give him last rites. Only, I’ve got to find one who’s already had the pox, so as not to spread the contagion.”

He spoke like a man who knew something of disease. Rainulf glanced at the stranger’s bag. “Are you a physician?”

“A traveling surgeon. My name’s Will Geary. So, will you go?”

Rainulf spent a moment trying to summon up a good reason for refusing. Failing to do so, he sighed heavily and nodded. “I’ll go.”

*   *   *

Stopping briefly at his Saint John Street town house, Rainulf changed into sturdy traveling clothes and packed the things he’d need into his saddlebag. As an afterthought, he searched for and found a tiny silver reliquary containing a lock of hair of Saint Nicaise, and slipped it in among the vestments and vials.

It was unusually warm for March, and despite his grim mission, Rainulf found the journey to Cuxham a pleasant one. Keeping to the route suggested by Will Geary, he rode twelve miles to the southeast until he reached the mill that marked the northern boundary of Cuxham. From thence he followed the stream south through woods and farmland, until presently he came upon the small stone and thatch parish church. Behind it stood the rectory, as he had been told, and he would have ridden directly to it had his eye not been drawn to a figure in the churchyard, digging a grave. He drew up his mount and watched from a distance, strangely captivated by the sight.

It was a woman—her age indeterminate, for she faced away from him—dressed in a homespun kirtle, her black hair plaited in two long braids tied together in back. Next to her on the ground, shaded from the midafternoon sun by a yew tree, lay a corpse beneath a blanket.

Dismounting, Rainulf hobbled his bay stallion by the stream and approached the woman, who still seemed unaware of his presence. As he got closer, he saw not one but two empty graves dug into the earth. One appeared to be finished, given the sizable mound of dirt next to it. The other was still but a shallow trench. It was this second, just begun grave on which the woman labored so industriously, yet hampered by fatigue, if the slowness of her movements was any indication.

Rainulf looked around for a second corpse, but could see none. He did notice, scattered among the weathered headstones in the churchyard, several fresh graves—victims of the pox, no doubt.

He paused about ten feet from the woman and cleared his throat. She gasped and spun around, holding the shovel as if to swing it. Her face bore a bright red flush, and her hands shook. Rainulf saw fear in her wide brown eyes, then confusion. “You’re not...” she began in the old Anglo-Saxon tongue. “I thought perhaps you were Sir...” She took a deep breath, as if relieved, and lowered the shovel. “Who are you?”

Rainulf took a step toward her, but she raised the shovel again, and he stopped in his tracks.

“Don’t come any closer,” she said. She had an odd, husky voice, unexpected in a woman of such slight build.

Rainulf held both hands up, palms out. “Easy,” he said in English. “I’m Rainulf Fairfax.
Father
Rainulf Fairfax, from Oxford.”