Free Heaven's Fire by Patricia Ryan Page B

accept this position, not turn me against it.”
    Gregory shrugged and smiled sagely. “I’m God’s representative, too. And I can’t help but think He would want you to continue teaching.” His expression sobered, and he closed his hand over Rainulf’s shoulder. “Just think about it. That’s all I’m asking.”
    Rainulf knew in his heart there was nothing to think about—he needed the chancellorship—but out of politeness, he nodded in agreement before bidding the elderly priest good night and taking his leave. As he passed the nave, a movement in the shadows behind a pillar caught his attention.
    “Father Rainulf?”
    The magister paused and peered at the cloaked figure waiting in the darkness—the young man who had declined to take a seat. “It’s not ‘Father’ anymore,” Rainulf said.
    The hooded head nodded. “Aye, I meant ‘Master Fairfax,’” he said in English.
    The sandy voice was familiar, but before Rainulf could recall where he’d heard it before, the youth extended his hand, in which he held something shiny. “This is yours.”
    Rainulf took a step closer and accepted the small object, turning it over in his hands. It was the tiny silver casket with the pearl-encrusted cross on top, the reliquary containing the hair of St. Nicaise.
    “It worked.” A hand reached up and lowered the gray hood. “I got better.”
     
     

 
     

Chapter 4
     
     
    He saw the warm brown eyes, wide in the dusky nave, smiling at him; he saw the gleaming white teeth. Rainulf stopped breathing for a moment. The reliquary slipped from his fingers and clattered on the stone floor. He and his visitor both crouched to pick it up, their hands meeting on the little silver box. The skin that Rainulf touched was warm and smooth, the skin of a woman. Rainulf looked up at the face just inches from his. “My God! Constance?”
    “It’s Corliss now.” She glanced around furtively. “You mustn’t call me Constance.”
    Rainulf’s incredulous gaze took in her wavy black hair, now shorn to chin length, and her face—her very singular face—free of any scars that might betray her bout with the pox... and her clothes! With her slight build, and her heavy tunic and chausses, she looked remarkably like an adolescent boy, if a delicate one.
    He shook his head in grateful disbelief. “I... my God! I don’t believe it!” His bag slipped off his shoulder; his arms encircled her without his willing it, and he drew her close. She set down her satchel and returned the embrace. For a precious, mindless moment that seemed to stretch beyond time, he held her tight, reveling in the feel of her in his arms—her substance, her solidity, the faint tickle of her warm breath on his neck. With a curious detachment he saw himself, as if from above, holding this woman as one would a lover. His rational mind, long accustomed to absolute authority over his actions, scolded him for imprudence; but an unfamiliar force deeper within him—an urge both elemental and profoundly needful—refused to let her go.
    “You’re real,” he whispered. “You’re alive.” His fingers threaded themselves through her hair; he breathed in the scent of green herbs and sweet blossoms. An astonished chuckle rose from his throat. It was the first time in a long time that he had laughed, and it enhanced his feeling of unreality—the impression that this was all happening to someone else. “You’re alive!”
    “Aye,” she murmured into his chest.
    “My God, Constance, I thought you were dead. I thought—”
    “Don’t call me that.” She pulled away from him and stood, raising her hood as she retreated behind the pillar. “Please. No one must hear you call me that.”
    Feeling unexpectedly bereft at the loss of contact, Rainulf retrieved the reliquary and slowly gained his feet. “You’re in hiding?” he asked her. She nodded. “From Sir Roger?”
    “From the man he sends out to capture runaways. I don’t know who that is.”
    “How did