Heaven's Fire Read Online Free PDF Page A

where you live.”
    She pointed.
    He frowned in evident puzzlement. “The rectory?”
    Constance nodded. “I’m... I was Father Osred’s housekeeper.”
    She closed her eyes and felt the steady rhythm of his lengthy strides as he carried her across the churchyard and through the front door of the stone cottage. “Where’s your bed?”
    “I sleep in there.”
    He brought her into the bedchamber and hesitated. She opened her eyes and saw him looking at the big feather bed, the vestments hanging on the hooks, the crucifix... and then back at the bed. She saw comprehension dawn on him, but his expression betrayed no outward sign of shock or disapproval.
    He sat her on the edge of the bed and glanced down at her kirtle, filthy from grave digging. “You’ll want to get out of that. Have you got a sleeping shift?”
    She pointed to one hanging on the wall, and he brought it to her.
    “Can you manage by yourself?” he asked. “I mean, if you need help, I can...” He shrugged self-consciously, and Constance noted with amusement that his ears were bright pink.
    She smiled. “Nay, I can manage. Thank you.”
    He nodded and left. Constance exchanged her dirt-smeared kirtle for the clean, long-sleeved linen shift and lay down on the bed. Every time she blinked, the ceiling beams appeared to shift and then slowly swim back into place. She waited until this strange dance had ceased, then sat up in bed and looked out through the little window at the churchyard.
    She saw Father Rainulf unbuckle his belt and toss it aside, then whip his tunic off and throw it over a branch of the yew tree. Beneath it he wore a white linen shirt, open at the neck; leathern leggings bound with crisscrossed cords encased his long legs. He rolled up his shirtsleeves, revealing muscular forearms, then took up the shovel and went to work on Constance’s grave.
    He worked quickly, digging with powerful, efficient movements and making swift progress. Constance watched with frank interest. Despite his intellectuality and aristocratic bearing, he struck her as remarkably virile—especially for a priest. She couldn’t help wondering if he kept to his vow of chastity or, like Father Osred and many other men of the cloth, had a mistress tucked conveniently away somewhere.
    When the throbbing in her head and back became too much to bear, Constance closed her eyes and lay back down, hoping the pain would go away if she only kept still. Upon awakening later in the afternoon, however, she found it undiminished. Moreover, on sitting up, she became aware of a vexatious burning sensation, as if her entire body had been scalded in boiling water. It was also clear that her fever had worsened considerably. Wrapping a throw around herself, she got out of bed and crossed unsteadily to the window.
    Father Rainulf had climbed down into the grave, and only his head was visible as he dug. She watched him until, having completed his task, he set the shovel on the ground, braced his hands on the rim of the deep hole, and leapt out with one swift, agile motion.
    He had removed his shirt; even from this distance she could see the sheen of perspiration on his chest and face. He was wide-shouldered and lean-hipped, and his gestures had an easy grace that made it hard for Constance to tear her eyes away. Lifting his shirt from the ground, he shook it out and scrubbed it over his damp skin. Then he put it back on, along with his tunic and belt, and strode out of sight.
    When he came back into view a short time later, he had his saddlebag with him. Squatting on the ground and unlatching it, he withdrew another white garment. Constance thought perhaps it was a clean shirt, but when he unfolded it and donned it over his tunic, she discovered it to be a surplice. Next came a black skullcap, and then the stole, which he kissed and draped over his shoulders.
    “So, Rainulf Fairfax,” Constance whispered as he uncovered Father Osred’s body and uncorked a small vial, “it would