Heaven's Fire Read Online Free PDF

appear that you’re a priest, after all.”
    She wished she’d had enough linen—and enough time—to sew the old rector into a suitable shroud. All in all, it hadn’t been so bad living with Father Osred. In truth, he’d been good to her, even generous, and she’d actually grown to feel a certain grudging affection for him. It had pained her to see him die so horribly, and despite her fear of losing his protection from Sir Roger Foliot, she had prayed ceaselessly that God would take him into His arms and bring him peace.
    As Constance watched Father Rainulf kneeling in prayer, his image began to drift and fade. A chill swept through her, like the icy breeze from an open door in the dead of winter. She held on tightly to the windowsill as the frigid pressure squeezed the thoughts from her mind and robbed her eyes of the power of sight.
    God, please don’t let me go blind , she begged silently as she felt her body hit the floor.
     
     

 
     

Chapter 2
     
     
    “Constance!” Rainulf knelt beside the woman’s limp form and pressed his fingertips to her throat. She blazed with fever, but she had a pulse. Carrying her back to bed, he covered her with the quilt and watched uneasily as she tossed her head back and forth on the pillow, murmuring incoherently.
    She was a strange woman—most decidedly strange. For one thing, she said exactly what was on her mind, without mincing words. Rainulf, accustomed to the complex and obtuse verbal machinations of the academic community, found her candidness both disconcerting and refreshing
     She struck him as amazingly full of life—even in the throes of this horrid disease. Everything seemed to interest and amuse her. Most remarkable was her matter-of-fact acknowledgment of the possibility of her own death—of her place in the cycle of nature. For years Rainulf had engaged in ceaseless and often tiresome debates on the nature of death. He envied Constance her easy acceptance of it.
    When she had quieted and seemed to be sleeping peacefully, Rainulf retired to the main room of the rectory—a sizable chamber, and very cheerful, thanks in large part to the colorfully decorated walls. The whitewashed stone had been painted all over with a variety of designs and patterns, often quite flowery and ornate.
    Most of the windows were covered with parchment on which an assortment of tiny creatures had been painted. Many were representations of the local fauna—leaping hares, mice stealing cheese, birds with worms in their beaks. Others were imaginary grotesques, such as a cross between a sheep and a stag, or a man with the head of a fish. There were many angels, all with hardy peasant faces and jolly smiles.
    Rainulf’s gaze was drawn to a writing desk near the largest window; such a desk was a rare sight outside the walls of a monastery or university. A sheet of parchment, neatly ruled in a double-page grid in preparation for writing, was tacked to its sloping surface. The upper left corners of each of the two pages featured sketches of elaborate capital letters embellished with haloed figures in flowing robes. An oxhorn filled with ink sat snugly in a hole in the desk’s upper right corner; next to it lay several raven’s quill pens, and a penknife. On a nearby table, he saw a large roll of parchment, and next to it, precisely arranged, a stylus, a stick of lead, a piece of pumice, some chunks of chalk, and a row of paint pots. Many priests made their own copies of borrowed books, but from all appearances, Father Osred had taken a rare pleasure in this work.
    Rainulf opened a corner cupboard and discovered it filled with more books than he’d ever seen in such a humble place. Most were old and well worn—books of Gospel, lectionaries, a psalter, collections of model sermons, a handbook of parish duties, a manual of the sacraments, and several books of instruction in Latin. It was the handful of newer-looking volumes that most attracted him, though. He pulled one out and saw