Heaven's Fire by Patricia Ryan Page B

opportunity to steer the conversation toward the subject that had obsessed him for the past fortnight.
    Seizing upon a moment of silence, he asked, “Have you been back to Cuxham since I saw you last?”
    Will nodded. “Just yesterday. I’m there quite a bit. Sir Roger frequently calls upon my services.”
    “How did you come to meet him?”
    Will hesitated almost imperceptibly, as if weighing whether to answer the question, then cleared his throat. “‘Twas eight or nine years ago. I was traveling home through Cuxham, and I stopped by the manor house to ask for a bite of supper. Sir Roger seemed unusually glad to see me, when he discovered my profession. He told me he’d be happy to feed me if I’d set a villein’s broken legs afterward. I told him I’d do it right away—that such a job shouldn’t wait. ‘Suit yourself,’ he said, and he led me downstairs to the undercroft. He had a young man in irons—a young man who, it turned out, had tried to escape. I said, ‘But there’s nothing wrong with his legs.’ Sir Roger just laughed. Then he picked up a mallet and smashed both legs, one after the other.”
    Rainulf lowered his tankard slowly to the table. “Good God.”
    “Indeed. Sir Roger said, ‘Mind you do a good job on those legs. I want him back in the fields in time for the harvest.’ So I set the legs, and then I ate my fill of stag and turnips and went on my way.” He drained his tankard. “When I went back to take the boy’s splints off, Sir Roger had another job for me. I don’t remember what it was—probably someone had taken ill. And then there was another, and another... He sends for me when he needs me. I seem to be the only surgeon he trusts.”
    Rainulf shook his head. “I wouldn’t be too pleased about that, if I were you. He sounds like a monster.”
    Will laughed. “He’d love to hear you say so. He so desperately wants to strike terror in the breasts of all who know him. But the fact is, every man has his weakness, his secret fear—the thing that makes him vulnerable. In Sir Roger’s case, it’s Hell. He’s an evil and petty creature, and he knows it. He’s desperately afraid that he’ll die and roast for eternity in everlasting torment. So, despite his wicked nature—or because of it—he’s become something of a slave to the Church and her priests. It’s all a rather pathetic effort to save himself when the time comes. The only man in Cuxham who had his respect was that old rector, Father Osred, and he’s dead now.”
    “Aye, God rest his soul.” Rainulf crossed himself and said, in a deliberately offhand way, “Do you happen to know what became of his housekeeper?”
    “Housekeeper...” Will shrugged. “Didn’t even know he had one. Sorry.”
    Rainulf sighed dejectedly. “Girl by the name of Constance. She had the pox, too. I was just wondering—”
    “Constance, did you say?”
    “Aye.”
    “She’s dead.” Will drank his ale and held his hand up for another.
    Rainulf felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach. He sat perfectly still, watching Will accept a new tankard and start in on it. “Are you sure?”
    Will nodded and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “I saw her name on the tombstone myself. They buried her right next to the priest. What’s wrong? You look pale.”
    Rainulf couldn’t stop shaking his head. “But I don’t understand. Her fever had subsided.”
    “Was it the first fever, or the second?”
    Rainulf just stared at him.
    “The first fever,” Will explained, “comes before the rash. If the victim survives it, he generally feels much better afterward. But then a secondary fever sets in after the pox arrive, and it’s just as deadly as the first. It must be this second fever that claimed the girl.”
    Nodding numbly, Rainulf rose from his bench. “I... have to go.”
    Will stood, too, his manner solemn. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you’d formed an attachment.”
    “I didn’t,” Rainulf said quickly.
    “Was