Read Online Heaven's Fire by Patricia Ryan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Patricia Ryan
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Roger, cradling Detinée in his massive arms.
Pigot nodded, his penetrating gray eyes fixed on the stranger. “Everyone in Oxford knows him. His name is Rainulf Fairfax. He’s Magister Scholarum.”
“Master of Schools,” Hugh translated, knowing Sir Roger’s Latin to be no better than it should be.
“And,” Pigot added quietly, “he’s a former priest.”
“ Former priest?” Sir Roger exclaimed. “There is no such thing. Once a priest, always a priest. He took vows, for God’s sake!”
“Well, it seems he’s found a way to get out of them,” Pigot said in a bored tone. “He’s the son of a powerful Norman baron, and a cousin of the queen. I’m sure that didn’t hurt.”
Sir Roger frowned, his eyes on Rainulf Fairfax as he sank to one knee and executed the sign of the cross. “Hunh. She was popular with priests, that one.”
Wiley snickered. Elbowing Frick, he muttered something in English. They both erupted in laughter.
Across the river, the ex-priest lowered his head and began to pray.
“He was obviously attached to this woman you’re sending me after.” Pigot frowned at the two villeins, whose conversation was becoming loud and animated. “Hush, you two. I can’t think.” Frick quieted; Wiley went on as before.
“What do you suppose they were to each other?” Sir Roger asked.
Hugh’s gaze returned to the man by the grave, who crossed himself again and reached out to touch the gravestone.
“I think it’s safe to say they were close,” Pigot said.
After some moments, Rainulf Fairfax rose and mounted his bay stallion. With one final melancholy glance at Constance’s grave, he rode north along the river, disappearing into the woods.
“He seems to have been quite taken with her,” Pigot said. “What does she look like? Is she pretty?”
Sir Roger nodded as he thoughtfully petted his dog. “Very. She’s got the whitest teeth you’ve ever seen.”
Pigot gazed skyward, then closed his eyes briefly. “You might want to elaborate on that description if you expect me to locate her. What color hair does she have?”
“It’s dark,” said Sir Roger. “And very long—down to her knees. And, let’s see... she’s quite slender. Very little up here.” He cupped a hand over his chest, and Detinée snapped at it. “But quite a charming shape, nonetheless.”
Wiley nudged Frick, and the two men snorted with laughter.
“If you want to keep your tongues,” Pigot warned softly, “you’ll hold them.” He gave the satchel draped over his shoulder a meaningful pat. Frick paled, but the implied threat was clearly lost on Wiley, who sneered and mumbled something under his breath. Never having met Pigot before, he would have no inkling of the vast collection of knives housed in that satchel—nor of their owner’s enthusiasm for wielding them. He would have no idea that Pigot was quite thoroughly and completely mad. It was what made him so unpredictable... and so very good at what he did, which was finding people who’d gone to great lengths to hide themselves, people who had no reason to think they’d ever be found.
Pigot could do this because of his gift, a gift peculiar to a certain variety of madman. It was the gift of adopting whatever persona most suited the particular search on which he was embarked. He could appear entirely harmless, even charming, when he chose. He could play the bored nobleman, the mendicant friar, the jolly butcher... whatever enabled him to get close to his prey. And then, like a snake, he would attack—swiftly and mercilessly and utterly without conscience. Like Sir Roger, he derived pleasure from dispensing pain, but unlike the petty knight, he had refined this cruelty into a kind of hellish art form. In truth, he seemed to regard the mutilated women he returned to Cuxham as something akin to creative accomplishments.
“You might do well to keep track of this magister who used to be a priest,” Sir Roger said, seemingly oblivious to Pigot’s
Pigot nodded, his penetrating gray eyes fixed on the stranger. “Everyone in Oxford knows him. His name is Rainulf Fairfax. He’s Magister Scholarum.”
“Master of Schools,” Hugh translated, knowing Sir Roger’s Latin to be no better than it should be.
“And,” Pigot added quietly, “he’s a former priest.”
“ Former priest?” Sir Roger exclaimed. “There is no such thing. Once a priest, always a priest. He took vows, for God’s sake!”
“Well, it seems he’s found a way to get out of them,” Pigot said in a bored tone. “He’s the son of a powerful Norman baron, and a cousin of the queen. I’m sure that didn’t hurt.”
Sir Roger frowned, his eyes on Rainulf Fairfax as he sank to one knee and executed the sign of the cross. “Hunh. She was popular with priests, that one.”
Wiley snickered. Elbowing Frick, he muttered something in English. They both erupted in laughter.
Across the river, the ex-priest lowered his head and began to pray.
“He was obviously attached to this woman you’re sending me after.” Pigot frowned at the two villeins, whose conversation was becoming loud and animated. “Hush, you two. I can’t think.” Frick quieted; Wiley went on as before.
“What do you suppose they were to each other?” Sir Roger asked.
Hugh’s gaze returned to the man by the grave, who crossed himself again and reached out to touch the gravestone.
“I think it’s safe to say they were close,” Pigot said.
After some moments, Rainulf Fairfax rose and mounted his bay stallion. With one final melancholy glance at Constance’s grave, he rode north along the river, disappearing into the woods.
“He seems to have been quite taken with her,” Pigot said. “What does she look like? Is she pretty?”
Sir Roger nodded as he thoughtfully petted his dog. “Very. She’s got the whitest teeth you’ve ever seen.”
Pigot gazed skyward, then closed his eyes briefly. “You might want to elaborate on that description if you expect me to locate her. What color hair does she have?”
“It’s dark,” said Sir Roger. “And very long—down to her knees. And, let’s see... she’s quite slender. Very little up here.” He cupped a hand over his chest, and Detinée snapped at it. “But quite a charming shape, nonetheless.”
Wiley nudged Frick, and the two men snorted with laughter.
“If you want to keep your tongues,” Pigot warned softly, “you’ll hold them.” He gave the satchel draped over his shoulder a meaningful pat. Frick paled, but the implied threat was clearly lost on Wiley, who sneered and mumbled something under his breath. Never having met Pigot before, he would have no inkling of the vast collection of knives housed in that satchel—nor of their owner’s enthusiasm for wielding them. He would have no idea that Pigot was quite thoroughly and completely mad. It was what made him so unpredictable... and so very good at what he did, which was finding people who’d gone to great lengths to hide themselves, people who had no reason to think they’d ever be found.
Pigot could do this because of his gift, a gift peculiar to a certain variety of madman. It was the gift of adopting whatever persona most suited the particular search on which he was embarked. He could appear entirely harmless, even charming, when he chose. He could play the bored nobleman, the mendicant friar, the jolly butcher... whatever enabled him to get close to his prey. And then, like a snake, he would attack—swiftly and mercilessly and utterly without conscience. Like Sir Roger, he derived pleasure from dispensing pain, but unlike the petty knight, he had refined this cruelty into a kind of hellish art form. In truth, he seemed to regard the mutilated women he returned to Cuxham as something akin to creative accomplishments.
“You might do well to keep track of this magister who used to be a priest,” Sir Roger said, seemingly oblivious to Pigot’s
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