Heaven's Fire Read Online Free Page B

Osred’s corpse. “I came to give him last rites.”
    “It’s too late now,” she said sadly as she rubbed her back.
    “Too late for a proper job of it,” he agreed, “but I can still perform the sacrament. There are those who believe it’s useful, even when one has died unshriven.”
    She nodded. “Go ahead, then.” Turning toward the half-dug grave, she added, “I’ll finish here.”
    “Hold on there,” he said. “You ought not to be digging graves. You’re ill, and... well, isn’t there someone... your husband, perhaps...”
    “I’m widowed.”
    “Ah. I’m sorry. Was it the pox?”
    “Nay, it happened five years ago. There’s no one but me to bury him, Father. The men who haven’t gotten sick yet won’t bury the dead for fear of catching what killed them. And the ones who have gotten sick are still too weak. I wouldn’t want to trouble them.”
    “I’ll bury Father Osred,” Rainulf said. “And I’ll finish this second grave, if you’ll tell me who it’s for.”
    “I thought you knew,” she said, grinning as if at a slow-witted child. “It’s for me.”
    The tall priest stared at Constance as if live eels had just sprouted from her head. “You’re digging your own grave?”
    “There’s no one else to do it,” she pointed out. “My friend Ella Hest has promised to come by in the morning and check on me. If I’m dead, she’ll put me in the grave and fill it in, but she’s getting on in years, so I didn’t want her to have to actually dig it.”
    He frowned, clearly nonplussed. “You think you’re going to die between now and tomorrow morning?”
    “I may. Others have died this early, before the pox set in. The fever gets bad, and they lose their senses. Sometimes they have fits...”
    “I know.” He ran his long fingers distractedly through his close-cropped hair. It was the pale, glossy blond of a very young child. By contrast, his eyebrows and the hint of beard that darkened his strong jaw were black. His most distinctive feature, however, would be his eyes—pale green lightly veiled with brown. Looking into them was like peering into the water at the edge of a lake where it meets the shore and mixes with the earth. She saw kindness in his eyes, and intelligence, and now she saw pain as well.
    His jaw clenched. Was he remembering the time when he himself had had the yellow plague? Judging from his reaction, he knew more than he cared to of this particular pestilence.
    She gestured with the shovel toward the grave. “So you understand, then, why I need to finish this—”
    “Nay!” He grabbed the shovel out of her hand. “I have no intention of letting you do this kind of labor while you’re so gravely ill. And you mustn’t worry so about dying.”
    “I’m not worrying about it,” she corrected, “I’m preparing for it—while I’m still able to.” She reached for the shovel, but he jerked it away from her, and she lost her balance. Things began to spin, and she felt her legs crumbling beneath her.
    “Constance?” His voice sounded as if he were speaking from a great distance. A fierce pain commenced behind her eyes, and she buried her head in her hands. She felt him grip her shoulders. “Constance?”
    “I’m all right,” she rasped, and struggled to rise. “I’ll be fine.”
    Abruptly she felt weightless, and realized he’d lifted her in his arms. “Where do you live?” he asked.
    “Nay,” she protested, pushing against his broad shoulders. Quite useless, of course. She was weakened from illness, and he was clearly a strong man. He’d scooped her up as if she were but a child, and she could feel the solid muscles beneath the rough wool of his tunic.
    “Where do you live?” he repeated patiently.
    “Please... my grave,” she managed, as the pain in her head became blinding. “You don’t understand. I promised Ella it would be ready.”
    “I’ll dig it,” he said.
    “You will?”
    “Of course, if it will ease your mind. Now, tell me