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expression grave, his touch gentle. At his prompting, she spoke the words, “Into thy hands I commend my soul,” and then he sat her up and supported her while he administered Communion.
    “Now sleep,” he said quietly, looking terribly sad.
    *   *   *
    Rainulf watched helplessly as Constance grappled with her ever-worsening delirium. It was close to midnight, by his guess. Unable to leave her in such condition, he’d decided to spend the night, but his cool compresses and whispered words of comfort seemed to be doing no good. From time to time, she regained her senses and spoke to him, as she had while he was giving her last rites, but those episodes were becoming shorter and less frequent, and he worried that, come dawn, he’d be carrying her to her newly dug grave.
    From his time in the Holy Land, Rainulf knew Moslem physicians to be more educated about smallpox than their Western counterparts. Their theory was that the blood had a natural tendency to ferment, producing waste that must pass through the pores of the skin. Certain atmospheric conditions interfered with this process, resulting in outbreaks of this cursed disease. The treatment of choice in the Levant was to sweat out the excess fermented humors.
    Constance groaned and muttered something. Rainulf sat next to her and laid a hand on her forehead. “Shh.”
    It grieved him to just stand by and watch her suffer—and, in all likelihood, die. Perhaps the sweating treatment had some merit; perhaps not. But it was the only remedy he knew of, so he had no choice but to try it.
    Bringing the lantern outside, he chopped a great deal of wood and heaped it on one side of the central fire pit in the main room of the rectory. On the other side, he made a pallet of quilts and blankets, and then he built and lit a sizable fire. He tacked parchment over the windows that were not already sealed with it, so that the only opening in the room was the smoke hole above the fire pit. Returning to the bedchamber, he gathered Constance in her quilt, grabbed her pillow, and settled her on the pallet.
    The great fire roared; Rainulf added more wood, flinching at the wall of heat that surrounded the blaze. In no time, the room became an oven, forcing him to shed first his tunic and then his sweat-soaked shirt. Still, perspiration ran in rivulets down his face and body. His damp chausses itched; unfortunately, he could not, under the circumstances, dispense with them.
    Constance, also sweating heavily, grumbled unintelligibly and tried repeatedly to tear off the quilt in which she was wrapped. Weary of wrestling with her, Rainulf finally lay down with her on the pallet and pinioned her body with his. “I know you’re uncomfortable,” he said, although it was doubtful she heard him. “But you have to sweat. That’s why I’ve gone to all this trouble. You have to get better.”
    She shivered and moaned, writhing beneath him as her body struggled to expel its scourge. The intimacy of their position suddenly struck him. It had been eleven years since he had lain atop a woman. The last time had been shortly before taking his vows, when the beguiling Lady Fayette had endeavored one last time to dissuade him from Holy Orders. She’d done a workmanlike job of it, too, he recalled with a smile. The memory of that night, and Constance’s movements beneath him, stirred his loins. He shifted position and chastised himself for entertaining carnal thoughts at such a time.
    Fayette had given it her best effort, as had her sister, Petronilla, before her. And then there had been their charming friend, Estelle... But his mind had been made up. All his life he had known that he would become a priest. At one time, his faith had been pure and uncomplicated, his vocation a given. Now... well, now was a very different matter, indeed.
    Reflecting on his faith reminded him of the little reliquary in his saddlebag. When Constance finally lapsed into a fitful sleep, he retrieved it and placed it