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next to her head on the pillow. Then he added more fuel to the fire and lay down beside her in the rushes, thinking to rest his eyes for a moment.
    “It’s hot.”
    Rainulf awoke with a start, disoriented at first to find himself half-naked in a sweltering inferno, a bleary-eyed young woman lying next to him. Constance.
    “Aye,” he said, reclining on an elbow and wiping the sweat that ran into his eyes. “It’s how the Moslems cure smallpox.”
    Her gaze lingered on his bare chest for a moment, and then she looked away, blotting her face with the edge of the quilt. “What can infidels possibly know of healing?”
    He smiled crookedly. “A great deal more than we do, at times. It’s partly why they call us the infidels.”
    That seemed to amuse her, for she laughed tiredly and sat up, the quilt falling around her waist. “What is this?” she asked, lifting the reliquary from her pillow and inspecting it closely. Firelight outlined her delicate body through the thin linen of her shift. High, petite breasts with dusky nipples were just visible beneath the drenched fabric.
    Rainulf cleared his throat and combed both hands through his sodden hair. “It’s a religious relic. Supposedly it’s some hair from St. Nicaise.” Rising, he tossed two more logs onto the fire.
    Little frown lines appeared between Constance’s graceful black eyebrows. “St. Nicaise...”
    “The patron saint of smallpox sufferers.”
    She nodded and ran her fingertips reverently over the pearl-encrusted cross on the lid of the tiny silver casket. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” she murmured. “And to think it actually contains the hair of a saint!”
    “Well... so they say.”
    “You don’t believe it?”
    He shrugged as he settled cross-legged next to her. “False relics abound.”
    “But you’ve no proof that this one is false.”
    “Nay, but—”
    “Then I choose to believe it’s real. What’s more, I think you believe it, too, in your heart. You brought it here and laid it on my pillow, did you not?”
    Rainulf shook his head, defenseless in the face of her particular brand of ingenuous perception. She held the little token up and regarded it with an expression of awe. “Where did you get it?”
    “Queen Eleanor gave it to me when I took up the cross. There’s a great deal of smallpox in the Holy Land, and she’d hoped to keep me safe from it.”
    Constance gaped at him. “The queen of England gave you this?”
    “She was still the queen of France at the time,” he said. “It wasn’t till after I returned from Crusade and took my vows that she divorced Louis and married Henry.”
    “But you know her?” Constance persisted, wide-eyed.
    “We’re distant cousins.”
    “Truly?”
    Rainulf nodded.
    “You’re practically royalty, then.”
    He laughed shortly. “Hardly. As for the relic, I’m pleased if you find it comforting, but I’m not quite as convinced of its efficacy. After all, it didn’t keep me from coming down with the pox when I was imprisoned in the Levant.”
    “Is that where you had it?” He nodded. She grinned smugly. “But you got better.”
    “Aye, but—”
    “And you were left without scars.”
    “Not everyone ends up with scars.”
    “Nor did you go blind.”
    “Well...”
    “So it worked for you,” she concluded happily, and kissed the little silver box. “And it will work for me, as well. I feel much better already.”
    Her smile was rapturous, and more incandescent even than the blazing fire behind her.
    “I’m pleased that you feel better,” he said. Reaching out to touch her forehead, he added, “But you’re still burning with fever.” He pulled the quilt up over her shoulders. “You must stay bundled up until it breaks.”
    “But I’m sweating so.” She shoved the quilt down.
    Seating himself behind her, his long legs flanking her, Rainulf pulled it back up and wrapped his arms around her. “You’re supposed to sweat. Try to go back to