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sleep.”
    “I can’t. My skin feels like it’s on fire.”
    Rainulf remembered the maddening sensation of flesh that felt as if it would ignite at any moment. “Just try. Lean back and close your eyes.” She settled herself against him. Her plaited hair was soft as silk on his damp chest, and her weight felt wonderful against him. It had been so long since he’d held someone—anyone. He’d forgotten the simple pleasure of it.
    “Do you think I’m going to die?” she asked.
    He wanted to say, “No, of course not,” but Constance, with her childlike wisdom, would only scoff at such an easy answer. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “I don’t think so, but there’s no telling with this disease. If you are taken, have no doubt that the angels will welcome you into Heaven.” He wondered if she could tell how empty those words of comfort really were, for it had been years since Heaven had had any real meaning for him.
    “Oh, I know I’ll go to Heaven,” she said with seemingly complete assurance. “I mean, despite... well, Father Osred and all that... I’ve tried to be good. I think that counts for something with God. And, of course, I’ve just been shriven, so I’ll die in a state of grace. I’m not worried. I’ll go to Heaven, and then my soul will be free, and I’ll be at peace.”
    Rainulf smiled inwardly. Ah, to have that kind of faith! That was his idea of Heaven: no more doubt, no more uncertainty to plague him.
    “But,” she added, “I don’t quite like the idea of having to die before I can be free. Doesn’t seem quite fair, does it?”
    “Is anyone ever really free?”
    “You are.”
    Rainulf just grimaced. If only she knew how wrong she was.
    “As are many others,” she continued. “Noblemen and the clergy and merchants are much freer to do as they like than I ever was. That’s all I ever wanted—the freedom to go where I pleased and do as I thought best. I wish I’d been born a man, in some great city. Then I could ply a trade and earn a living and be happy. Instead, I was born female and the property of Roger Foliot of Cuxham, the randy old beast.”
    Rainulf suddenly felt chilly, despite the oppressive heat in the room. “Sir Roger... did he force you to—”
    “He tried. That’s why I married Sully, and why I took up with Father Osred. I had no choice. Sir Roger is... well, he’s little more than a savage, if the truth be told. He beats the women he lies with, and if they run away, he’s got someone he sends after them. Someone even worse than him. They come back... He uses a knife on them, and...”
    She shuddered. Rainulf held her closer.
    “The only reason he didn’t come for me when Father Osred died was because I’ve got the pox. He hasn’t had it yet, and he doesn’t want to catch it. If I die, at least I’ll be safe from Sir Roger.”
    “How will you protect yourself if you live?” Rainulf asked.
    She yawned. “I don’t know.” She chuckled sleepily. “John Tanner’s been sniffing around ever since Father Osred took sick. He’s not old, either, and I think he actually wants to marry me.” She curled into Rainulf’s embrace and mumbled, “Only I don’t know as I could take that smell of his day in and day out.”
    “Is that your only option?”
    She shook her head. “There are two others, besides the tanner... I’d probably have my pick.”
    Presently her breathing grew steady, and Rainulf knew she was sleeping. With careful movements he laid her back down on the pallet and made her comfortable. He fetched her Biblia Pauperum from the cabinet and sat with it by the fire, admiring the fanciful illustrations and struggling to decode the English text. Having little familiarity with the Anglo-Saxon tongue in written form, he couldn’t pass judgment on the quality of the writing, but the pictures were extraordinary.
    “Where did you learn to speak English?”
    Rainulf looked up to find Constance staring at him, and wondered how long she had