CHAPTER THREE
Cressida blinked rapidly at the sudden brightness as someone at the back of the room turned on the overhead lights. She fumbled for the switch at the side of the projector, and the image of a stained glass window disappeared from the white screen behind her.
"So, in conclusion ..." Cressida picked up her pile of notes again and quickly scanned the page, trying to find her place. "We can see that, umm, late-medieval women had an important prominence in urban society. Whether it was as stall-holders in the market, traders in shops, benefactors of the poor and elderly, or simply as images in stained glass windows in churches, urban women formed an essential part of the economic and social life of the city."
With a grateful and relieved smile at her audience, Cressida sank down into her seat, and took a large gulp from her glass of water. She could feel her cheeks burning, but at least her hands were not shaking as much as before. It was only with a slight tremble that she set the glass back down on the table, and looked up at the rows of people before her who were clapping politely and shifting uncomfortably in their seats.
Compared to the couple of hundred students Davis gave lectures to everyday, this was a much more modest gathering. About fifteen or so postgraduates and a couple of lecturers had attended this session of the 'Late-Medieval City Research Group', with Cressida as their speaker for the evening. Less than twenty people, and yet Cressida had still been a bundle of nerves. Well, at least I had the projector on for most of it, she sighed in relief, so I didn't have to look at all those faces staring back at me all the time.
"Thank you, Cressida," announced Christian, who was seated beside her. "A fascinating insight into the lives of medieval women, I'm sure we'll all agree. And well done for getting through it. Cressida said to me beforehand," Christian turned to the audience with a smile, "that she was afraid she would have to run out in the middle of her paper and be sick! Caused by a combination of nerves and the second helping of treacle pie she had at supper." A couple of brief chuckles from the audience made Christian's grin widen from ear to ear.
What treacle pie? Cressida glared at him, but Christian was far more interested in his audience. "I have a few questions for Cressida but I'm sure many of you do too. So I'll throw it open to the floor. Anyone?"
There was a moment of awkward silence, interrupted only by the squeak of a chair or a muffled cough, but then a hand rose tentatively into the air. "Yes?" Christian acknowledged the plump woman wearing a long, tasselled scarf.
"I was wondering, Cressida, if you talk a bit more about how late-medieval women were involved in church life. How far could they take an active part, like the men?"
An easy question, thank goodness, Cressida thought with a grateful smile at the lady. As she talked about her subject, her tense shoulders and back began to relax, and she found that the words flowed easily. She drew her explanation to a close and then looked expectantly at the crowd for another raised hand. But it was Christian this time who addressed her.
"But Margery Kempe subverted the traditionally silent role of women in the church, didn't she?"
"Yes," Cressida agreed cautiously. Don't you dare, she warned him with a stern look. Don't you dare ask me about Margery Kempe's diary. You know that I have deliberately not discussed the literary sources such as diaries and letters in my paper because I haven't had time to research that angle yet.
"Well?" Christian pressed her. "Could you elaborate?"
You bastard, Cressida accused him silently. Do you enjoy making me look stupid? Cressida turned back to her audience, and said in an apologetic tone, "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I am not familiar with the details of Margery Kempe's life. But if we focus on the, umm, evidence of the city records as I have been doing, we can, umm ..." Cressida's voice trailed off in a panic.
"As I understood it," a familiar deep voice at the back of the room seized Cressida's attention, "your discussion has offered a thesis based on the archaeological and documentary evidence, from which further studies, such as those based on the literary evidence, can progress. The example of Margery Kempe is interesting and no doubt relevant, but it would of course demand a comprehensive assessment in itself, as the subject of another paper perhaps? Could I ask you, Cressida, about the stained glass pictures in All Saints Church? There's a depiction of a medieval mayor and his wife, I believe."
Davis. He was sat to the far right of the room, partially hidden by the large stiff perm of the woman in front of him. His black jacket and navy shirt blended in with the dark shadows at the back of the room, but his strong voice had carried easily to the front.
Davis, you have saved my life. I don't know when you came in, or even why, but thank you. "Yes, the stained glass windows in All Saints Church," she repeated, waiting for the exhilarated thump of her heart to calm down. "That's a very interesting example ..." After a hesitant start, Cressida quickly warmed to her theme, and talked comfortably to Davis, encouraged by his thoughtful interest. He leaned forward, his hands clasped on his knees and his dark eyes holding hers pensively. When she finished, her attention was immediately claimed by another raised hand, but even as she answered that question and the others which followed, she remained acutely aware of Davis gazing at her from the back of the room.
"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen," Christian signalled the end of the meeting. The scholarly quiet of the room was broken with the scrape of chairs being pushed back and the murmur of voices. Cressida hurriedly pushed her notes into her bag, her mind a flurry of confused thoughts. Davis was here. Why? Why should he be interested in late-medieval women? Perhaps he had just wanted to give her a message about their meeting tomorrow. She had to talk to him. But someone else had already beaten her to it, she noticed as she looked up from her bag. The postgrad student wearing the tasselled scarf had quickly engaged Davis in conversation. Cressida's jealous imagination pictured the student batting her eyelashes and smiling obsequiously up at Davis.
Perhaps I should leave it, Cressida thought. But, then again, why shouldn't I approach him, even if he is with one of his adoring fans? With a resolute frown, Cressida stood up from the table, smoothed down her long, velvet skirt and peasant blouse, and started down the small steps of the podium.
"Cressida," Christian's voice was insistent. "Don't run away yet. I wanted to talk to you about the plans for the web-site."
"There's nothing to discuss yet," retorted Cressida. She stopped at the bottom of the stage, her gaze still on Davis and his companion. She was chatting enthusiastically and trying to describe something with her hands while Davis smiled attentively. "Davis and I are going to meet and talk about it tomorrow."
"I think I should go through the information from Computing Services with you, to make sure you've understood it," Christian persisted.
"I've already read it and it seems perfectly straightforward," Cressida replied distractedly. The two of them were now heading towards the door, the student still chattering with Davis patiently listening. Dammit, don't go yet, Cressida pleaded silently.
"Look, I just want to make sure that Davis doesn't mess it up," Christian argued. "He's just being awkward to piss me off." Davis gestured to the student to go ahead of him into the corridor, and then he turned and looked straight at Cressida, a wry smile curling the edges of his mouth. But before Cressida could raise a hand or even smile back, he was gone. "Cressida, are you listening to me?"
"Christian," Cressida's expression when she turned round was hard and unsympathetic. "Why do you detest Davis so much?"
Her blunt question had obviously disconcerted Christian, as he jerked in surprise. But his reply, after a hesitant pause, was typically arrogant. "Cressida! You malign me! I don't detest him." Christian's hurt tone was perfect. It was almost as if he had been taking lessons from Marianne. "I just see him for what he is. Just because I don't hang on his every word like certain people do, doesn't mean I detest him."
Cressida didn't comment, but her scepticism was clearly reflected in her face. "It's Davis," Christian sighed. "For some unknown reason, he's taken against me. I think he's jealous." A burst of laughter almost erupted from her throat, but luckily Cressida managed to catch it in time.
"You see, he should have stayed at Oxford," Christian sighed ruefully. He picked up his briefcase and started towards the door, taking it for granted that Cressida would obediently follow him. "At a modern university like this, we're not impressed by double-barrelled names and a rich family."
A rich family? Cressida frowned in surprise. Christian was trying to make Davis sound like a pampered Eton boy, with an upper-class accent and the snobbery to go with it. But Davis was nothing like that. Both his clothes and speech were down-to-earth compared with the other academics. With Davis you never got the impression that he was using a convoluted phrase or polysyllabic word just to keep up appearances. Unlike most of the other lecturers unfortunately.
"What the university needs and appreciates is academics who work towards raising their department's prestige through initiative, forward-thinking," – Cressida know Christian was referring to the web-site, which he still believed was 'his' project – "and publications. The only way to get ahead in academia is to publish. Remember that, Cressida."
Cressida knew well Christian's dedication to getting his name in print. It had earned him the praise of the Faculty of Arts, but it also meant that he had little time or interest in the journal Antiquus, or his students. Cressida was still waiting for him to read the chapter she had handed to him two months ago. It was strange to think how different Christian and Davis were as history lecturers. Whereas Christian put all his energy into networking and publishing in order to raise his profile in the academic community, Davis held onto the old-fashioned belief that his main responsibility was to teach.
"And the sad thing is Davis knows he can't cut it. But he tries to make up for it by being all chummy with the students. You'd think he would be more cautious, considering ..." Christian let his sentence trail off.
"What do you mean?" Cressida pressed him.
"Oh, nothing," Christian smiled dismissively. "It only takes a careless word or two for rumours to start ... But take the way he dresses for example. Jeans!" Christian tugged at the collar of his striped shirt and straightened his tie. "It's like he's pretending to be a student himself."
Stopping outside his office, Christian turned to Cressida and laid a fatherly hand on her shoulder. "But I'm concerned about you, Cressida. Don't be fooled by his charm, okay?"
'Dr E. P. Thorndon-Davis' read the sign on his door. E. P.? Cressida mused mischievously. Now what could that stand for? Edwin Percival? Ebenezer Peregrin? Very childish, Cressida admonished herself, but at least it took her mind off the way her stomach was churning like a washing-machine. She quickly glanced down at her dark green suit and cream blouse, and reached up to check that her hair-pins were still in place. Cressida blushed at how much time she had wasted that morning, trying her auburn hair down, brushed straight, and then curled at the ends, then in a French plait, or simply clipped back with a silver comb. And then, when she was pinning it up in a chic, business-like twist, Marianne had wandered in, wanting to borrow her clothes dryer, and exclaimed, "what I would give for your cheek-bones, Cressida," thus making the decision for her.
With a final glance at her watch, two minutes until eleven, Cressida took a deep breath and then – the door flew open just as she was raising her fist to knock.
"Cressida. Good. Come in." Davis beckoned her in impatiently and then strode quickly over to a small table with a kettle and two mugs.
Cressida entered hesitantly and pulled the door shut behind her. The office was the same in essentials as all the others Cressida had entered on the history corridor: long and narrow, with floor to ceiling bookshelves, a worn table in the middle for seminars, a couple of beige armchairs and a desk fronting the window. But this one seemed smaller somehow. The windows at the far end of the room had been thrown open to let in the brisk October breeze and the sun poured in, but the room still seemed too enclosed. It was Davis, Cressida realized. During his lectures he paced in front of his students like a caged panther, and now she was alone in the cage with him.
"Coffee?" he offered. Cressida cautiously crossed the room to the armchairs, trying not to seem too curious about his books stacked on the shelves, or about the man himself. He was looking particularly panther-like that morning, she thought, with his black jeans and a black jacket. Her eyes glanced quickly over his desk as she passed it, but there were few clues to this intriguing, enigmatic man. No family photographs or even holiday snaps. Just stacks of papers and books around his lap-top. The only personal touches she could see were the posters of archaeological exhibitions in London and Paris which hung on the walls.
Always so calm and composed, Davis wondered as he waited for the kettle to boil. He watched Cressida as she studiously took her folder of papers out of her bag, her long eyelashes hiding her eyes. The careful twist of her hair on top of her head and the cream blouse gave her a professional, almost prim, look. But the short skirt of her suit stopped mid-thigh, giving an enticing glimpse of pale skin above her suede boots. What does it take to rile you, Miss Cressida Philips?
"If you want to smoke, go ahead," offered Davis, and then laughed when she wrinkled her nose in disgust. Good, so her gorgeous husky voice was natural after all. Now he needed to spur her into using it more often. Davis brought over the two steaming mugs of coffee and sank down into the chair next to her. Cressida waited for him to speak and to take control of the meeting, but he seemed in no hurry. Instead of reaching for his papers, he leaned back with his mug in his hands and regarded Cressida thoughtfully.
Cressida dropped her gaze to the sheets Christian had photocopied for them and tentatively suggested, "Christian would, umm, like us to -"
"Do you always do what Christian wants?" Davis interrupted her.
Cressida caught her breath in surprise and replied carefully, "no. But I agree with him that ..."
"Are you just here as his mouthpiece then?" His light and casual tone did not match the sting in his words.
Cressida fixed a polite, but hard, smile on her face. "No. I have my own thoughts on the matter."
Still so controlled and restrained, Davis mused. Perhaps having Christian as her supervisor has taught her to accept rudeness and insults from lecturers. "And have you told Christian your own thoughts? Or do you just humour him?"
"I can speak my mind to Christian," Cressida replied defensively. "But Professor Peebles wants the two of us to discuss it and come up with a workable compromise, and then present it at the next meeting."
"I see," Davis said thoughtfully. "So you're going to wait for me to stand up to Christian on your behalf, is that it?"
"No!" she responded vehemently. "I don't need you to fight my battles for me. But there is no battle ..."
"You have conveniently forgotten that you never wanted this job in the first place."
For a moment Cressida was speechless. But then a torrent of indignation made her see red, and before she could bite her tongue, she was raging, "don't you dare judge me! What choice did I have?"
"There is always a choice, Cressida," Davis murmured, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement.
"No, there wasn't," Cressida retorted, her green eyes blazing. "Even if I had refused at the meeting to take on the work, Christian would have got around it somehow. Besides, it wasn't worth the fight. You might enjoy goading Christian at every opportunity, but as his student, I can't afford to antagonize him. So wipe that smug smile off your face."
"There it is," Davis said in satisfaction.
"There is what?" Cressida demanded.
"The temper to go with your flaming-red hair." Cressida could happily have slapped him. But it would no doubt have made him grin even more. So instead she looked away to hide her crimson face, and took a careful sip of her coffee.
"Sorry, Cressida, I apologize." She glanced irritably at him, ready to snap back, but he did seem genuinely contrite. His self-satisfied grin had been replaced with a sombre frown, and his tone was serious. "It's frustrating to see Christian take advantage of you and to use you as the butt of his jokes," – referring no doubt to the treacle-pie gag – "and you don't fight back. He needs to be challenged, taunted and ridiculed at least a couple times a day, just to keep his arrogance down to an acceptable level."
"But it's not my place to do that, Davis," Cressida argued with him.
"Why not?"
"He's my supervisor. It's no different than if I was working in an office and he was my boss. If I offended him, he could make things extremely difficult for me. And at the end of the day, I will need a good reference from him to get a job."
Davis shook his head in disappointment. "He's got you under his thumb, Cressida," he warned.
"It's not worth the fight," she insisted. "I just can't."
For a couple of minutes the two of them sat in a thoughtful, if rather despondent, silence. Then, to Cressida's relief, Davis picked up his papers and suggested that they should get down to work. Scrutinizing the small print, full of confusing jargon and acronyms, Cressida tried to concentrate on the task. To her relief, Davis was well-informed about the complexities of the proposed project, and he could explain most of the confusing text to her. He had also made an analysis of the budget beforehand, and could show her exactly how much training and work-hours it would pay for. It was soon clear that Christian's confident assurance that the money would cover all expenses was hopelessly naïve. If Cressida was going to undertake the project – she could see no way out of it – she would have to regulate her time on it very carefully.
Their discussion progressed easily, and only occasionally did a stray, rebel thought cause Cressida's attention to wander. Such as the proximity of his long legs to hers, the rough denim on his taut, strong thighs. Or the horrible suspicion that she had disappointed him. Did he think that that she was a coward, unable to stand up for herself? Was she really just a diffident student, no better than those who simpered around Davis, and not the self-reliant, tough woman she had believed? Did he really believe that she should oppose Christian like he did?
When the midday chimes of the clock tower rang through the open windows, Cressida glanced in disbelief at her watch. An hour gone already!
"Damn," Davis muttered, echoing her own thoughts. "My second-year epic tragedy group is going to be banging on the door soon. We'll have to stop there for now. We really need to try out the web-page designer software, but our chances of finding a free terminal on campus ..." Davis shook his head in exasperation. The unreliability of the university computer network was a running joke amongst both the students and staff. "But I could get a copy of the software to try on my own computer." Cressida nodded distractedly as she began to collect up her papers. "Fine, so let's meet again tomorrow evening at my house, about seven?"
It was said so casually that Cressida found herself agreeing before his words had sunk in. "Sure, okay ... your house?"
"It's only ten minutes or so from Gladstone Hall." Cressida was still trying to deal with his previous statement, so she did not think to ask how he knew she lived at Gladstone. "I'll write down the address for you."
It was only logical and sensible of course. The university computers were notoriously unstable, so it made sense to use his personal computer. So why should the thought of being alone with him in his own home make her heart thump so urgently? This meeting had been fine, friendly but professional, and there was no reason to think that a meeting at his house would be any different. Cressida took a steadying breath and slowly her heart beat calmed down, only to be replaced by a lonely ache in her chest.
Cressida slipped the scrap of paper with his address into a pocket and then stood up to leave. "Okay, well, until tomorrow then," she murmured huskily and looked towards the door. But her feet refused to move. Davis had also risen to his feet and was watching Cressida expectantly. He did not return Cressida's farewell or usher her towards the door. He simply watched and waited.
"I've been meaning to thank you," Cressida said hesitantly, "for coming to my paper yesterday and for ..." Cressida stopped herself before she said, 'for standing up to Christian for me.' She did not need Davis to fight Christian for her. No, her tactic of passive resistance was best. "For being interested," she finished lamely.
"My pleasure," Davis smiled slyly. "It was a chance to get my own back." He took a step towards Cressida, who then stepped back in alarm.
"What do you mean?" Another step brought him closer. Cressida reached out a trembling hand to the armchair behind her and moved cautiously around it.
"You have watched me on stage, so it was now my turn to sit and study you." Two slow, predatory steps closer, and Cressida began to back towards the door. "Why did you come to my lecture, Cressida?" Like a wild cat stalking its prey, Davis continued to advance, and Cressida to retreat.
"You invited me," she replied nervously.
Davis shook his head. "I don't mean that lecture. I mean the previous times."
Cressida gasped, and then winced as her heel struck hard wood. Leaning back against the door for support, she tried to get her panicked thoughts under control. He knows! He knows I was there at his lectures! I never thought he noticed me. Cressida closed her eyes as if in pain, waiting for the mocking laugh. She anticipated the sneering voice jeering at her for having a schoolgirl crush. But his tone, when Davis finally spoke, was tender. "Why do you come, Cressida?"
Her shoulders were unbearably heavy, her stomach somersaulted and Cressida had to clench her hands in order to stop their trembling. He was too close. She would only have to lift her hand to lay it against his hard, powerful chest; raise her fingers to touch the harsh stubble on his chin; lean forward to press her lips against his. A slow, delicious fire began to kindle in her breast, and she laid a palm against her heart, as if to soothe its agitated beat.
Her first impulse was to try to bluff her way out of it. "I've always been interested in ancient literature ..." she began to whisper desperately. Please don't think that I'm one of them, she pleaded with him silently. I'm not an immature teenager with a crush, I'm not! But Davis shook his head at her lame excuse, and waited silently.
Cressida's instinct to fight back when cornered then took over. Perhaps it was the adrenalin which coursed through her at his nearness. Or perhaps the vibrant tingle on her skin like a pin drawn to a magnet. The same steeliness which commanded the respect of the girls on her corridor now compelled Cressida to look Davis straight in the eye. Her gaze, aflame with desire, burned into his.
"Because I want you."