Chapter One

n Saunt-Vitre-lo-Sur most of the houses were deserted; rye and oats stood unharvested in the frost-shriveled fields. Lean pigs and half-starved children scavenged the vineyards for grapes long since turned to raisins. At the door of the squat stone church, four women waited, three with listless infants in their arms, for the priest to bring them the thin, meatless stew charity required he provide them. A dank, neglected odor hung over the place, lending an inward chill to the February afternoon where shadows like bruises lay across the ground.

There was one marginally brighter spot in the desolation: some little distance beyond the village rose the cracking whitewashed walls of Le Tres Saunt Annunciacion where the Assumptionist Sisters had attempted to keep the soil tilled and the orchards bearing almonds and fruit. A century before there had been more than eighty nuns at the convent--now there were fewer than fifty, and those women who remained worked as strenuously as the hardiest farmers.

From her place under the barren trees, Seur Marguerite, who tended the hives, was the first to notice the wagon approaching, its sides heavily curtained so that even the portly monk who drove the pair of steaming horses could not see his passenger. The nun stood absolutely still, as if she were a doe attempting to hide from a hunter. Torpid bees settled on the frayed linen of her coif, but she made no move to brush them away. As the wagon turned up the lane to the convent, Seur Marguerite sighed and crossed herself, muttering a prayer to la Virge for her protection.

"Holá!" shouted the monk as he got down from the driver's box at the convent gate. "Open up here, good Sisters!"

There was no response; the thick-hewn doors remained shut.

The monk began to pace, rubbing his thick hands together to warm them, chafing at the deep, reddened groves left by the rein. His back was sore from the hours of jolting over hard, rutted roads and he was in no mood to be denied his well-earned food and rest. "Open! In le Bon Nom!" His voice was hoarse with fatigue and too much wine. He cleared his throat and tried again. "You there! Holá!"

From a grilled window to the side of the doors came a discreet cough. "God be with you, Frère."

"And with your soul," he answered automatically.

"What do you seek here?"

"It is not I who seek anything. I come to bring to you what you have sought," he answered brusquely as he strode toward the voice. "The Cardinal himself has sent me to you, in answer to your prayers." His husky laughter was taunting, more flirtatious than was proper for a monk addressing a nun.

"What prayers are those?" asked the voice, suddenly haughty.

"Why, for a new Mère, of course. Is there anything else you wanted that I do not know about? Would other recompense answer your prayers?" He winked, but was wise enough not to face the grilled window when he did.

"A Mère?" the unseen nun repeated, as if she dared not believe what she heard.

"That's what I said. Cardinal Seulfleuve himself has entrusted me to bring her to you, with all speed."

"With what escort?" the nun demanded.

"I am he," the monk replied, offended at her reasonable surprise.

"No men-at-arms?"

Frère Odo hawked and spat. "There were none to spare. You insisted that you needed your Superior as soon as possible, and so..."

"But to travel without armed escort..." the nun began, shock quieting her words.

"It was that or wait until spring. Your priest said the need was urgent," the monk insisted, turning sullen.

"But to come now, without escort..."

"All the more reason to think that your new Mère is in the favor of Heaven. Our passage was safe enough."

"For which you should humbly thank God and His Saints for their care," the nun on the far side of the grille snapped. She was prepared to continue her admonition, and had just drawn a deep breath when another voice whispered behind her and there was a brief, barely audible exchange.

"Well? What is it to be then?" the monk called out. "Do you open the doors to your Mère or do we wait here for Père Guibert or Père Foutin to come and insist that we be permitted to enter." He was annoyed at having been ignored longer than he liked; he deserved their attention for his good act, not this cold reception.

"In a moment," the nun called with less certainty than before.

"Your Mère is weary with travel. As am I," he added.

"Oh. Yes. Of course. At once." This was another nun, more flustered than the first and younger, by the sound of her.

"And do something for the horses, will you? The beasts have got to carry me to Avignon again the day after tomorrow." He had learned long ago to seize any opportunity offered him, and he recognized that this was one such. "They're hungry and thirsty."

"We will tend to them, Frère," the second nun promised him.

"When? Soon?"

"Yes. Yes. At once. We will."

There were more voices now, some shrill, some scolding, and the sound of hurrying footsteps. The heavy bolt on the inside of the doors was tugged noisily back, then the enormous iron hinges moaned as the doors were slowly pulled open to allow the wagon to enter the courtyard of the convent.

It was an old building, built around a square courtyard. On the east was the hospice, the tallest part of the convent, rising almost three stories from the old flagging. At right angles, on the north, was the nuns' quarters, the refectory at one end, the rest of the two levels given over to the chapel and to the individual cells. Next to that was a more recent addition, with storerooms, still-rooms, and at the far end, a stable. The wall on the south completed the square and closed out the world.

The monk dragged on the reins, making sure the wagon was safely within the courtyard, then gave a gesture to close the doors.

There were about thirty women gathered now, all in grey habits. Two of them had removed their coifs and rolled up their sleeves--clearly these Sisters worked in the convent's kitchen. Gradually all of them clustered around the wagon, most of them afraid to speak louder than a whisper.

Frère Odo, now full of self-importance, tugged at the corner of one of the draperies that enclosed the wagon to conceal the passenger. "Mère Léonie," he said in the most imposing way, "we have reached our destination."

"May God bless you as I thank you, Frère Odo," came from behind the hanging. "La Virge will reward your service with her prayers and intercessions."

"Praise be to God," the monk declared, crossing himself deliberately while he glanced over the nuns, hoping that one would catch his eye.

None of the women paid him the slightest attention. All of them were staring at the wagon as the draperies were drawn aside.

The hush that fell was eerie, at least to Frère Odo's ears. He wanted to do something outrageous to dissipate the spell that this new arrival had cast over the convent. It boded ill, he thought, to have nuns so quiet.

"May God send His Peace, which is not of this world, to guide and comfort you," said the tall young woman who climbed, unassisted, out of the wagon. Her voice was low, almost masculine, and in another might have been thought seductive. Though she moved slowly, in solemn grace, she gave the promise of energy, perhaps even zeal. She looked around her. "Oh, very good," she said warmly. "Most surely good."

The Sisters gaped at her, some with relief, some with dismay, for none of them had expected such a replacement for the old and saintly Mère Jacinthe. Most Superiors were of a respectable age and demeanor, grave in countenance and somber of disposition, not glowing and gracious like this newcomer. Even the gorget and wimple could not hide her attractive features, nor disguise the vitality that coursed through her. Two of the older nuns exchanged sharp looks.

"It has been so long," Mère Léonie said softly, speaking to herself or some inner part of her soul. "How I have yearned for this."

Only Seur Elvire heard her clearly, and knew that she would enjoy unusual attention for a day or two as she related this remark to the other nuns. She bowed her head, grateful for the opportunity Mère Léonie had provided her.

The wind whipped around the courtyard, tweaking the hems and cuffs and habits, disarranging coifs and causing the horses to snort.

"Your convent, Mère Léonie," Frère Odo said unnecessarily.

"Yes. Pray God we will do well." She gazed up at the slated roof of the hospice. "There is a need."

It was an awkward moment, for none of the women wanted to put themselves forward, yet all knew that one of their number must greet the new Superior.

One young woman, standing a little apart from the other nuns, spoke up first. "And my Savior send His blessing to guide you, ma Mère," she said in a carrying voice whose accent, as much as her carriage, revealed a noble background.

Mère Léonie crossed herself. "As I most humbly beseech Him every day." She advanced a few steps, meeting the eyes of her nuns forthrightly.

Frère Odo came swaggering along behind her, his coarse features spread over with a smug look that just missed being a grin. He nodded to the nuns around him, sizing them up. One or two showed promise, but he did not want to be hasty. The soft drone of whispered conversations stilled as he passed, and he knew that the nuns were speaking of Mère Léonie--he could hardly blame them for that--and perhaps of him as well. He whistled a hymn tune very quietly through his teeth.

"Ma Mère," said one of the nuns dressed for the kitchen. "It is Seur Lucille who should greet you; she is the oldest of us and the one with the longest vocation. But she is supervising work in the orchard and will not be back for a little while. At Vespers, she'll..." She looked around for aid.

The well-born young nun who had been the first to speak came to her rescue. "Seur Fleurette is right, ma Mère. Seur Lucille is supervising work, as she said. The almond trees did badly for our last harvest."

"It is not important," Mère Léonie said gently. "None of you knew when I was to arrive, and there is no need to disrupt yourselves for me. A good Mother does not set an example by disorder." She looked around her, sensing the doubts of the women she had been sent to lead. "Return to your appointed tasks, my Sisters, and I will wait until the end of the evening meal to speak to you." Her eyes fell on a novice. "Will you guide me, Seur?"

The novice looked up sharply. "I thank God for the honor," she said, but her tone was slightly distracted, as if her mind had been on other matters.

Frère Odo looked up at Mère Léonie's sharp summons. "I need your aid, Frère," she said, nodding toward the wagon that contained the two leather cases she had brought with her. "If you will follow us?"

The monk grumbled, but did as she ordered him. He had decided that he would try to get a few moments alone with one of the younger nuns, a great strapping girl who looked as if she had been raised on a farm doing hard work. Such women, he knew from long experience, were often more than eager to forget their vows for an hour or two, even on a winter's night, if there was a fire close at hand. With his mind still on the possibility of conquest, he climbed up into the wagon and brought down the larger of the cases, then trudged after Mère Léonie.

"The old refectory is in the far wing," the novice was saying to Mère Léonie as Frère Odo caught up with them. "The community being reduced in size, we do not use it often now, and then only as a hospice for travelers."

"And when there is illness?" Mère Léonie inquired. "Is aid provided here?"

"It was, for a time. This valley was much taken by Plague, the last time it swept the land. From what we have been told, we fared less well than many other villages. You must have noticed that half the fields are fallow and..." She looked away, crossing herself in a vague manner. "There were many deaths, you see."

Mère Léonie also crossed herself, her face grave as she listened. "Is that the extent of it, or has there been worse?"

"There is always worse. Mercenaries sacked Mou Courbet last year--"

"Mou Courbet?" Mère Léonie repeated.

"The village at the end of the valley, just where the road turns toward the pass. It was more than twice the size ten years ago, or so I'm told." She frowned once more. "We have prayed to God and the Virgin for aid, but it has not been granted us. Mère Jacinthe, toward the end, warned us that our sins would cost us all dearly if we did not forsake them and repent."

"Is the convent so full of wickedness?" Mère Léonie marveled, permitting herself a gentle smile.

"We must be," the novice answered. "If not, then the wickedness is elsewhere, and I dare not think ... that God, being just, would ... require that..." She was unable to finish.

"Well, in Rome they would say it is because we are faithful to the true Pope at Avignon, though Rome has seen the Plague of late." Her head turned away from the novice. "Is that the chapel, Seur?"

"One of them. There is a larger one, where Père Guibert says Mass for us twice a week. This chapel is for our own devotions." She stood aside so that Mère Léonie could inspect the little stone-floored room. "When there were more of us, and there were three priests at the church in Saunt-Vitre, we had Masses every day, Matins and Vespers, but there is only Père Foutin now, and he has the village to attend to. Père Guibert arranged..."

"Very good of him," Mère Léonie said as she left the chapel. "May I know your name, Seur?"

The novice blushed. "Seur Philomine, ma Mère. I've taken only tertiary vows, so that if my family should..." She almost said "relent," but stopped herself in time.

Mère Léonie nodded. "You family has suffered much?"

"As have all families, in these days," Seur Philomine said at once, not wishing to appear self-pitying.

"And for which we must pray all the more for God's Grace," Mère Léonie added in a careless way. "Do your relatives believe that you are safer here than you would be with them, or have their fortunes suffered reverses?"

Seur Philomine blushed. "There have been some reverses," she admitted with difficulty.

"It must be similar for many of the nuns," Mère Léonie said sympathetically. "I should learn these things, that I may better fulfill my duties toward you all," she added as explanation. "Doubtless you have heard, even here, that since the Church has been weakened by the ... rift between Rome and Avignon, many tasks have been neglected that--"

Seur Philomine shook her head in confusion. "Ma Mère, it is not my place to hear these things."

"Forgive me," Mère Léonie said at once, then turned back to motion to Frère Odo. "Where shall he put this trunk? I have brought a few books and several lengths of cloth which I was told were needed here."

Once again Seur Philomine was surprised to have the new Superior confide in her. "Your cell and study are at the end of this hall, to the side of the chapel."

"Excellent," Mère Léonie exclaimed. "Take those cases--the one you carry and the one remaining in the wagon--to the study."

Groaning a feeble protest, Frère Odo moved to do as he had been told.

"But don't you wish to see your quarters?" Seur Philomine asked, unable to conceal her puzzlement.

"Not at the moment. There are more important things for me to see, aren't there?" She smiled at Seur Philomine. "I will need to see the grounds and the storerooms as well as the buildings being used at the moment. Will you guide me, or should I ask for other escort?"

"I suppose I may guide you," Seur Philomine told her, wondering why she had been chosen to do this when there were other nuns who would believe themselves more entitled to the privilege.

"God send you His blessing for your service," Mère Leonine said at once. "Do you read and write?"

"Sufficiently for the demands of our service," Seur Philomine said, averting her eyes from the new Superior. "I was not the first daughter, and so..."

"And your older sisters?" Mère Léonie inquired as they came to another turn in the hallway.

"They married, as was arranged, but ... then they died." She crossed herself and coughed once. "It is not a thing that I wish to speak of, Mère Léonie."

"It was not meant unkindly, ma Seur," Mère Léonie said with a touch of sternness about her mouth as she spoke. "As Superior, I am required to acquaint myself with the lives of those in my charge. In the name of Mère Marie, give me your understanding and forgiveness."

Seur Philomine knew already that she had behaved improperly, and she accepted her rebuke with all the humility she could find within her. "It was wrong of me to question you, ma Mère. It is I who must be forgiven."

"Of course. With the times the way they are, it is not astonishing that all of you here would be cautious of a newcomer, even one sent to lead you." Her faint, equivocal smile, framed as it was by gorget, wimple and coif, was strangely sinister, a thing out of place in that handsome face. "I pray that you and your Sisters will guide me in the days that are to come."

"Amen to that, ma Mère," Seur Philomine said as she opened a door and stood aside. "Here is the ante-chamber to our kitchen. When it is possible, we offer charity to those in greatest need, especially to travelers and women with children."

"But the priests in Saunt-Vitre-lo-Sur, don't they provide for..." Mère Léonie made a gesture that implied that it was not the responsibility of the nuns to do such work.

"For the village itself, yes they do, but there are others who live here, and those who are without homes and shelter who pass this way. Mère Jacinthe enforced all the devotional offices required of us. Before the Plague came the last time, it was not as urgent a need. Now, you ... well, you saw how it was, didn't you?"

"Yes," Mère Léonie answered thoughtfully. "Yes."

"She troubles me," Seur Catant whispered to the woman on her right. "Look at her. If she were not tranquil, she would be..." She stopped, breaking her small, flat loaf and placing it on the wooden trencher before her as the blessing was invoked for their simple evening meal.

Beside Seur Catant, Seur Elvire listened with slight attention; Seur Catant was known to be discontented with her lot and often gave vent to her feelings through petty outbursts of spite.

The voice of Mère Léonie rose above the others, bringing the whispers of conversation to an end. "I am saddened to see you so lax in the Rule of Order," she said, turning this observation into subtle and damning condemnation. "In these times, with war and the might of the Plague around us, we must be the more rigorous in our devotions, to ward off the evil which has been so long visited upon us. God will not forgive our lapses now, or at any time. We are His sheep, and He our shepherd. If we do not follow our Shepherd, then we will each be alone, at the mercy of the ravening beasts that stalk us. 'Who among us is safe?' you ask when you pray, and do not trust God to care for you, though He promised His care, and gave the life of His Son in bond."

The nuns looked around uneasily, and one of them made a sound that could have been jeering laughter or a choked sob.

"Yes, think of what you do, and remember that we have been given the consolation of our faith, where others of this dreadful world must wander in darkness, without guidance and without hope of life everlasting." Mère Léonie rose. "I have been with you for seven days, and I have wanted to speak each of those days, for all that I saw distressed me more than I have the capacity to express." Her hands pressed at her thighs through the shapeless drapery of her habit. "It is not that you have fallen into sin and worse, for it that were the case, it would be easily dealt with; the Church would only have to file complaints of heresy against you and the matter would be at an end. The convent would be closed and rites of purification carried out so that once again worship could be given cleanly. But that is not what concerns us." She paused, her eyes measuring the women before her. "What has happened here is more insidious than simple heresy, and it is the more dangerous to all of us. You have fallen into the error of liberality, which leads to corruption and such vileness that I cannot speak of it. You have been lax in the exercise of your faith because you believe that the ordeals of these dreadful times excuse you from the strictness of your observations and vows. This is a fault, and you have all succumbed to it. I cannot inform the Pope in Avignon that you have served your vocations well; you have not."

One of the nuns, the thin and nervous Seur Odile, had begun to weep, but the others did not dare make so obvious a display of their emotions. The room was entirely quiet now, for Seur Odile did not sob.

"Let me advise you and I will ask you to renew the fervor and full dedication of your vows, and I will petition the Church for a strict review of the practices here. It does not become me to speak ill of one who has led you, but in good faith I must protest that Mère Jacinthe did not do all that she might to instill in you the gravity of your position. There are those who believe that the Plague which has ravened through the land was sent to test you and that the suffering it has brought will expunge much of the worldliness that infects us even as the Plague has done. This is false, my Sisters, for outward ills cannot pardon inward loathsomeness. It will not bring credit to you or this Order if you permit your thoughts to be thus led astray. You must search inwardly for your failings and imperfections and do all that you can to eradicate them from your character, so that la Virge in Heaven may look upon you as handmaids deserving of honor, handmaids who have preserved themselves in perfect trust through the years of suffering and trial that have been sent to this despairing world. For that reason, I wish each of you to pray for one hour each day, fully prostrate, in the chapel, alone or with one other companion so that it can be determined that the simplicity and purity of our Order is restored and each of you is once again secure in her vows."

Two of the younger nuns stared at the new Superior, one of them not able to conceal the panic that had entered her eyes.

"Let each of you accuse herself of her transgressions, and where you have the most offended, let you scourge that fault from body and soul. If gluttony or lust or melancholy have taken hold of you, it must be the body that pays the price, for these are sins of the body. We are only permitted to chastise with willow branches, but see that you use them with a will, so that you may be the more preserved against greater offence. Those who have sinned with the soul, through greed or rage or vanity or envy, you must give yourself to contemplation of your errors, for if even one of you taints her soul, all her Sisters must be diminished."

There was a soft, terrible cry from one of the nuns. "Oh, ma Mère," Seur Marguerite wailed, unable to contain herself. "I have seen too much--Plague, yes, and all that it does, I have seen it. You must not condemn me to remember those things. You cannot, in charity, demand that of me. I came here to find refuge!" She lifted her clasped hands to Mère Léonie and her lined and well-worn face was seamed with tears.

The Superior studied the old nun and recalled all that she had heard about her. "Come, bring your heart to me, Seur Marguerite. You have endured much, and it may be that there are other devotions that will aid you. The prostrate prayers are required of all Sisters here, and you must not seek to avoid them. But if you fear damnation for what has been in your life, then meditation on damnation may answer to grace as well."

The other nuns, hearing this, exchanged uneasy glances. All of them were aware that Seur Marguerite was not entirely sane, and could not be held to the same code of behavior as the rest of them; nevertheless, they could not suppress a twinge of guilt at the thought that Mère Léonie might grant her an exemption when the rest of them were being castigated. Seur Elvire almost drummed her fingers on the table, but could not summon the courage for so outrageous an act.

"Ma Mère," said one of the nuns in a tone that suggested dissatisfaction, "why do you require this of us now, when--"

Mère Léonie turned toward the upstart. "Were you moved to speak by the fullness of your heart, or is this petulance?"

The young nun set her jaw. "I am not used to--"

"Seur Aungelique," Mère Léonie cut her short, "when you have finished your meal, you are to go to the chapel where you will find a willow scourge waiting for you. Use it when your prayers are done."

Seur Aungelique flushed with indignation. "I am the daughter of le Baron Michau d'Ybert who is--"

"Titles of the world have no meaning here," Mère Léonie reminded her. "Recall that you are not free of vanity while you try to purge yourself of gluttony and lust."

For once, Seur Aungelique was too shocked to speak. She wanted all the nuns to look at her with sympathy, and at the same time, she was shamed by the rebuke she had received and wished she could become invisible.

"For the rest of you," Mère Léonie went on, "I will expect to speak to each of you alone in my cell, where you may unburden your souls of the doubts that have festered there and so together we may find remedy for your afflictions." She looked around the room in that keen, searching way that impressed and worried the nuns. The long tables were no longer full of Sisters; the walls that were once whitewashed and pristine were now dingy from neglect. "There is much to be done if we are to overcome our enemies and the destruction of our faith. Those of you who have heard of the conflicts between Rome and Avignon and have thought that these debates were above them commit a gross error. Those 'debates' as they are being called are the very essence of the Church, and from the outcome will all of Christianity take shape. Those who believe that it is of small consequence if Rome or Avignon makes the Pope forget that it is the Pope who speaks for God on earth, and if we harken to false counsel, then we damn ourselves as surely as if we had made a pact with Satan and signed it with our life's blood. You must pray for the wisdom to decide in these matters, for although we are only women, and live out of the world, our mission takes us above those of our sex who live for the duty of home and children. We are required to show the acumen of men in the conduct of our vocation, to seek ways to glorify God that honors Him as He demands."

Seur Elvire dropped her wooden cup and looked about guiltily at the noise it made.

"You have not had scripture read to you at meals for over a year, or so I have been told. That will be remedied at once. You." She pointed across the room to Seur Aungelique.

"Mère?" the young nun asked.

"In preparation for your evening penance, you will read from the Book of the Prophet Jeremiah," Mère Léonie ordered, motioning to one of the nuns to bring the large, unused Bible. "You will kneel and read, Seur Aungelique."

"Deo gratias," Seur Aungelique muttered as she came forward, glaring at the Superior. "I am poor at my letters."

Mère Léonie smiled. "Where you falter, I will help you." She dropped gracefully to her knees and gestured to Seur Aungelique to do the same. "You may begin where you like, Seur Aungelique."

Seur Aungelique lay on her bed, feeling the hempen slats through the two blankets that served as a mattress. She could not sleep. Her thighs and belly ached where the willow had lashed them, bringing pain at first, but now something else, a sensation that was less than hurt but more than discomfort. Seur Aungelique rolled onto her side, but the disturbing ... warmth did not subside. It shut out all other thought; not even prayer could banish it. Impetuously, Seur Aungelique threw back the heavy wool blanket she was permitted in the cold of winter, and drew up her shift as far as her waist in the vain hope that the chill February air would give her a measure of peace. Her cell was dark, and so she used her hands to assess what the willow wands had done to her.

There were a number of sensitive tracks across her abdomen and on her thighs, and when she touched them, no matter how gingerly, pain spurted through her. She gave a little gasp, but it was not entirely for hurt--the touch of her hand had awakened other aches, deep, abiding pangs that she feared now would not be banished with prostrate prayers and willow switches.

It was a sin to touch herself, Seur Aungelique knew that from the many harangues she had endured since before her breasts had been bee-sting bumps on her skinny chest. Her father's priests had railed at her for sins of the flesh then, and Père Guibert had admonished her, with more than a little despair, to resist the urges of her flesh so that the Devil would have no means to take her soul.

Her fingers slipped--of their own account, it seemed--between her legs, to the strange little nubbin that jumped for ecstasy at her ministrations.

"Virge Mère Marie," she whispered as her fingers rubbed and plucked, "you were a woman. You bore a Son. Surely you knew what it was to have ... oh! Jesu, Jesu ... to be filled with ... ah! ... It is not lust, Mère Marie. It is not lust. It is too ... Dieu, Dieu! ... not lust." Her brow was slick with sweat, her prayers jumbled in her mind as she writhed and tried to keep from moaning aloud. Under her wimple, her short-cropped hair was damp, and though she trembled, it was not from the icy embrace of the night, but from rapture that her fingers wrung from her.

She would have to confess, when Père Guibert came, she would have to confess that she had failed again, that she had succumbed to her body. It was worse, somehow, that she had done so after prayer and penance. It would make her error more enormous and her sin more damning. She knew this, but rebelled at it as she began again to search out that unimaginable release that she knew was wrong, terribly wrong, but so very, very sweet. Her hand teased and pressed; it was easy to imagine that it was not her hand at all, but someone else's, something else that pleasured her. Surely the sin was not so grievous if someone else had forced it from her. Surely she would be less to blame if the joy that shivered through her was forced upon her, not sought on her own. Did not the Saints themselves often wrestle with demons, combating lust as well as terror? She was secretly horrified that she compared herself to Saints, for that could be heresy or worse. She might be branded apostate if her feelings were known. Bad enough that her carnal desires should be known, but--Her thoughts dissolved in a burst of pleasure that drove her beyond caviling argument to thrashing release.

In the floating, sated tranquility that followed, she at last found some little sleep, and for that short time between her satisfaction and the call to morning devotions, Seur Aungelique was not troubled--not by the banked fires of her needy body, nor the stern dictates of her enforced calling. In sleep, she found a kind of peace that eluded her in her waking hours.

Père Guibert gazed warily across the courtyard of la Couvent de la Tres Saunt Annunciacion. His eyes ached, and his feet had long since stopped hurting and become numbed. His mule sighed with almost human exasperation and refused to move again until Père Guibert climbed out of the saddle and drew the animal forward with the curve of the reins. With thumb and forefinger the priest rubbed at his gritty-feeling eyes. For more than twenty years he had striven to do honor to his Order and to his God, but of late he had found it ever more difficult to accommodate all the demands of his calling. It troubled him more than he could admit, and increasingly he wished for a reduction of his duties so that he could devote himself to contemplation and prayer that would restore his soul. A noise distracted him; he saw Seur Ranegonde come toward him from the hospice door, her habit in some disorder. "God keep you, good Sister, and send you His Peace," the priest said, blessing her in a mildly distracted way.

"I thank you most humbly," the nun answered, crossing herself before she came nearer.

It was a chore for him to summon up the necessary phrases, and he did not bother to do so, but glowered deeply. "Is the stable ready for this beast?" Père Guibert asked testily, more worried now about his aching muscles and empty stomach than the courtesy that should be observed in convents.

"Of course, mon Père," Seur Ranegonde said, as if there was nothing churlish in his behavior. "Let me take him for you." She was a small woman, and thinner than the last time the priest had come to hear confessions.

"How do you go on, Seur Ranegonde?" Père Guibert inquired, not relinquishing the reins as he realized belatedly that his manners were hardly worthy of his calling.

"I do as God wishes me to," she responded, waiting for the mule, her hands trembling. By now, Père Guibert began to feel shame for his brusque words. "You have taken the decoction that Père Sannule..."

"Of course, and I thank God for it," she said, then looked over her shoulder.

The hospice door had opened again, and this time Seur Aungelique came out, approaching the priest in an unusually subdued way.

"God be with you, ma Seur," Père Guibert murmured and automatically gave her his blessing. He was startled to see how pale the young woman looked, how deeply her eyes had sunk into livid shadows.

"And with your soul," she responded. "We did not think to see you for a day or so. There is so much going on that..."

"Excellent," Père Guibert said, recalling the apathy that had seized the convent after the death of Mère Jacinthe.

"Yes. Yes, we have much to do now that Mère Léonie is here," Seur Ranegonde said quickly.

"Yes. Your new Superior." He patted the neck of his mule. "I don't wish to trouble Seur Ranegonde, who plainly has yet to return to blooming health. If you would be kind enough..."

Seur Aungelique nodded at once. "Yes, mon Père. Deo gratias." She took the proffered reins and tugged the mule toward the little thatch-roofed stable.

Père Guibert gazed after her, thinking that he had never seen Seur Aungelique so tractable. If that was evidence of the rule of the new Superior, he would be disposed to admire her for her dedication and discipline.

"I would have been willing to take the mule, mon Père," Seur Ranegonde murmured. "I do not want to shirk my duties and put greater burdens on my Sisters."

"Naturally," Père Guibert said, falling back into his usual demeanor of stern benevolence, as was required of him by the duties of his Order. "You are a nun of rare vocation, Seur Ranegonde, and it is an example of your vocation that you do not wish to give burdens to others. But you must also accept the mandates of God, and to attempt tasks that are for a time beyond you only show pride, not vocation."

Seur Ranegonde lowered her eyes at this reprimand. "I will pray to be worthy of my Order and my faith."

"It is not God's way to burden you..." He stopped, trying to forget the last time he had so admonished a nun, for it had been during a visitation of the Plague that had ravaged the kingdom of France and the lands around it not so many years ago. His strength had been at its farthest ebb then, and in faulting the Ambrosian Sister, he had appalled himself: there had been times when he had longed for the Plague to take him, too, so that he would not have to endure the suffering around him. What had that burden shown him, and why had God put it upon him? The question was like a mouse in his thoughts, gnawing, gnawing with sharp little teeth. He was not entitled to fault the nun for her errors.

"Mon Père?" Seur Ranegonde ventured, her face not quite averted and her eyes downcast.

"I am tired," he offered as an explanation, though it was no answer at all. "The sun is dropping in the sky and my soul turns inward. Forgive me."

Seur Ranegonde nodded. "Thus does God touch our lives." Then she looked away toward the hospice again. "If I may not tend your mule, would you permit me to lead you to our new Superior so that she may greet you?"

"I would be most grateful." He did not wish to be alone with his memories any longer. He permitted Seur Ranegonde to lead the way. "It will be Vespers soon," he observed so that Seur Ranegonde would feel free to speak to him.

"It will. My Sisters will come together for devotions then." She stood aside so that he might enter the building ahead of her. "Mère Léonie spends this time in the chapel at her devotions."

"I will wait for her; I do not wish to distract her." This information surprised him, since he could remember the many times Mère Jacinthe excused her nuns from strict exercise of faith. Undoubtedly there was a new spirit in Le Tres Saunt Annunciacion. He was more curious than before about the new Superior.

At the door to the chapel, Seur Ranegonde once again stood aside. "Mère Léonie is at prayer," she said, and bowed her head before turning away.

"You need not wait, Seur Ranegonde," Père Guibert said, his attention already on the prostrate form of Mère Léonie.

"Deo gratias," Seur Ranegonde whispered, her trembling hands fluttering in her full sleeves. She waited a moment in case there should be any other service required of her, then hastened away.

Père Guibert stepped inside the chapel, crossing himself and sinking to his knees a little distance behind Mère Léonie. He quietly began to recite his beads while studying the figure in grey who lay face-down with arms outstretched in front of the altar. He was struck, as he had been with increasing frequency, with the anonymity of religious life. Even the habit conspired to remove all trace of the person who wore it. At one time it had seemed laudable to the priest but now he no longer trusted the garments; there might be anything inside them. He stifled a sound in his throat, and was not entirely displeased to see Mère Léonie look up.

"God be with you," she said as she got swiftly to her feet.

"And with your soul," he answered, caught off-guard.

"You are our priest? Père ... Guibert?"

He liked her confusion; it made her less of a puzzle to him. "I am a day or two early. I could not reach Fôrlebene, and so I came directly here. The monks will have to wait until the road is passable."

"Has the winter been so severe?" Mère Léonie inquired.

"Apparently so. They have been much troubled by their isolation." He felt that he had to explain his lack of tenacity a bit more completely. "If I still had my escort, then it would have been another matter."

"Of course," Mère Léonie agreed. She knelt for his blessing. "You are thrice welcome here, Père Guibert. My Sisters have great need of you, I fear. With so much despair and suffering around us, there is..." She made a gesture of resignation. "There is much to ... to pray for," she finished, though Père Guibert had the oddest feeling that she had intended to say something else. "I am grateful you have come."

Such a forthright declaration was disconcerting to Père Guibert, who was used to more subservient nuns. "Mère Léonie--"

"I do not mean to overstep myself, mon Père," she interrupted him, "but my concern prompts me to tell you of my worry." She looked up, as if appealing to Heaven itself. "These nuns, this convent ... all are ... neglected."

This touched so closely to Père Guibert's doubts that he almost spoke of his own anguish, but frowned deeply and made a compromise admission. "There are many such. We have reason to worry."

"Yes. I have seen that. Yet though I pray for the salvation of all mankind, as we are enjoined to do by the Savior, it is this convent that has been entrusted to me, and before I turn my eyes and my prayers to the world, I must first tend to the well-being of my Sisters, for if I cannot bring some peace to them here, what chance has the world?" Her eyes flashed and Père Guibert had the sensation of being challenged. "You must see that my duty demands this of me. My Lord sets each of us tasks."

"Mère Léonie, you..." He stood back and blessed himself a second time. "If we must speak of this, rise and--"

"We may come to my study. Doubtless that is where Mère Jacinthe spoke to you, and it is fitting that we should converse there." Her manner was entirely accommodating, but the way in which Mère Léonie directed the course of their speech bothered the Cistercian. She stood aside for him, but nothing suggested that she was prepared to render him unending and humble service. "When our evening devotions begin, I will have to return here. It is not fitting that I should shirk the duties I require of my nuns."

"Certainly." Her attitude was entirely correct, Père Guibert thought as he went down the hall ahead of her. There had been many times he had wished that Superiors would not take advantage of their exalted position to avoid the more strenuous demands of their Order. Still he longed for a more deferential attitude from Mère Léonie. "It is wise to observe all the rites." His tone was measured, even ponderous, but he felt as if he had lost all direction with the young Superior. "A true Mère imposes upon herself all the exercises she requires of her charges, but to take on more or less is improper, for this distinguishes you and causes rancor to rise in the hearts of your Sisters. Our Lord--"

"Be pleased to enter," Mère Léonie cut in, opening the door to her study. "I will take the stool so you may have the chair."

Père Guibert did as he was told, and tried to convince himself that he was not, in fact, obeying an order, but taking his rightful place in the room. "You have begun well, Mère Léonie."

"If it appears so, it is to the credit of my Sisters, who are sincerely devoted to their calling and the Glory of God."

"Of course. It is true that those who are unworthy are..." He fumbled with his beads as he strove to bring order to his thoughts. He sighed and began again. "Mère Léonie, you have accepted a great task here, for it is the Will of God who..."

When Père Guibert fell silent, Mère Léonie folded her hands and waited. There was the unrealized hint of a smile in the curve of her mouth, an air of expectation. "I have taken the liberty of imposing stricter penance than my predecessor did," she volunteered once the stillness had become intolerable.

"But..." He broke off again. "Do the Sisters acknowledge their sins through their penance?"

"There are a stubborn few. Seur Aungelique was one, but she has bowed to the necessity. Hers is a nature much given to the flesh, and her soul needs purging." She saw Père Guibert nod. "Seur Elvire is not of a patient disposition, and so I have assigned her to keep the night watches in the hospice chapel, where she may consider her life more calmly. Seur Fleurette is given to folly; I have told her that she must care for the ailing children that the women bring us from the village. Seur Marguerite ... well, God has deprived her of half her wits, and so we must accept her ways. She continues to tend the hives, but I have required that she sing psalms, as she works, to the Praise of God. Seur Philomine is only a tertiary, and I have not the authority to impose upon her, but I would wish to require her to contemplate the suffering of the Saints, that she may be more sure of her vocation or lack of it. Seur Odile is of uneven disposition, and for this she is set to mend clothes and prepare bandages, so that she may soon come to see that it is steadiness in small things that gives merit in Heaven. Seur Lucille, who is advanced in years, has come to believe that she has greater--"

"Mère Léonie," Père Guibert protested, holding up his hands to stop her. "May God grant you strength for your tasks in years to come equal to what you show now." He caught himself wanting to reprove her for giving penance, for over the years, he had come to regard that as properly his own work. Mère Jacinthe had left such matters to him, though she might well have done so on her own authority. He felt usurped, and begged God to pardon him for his ambition and vanity. He would have to do penance himself for the resentment Mère Léonie awoke in him. "Let me first hear confession, so that we may discover what improvement your rule has wrought here. If the penances have corrected error, then God will reward you for your diligence, but if there have been lapses, we will decide upon another course."

"As you wish, mon Père," she said without expression.

In order to mitigate his warning, he went on. "You do not come from France, do you, Mère Léonie?"

She shook her head. "No, mon Père. I am from Dalmatia, that thrives under the banner of the Venetians. My family is distinguished." She looked away from him. "It is of no consequence here, and it was not for pride that I told you. But I know I am young, and you have reason to question my right to..." She crossed herself. "We have long been devoted to the service of Our Lord."

"Most commendable," Père Guibert said, delighted to have found that hint of pride in her. He would watch her for more evidence of sin.

"It pleased Heaven to bring me here, to tend to these women in the time of our faith's greatest travail. I do not know what I will do, if Rome is victorious over Avignon in the end." She wrung her hands, distress in her handsome features. "I look to you for guidance."

This was more the attitude that Père Guibert expected, and his initial impression was mollified. "In your zeal, ma Fille, you bring too great importance to yourself, which is an error. It is not for us, but God to bring humanity to salvation. All we may do is pray for that wonderful fulfillment and live as we were enjoined to live by Our Lord. God sees our lives and His power guides the world. Do you think that He will permit evil to rule forever?"

"No. Not forever." Mère Léonie crossed herself again. "I thank you, mon Père, for all you have said to me. I will keep your thoughts foremost in my mind. And may le Bon Dieu and la Virge bless us."

"Amen to that, with all my heart," Père Guibert agreed. He took on a more indulgent manner. "You must not be too anxious, ma Fille," he added, pleased that he had seen how determined she was to obtain his approval.

"I will pray for tranquility, mon Père," she vowed. "I wish to impart something of myself to my Sisters. If I am distracted, I will fail as surely as if I were venal and corrupt."

"Oh, that is too harsh, surely," Père Guibert chided her. "Who among us has been free of the taint of sin? To believe any but Our Lord is so is as great a fault as venality."

"Where there is the greatest sanctity, there is the greatest danger," she murmured. Then she looked directly at the priest. "Forgive me, mon Père, here we are so much isolated that it is an easy thing to magnify the sins I find around me and respond to them as if they were enough to bring down the world to the fires of Hell itself."

At last Père Guibert permitted himself to relax his guard. "Your devotion is most admirable, especially in so young a woman, but those of us who have been about the world a little longer know that error cannot be uprooted in a day, and we must remain steadfast in our faith, trusting to the Will of God to see us to the Light of His Grace."

Mère Léonie looked toward the crucifix hanging over her prie-dieu. "No; you are right. Evil cannot be uprooted in a day."

Chapter Two

On this first market day of spring, the muddy road from Saunt-Vitre-lo-Sur to Mou Courbet was busy; carts and wagons lumbered along through the deepening ruts, the drivers cursing the various beasts harnessed or yoked to their vehicles. In Saunt-Vitre-lo-Sur a space had been cleared at the center of the village and there the people gathered, as eager for the visit of their neighbors as for the produce and goods that would be offered for sale or trade.

A pasty-faced man on a donkey turned aside at the lane of Le Tres Saunt Annunciacion. When he was near the convent, he dismounted and led the animal toward the hospice entrance where he rang the traveler's bell.

Seur Aungelique answered his summons. "God give you good day, stranger."

"If you and your Sisters will give me a meal and a place to sleep, He certainly will," was the answer he offered in a sarcastic tone. "I haven't eaten since day before yesterday and my donkey hasn't had anything but what grows by the roadside."

"Then come, stranger. There is food ready and a place to sleep. I will take your donkey to the stable and see that he is fed." She made the offer almost jubilantly, her eyes shining.

"Thanks," the man said shortly, and went into the hospice without another look at her.

For a moment, Seur Aungelique was consumed with worry. The notion that had sprung into her mind at the sight of the stranger now seemed daring, even diabolic. But, she thought, the d'Ybert blood had always been wild and those who had it, reckless. A chance like this would not come again, and she was a fool if she let it go by. Resolutely, she dragged the donkey off toward the stables, determination in every line of her body.

By nightfall the village of Saunt-Vitre-lo-Sur was as lively as it had ever been in the last dozen years. Roistering marketers reeled between the squat houses, singing loudly and taunting those who remained indoors. No one paid much attention to the hooded monk on the donkey who passed down the narrow main road toward Avignon, and those who were aware paid the monk as little mind as possible, for the conduct tonight was not fitting for a monk to see.

By the time the Sisters rose for worship, those who had caroused for market day were fallen into heavy sleep.

"Mère Léonie," Seur Philomine said timidly as she knocked on the door of her Superior's cell. "Forgive my interruption of your prayers, but I fear it is urgent."

Mère Léonie answered sternly, "What is it you require of me that is more important than my devotions?"

"There is trouble, Mère Léonie." Seur Philomine hated to say it so boldly but could think of no other way to inform her.

"Is it one of the Sisters?" Mère Léonie demanded. "Is someone ill, or worse?"

"Not that, ma Mère," Seur Philomine said, her courage all but failing her. "It is ... Seur Aungelique."

This time there was a sharper sound in Mère Léonie's response. "What has happened? What of Seur Aungelique?"

"She is ... She is not ... here." There. She had said it and the worst that could happen now would be facing the brunt of Mère Léonie's displeasure.

The door to Mère Léonie's cell opened abruptly and the Superior, already fully habited and prepared for morning prayers, appeared. "Tell me the whole."

Seur Philomine ducked her head. "It fell to me, Mère Léonie, to wake the others. I had the last vigil in the chapel, and..."

"And?" The question was asked politely but behind it there was an ominous disapproval.

"When I rapped at the door of Seur Aungelique's cell, there was no response. At first this did not alarm me, for there are those who do not leave sleep as easily as others. I waited, as our faith requires, then tried again, more firmly so that it might be heard through slumber."

"And Seur Aungelique ignored you." This time the Superior seemed almost satisfied, as if a prophesied disaster had at last occurred.

"No." Seur Philomine faltered. "Not ... that way."

"Then what way?" Mère Léonie rapped out.

"She ... I entered the cell, with a prayer for forgiveness if I trespassed. I was prepared to explain why I had done so, and to remind my Sister that the Order requires that we tend to one another in every extremity and..." She knew she was babbling, but dreaded coming to the final revelation. "I ... I looked at Seur Aungelique's bed, Mère Léonie. She was not in it. I felt the blankets and they were cold."

"A-a-a-h," Mère Léonie sighed. "We must search her out."

"I have ... already looked in the chapel. I went there in case she had come after me, to pray." Seur Philomine felt she had to justify in some way her failure to locate the missing nun. "I thought that she might have gone there to pray again."

"Not she," Mère Léonie murmured. "Well, we must gather now, for the Rule requires that we worship, and it would be a greater failure on our part to put the folly of one Sister ahead of the good of the souls of all the rest. Such are the snares that wait for those who do not respect the demands of their faith, but assume that such lapses, being caused by human frailty, will be forgiven." She straightened up. "Wake the rest, if you have not done so. We will speak more of this after prayers."

By mid-afternoon, Seur Aungelique wanted to stop, and would have done so, but fear of pursuit drove her on, and the donkey began to falter when the way grew steep. She had thrown back her hood in order to watch more carefully, but once she caught sight of the distant palaces of Avignon, she no longer dared to reveal her face; even in a monk's habit, her features were feminine beyond any doubt.

When at last she caught sight of the villa hidden in a tangle of fruit trees left to riot on their own, she gaped at it as if it were the holiest of shrines and her one salvation instead of the iniquitous place it was known to be. Seur Aungelique dismounted and led the donkey along the meandering lane that ended in front of the squat arch at the entrance to Un Noveautie, where la Comtesse Orienne de Hautlimois lived.

"A pleasant evening, Frère," said a servant who had appeared just as Seur Aungelique reached the doors. "Have you lost your way?"

Seur Aungelique decided then that a bold answer would be best. "No," she said, making no attempt to disguise her voice. "I hope I have found the way."

If the servant was surprised by the revelation of this monk as a woman he showed no indication of it. He bent his head as courtesy required. "You are welcome here, Demoiselle, but I fear my mistress will demand some explanation of you."

"Fine," Seur Aungelique said at once. "I will be pleased to give it. Only let me present myself to her and I will answer whatever questions she desires to put to me."

The servant made a gesture of compliance. "Your animal will be tended. You must follow me."

A second servant, much younger than the first and boyishly pretty, appeared in the door. He took the donkey's reins without comment and left Seur Aungelique with the elder.

"What..." Seur Aungelique asked as the first servant bowed her into the house.

"The donkey will be in the stables. He will be properly tended, do not fear." He was walking through the long entry way, skirting the main part of the little palace. Yet even in this part of Un Noveautie there were signs of the luxury for which la Comtesse was famous. There were carpets on the floor, thick and beautiful, so that the steps were muffled as they went. Braziers fueled by sweet-smelling herbs and spices stood along the walls, giving off fragrant smoke along with a moderate amount of light. The scent of the place was heady, like new wine, and Seur Aungelique was hard-pressed not to succumb to it. Her senses bathed in the fragrance.

"If you will come through these doors," the servant said, changing direction again and leading Seur Aungelique toward the rear wing of the palace.

They found la Comtesse in a garden, within a striped pavilion, which had been erected to protect her from the chill of the afternoon. Inside the pavilion there was an enormous stone basin so carved as to resemble a seashell. Hot, perfumed water frothed in the basin as la Comtesse lounged in her bath. Her antics were accompanied by the plaintive sounds of the rebec and shawm.

"Fair mistress," the servant leading Seur Aungelique said, raising his voice to be heard over the sound of music and splashing. "Fairest mistress."

Comtesse Orienne stopped playing and turned her head. She was a beautiful woman, and would be for a few more years. Her hair, caught up in braided loops and covered by a golden crespine net knotted with jewels, was the color of dark honey. Her long, languid eyes were the reddish-brown of chestnuts. Her figure was ample, with high, rounded breasts and a deeply curved waist. Her brows, plucked almost to non-existence, raised at the sight of Seur Aungelique. "What manner of monk is this, pray?"

"...She came to the door, ma maîtresse," the servant said.

"But how odd," la Comtesse said, then laughed, mockery making the sound harsh.

"I came here," Seur Aungelique said unexpectedly, "for sanctuary."

This time la Comtesse's laughter was more derisive. "Sanctuary? Here? Truly?"

"Yes." Seur Aungelique took a step forward. "You can save me, Comtesse. Nothing else can, I fear."

But Comtesse Orienne was shaking her head. "No one comes here for salvation, ma Frèrée," she stated. "There are other things offered here, but not what you are seeking."

"But you are what I seek," Seur Aungelique insisted. "I swear to you, Comtesse. If I had not been told that you..."

"Told?" la Comtesse echoed. "Who told you of me?"

For the first time, Seur Aungelique did not speak promptly. "I have a kinsman, a distant kinsman, but ... He told me of you, many times, and how you live here. He said you are the most beautiful woman in the world, and that there is no pleasure of the senses that you do not know as art." There had been other things her third cousin had told her, but Seur Aungelique did not dare to repeat them.

"And who is this distant kinsman who told you of me?" Comtesse Orienne asked as she resumed rubbing her skin with pungent oils.

"He is le Duc de Parcignonne, Pierre Fornault." Seur Aungelique raised her chin as she answered and her expression was faintly defiant.

"Oh-ho," Comtesse Orienne exclaimed. "So Pierre has been telling tales, has he? How wicked of him." Her smile, contented and feline, gave the lie to her supposed rebuke.

"I wanted to know all about you," Seur Aungelique admitted.

"But why, ma Frèrée?"

"Because I want to be like you," Seur Aungelique burst out. "I want to have lovers and to live for pleasure."

Comtesse Orienne gave a signal to the musicians, and they set their instruments aside. "And that is why you have come here?"

"Yes." Without warning, Seur Aungelique burst into tears. "They want to make a nun of me, but I won't. I won't."

"Not if you live as I do," Comtesse Orienne agreed as she came to the edge of the shell-shaped basin and climbed out of it. Immediately a page approached, holding a drying sheet out to her.

"And so I ... I ran away and came here."

Comtesse Orienne stopped in the act of wrapping herself in the sheet. "We will talk, ma Frèrée. You will dine with me. Then we shall see."

Père Guibert bowed his head as he listened, shame filling his heart. "I will follow after her, of course, ma Fille," he said to Mère Léonie. "I deeply ask that you pardon me for not believing you when you warned me of the wildness in Seur Aungelique."

"It is not my forgiveness you must seek," Mère Léonie reminded him. "La Virge and le Bon Dieu will know where the fault lies, and they will be advocate and judge of you as they will be for all mankind." She paced the short length of her study. "You have heard her confession. There may be things she spoke of--no, I have no desire to know what she has said under seal--that may tell you where she has gone. Her father, perhaps?"

"It is not likely," Père Guibert said with a heavy sigh. "One of the reasons she had been sent here was that she and her father could not agree about an acceptable husband, and she refused to take the man he had chosen for her, preferring another." He looked at Mère Léonie with an expression at once miserable and ludicrous. "I beseeched him at the time not to treat his daughter so, that a nun without vocation is a hazard in cloisters, but he was adamant."

"So I surmise," Mère Léonie told him over her shoulder. "It is a misfortune that many convents have had to contend with, however, especially in these times with Plague and war making havoc of the most careful plans." She laughed once, and Père Guibert was startled to hear it.

"Ma Fille!"

She appeared to recover herself. "There are no plans but those of God. There is no life but acquiescence in His Will, and those who spend their lives attempting to subvert His Will are worse than fools."

Again Père Guibert felt the zeal of her dedication. "It is true enough, but it is not an easy thing to tell a discontented parent this." He hated the way this excuse sounded, as if he, too, were caught up in worldly exercises.

"You will inform him of Seur Aungelique's actions, however?" Her hands were on her hips and for all the demure lines of her grey habit, she looked martial and ready for conflict.

"I am required to do so. And I will send a messenger from Avignon. I must go there, you understand. I have to report this."

"Of course," Mère Léonie agreed. "And what of the Sisters here; what do I tell them?"

"Of Seur Aungelique? They must know that she left."

"They know that she stole a donkey, fashioned some sort of disguise and fled into the night. It has made them all fearful, as you might expect, and I must contend with their doubts and questions more than ever before. I wish to offer them good counsel, but how am I to do so if I have nothing to offer them other than that you have gone to search for her?" Her proud head ducked a moment and Père Guibert thought he understood the sense of shame and failure that troubled the new Superior. To have such a disaster strike her nuns, and so soon after assuming leadership of the convent, must be trying for her.

"Pray for guidance, ma Fille, and God will read your heart aright." He blessed her without looking at her, and then went reluctantly to the door. "I will see that you have news from me as soon as it is possible."

"Deo gratias," Mère Léonie answered without any other sign of courtesy.

Distressed, Père Guibert left the study and went into the courtyard where his mule was saddled and waiting for him under lowering clouds.

Though the sky was cloudless it was empty, as if a fine blue bowl had been inverted and clapped over the world. Comtesse Orienne stood in her solar at the tall windows and stared out into the afternoon. "My gardeners say it will rain," she remarked to Aungelique, who reclined on one of the larger silken cushions. "I will have to have the oilcloths put up, I suppose. A nuisance."

Aungelique shrugged. "There are other rooms, Orienne, and your banquets do not need a cloudless sky to be enjoyed." She had been with her hostess for a little more than a week and in that time most of the outward look of the convent had left her. She no longer dressed in shapeless grey wool but in a samite cote the color of oranges and a surcote of heavy rust-colored linen that was ornamented with a center row of large amber buttons. Because her hair was short, crespine nets were not suitable for her, and so she wore instead a capuchon with elaborate pleating around her face. On Orienne's suggestion, she had opened the lower part of this close-fitting hood so that from her throat to her bosom her skin was bared. The pale saffron color showed her olive flesh to advantage.

Other rooms. Orienne sighed. "Well, of course it is possible, and you're probably right--I could serve the meal in a byre and half of them would not notice. They are not fools, but they do not think of..."

"Of?" Aungelique asked when Orienne failed to go on.

"Oh, of a thousand things." She shook her head slowly as she turned away from the window. "I suppose you're right. I will tell the steward to move all this down to the lesser hall, and have the fires built up, so that we will not feel the drafts." She smiled unexpectedly. "Are you looking forward to this evening, ma petite? Do you want to taste debauchery at last, or do you only want to watch and be shocked by what we do?"

"Inspired," Aungelique corrected her with an arch look. "I believe I have a talent for debauchery, if what Mère Léonie told me is right."

"Ah, yes, the penance and the willow wands. She may be right." Then Orienne turned more serious. "It is not something to feign, Aungelique. You must be born to it, as some are born to virtue and austerity. It must be a riot in your blood that is as undeniable as the phase of the moon. This is not an acquired skill, like the making of cloth or hunting of stags; it is more a talent, like what my musicians have."

Aungelique was taken aback at the strange turn of their conversation. "The Church speaks of the Devil who leads us into ... into vice."

"Pafth!" Orienne exclaimed as she spat. "There are those who cannot hear the difference between the lowing of cattle and true voices, either, and say that there is no such distinction. Those of us who are held by fleshly chains know otherwise, as young Jaques knows his notes. You may deny it all your life long, but the chains are there, nevertheless."

Aungelique shivered as she recalled the nights she had lain, sleepless, with the taunting needs of her body gripping her as tightly as a lover. "I have known those chains," she said with an emotion that was part shame and in part pride.

"You will find out, one way or the other, Aungelique. We will see to that." Orienne came to another of the large cushions and sank down on it. "I did not know at first what it was that ruled me, for I was sent young to a husband who was a stranger to me. The marriage had been arranged when I was still a child, and when the time came and they knew I was a woman, the wedding took place as my father wished. My husband was ... well, he was not a young man, and his tastes were gone in dissipation by the time he took me to wife. There were other women for him, and boys. Of me he required nothing but heirs. I gave him two before ... the Plague came." She toyed with one of the fringes on the cushion. "I did not mourn him long; I would not have mourned him at all, but for the children, and they, too, were lost before ... it was over." She leaned back. "And so now I live as I wish, and the flesh is my master and I am his thrall."

Aungelique said nothing, though there were questions burning in her mind.

"My husband was like a ram tupping ewes when the desire was on him. He had as much imagination as a ram, as well." This last was said with a weary sarcasm that puzzled Aungelique.

"But if you love the flesh..."

"There is no flesh in what he did. It was all over as quickly as it is in the barn." She forced a laugh and glanced at Aungelique shyly. "Do you think you would want that, my little Frèrée? Just one or two plunges? No? Is nothing worth prolonging?" She let her head fall back. "Well, tonight you will learn for yourself and you can decide then."

"I hope I will do more than decide," Aungelique said as brazenly as she could. "I want to know what it is that I am supposed to rid myself of. To be condemned to do penance for sins I hardly know..."

Once again Orienne laughed, and this time she did not sound as if she were compelled to do so. "I want to see you when you make your discovery."

In spite of her determination, Aungelique felt her cheeks redden. "Pray God it is satisfactory for ... everyone."

"Oho!" Orienne cried. "Were you planning to lose your virginity to all my guests? That is a great ambition, ma Frèrée."

"I ... I don't know. I must wait." Aungelique smoothed her skirt and then pressed her hand over the lowest of the amber buttons. "Tell me; is my kinsman likely to be one of the company?"

Orienne gave a knowing look to her young guest. "It is possible. Why?"

"Nothing. There is no reason." Aungelique got up suddenly. "I will assist in setting up the lesser hall. Otherwise the steward might not finish the work in time."

"How considerate." Orienne knew that Aungelique did not want to discuss Pierre Fornault with her, and it nettled her, so she added with a touch of spite, "They trained you well, at that convent, didn't they?"

Père Guibert had been gone little more than three days when he sent word back to Mère Léonie of his progress, stating that it was his belief that Seur Aungelique had taken refuge--if it could be called such when in association with so vile a woman--in the little summer palace of la Comtesse Orienne de Hautlimois. The palace was called Un Noveautie, and rumor had it that la Comtesse was currently entertaining guests at one of her engagements. Although he was not able to bring himself to be more specific, Père Guibert did tell Mère Léonie that he was afraid that lasting damage might already have been done to Seur Aungelique. The guilt that possessed him as he wrote that was almost unbearable to the priest, and he knew it would be a very long time before he would be able to expiate his error in caring for Seur Aungelique.

There were musicians in the gallery above the Great Hall; two sackbuts, a cythara angelica, two gitterns, three buisines, and a tabor made up the consort. A number of couples danced to the melodies, but most of them paid little attention, preferring instead to eat, drink, and converse. Only an adventurous few were openly salacious, for the evening was young.

Aungelique wandered among the guests, still uncertain of what was expected of her. She could not admit to herself that she was looking for Pierre Fornault. Instead she had decided that she was not anxious merely to sport with Orienne's company, but wanted to find a proper companion, one who would not bore her or use her ill.

"Alone, sweeting?" asked a light, equivocal voice near her left shoulder.

"Rather keeping my own..." Aungelique fell silent as she turned and faced the beautiful young man who had spoken to her. "Yes. I am alone," she whispered, caught up by his presence.

"A pity. You need not be." He was slender and graceful, dressed splendidly in pale blue and silver that brought out the ice color of his eyes. It was odd, Aungelique thought as she stared at him, that such light eyes could be so hot.

The musicians made a flurry of sound and launched into a throbbing, plaintive tune.

"Do you know the words?" the young man asked.

"I don't ... no." Aungelique felt her face grow flushed; speaking to him was an effort, but terribly pleasant.

"It says:

"Alas, that I should be without a dream

For my soul is parched for lack

Of their gentle consolation

Of the glamour of their touch.'

"Doesn't that stir you, little sweeting? Does not your heart know that wish?"

Aungelique was not sure if the youth was taunting her with his questions, but she did her best to answer in the approved, arch way. "Good Bachelor, I have no notion of dreams that enchant me; this is enchantment enough."

He chuckled. "Is it? What is this, but a dream?"

Again Aungelique wondered if he were making mock of her. "I cannot grasp the substance of my dreams."

"Can you not? Isn't it what you wish most to do? Little sweeting? Is there no torment in your soul that cannot be quieted outside of your dreams?" He reached out languidly and brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. "You sleep undisturbed? Your heart is untroubled?"

"If you seek to affront me--" Aungelique began, but the young man interrupted her.

"No. Never that, little fledgling. Not I. I would only ask to bring an end to your suffering, not to burden you more." He smiled once and moistened his lower lip with his tongue. "Perhaps another time, sweeting?" He inclined his head and passed on.

"You've caught his eyes?" Comtesse Orienne demanded as she came to Aungelique as soon as the newcomer had sauntered on.

"I don't think so. He did not ... He said a few things, but nothing to make me think that he had..." To her disgust she felt her cheeks grow rosy. "Who is he?"

"His name, so he tells me, is Thibault Col, Chevalier de Bruges." Orienne brushed impatiently at the open neck of her houppelande to be rid of imaginary crumbs. "If manner and wealth are any gauge, he must have some nobility."

"It would appear so," Aungelique said cautiously, taking her tone from Orienne.

"It is never easy to tell," la Comtesse mused, then recalled herself. "He came with Ferrand. You met him? Le Baron de Montpaiet?"

"I think so," Aungelique said, seizing on this diversion. She did not want to trouble her thoughts with the pale-eyed young man any longer.

"He comes from the north. Col, that is. Well, his name says as much." Orienne flashed a wide, meaningless smile to three women who sallied toward them. "We will talk later, ma Frèrée. In the morning." With that, she was gone into the crowd and Aungelique was left to fend for herself.

In the end, Aungelique was disappointed; she spent the night alone, and sometime before dawn she rose and wandered the halls, looking at the aftermath of the festivities with a critical eye. The musicians slept in the corner of the Great Hall, crowded together like a litter of puppies. Three sleepy understewards were strewing clean rushes over the floor, covering the refuse from the banquet of the previous evening. In curtained alcoves, lovers kept their trysts, some of them still awake, from the sounds that issued from behind the painted hangings. Aungelique paused to observe two of these meetings, eager to know what it was they did that was different from farm animals. Her hands grew moist as she watched and an echo of the pulse in her loins trembled along her body.

By sunrise, Aungelique was exhausted, but could not bring herself to lie down. Restlessly she roamed through the back of the little palace and then out into the gardens where the wild orchard was just starting to put forth leaves and buds. She longed for her home and the bustle of her family. If only her father would permit her to marry Pierre all would be well. She could not spend her life immured in a convent. Better to live as Orienne lived than that. She could not bring herself to contemplate the lovers she had watched; it was too painful to know that she had attached no one to her.

"Sweeting?" said Thibault Col from the door behind her.

Aungelique spun around. "Do you always come up behind..." She dropped her eyes at his lazy laughter. "You do not deal with me honorably."

"And do you? A runaway nun who watches lovers at their pleasure? Who are you to chide me, sweeting?" He strolled toward her, one hand on his belt. "You desire to taste, but you dare not. Do you lack courage, or only sense?" As he reached her, he held her eyes with his own.

"Who told you I was a runaway nun?" she demanded, taking the most obvious of his accusations.

"Does it matter? Perhaps you are more obvious than you know. Last night, the only woman who covered her hair was you. Is it because it has been cut off?" He reached out and touched her capuchon. "Don't imagine it isn't very pretty; but I doubt I'm the only one who guessed its purpose." He moved suddenly, brushing her mouth with his own. "There. Now you have made a beginning."

Aungelique took a step back and folded her arms. "I did not ask for a kiss."

"Didn't you? Thibault asked her. "It seemed to me you did, but if I must wait for you to speak, so be it." He, too, folded his arms, regarding her with amusement.

"Did you follow me?" Aungelique inquired, trying to find a way to disrupt him as he had her.

"Naturally. You seemed in need of company, and since you intruded on la Comtesse and me, I decided that it would be permissible to intrude on you; you have not nearly so much a reason to be private as Orienne and I had." His mouth curved like a scimitar. "Did you?"

"I didn't realize..." she began lamely. "I thought that ... you--"

"You thought we took pleasure together, and you wanted to know how," he stated flatly. "Did you learn anything, sweeting? Do you wish I would hold you the same way, touch and taste you the same way?"

"Don't," she said, wishing she could turn away from him.

"Perhaps tonight? When the musicians are playing and the food has been cleared up. We could come here, or if that is not to your liking, there are rooms apart from the others, where no one would find us unless you desired more than what I--"

"Stop," she whispered, horrified that she did not want him to obey her.

Is there not a gulf in you, sweeting? Does it not seek to be filled? Where is the fault in that, little one? It is only human need, not deviltry." He grinned at her. "Do you deny it? Do you deny me?"

Aungelique gathered her hands into twin fists. "You must not seek me in this way. It isn't fitting."

"How have I offended you? What have I said that you have not thought already?" He did not move, but there was an intimacy in his teasing that had not been there at first.

She had no answer for him; she searched for escape. "Why do you torment me? Why do you speak to me in this way?"

"Why?" he repeated. "Is it not what you want, sweeting?"

"No!" she protested wildly.

"But it is. You know that in your heart of hearts." He came toward her again, stopping less than an handbreadth from her without touching her. "How strong is your desire, sweeting?"

Desperately Aungelique broke away from him, shoving him aside as she ran as if she fled from rapine or damnation or the Plague. "No!" she shouted, not certain what it was she sought to avoid--Thibault's embraces or her own passion.

Père Guibert regarded Comtesse Orienne with cowed disapproval. "I have authorization to return Seur Aungelique to her convent. It is sealed by her father as well as the Cardinal." He brandished the document as if it were a weapon.

Comtesse Orienne sighed and helped herself to a date. "Do you want one, Père?" It was the most perfunctory courtesy and neither paid much attention to the offer.

"You have the girl here, haven't you?"

"If you are here, you know that I do," she countered. Her head rang from wine and lack of sleep; charm did not come easily to her today.

"I have not seen her for myself, but it is what I have been told," he said, being scrupulously honest. "I have been directed to restore her to her convent at once." He felt that he should be more emphatic, and so he hooked his free thumb in his rosary belt.

"Yes, I understand that part." She yawned. "Tomorrow morning, mon Père. She will be ready to travel."

Père Guibert stammered out his astonishment. "But ... you do not object? You will consent to return Seur Aungelique?"

"I am not a foolish woman. If I defy the Cardinal now, I will lose his protection, and then nothing I do will be tolerated. If I cooperate, however, I will be left alone. At least, that is how it has always been in the past, or didn't they tell you about it?" Her smile bordered on malice. "Bon Père, you are naïve if you think that Avignon is unaware of what I do, and those I do it with. Some of my guests would ... amuse you." She clapped and a page appeared. "Take Père Guibert to the kitchen and see that he is properly fed." She beamed at the priest. "I won't offer you the insult of my company."

"Deo gratias," Père Guibert muttered, confused by the conflicts Comtesse Orienne engendered in him. "Bread and cheese will be sufficient."

"Nevertheless, you will take what is provided and thank God humbly for it, or you will not be worthy of your calling." Comtesse Orienne laughed abruptly. "Do I have it right, mon Père?"

For an answer Père Guibert glared at her as he followed the page from the room.

"You may come out now," Orienne said to the air. "Ma Frèrée."

"I'm not going back," were the first words Aungelique spoke as she emerged from behind a hanging that blocked one of the private alcoves.

"That may be, but you cannot stay here," Orienne said, attempting to speak as gently as her raging head would allow. "I cannot risk my whole way of life for your stubbornness, Aungelique."

Aungelique set her jaw. "Why not?" It was an unreasonable question, and both women knew it, but la Comtesse deigned to answer it.

"For the time being, the Church ignores me officially, and that suits me very well. But if your father should insist that the letter of the law be served against me, then I will find myself in prison or worse, and you, ma Frèrée, would still have to go back to your convent."

"Or worse," Aungelique said darkly. "It would be like my father to imprison me. It was bad enough being sent to the convent." She folded her arms. "And if I go back, what then?"

Orienne shrugged. "Who knows? In time your father will die. You need not take your final vows while he lives, and if you do not, upon his death, you will be free to do as you wish unless your brother holds you to your father's will." She reached out for another date and chewed it thoughtfully. "I would not mind having you here, if that were the only consideration, but with your father's reputation, well, I have nothing to oppose him that would mean anything to those good men of the Church."

"I hate the convent," Aungelique whispered, turning miserable instead of defiant. "We pray and prostrate ourselves and whip ourselves with willow rods."

"You told me," Orienne reminded her kindly. "But I can't change the Rule of the Order, can I?"

"And Mère Léonie ... Everyone says that she is doing such good for us, but I think that she ... that she is ... is..." Her voice dropped to nothing as she searched her mind for an adequate description of Mère Léonie.

"She is new, ma Frèrée, and from everything you've said, she is trying to reform the whole convent at once. They're either like that, or they are so vague and spiritual that little short of a collapsing roof will catch their attention." She recalled herself enough to offer Aungelique a date. "They're very good, and you won't have many of them at the convent."

Aungelique's eyes filled with tears. "No." She reached out and took five of the precious dates. "I'll have to eat them all before ... before I arrive back, or I'll be made to do penance for them." She stuffed two of them into her mouth at once and began to chew vigorously. It was almost impossible for her to swallow against the tightening in her throat, but she forced herself to consume all the dates as she listened to Comtesse Orienne. Her breath was bound tightly in her chest, so that she panted, almost like one of the little ferrets that Orienne kept indoors to eat the leavings of the banquet table and kill the rats and mice that lived in the rushes.

"You think it's cruel of me to deny you all the things you want so badly. It may be that God made me cruel; he has made many thus. I know that you suffer, but the whole world suffers, ma Frèrée, and God permits it. So I will do all that I may to keep my pleasure--I will refuse to help you or anyone. I will take my salvation now in flesh rather than in the spirit for eternity." She put her hands to her temples. "Hell can be no worse than my head right now, and I know I can endure it. You are not in a position to do as you wish, but few of us are, Aungelique. If the Cardinal had not befriended me, I would have had my head shaved years ago, and been given to one of my distant kinsmen for chastisement. It would be harder for me than for you."

"But--" Aungelique protested around the dates.

"No. I won't discuss it more. There will be another time, when you will be able to come here without the threat of your father's wrath looming over you, and then, if you still want to share my life here, you would be most welcome. Until that time, be wise, ma Frèrée, and do as they wish you to do."

"I won't whip myself." Her resolve, which had been weakening, was once again firm.

"That is for you to decide. I will not forget you, and should I hear word from Pierre, I will let you know of it, one way or another. You will not be wholly cut off, or--" She held out the last of the dates.

Aungelique hesitated only an instant, then took them. "I thank you, Comtesse, for your courtesy."

"And at the moment you want to scratch my eyes out. I would, too, if I had to go from here to a convent, whips or no whips. This is pleasure; the convent is not." Orienne rose languidly so that the throbbing in her temples would not make her ill. "I have ways to get word to you, ma Frèrée, and in time you will find the means to send messages to me as well. It is often done, no matter what you hear. When you have had a little time, you will discover--"

"I don't want to find the means!" Aungelique shouted, unable to control her temper any longer. "I want to run away."

"From here as well? And then what? They dare not take you at a brothel, and you are not one to sell yourself at the waterfront, are you? That is no more free than life in your convent, believe me. I have spoken to women who ... But that isn't what you mean, is it? You want to find yourself your own Noveautie, where you may live for your pleasure and the delight of others." She sighed and held out her hand as if to make amends. "When next you come here, it will be different."

"Will it? Because I will then be so old and haggard that all I will be good for is setting stitches in servants' clothing? Because I will have forgotten everything I desire?" She trembled. "I want what you have, Orienne; lovers and food and pleasures and ... the rest of it. I was never made to be a nun, and God will not be fooled by my father's determination." In one last attempt, she went on as emphatically as she could. "In fact, it may be that in returning to the convent, I am aiding him in the worse sin--pride, for he believes he can instill a vocation where God has not bestowed it. It may be that if I remain here, his fault will be less, and in time he will thank me for refusing to do as he wished and add to his--"

"You are clever," Orienne interrupted her. "And perhaps you are right. But God's wishes are not for us to ponder and His Will is not in question; your father's is. He has said that you will accept the bridegroom he has chosen or you will wear the veil, and until he is dead, you must abide by what he declares. I will welcome you when you return, ma Frèrée, but I have already said that it is not in my nature to take up gauntlets on others' behalf. It is too dangerous, and there is no merit in it." She gave Aungelique an arch smile. "It is not forever, little one. That young man--Thibault Col? Is that his name?--will not forget you."

"That ... has nothing to ... do with it," Aungelique insisted without conviction.

"And if not he, then another will want you. There are always men, ma Frèrée, and they have their desires. Your Pierre cannot forget you, either, can he? And not only because you are cousins. This Thibault will miss you, and Pierre."

"Thibault Col will not remember," Aungelique murmured, thinking of the many things she had seen in her brief stay with Comtesse Orienne.

"There you are wrong," Orienne said, raising her head a trifle in order to remind Aungelique which of them was the more worldly; and to take the sting out of the words she repeated, "He told me he wanted you."

Aungelique was too young and too pleased to keep from asking, "But when?"

"Last night," Orienne admitted. "When he lay with me." Suddenly she could not bring herself to remain in the same room with Aungelique; with nothing more than a quick, cutting glance for farewell, she left her young guest alone.

Three more hours and the first night of her penance would be over. Seur Aungelique felt the cold stones under her, pressing her naked body, the welts from her scourging felt like fire in the cold. If only she were not alone in the hospice chapel, far from her Sisters. The isolation Mère Léonie had imposed on her had been welcome at first, but it was turning to be a greater trial than lying stripped and prostrate before the altar throughout the night. The hospice was empty; no travelers were abroad yet, with the spring so new and the officers of the Roman Church taxing every merchant seeking to enter France. Seur Aungelique moaned and dutifully resumed the prayers she had been told to recite.

"Votis vocemus et patrem

patrem perennis gloriae,

Pater portentis gratiae culpam releget lubricam.

Informet actus strenuos, dentem retundat invidi:

casus secundet asperos,

donet gerendi gratiam."

She said the words distinctly but without thought or understanding. The prayer Seur Aungelique wished to have answered would not be received well in Heaven, for she wanted longings satisfied that her novice vows required she put behind her. How much more to her liking would be silken cushions under her instead of the stone floor. How much more welcome would be the sound of sweet instruments playing soft tunes than the muttered prayers she must say through the night. She wanted to conjure up again the luxuries that had surrounded her at Un Noveautie, the hangings and cushions and carpets, the trays of fruit and sweetmeats, the servants to do her bidding, the spiced wines and little cakes and fresh-baked meats, all the joys that made life more than bearable. And people; oh, people. She almost interjected that into her prayers, but feared that someone might overhear. Servants to bring her all that she desired, Seur Aungelique thought. That would be a beginning. All that she desired, yes, and that would mean not simply cooks and musicians, but lovers, men who desired her to madness. She squirmed against the flagging.

It would begin slowly. Slowly, so that the desire would build in them both.

"Laetus dies hic transeat:

pudor sit ut diluculum,

fides velut meridies..."

They would recline in the solar, on the silken cushions and her lover--let it be Thibault Col, she decided--would bring her a goblet of hot wine mixed with honey and nutmeg and pepper, and they would drink from the same goblet, letting their fingers touch as they held it between them. It did not matter so much what he would say, but that there would be the same desire in his eyes that Seur Aungelique had seen when she had inadvertently watched the Chevalier make love to Comtesse Orienne. La Comtesse had cried out that she was caught in the talons of love, and Thibault Col had tightened his hold upon her, his hand on her breast sinking into the soft flesh in a way that Seur Aungelique had thought should be painful, but, if Orienne's gasp had meant anything, was not. Would he use her so? Not at first, not while she preferred to be wooed. If she tried hard enough, she could almost feel a warm hand laid across her aching buttocks, a lean, sensitive hand that stroked and then probed, so that the pain of her thrashing was submerged in pleasure. That hand--if she would wish it into palpability--would know precisely where and how to touch her, and she would writhe with rapture at its ministrations.

There was a sound in the chapel, like a low chuckle, then the rear door groaned open and Mère Léonie approached.

"You are sweating," she said to Seur Aungelique. "Are you ill?"

Seur Aungelique felt the color deepen in her face and neck as she strove to rise. "It is ... nothing, ma Mère." Had Mère Léonie overheard her? And what had there been to hear? Had she forgotten her prayers in those ecstatic moments when her dream was almost real?

"Are you troubled, Seur Aungelique?" Mère Léonie asked. "Père Guibert will hear your confession tomorrow morning, and you may tell him what torments you have endured."

"It's ... not that, ma Mère." She wished she had something to cover herself; she feared her traitorous flesh would somehow give her away, that her desires could be seen as blatantly upon it as the marks of the willow wand.

"Return to your cell and put on your habit. And think of your shame as you go."

Arms crossed on her breasts, her face averted, Seur Aungelique hurried away from the imposing, grey-habited figure of her Superior. She had started to weep, and try as she would, she could not convince herself that she was going to the embraces of her lover instead of fleeing the scene of her abasement.