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.

"Mere Leonie," 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."

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

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

"Is it one of the Sisters?" Mere Leonie demanded. "Is someone ill, or worse?"

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

This time there was a sharper sound in Mere Leonie'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 Mere Leonie's displeasure.

The door to Mere Leonie'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, Mere Leonie, 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?" Mere Leonie 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, Mere Leonie. She was not in it. I felt the blankets and they were cold."

"A-a-a-h," Mere Leonie 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," Mere Leonie 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, Frere," 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 maitresse," 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 Freree," 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 Freree?"

"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 Freree. You will dine with me. Then we shall see."

* * * *

Pere Guibert bowed his head as he listened, shame filling his heart. "I will follow after her, of course, ma Fille," he said to Mere Leonie. "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," Mere Leonie 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," Pere 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 Mere Leonie 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," Mere Leonie 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 Pere 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 Pere 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," Mere Leonie 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 Pere 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," Mere Leonie answered without any other sign of courtesy.

Distressed, Pere 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 Mere Leonie 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 Freree? 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 Freree."

"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?"

* * * *

Pere Guibert had been gone little more than three days when he sent word back to Mere Leonie 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, Pere Guibert did tell Mere Leonie 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 Freree. 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.

* * * *

Pere 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, Pere?" 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 Pere. She will be ready to travel."

Pere 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 Pere, you are naive 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 Pere 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," Pere 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 Pere?"

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

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

"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 Freree, 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 Mere Leonie ... 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 Mere Leonie.

"She is new, ma Freree, 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 Freree, 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 Freree, 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 Freree, 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 Freree, 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 Freree, 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 Mere Leonie 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 Mere Leonie 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 Mere." Had Mere Leonie 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?" Mere Leonie asked. "Pere Guibert will hear your confession tomorrow morning, and you may tell him what torments you have endured."

"It's ... not that, ma Mere." 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.

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