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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.
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Chapter Three
    Père Guibert strode restlessly through the cloisters of Fôrlebene, his face set in a forbidding scowl. It was bad enough that five of the brothers had died here during the winter, but with an ancient Abbot with a wandering mind, the Brothers lacked direction and many felt their vocation faltering. This was not the report that Cardinal Seulfleuve would welcome when Père Guibert returned to Avignon. He tried to compose his thoughts by turning them to a contemplation of the Holy Spirit, but that only intensified his burden of guilt and failure.
    "Père Guibert...?” said a pleasant voice in the adjoining ambulatory.
    "Yes?” He looked around sharply. “Who calls me?"
    It was not a proper response for one Brother to give another, but the man who replied did not point this out. “I was told you were at your meditations here. If I intrude, I will beg your pardon and leave."
    Inwardly appalled at his own behavior, Père Guibert attempted to make amends. He came up to the stranger and offered his hand in blessing, and was puzzled to find the movement returned. “I must beg your pardon; my thoughts were elsewhere."
    The stranger, in the tan-and-white habit of an Augustinian, bowed his head. “I fear your concerns are of a worldly nature, mon Père."
    "Uh...” Père Guibert blinked in surprise.
    "So are my thoughts turning,” the Augustinian went on, apparently unaware of Père Guibert's discomfort. “Those of us who revere our vows and our Church must be consumed with worldly thought, whether we will or no.” He stepped into the cloister garden where several clumps of dried twigs gave promise of summer herbs.
    Where had this man come from? Père Guibert wondered. The Abbot, old and feeble, had said nothing of a stranger in the monastery. He should have been informed if there were a new Brother in the community, let alone an Augustinian with a peculiar accent. “I fear, mon Frère, that you have the advantage of me."
    The Augustinian turned to look at Père Guibert. “I must. I am Père Bartolimieu Reiter. Although in the Cantons, we are called Padre, not Père."
    "Padre Bartolimieu,” Père Guibert acknowledged, more confused than ever.
    "I came here seeking ... sanctuary?” He was tall, this Swiss priest, lantern-jawed and spade-handed. He was between forty and fifty years of age, his fringe of hair almost completely white, as was the tangle of his eyebrows. “Père Guibert, may I speak with you? It has been long since I have had the counsel of any thoughts by my own..."
    Père Guibert folded his hands. “Of course. But, Padre, why did you, a priest, come to a monastery for sanctuary?” It was a tactless question, but Père Guibert was in no mood for endless, polite, evasive conversation. “If your fears are worldly, there are other places where sanctuary is more ... appropriate, though la Virge knows you are isolated here.” He