“People were in distress, and we brought them relief – what could be more satisfying?”

“That’s how I feel, and it’s why I’m a nun.”

Caris saw where this was going. “I couldn’t spend my life in the priory.”

“The natural aptitude you showed for looking after the sick is only part of what I noticed. When people first started to walk into the cathedral carrying the injured and dead, I asked who had told them what to do. The answer was Caris Wooler.”

“It was obvious what should be done.”

“Yes – to you.” Cecilia leaned forward earnestly. “The talent for organization is given to few people. I know – I have it, and I recognize it in others. When everyone around us is baffled, or panicked, or terrified, you and I take charge.”

Caris felt this was true. “I suppose so,” she said reluctantly.

“I’ve watched you for ten years – since the day your mother died.”

“You brought her relief in her distress.”

“I knew then, just by talking to you, that you were going to grow up into an exceptional woman. My feeling was confirmed when you attended the nuns’ school. You’re twenty now. You must be thinking about what to do with your life. I believe that God has work for you.”

“How do you know what God thinks?”

Cecilia bristled. “If anyone else in town asked me that question, I’d order them down on their knees to pray for forgiveness. But you’re sincere, so I’ll answer. I know what God thinks because I accept the teachings of His church. And I’m convinced he wants you to be a nun.”

“I like men too much.”

“Always a problem for me, as a youngster – but, I can assure you, a problem that diminishes with every passing year.”

“I can’t be told how to live.”

“Don’t be a Beguine.”

“What’s that?”

“Beguines are nuns who accept no rules and consider their vows to be temporary. They live together, cultivate their lands and graze their cattle, and refuse to be governed by men.”

Caris was always intrigued to hear of women who defied the rules. “Where are they to be found?”

“Mostly in the Netherlands. They had a leader, Marguerite Porete, who wrote a book called The Mirror of Simple Souls.”

“I’d like to read it.”

“Out of the question. The Beguines have been condemned by the Church for the heresy of the Free Spirit – the belief that we can attain spiritual perfection here on earth.”

“Spiritual perfection? What does that mean? It’s just a phrase.”

“If you’re determined to close your mind to God, you’ll never understand it.”

“I’m sorry, Mother Cecilia, but every time I’m told something about God by a mere human, I think: ‘But humans are fallible, so the truth might be different.’ ”

“How could the church be wrong?”

“Well, the Muslims have different beliefs.”

“They’re heathens!”

“They call us infidels – it’s the same thing. And Buonaventura Caroli says there are more Muslims than Christians in the world. So somebody’s church is wrong.”

“Be careful,” Cecilia said severely. “Don’t allow your passion for argument to lead you into blasphemy.”

“Sorry, mother.” Caris knew that Cecilia enjoyed sparring with her, but there always came a moment when the prioress stopped arguing and started preaching, and Caris had to back down. It left her feeling slightly cheated.

Cecilia stood up. “I know I can’t persuade you against your will, but I wanted you to know the tendency of my thoughts. You could do nothing better than to join our nunnery and dedicate your life to the sacrament of healing. Thank you for the wine.”

As Cecilia was leaving, Caris said: “What happened to Marguerite Porete? Is she still alive?”

“No,” said the prioress. “She was burned at the stake.” She went out into the street, shutting the door behind her.

Caris stared at the closed door. A woman’s life was a house of closed doors: she could not be an apprentice, she could not study at the university, she could not be a priest or a physician, nor shoot a bow nor fight with a sword, and she could not marry without submitting herself to the tyranny of her husband.

She wondered what Merthin was doing now. Was Bessie sitting at his table at the Bell inn, watching him drink her father’s best ale, giving him that inviting smile, pulling the front of her dress tight to make sure he could see what nice breasts she had? Was he being charming and amusing to her, making her laugh? Was she parting her lips to show him her even teeth, and throwing back her head so that he could appreciate the soft skin of her white throat? Was he talking to her father, Paul Bell, asking respectful and interested questions about his business, so that later Paul would tell his daughter that Merthin was a good sort, a fine young man? Would Merthin get drunk and put his arm around Bessie’s waist, resting his hand on her hip then slyly inching his fingertips towards that sensitive place between her thighs that was already itching for his touch – just as he once had with Caris?

Tears came to her eyes. She felt she was a fool. She had the best man in town and here she was handing him over to a barmaid. Why did she do these things to herself?

At that moment he walked in.

She looked at him through a mist of tears. Her vision was so blurred that she could not read his expression. Had he come to make friends again – or to berate her, venting his anger with the courage of several tankards of ale?

She stood up. For a moment she was held in suspense, as he closed the door behind him and came slowly to stand in front of her. Then he said: “No matter what you do or say, I still love you.”

She threw her arms around him and burst out crying.

He stroked her hair and said nothing, which was just right.

After a while they started to kiss. She felt the familiar hunger, but stronger than ever: she wanted his hands all over her, his tongue in her mouth, his fingers inside her. She felt differently and she wanted their love to find a new expression. “Let’s take off all our clothes,” she said. They had never done that before.

He smiled with pleasure. “All right, but what if someone comes in?”

“They’ll be at the banquet for hours. And anyway we can go upstairs.”

They went to her bedroom. She kicked off her shoes. Suddenly she felt shy. What would he think when he saw her naked? She knew he loved her body bit by bit: her breasts, her legs, her throat, her cunt – he always told her how beautiful they were as he kissed and caressed them. But would he now notice that her hips were too wide, her legs a little short, her breasts quite small?

He seemed to have no such inhibitions. He threw off his shirt, pulled down his underdrawers, and stood unselfconsciously before her. His body was slight but strong, and he seemed full of pent-up energy, like a young deer. She noticed for the first time that the hair at his groin was the colour of autumn leaves. His cock stood up eagerly. Desire overcame her shyness, and she pulled her dress quickly over her head.

He stared at her bare body, but she no longer felt embarrassed – his look inflamed her like an intimate caress. “You’re beautiful,” he said.

“So are you.”

They lay side by side on the straw-filled palliasse that was her bed. As they kissed and touched one another, she realized that today she was not going to be satisfied with the games they usually played. “I want to do it properly,” she said.

“You mean go the whole way?”

The thought of pregnancy surfaced in her mind, but she pushed it back down. She was too heated to think of consequences. “Yes,” she whispered.

“So do I.”

He lay on top of her. Half her life she had wondered what this moment would be like. She looked up at his face. It wore the concentrated expression that she loved so much, the look he had when he was working, his small hands shaping wood with tenderness and skill. His fingertips softly spread the petals of her sex. She was slippery and yearning for him.