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The Raven swept into the monastery garden suddenly, and Simon hurried away, down the path towards the stream, pulling his hood up. He sat on a bench and feigned prayer while watching her from a distance as she washed her face and hands in the cold fountain. The sun was nearly set behind the dark forest trees and a misty grey turned to near blackness in the space of minutes.

Why are you doing this, Simon? Reveal yourself, and be done with it. Or go home, and forget she ever existed. His heart fell at his choices. He had tortured Gwyneth with his accusations for a year, relegated her to a tiny cottage on the edge of the manor holdings to make it clear to all that he held her in contempt. He had once been very sure of her guilt, that the woman had found Lester odious, that they had shared a loveless marriage. Who would not want to rid herself of his torture? For indeed, Simon knew how dark Lester had been. Never faithful to his stunning wife. But that was the way of marriages. How could someone go to another with Gwyneth waiting willingly in bed? Never, if she were mine.

Now fairly convinced of her innocence, he felt terrible shame at his treatment of her. His heart beat wildly as he saw Gwyneth make her way down the path towards him. She approached on tiptoe, evidently unwilling to disturb a prayerful Brother.

Show her! Tell her now, apologize to her, and stop your deceit! But Simon knew she would flee at the sight of her enemy, her persecutor. And he could not bear to let her go, not yet.

“Brother?” Her question was a mere whisper.

“Yes, Milady?” Simon whispered as well, pulling his hood close around his face and turning slightly away.

“I am sorry to disturb your prayers. Would you have time to counsel a troubled woman? I have no confessor, and my questions burn in my heart. Oh, I am bold, let me seek out another who knows me…”

“No, wait, child. I am willing to listen. Let us walk a bit.”

“You are Italian, Brother? May I ask your name?”

Simon groaned inwardly at his own foolish imitation of Adrian’s accent.

“I am Gabriel, from Firenze. I visit for a short while. Please tell me your concern, my child. Your words are safe with me.” Say anything, Gwyneth. I crave the sound of your voice, your nearness, knowing what you look like under that cloak and dress. Dance and laugh and arch your naked breasts to the sky. He shuddered at the thought and chastised himself, knowing he’d be the laughing stock of the village if she told of his deception.

“It is a difficult subject for me to discuss, Brother.”

“Indeed? You may speak on of any subject, my dear, and God will listen.”

“Will He forgive my wanton lust for one of the Grey Cloaks? For one of your own? Nay, I think not.”

Simon took a quick breath and had to stop himself from turning to her and looking into her eyes.

*

Gwyneth smiled, sensing his shock, knowing she’d hit the mark, her arrow true. She had spotted the man immediately. His height, his broad shoulders, a lock of dark hair escaping from his hood. She had watched him in the corner at supper, sneaking peeks at her as she spoke with Brother Adrian concerning the health and wellbeing of the aging monks. And she resolved to amuse herself with him this evening, to give the monk what he surely craved.

No, to give herself what she craved—to release all of her passion anonymously with this one tall stranger.

His soul was the one at greater risk, she thought. At least she had never vowed to be chaste. Of course, most of the brothers took lovers now and again, within the walls of the monastery, with each other, or beyond, with women like her.

“I am truly sorry, Brother Gabriel. I seem to have upset you, and I will now withdraw to join the rest of your brethren in prayer.”

Gwyneth turned to walk back up the path to the monastery, but a strong hand gripped her shoulder. She stood still and smiled to herself, her back to the Brother.

“No! You are welcome to speak with me. You see, in Italia, these matters are tolerated. Of course, your soul may be in serious jeopardy, but I am the ideal confessor for you, my dear. Please, go on. Your passion for a Grey Cloak? Have you…”

“Indulged myself with this holy man? Oh, no. May we rest, Brother? I am afraid this confession may make me swoon in shame.”

“You may lean on me, my dear. Let us rest here.” He led her to a low wall, one of a thousand ruined pieces of antiquity littering the countryside.

“Ah, Brother, your people built this very wall. Does that not make you proud—to know their hands reach across hundreds of years to provide a place for you to rest?”

“I do not understand.”

“Is it not a Roman marker?”

“Ah, yes, Roman, that is very true. Indeed, I am descended from the ancient ones, no doubt.”

Gwyneth heard his low groan and wondered why he disguised his voice and feigned a terrible Italian accent. Terrified of being exposed as a lecher?

“Brother, I have sinned terribly and no less than three times. Many more times, if you count the moments alone, in my bed…” Gwyneth smiled again to herself as she heard his intake of breath. No doubt, it was him.

“Each month I must take to the woods near my home, to gather the herbs that heal—the herbs I bring to the brothers or sell to the villagers to help pay for my meager needs. I follow the waxing and waning of the moon, which guides my rituals.”

“That is admirable, my dear. But I fear for you, your mention of the moon. You do not refer to the Pagan worship?”

“Oh, Brother, indeed no! I am baptized by Father Martius. Brother Adrian himself was a witness, you may ask him. No, I am a believer in the True Cross! My art is simple and my chants in the old tongue are a reminder of the ancient wisdom—where to pick, at what time…” she lied. You believe in Christ and you believe in the Goddess. And no one shall ever know the truth of that contradiction.

“Go on, then.” His voice sounded impatient.

“As I perform my duties in the woods, I have noticed one of your holy brothers very near, watching me. He does not know I see him.”

The man’s silent shock was palpable.

“My healing arts have made me very sensitive to the presence—the sight and smell and sound of others. In any case, Brother Gabriel, this man, as I said, watches my movements. As part of the ancient ritual, I am allowed to strip off my clothing and worship God in that state.” Worship the Goddess, you mean.

“I know that the Brother watches me. And, I know that he derives pleasure from watching me. Do you understand, Brother?”

“No. How do you know what he feels?”

“Oh, not what he feels, but what he does. He touches himself in an unholy way.” She shook her head and tried her best to make tears fall down her cheeks. Damnation. Nothing. Gwyneth tried not to laugh at her own poor performance.

“How terrible! You do nothing to stop this behavior? That is the same as blessing his actions!”

“It is worse than that, Brother. I live for these nights. I relish my time before him, the thought of his hand and what it does to him, what I do to seek my release when I am alone, afterwards. I can think of little else, save what it would be like if we could come together, rut like lowly animals in the woods.”

“And…and what do you do? When you are alone?” He squirmed a bit and stood and Gwyneth decided to act.