Well, I had to tell her something, and she would have worked it out in the end. A pity she’s a woman; if she’d been born a man I might almost have thought her my equal. As it was, I still had a weapon to wield, and the battle was sweet for a time. Her hair smelt of burnt sugar, the scents of baking and lavender warm on her skin. I swear this time I meant to keep my promise; my mouth on hers, I could almost believe it was true. We could take to the road again, I promised; together we could take to the air. L’Ailée might fly again-in fact, I never doubted she would. Sweet fantasy, my Winged One. Sweet lies.

She wanted the tale, so I told it in words that would please her. More than I intended, perhaps, lulled by her sly caresses. More, perhaps, than was entirely safe. But my l’Ailée is a romantic at heart, wanting to believe the best in everything. Even this. Even me.

I was seventeen.“ Imagine that. ”The son of a local girl and some passing seigneur; unwanted; unacknowledged. It was understood that as such I belonged to the Church. No one asked me if I understood it. I was born a few miles away, near Montauban, and I was sent away to the abbey at five years old-that was where I learned my Latin and Greek. The abbot was a weak but kindly man who had left Society twenty years before to join the Cistercians. His connections remained good, however; and although he had renounced his name, it was reputed to have once been a powerful one. Certainly, the abbey was wealthy enough under his direction, and it was large; I grew up in a mixed environment, with monks on one side and nuns on the other.“

The tale is almost true-the name of the other protagonist eludes me but I recall her face beneath the novice’s veil, the fine spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose, her eyes, the color of burnt umber flecked with gold.

“She was fourteen. I worked in the gardens, too young even to have earned my tonsure. She was a minx; she would glance over the wall at me as I worked, laughing with her eyes.”

As I said, almost true. There was more, my Ailée, darker, uglier currents and crosscurrents you would not so easily understand. In the reading room I would linger over the Song of Songs and try not to think of her whilst my masters watched me closely for signs of rapture.

I am the rose of Sharon, and the lily of the valleys.

I never could bear the sight or the smell of those flowers, afterward. A summer garden is filled with bitter memories.

“For a time it was an idyll.”

This is what she wants to hear, a tale of innocence corrupted, of vanquished love. She is more troubadour than buccaneer, my Winged One, in spite of her sharp claws. You’d understand that, Juliette, with your sweet and sheltered childhood among the painted tigers.

For myself the idyll was a darker thing, the scents of that summer’s flowers colored with those of my solitude, my jealousy, my imprisonment. I neglected my lessons; I did penance for what sins they could discover, and on the rest I brooded in growing resentment and longing. I could hear the sound of running water beyond the abbey walls and wondered where the river led.

“It was summer.” I’ll let you believe it was love. Why not? I almost convinced myself. I was drunk on moonlight, on sensations; a curl of her hair, cut in secret and passed to me in a missal, the imprint of her feet on the grass, the imagined scent of her as I lay on my pallet, looking up at that tiny square of stars…

A garden enclosed is my sister, my spouse; a spring shut up; a fountain sealed.

We met in secret in the walled gardens, exchanged shy kisses and tokens like lovers long versed in the arts of intrigue. We were innocents…Even I, in my way.

“It could not last.” This, my Ailée, is where our tales diverge. “They found us together, grown careless perhaps, giddy with delight at our forbidden pleasures…”

She screamed, the little fool. They called it rape.

“I tried to explain-” I had pulled down her uncut hair; it hung in ringlets to her waist. Beneath her robe I could feel her small breasts. Solomon said it most sweetly-Thy breasts are like unto two young roes that are twins, which feed among the lilies.

How could I have known she’d be such a little prude? She screamed and I silenced her, pinning her arms to her sides and my hand over her mouth.

“Too late.” They dragged me off, protesting. It was no fault of mine, I swore; if any was to blame, let it be Solomon, with his twin roes. My convent passionflower pleaded innocence; the fault was all mine; she hardly knew me, had not encouraged my advances. I was locked in my cell; my scribbled note to her was returned unopened. Too late I realized we had misunderstood each other. My reluctant sweetheart dreamed of Abelard, not Pan.

“I was imprisoned for three days, awaiting judgment. For all that time, no one spoke a word to me. The brother who brought me my meals did so with his face turned away. But to my surprise, I was not starved or beaten. My disgrace was too profound for any ordinary penance.”

I have always hated being enclosed, however, and my imprisonment was all the more painful for the scent of the garden outside my window, and the sounds of summer beyond the walls. They might have let me out if I had repented, but my stubborn lack of shame cut me from them. I would not recant my story. I would not submit to their judgment. Who were they to judge me, anyway?

On the fourth day a friend managed to pass me a note, informing me that the abbot had sought the advice of a visiting clergyman-a well-regarded man of noble house-concerning the matter of my punishment. I was not greatly troubled by the prospect. I could take a whipping if I needed to, although the kind abbot had always been lenient toward me and rarely used such measures.

It was late that afternoon when I was finally brought from my cell. Restless, sullen, and desperately bored, I blinked in the sudden sunlight as the abbot led me from the dark passageway into his study, where a tall, distinguished man of about thirty-five was awaiting me.

He was dressed in the black town habit and cloak of an ordinary priest, with a silver cross around his neck. His hair was black to the abbot’s gray, but they had the same high cheekbones and light, almost silvery eyes; seeing them there, side by side, there could be no doubt that the two men were brothers.

The newcomer studied me expressionlessly for a moment. “So this is the boy. What’s your name, boy?”

“Guy, if it pleases you, mon père.”

His mouth thinned as if it did not please him at all. “You’ve indulged him, Michel,” he said to the abbot. “I should have known you would.”

The abbot said nothing, though it cost him an effort.

“A man’s nature cannot be altered,” continued the stranger. “But it can-it must-be subdued. By your negligence, an innocent girl has been corrupted, and the reputation of our house-”

“I didn’t corrupt her,” I protested. It was true; if anything, she had corrupted me.

The newcomer looked at me as if I were carrion. I gave him back his look, and his cold eyes grew colder. “He persists, then,” he said.

“He’s young,” said the abbot.

“That’s no excuse.”

Refusing once more to acknowledge my crime, I was taken back to my cell. I rebelled at being locked up again; fought the brothers who had been sent to fetch me; blasphemed; flung abuse. The abbot came to reason with me, and I might have listened to him if he had been alone, but his guest was with him, and something in me revolted at the thought of giving in to this man who had apparently judged and detested me on sight. Exhausted and angry, I slept; was awoken at dawn-for Matins, I thought-and led outside by two brothers who refused to meet my eye.