“I see. Freedom. Unbounded freedom, no doubt? Wild and anarchic? In imitation of the Waldensians? Or the Czech Adamites?”

“You mock needlessly. I’m talking about freedom understood in its simplest form. Freedom without walls or bars!”

“And where would you seek that? Where can we, women, be freer than in a nunnery? Where are we allowed to study, read, debate, express our thoughts freely? Where are we allowed to be ourselves? The bars you pulled out, the wall you planned to jump from, don’t imprison us. They protect us—us and our freedom. From the world, where women are numbered among household chattels. Worth a little more than a milking cow, but considerably less than a charger. Don’t deceive yourself that your lover, for whom you risked complicated fractures, is any different. He is not. Today he loves you as Pyramus loved Thisbe, as Érec loved Énide, as Tristan loved Isolde. Tomorrow he’ll flog you with a rod when you speak out of turn.”

“You don’t know him. He’s different. He—”

“Enough!” said Zofia of Schellenberg, waving a hand. “Bread and water for a week.”

Jutta was leafing through Galen’s De antidotis at a lectern. It was a dull work, but it reminded her of Reynevan. Weronika had dug out a lute from a chest shoved into a corner and was strumming it. There were two illuminators apart from them in the scriptorium, as well as converses and novices being trained in the art, all gathered around the plump Sister Richenza. Sister Richenza, quite a simple individual, had an agreement with Jutta and Weronika: a pact of mutual absence of interference.

Weronika crossed her legs and rested the lute on her knee.

“Ben volria mon cavalier…” she began and then cleared her throat. And then sang with abandon.

Ben volria mon cavalier

tener un ser e mos bratz nut,

q’el s’en tengra per ereubut

sol q’a lui fezes cosseiller;

car plus m’en sui abellida

no fetz Floris de Blanchaflor:

eu l’autrei mon cor e m’amor

mon sen, mos houills e ma vida!

“Quiet, Miss! That’s enough of that row!”

“We aren’t even allowed to sing,” grunted Weronika, putting down the lute. “Jutta? I say, Jutta!”

“Yes?”

“How did things go with that physician of yours?” asked Weronika, lowering her voice.

“What do you mean?”

“You well know what. Put your book down and come over here. Let’s gossip. That—you know—cousin of mine… Just listen… The first time… It was a cool day in October, so I had woollen hose beneath my skirts. Very close-fitting. But that ass…”