They drank the ultra-sweet potion and Selethryth poured more.

Wynstan looked at the women sitting at the sides of the room on benches. Some were dressed, others draped in loose wraps, and one pale girl was stark naked. “What a lovely sight,” he said with a sigh.

“I have a new girl I’ve been saving,” Mags said. “But which of you will take her virginity?”

Wigelm said: “How many men have taken it so far?”

Wynstan chuckled.

Mags protested. “You know I’d never lie to you. I don’t even allow her in here—she’s locked up in the house next door.”

Wynstan said: “Let Wigelm have the virgin. I’m in the mood for a more experienced woman.”

“How about Merry? She likes you.”

Wynstan smiled at a voluptuous dark-haired woman of about twenty. She waved to him. “Yes,” he said. “Merry would be lovely. Such a big arse.”

Merry came and sat beside him, and he kissed her.

Mags said: “Selethryth, fetch the virgin from next door for Thane Wigelm.”

After a few minutes Wynstan said to Merry: “Lie down in the straw, my dear, and let’s get at it.”

Merry pulled her dress over her head and lay on her back. She was pink-skinned and plump: he was glad he had chosen her. He lifted the skirt of his tunic and knelt between her legs.

Merry screamed.

Wynstan flinched away, bewildered. “What the devil is wrong with the woman?” he said.

Merry screeched, “He’s got a chancre!” She leaped to her feet and covered her vagina protectively.

“No, I haven’t,” Wynstan said.

Mags spoke in a new tone of voice. Her former anything-you-like-darling attitude had been replaced by a brisk sense of authority. “Let me see, bishop,” she said in a matter-of-fact way. “Show me your prick.”

Wynstan turned.

“Oh, Jesus,” said Mags. “It’s a chancre.”

Wynstan looked down at his penis. Near the head was an oval ulcer an inch long with an angry red spot at its center. “That’s nothing,” he said. “It doesn’t even hurt.”

Mags’s jollity had all fallen away and her voice was cold. “It’s not nothing,” she said firmly. “It’s the great pox.”

“That’s impossible,” said Wynstan. “Great pox leads to leprosy.”

Mags softened, but only slightly. “Perhaps you’re right,” she said, and Wynstan felt she was humoring him. “But whatever it is I can’t let you fuck my girls. If any kind of pox got around this house half the clergy in England would be out of action before you could say ‘fornicate.’”

“Well, that’s a blow.” Wynstan felt cast down. An illness was a weakness, and he was supposed to be strong. Besides, he was aroused, and wanted a fuck. “What am I going to do?” he said.

Mags’s demeanor regained some of its usual coquetry. “You’re going to get the best hand-fuck you’ve ever had, and I’m going to give it to you myself, my sweet priest.”

“Well, if that’s the best you can do . . .”

“The girls will put on a show for you at the same time. What would you like to watch?”