With trembling hands, he stroked her jerkin, smoothed the delicate texture and fine weave of the fabric, became drunk on the provocatively sharp roughness of the flowery embroideries, followed with quivering fingers the mysterious pleats and thickness of the seams, brushed with his fingertips, seized, squeezed and caressed the excitingly hard buttons, wonderfully intricate clasps, embellishments and buckles. Sighing, he caressed the thick knotted wool of the shawl which pleasantly irritated the fingers, stroked her wimple, the divine delicacy of the expensive Turkish cloth. He plunged his face into the fur of the collar, breathing in the delicious scents of all Araby. Jutta sighed and moaned spasmodically, tensing up in his arms, digging her fingernails into the sleeves of his jacket, pressing her cheek against the quilted cloth.

He tore off her calpac, with trembling fingers unwound the shawl holding her neck captive and coiled like the Jörmungandr worm, impatiently pulled aside the edge of the silken wimple and arrived—like Marco Polo reaching Cathay—at her nakedness, the naked skin of her cheek and the marvellously lascivious nakedness of her ear, emerging from the fabric. He touched her ear with impatient lips. Nicolette groaned, tensed up, seized him by his padded collar, grabbing with a rapacious hand, squeezing and stroking the shiny, brassy hardness of his belt buckle.

Hugging each other tightly, their mouths met in a long and passionate kiss. A very long and passionate kiss.

Jutta moaned. “My bottom’s cold,” she gasped passionately into his ear. “The snow is wetting me.”

They stood up, all trembling. From the cold and excitement.

“The sun is setting.”

“Indeed.”

“I must return.”

“Nicolette… Couldn’t we—”

“No, we couldn’t,” she whispered back. “I live in a convent, I told you, didn’t I? And Advent has begun. During Advent, one may not…”

“But… But I… Jutta—”

“Go, Reinmar.”

When he looked back the last time, she was at the edge of the forest, glowing in the light of the setting sun. In that glow and the winter light, he realised with horrifying certainty that she wasn’t Jutta of Apolda, daughter of the Cup-Bearer of Schönau, a conversa with the Poor Clares. At the edge of the forest, mounted on a grey mare, was a goddess. A bright figure of rare beauty, an unearthly apparition, divina facies, miranda species. A heavenly Venera, lady of the elements. Elementorum omnium domina.

He loved and adored her.

Chapter Sixteen

In which numerous encounters occur, the separated friends meet again and Anno Domini 1428—a year that will prove eventful—dawns.