The apparently safe sanctuary inside the convent walls suddenly lost its sense of snugness. Reynevan spent his convalescence waking up in a cold sweat to every bell and knock at the gate, and would then fall asleep relieved to hear that it hadn’t been the Inquisition or Birkart Grellenort, just the fishmonger with his delivery.

Time passed, and peace, care and medical attention did their job. His wounds healed. Slowly, but surely. After Saint Anthony’s Day, Samson began to rise, and after Gervasius’ and Protasius’ Day to feel well enough to begin helping the gardener with his work. Reynevan, however, had recovered enough for his contact with Jutta through eyes and hands to no longer suffice.

Saint John’s Eve came. The Poor Clare nuns from White Church celebrated it with an extra mass. Reynevan and Jutta, on the other hand, followed by the curious looks of the nuns, ran to the forest to search for the fern flower. No sooner had they reached a grove of birches than Reynevan explained to Jutta that the fern flower was a legend and the hunt for it—however romantic and exciting it might be—was in principle pointless and something of a waste of time. Unless they felt a great need to respect the ancient tradition. Jutta quickly admitted that while she did, she’d actually rather make better, more intelligent and pleasant use of the short June night.

Reynevan, who thought similarly, spread his cloak out on the ground and helped her to undress.

“Adsum favens,” whispered the young woman, slowly and gradually emerging from her raiment like Aphrodite from the ocean foam. “Adsum favens et propitia; I have come in sympathy and goodwill. Now stop your tears and cease your lamentation; banish your grief. Now by my providence your day of salvation is dawning.”

She whispered and beauty met his eyes. The resplendent beauty of nakedness, the glory of delicate womanliness, the Holy Grail, saintliness. She manifested herself to his eyes as donna angelicata, worthy of the brushes of artists he knew such as Domenico Veneziano, Simone of Siena, the Master of Flémalle, Tommaso Masaccio, Masolino, the brothers Limbourg, Sassetta and Jan van Eyck. And of those whom he could not yet have known, who were still to come. Whose names—Fra Angelico, Piero della Francesca, Enguerrand Charonton, Rogier van der Weyden, Jean Fouquet, Hugo van der Goes—a delighted humanity could look forward to knowing.

“Sit satis laborum,” she whispered, putting her arms around his neck. “Let there be rest from troubles.”

Seeing that Reynevan’s wounded shoulder was still paining him, she took matters into her own hands. Lying him on his back, she united with him in the position the poet Martial usually ascribed to Hector and Andromache.

They made love like those two lovers. They made love on Saint John’s Eve. From somewhere on high came the singing of choirs, quite possibly angelic ones. And all around cavorted sylvan spirits, singing.