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clergyman’s tonsure, a sure sign that he’d not yet taken his vows of priesthood. Yet surely even a priest-in-training wasn’t encouraged to use the Lord’s name in vain.
    “Oh, father,” she said, “I’m not a minstrel.”
    “Are those sacramental bells, to be used at Mass?” he said, pointing at the chain of chimes looped over her hips. “And that stain on your face, is that the blood of the Virgin?”
    She touched her face. She’d forgotten the waxy red spots Matilda had painted upon her cheeks. She’d forgotten that she hadn’t worn her coif and that her hair hung loose. Suddenly she felt Nutmeg squirming to wakefulness in the basket slung across her shoulder.
    “I’ve come,” she said, with as much humility as she could muster, “to seek pardon for my sins.”
    “I’ve no doubt those sins are many and mortal.”
    She opened her mouth to speak, but a rush of mortification stilled her tongue. Of sinful thoughts, she had many. But a hundred times worse was the vivid, sinful dream she’d had only last night. A dream where Colin was a persistent minstrel and she a wayward woman far prettier than the girl-cook she was.
    “I know why you’ve come,” the cleric continued. “You’re here to confess your sins, listen to what good Father William says, mimic your penance—and then ridicule the whole sacrament later in the alehouses of Athlone.”
    She sputtered, “I’ll do no such thing.”
    “Such vehemence. You play your part well.”
    It’s not a part. She wasn’t a minstrel. Not a real one, anyway. Yet she would not deny that she’d sought refuge among them. Nor would she speak ill of them, for they had taken her in when she would have foolishly set out on the road alone. Conflicted into silence, she cast her eyes down and twisted the ring on her finger and wished she’d scrubbed her face and worn her white coif and her plain wool tunic.
    It just didn’t seem right that she’d be judged by how she looked, rather than what was in her heart.
    “Father William is at his table now, he won’t see you.” The cleric turn away and then relented, his mouth thinning. “If you must know, he takes confessions after Nones.”
    Maura’s heart sank. By Nones, she’d be deep in an alehouse, working off the price of the minstrel’s protection in a way yet to be determined.
    “If you are truly repentant,” the cleric said, taking her by the arm, “then you will return at the appointed time. Dressed more humbly, I trust.”
    Then suddenly she was standing in the blinding light of the square, the door of the church slammed shut behind her, listening to the scrape of the bolt into the sleeve. She turned and stared at the closed doors. A weakness spread through her as she realized she’d been denied the grace of the church.
    Just then a crowd burst from one of the narrow streets. The horde exploded into the square to reveal the reeling progression of the minstrel troupe. Padraig Smallpipe and the Shortskirts twins twirled to one side, a whirl of flying yellow silk. Maguire Mudman donned his devil’s mask and grasped his own crotch, as he raced through the crowd, doffing his hat for tribute.
    And there Colin stood. Too vibrant in the sunlight, all wicked blue eyes and crooked smile as he caught sight of her. The full-fleshed embodiment of the shadowy, ardent man who, in her dreams, had slipped his rough fingers in the valley between her breasts and then cupped one in his hand.
    Her weakness tightened to fury.
    “I told them I’d find you here.” Colin held out his hand. “Come, little repentant. It’s time for you to earn your keep.”
    She curled her hands into fists. “I won’t do it, Colin.”
    No, she wouldn’t play the harlot. She’d rather disguise herself on the roads as a boy—or an old woman—than get another greeting like the one she just had at the door to this church.
    “Forsooth,” he said softly. “You must.”
    “You can’t force me.”
    “I’d never force a lady.” He