The Religion by Tim Willocks Page A

shapely in the calf with finely turned ankles, though these latter attributes were based in speculation, for her legs were concealed by a dress that was something to behold. It was the color of pomegranate juice and of suchsensuous cut and fabrication that it was all he could do to keep his mouth from falling open. The dress clung to her body like oil, like lust, and shimmered with slashes of light with every movement she made. He felt his fingers twitch and stilled them. He seized control of his senses and dragged his attention to her face.
    Her features were strong and clear, her irises green and rimmed, as if with ink, by thin black circlets. Despite her name, she didn't look French but had the bones and hauteur of a Sicilian. Her hair was the color of honey and shot through with yellow, as if one of the Norman conquerors had left his seed in her blood. The hair was forced into a knot but would spring into golden waves if given its freedom. His eyes returned, despite his better judgment, to her bust. The dress was fastened at the front by an ingenious arrangement of hooks and eyes, and thereby buttressed her breasts-which were of modest dimension and a quite stunning whiteness-into two exquisite hemispheres. The hemispheres were separated by a cleft into which he would happily have fallen forever. The outlines of her nipples were just visible and, if he were not mistaken, appeared to grow more prominent under his gaze. But perhaps he flattered himself. In any event, she was a beauty, true enough.
    He returned his eyes to her face, upon which two high spots of color had appeared. If Amparo embodied a hardiness that had failed to extinguish her innocence, Carla possessed an air of sadness contained by courage. That and more. Much more, for he knew, on instinct, that the demoniac instrumentalist was she. He liked her at once and bowed.
    "My pleasure, madame," he said. "But I must confess at once that I'm no chevalier."
    He smiled and Carla returned the favor, as if involuntarily and with a warmth he sensed she rarely felt or revealed.
    "If you wish, you may call me Captain, as I've held that rank or its equivalent in a variety of armies. I should add, however, that I am now a man of peace."
    "I hope you'll forgive me for not greeting you more promptly, Captain." Her Italian was refined, with an accent he couldn't place. "Amparo insisted that we play music, as is our habit. Without habit, she becomes distraught."
    "Then I'm in her debt," he said, "for I've never heard the like. Indeed, delight has never transported me nearly so far."
    She inclined her head at the compliment and he seized the opportunity to revisit the dress, which was quite the most fabulous he'd seen and which clung to her body much the way he might have done himself, given half the chance. To meet two desirable women in a single day was a welcome novelty. It was a shame they were such close associates, but that conundrum could wait on another day. He met her eyes again. Could she read his thoughts? He laughed. How could she not?
    "Do I amuse you?" she said, smiling again.
    "I amuse myself," he replied. "And I'm filled with the joy of this unforeseen encounter."
    He inclined his head in what he hoped was a gracious gesture, and she accepted with the same, and made a better job of it. He brushed the back of his fingers against his jaw, and was reminded that he was unshaven and that his mien was in general uncouth. Unsure of how to proceed, he took refuge in simplicity.
    "Please, my lady," he said. "Tell me how I may serve you."
    Tuesday, May 15, 1565
    The Abbey of Santa Maria della Valle

    Even a man's inmost thoughts are known to God. As too are that man's fantasies and fears, his shame, his dreams both waking and asleep, and most of all those unborn desires whose existence he dares not acknowledge, even to himself. From such occult desire springs spiritual error. And spiritual error is the source of all human evil. Hence, desire has to be scrutinized-and