Although used to her unannounced absences, the memory of the stranger"s sudden attack made Bartholemy cautious and prepared, arming himself with the cleaver, placing a pitchfork in the corner. Already awake as she slid out from beneath the covers that morning, he waited until she swathed herself in thick, coarse clothing and left the warmth of the hovel. He crossed to the door, peered through the gap in the frame, and spied her trudging over the rolling fields, patches of snow still clinging tenaciously to the turf. The spring thaw had begun some two weeks previously, yet she continued with her demands that he should remain locked away. "It is not yet time," she would say, repeating the phrase every morning and every night, before snaking her hands across his loins, urging him to couple.
