Dooms Day Book

by Connie Willis

  “No!” Agnes said, alarmed, but Rosemund was already striding toward the pony. “Stay from there! It is not your pony!” Agnes shouted. “It is mine!”

  Well, we won’t have to go find the priest, Kivrin thought. If he’s here, he’ll come out to see what all the noise is.

  Rosemund was unbuckling the straps to the saddlebag. “Look!” she said, and held up Agnes’ puppy by the scruff of its neck.

  “Oh, Agnes,” Kivrin said.

  “You are a wicked girl,” Rosemund said. “I should take it to the river and drown it.” She turned in that direction.

  “Nay!” Agnes wailed and ran to the lychgate. Rosemund immediately held the puppy up out of Agnes’s reach.

  This has gone absolutely far enough, Kivrin thought. She stepped forward and took the puppy away from Rosemund. “Agnes, stop howling. Your sister won’t hurt your puppy.”

  The puppy scrabbled against Kivrin’s shoulder, trying to lick her cheek. “Agnes, hounds can’t ride horses. Blackie wouldn’t be able to breathe in your saddlebag.”

  “I could carry him,” Agnes said, but not very hopefully. “He wanted to ride my pony.”

  “He had a nice ride to the church,” Kivrin said firmly. “And he will have a nice ride back to the stable. Rosemund, take Blackie back to the stable.” It was trying to bite her ear. She gave it to Rosemund, who took hold of the back of its neck. “It’s just a baby, Agnes. It must go back to its mother now and sleep.”

  “You are the babe, Agnes!” Rosemund said, so furiously Kivrin was not sure she trusted her to take the puppy back. “To put a hound upon a horse! And now we must waste yet more time taking it back! I shall be glad when I am grown and no longer have to do with babes!”

  She mounted, still holding the puppy up by its neck, but once she was in her saddle, she wrapped it almost tenderly in the corner of her cloak and cupped it against her chest. She took the reins with her free hand and turned the horse. “Father Roche has surely gone by now!” she said angrily and galloped off.

  Kivrin was afraid she was probably right. The racket they had made had almost been enough to wake the dead under the wooden tombstones, but no one had appeared from the church. He had no doubt left before they arrived and now was long gone, but Kivrin took Agnes’s hand and led her into the church.

  “Rosemund is a wicked girl,” Agnes said.

  Kivrin felt inclined to agree with her, but she could hardly say that, and she didn’t feel much like defending Rosemund, so she didn’t say anything.

  “Nor am I a babe,” Agnes said, looking up at Kivrin for confirmation, but there was nothing to say to that either. Kivrin pushed the heavy door open and stood looking into the church.

  There was no one there. It was dim almost to blackness in the nave, the gray day outside sending no light at all through the narrow stained-glass windows, but the half-open door gave enough light to see it was empty.

  “Mayhap he is in the chancel,” Agnes said. She squeezed past Kivrin into the dark nave, knelt, crossed herself, and then looked impatiently back over her shoulder at Kivrin.

  There was no one in the chancel either. She could see from there that there were no candles lit on the altar, but Agnes wasn’t going to be satisfied till they had searched the whole church. Kivrin knelt and made her obeisance beside her, and they walked up to the rood screen through the near darkness. The candles in front of the statue of Saint Catherine had been extinguished. She could smell the sharp scent of tallow and smoke. She wondered if Father Roche had snuffed them out before he left. Fire would have been a huge problem, even in a stone church, and there were no votive glasses for the candles to burn down safely in.

  Agnes went right up to the rood screen, pressed her face against the cut-out wood, and called, “Father Roche!” She turned around immediately and announced, “He isn’t here, Lady Kivrin. Mayhap he is in his house,” she said, and ran out the priest’s door.

  Kivrin was sure Agnes was not supposed to do that, but there was nothing to do but follow her across the churchyard to the nearest house.

  It had to belong to the priest because Agnes was already standing outside the door yelling “Father Roche!”, and of course the priest’s house was next to the church, but Kivrin was still surprised.

  The house was as ramshackle as the hut she had rested in and not much larger. The priest was supposed to get a tithe of everyone’s crops and livestock, but there were no animals in the narrow yard except for a few scraggly chickens, and less than an armload of wood stacked out front.

  Agnes had started banging on the door, which looked as insubstantial as the hut’s, and Kivrin was afraid she’d knock it open and walk straight in, but before she could get to her, Agnes turned and said, “Mayhap he is in the belltower.”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Kivrin said, taking Agnes’ hand so she didn’t go tearing off through the churchyard again. They started walking back toward the lychgate. “Father Roche does not ring the bell again till vespers.”

  “He might,” Agnes said, cocking her head as if listening for it.

  Kivrin listened, too, but there was no sound, and she realized suddenly that the bell in the southwest had stopped. It had rung almost nonstop while she had the pneumonia, and she had heard it when she went out to the stable the second time, looking for Gawyn, but she didn’t remember whether it had rung since then or not.

  “Heard you that, Lady Kivrin?” Agnes said. She pulled her hand out of Kivrin’s grasp and ran off, not toward the bell tower, but around the end of the church to the north side. “See you?” she crowed, pointing at what she’d found, “He has not gone.”

  It was the priest’s gray donkey, placidly pulling at the weeds sticking up through the snow. It had a rope bridle on and several burlap bags over its back, obviously empty, obviously intended for the holly and ivy.

  “He is in the bell tower, I trow,” Agnes said, and darted back the way she’d come.

  Kivrin followed her around the church and into the churchyard, watching Agnes disappear into the tower. She waited, wondering where else they should look. Perhaps he was tending someone ill in one of the huts.

  She caught a flicker of movement through the church window. A light. Perhaps while they were looking at the donkey, he had come back. She pushed the priest’s door open and looked inside. A candle had been lit in front of St. Catherine’s statue. She could see its faint glow at the statue’s feet.

  “Father Roche?” she called softly. There was no answer. She stepped inside, letting the door shut behind her, and over to the statue.

  The candle was set between the statue’s block-like feet. St. Catherine’s rough face and hair were in shadow, looming protectively over the small adult figure who was supposed to be a little girl. She knelt and picked up the candle. It had just been lit. It hadn’t even had time to melt the tallow in the well around the wick.

  Kivrin looked down the nave. She couldn’t see anything, holding the candle. It lit the floor and St. Catherine’s box– like wimple and put the rest of the nave in total darkness.

  She took a few steps down the nave, still holding the candle. “Father Roche?”

  It was utterly silent in the church, the way it had been in the woods that day when she came through. Too silent, as if someone was there, standing beside the tomb or behind one of the pillars, waiting.

  “Father Roche?” she called clearly. “Are you there?”

  There was no answer, only that hushed, waiting silence. There wasn’t anyone in the woods, she told herself, and took a few more steps forward into the gloom. There was no one beside the tomb. Imeyne’s husband lay with his hands folded across his breast and his sword at his side, peaceful and silent. There was no one by the door either. She could see it now, in spite of the candle’s blinding light. There was no one there.

  She could feel her heart pounding the way it had in the forest, so loud it could be covering up the sound of footsteps, of breathing, of someone standing there waiting. She whirled around, the candle
tracing a fiery trail in the air as she turned.

  He was right behind her. The candle nearly went out. It bent, flickering, and then steadied, lighting his cutthroat’s face from below the way it had with the lantern.

  “What do you want?” Kivrin said, so breathlessly almost no sound came out. “How did you get in here?”

  The cutthroat didn’t answer her. He simply stared at her the way he had in the clearing. I didn’t dream him, she thought frightenedly. He was there. He had intended—what? to rob her? to rape her?—and Gawyn had frightened him off.

  She took a step backward. “I said, what do you want? Who are you?”

  She was speaking English. She could hear it echoing hollowly in the cold stone space. Oh, no, she thought, don’t let the interpreter break down now.

  “What are you doing here?” she said, forcing herself to speak more slowly and heard her own voice saying, “Whette wolde thou withe me?”

  He put his hand out toward her, a huge hand, dirty and reddened, a cutthroat’s hand, as if he would touch her cropped hair.

  “Go away,” she said. She stepped backwards again and came up against the tomb. The candle went out. “I don’t know who you are or what you want, but you’d better go away.” It was English again, but what difference did it make, he wanted to rob her, to kill her, and where was the priest? “Father Roche!” she cried desperately. “Father Roche!”

  There was a sound at the door, a bang and then the scrape of wood on stone, and Agnes pushed the door open. “There you are,” she said happily. “I have looked everywhere for you.”

  The cutthroat glanced at the door.

  “Agnes!” Kivrin shouted. “Run!”

  The little girl froze, her hand still on the heavy door.

  “Get away from here!” Kivrin shouted, and realized with horror that it was still English. What was the word for “run”?

  The cutthroat took another step toward Kivrin. She shrank back against the tomb.

  “Renne! Flee, Agnes!” she cried, and then the door crashed shut and Kivrin was running across the stone floor and out the door after her, dropping the candle as she ran.

  Agnes was almost to the lychgate, but she stopped as soon as Kivrin was out the door and ran back to her.

  “No!” Kivrin shouted, waving her on. “Run!”

  “Is it a wolf?” Agnes asked, wide-eyed.

  There was no time to explain or try to coax her to run. The men who had been cutting wood had disappeared. She scooped Agnes up in her arms and ran toward the horses. “There was a wicked man in the church!” she said, setting Agnes on her pony.

  “A wicked man?” Agnes asked, ignoring the reins Kivrin was thrusting at her. “Was it one of those who set upon you in the woods?”

  “Yes,” Kivrin said, untying the reins. “You must ride as fast as you can to the manor house. Don’t stop for anything.”

  “I didn’t see him,” Agnes said.

  She probably hadn’t. Coming in from outside, she wouldn’t have been able to see anything in the church’s gloom.

  “Was he the man who stole your goods and gear and cracked your skull?”

  “Yes,” Kivrin said. She reached for the reins and started to untie the reins.

  “Was the wicked man hiding in the tomb?”

  “What?” Kivrin said. She couldn’t get the stiff leather untied. She glanced anxiously back at the church door.

  “I saw you and Father Roche by the tomb. Was the wicked man hiding in grandfather’s grave?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Father Roche.

  The stiff reins came suddenly loose in Kivrin’s hands. “Father Roche?”

  “I went in the bell tower, but he was not there. He was in the church,” Agnes said. “Why was the wicked man hiding in Grandfather’s tomb, Lady Kivrin?”

  Father Roche. But it couldn’t be. Father Roche had given her the last rites. He had anointed her temples and the palms of her hands.

  “Will the wicked man hurt Father Roche?” Agnes asked.

  He couldn’t be Father Roche. Father Roche had held her hand. He had told her not to be afraid. She tried to call up the face of the priest. He had leaned over her and asked her her name, but she couldn’t see his face because of all the smoke.

  And while he was giving her the last rites, she had seen the cutthroat, she had been afraid because they had let him in the room, she had tried to get away from him. But it hadn’t been a cutthroat at all. It had been Father Roche.

  “Is the wicked man coming?” Agnes said, looking anxiously at the church door.

  It all made sense. The cutthroat leaning over her in the clearing, putting her on the horse. She had thought it was a vision from her delirium, but it wasn’t. It had been Father Roche, come to help Gawyn bring her to the manor.

  “The wicked man isn’t coming,” Kivrin said. “There isn’t any wicked man.”

  “Hides he still in the church?”

  “No. I was wrong. There isn’t any wicked man.”

  Agnes looked unconvinced. “You cried out,” she said.

  Kivrin could hear her telling her grandmother, “Lady Katherine and Father Roche were in the church together and she cried out.” Lady Imeyne would be delighted to have this to add to her litany of Father Roche’s sins. And to Kivrin’s list of suspicious behavior.

  “I know I cried out,” Kivrin said. “It was dark in the church. Father Roche came upon me suddenly and I was frightened.”

  “But it was Father Roche,” Agnes said as if she could not imagine anyone being frightened by him.

  “When you and Rosemund play at hiding and she jumps suddenly at you from behind a tree, you cry out,” Kivrin said desperately.

  “One time Rosemund hid in the loft when I was looking at my hound, and she jumped down. I was so affrighted I cried out. Like this,” she said, and let out a blood-curdling shriek. “And another time it was dark in the hall and Gawyn jumped out from behind the screens and he said ‘Fie!’ and I cried out and—”

  “That’s right,” Kivrin said, “It was dark in the church.”

  “Did Father Roche jump out at you and say ‘Fie!’?”

  Yes, Kivrin thought. He leaned over me, and I thought he was a cutthroat. “No,” she said. “He didn’t do anything.”

  “Go we still with Father Roche for the holly?”

  If I haven’t frightened him away, Kivrin thought. If he hasn’t left while we’ve stood here talking.

  She lifted Agnes down. “Come. We must go find him.”

  She didn’t know what she’d do if he’d already gone. She couldn’t take Agnes back to the manor to tell Lady Imeyne how she had screamed. And she couldn’t go back without explaining to Father Roche. Explaining what? That she’d thought he was a robber, a rapist? That she’d thought he was a nightmare from her delirium?

  “Must we go into the church again?” Agnes asked reluctantly.

  “It’s all right. There’s no one there except Father Roche.”

  In spite of Kivrin’s assurances, Agnes was unwilling to go back in the church. She hid her head in Kivrin’s skirts when Kivrin opened the door and clung to her leg.

  “It’s all right,” Kivrin said, peering into the nave. He was no longer by the tomb. The door shut behind her, and she stood there with Agnes pressed against her, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  He’s not a cutthroat, she told herself. There’s nothing to be afraid of. He gave you the last rites. He held your hand. But her heart was pounding.

  “Is the wicked man there?” Agnes whispered, her head jammed against Kivrin’s knee.

  “There isn’t any wicked man,” she said, and then saw him. He was standing in front of St. Catherine’s statue. He was holding the candle Kivrin had dropped, and he bent and set it in front of the statue, and then straightened again.

  She had thought perhaps it had been some trick of the darkness and the candle’s flame, lighting his face from below, and he wasn’t t
he cutthroat after all, but he was. He had worn a hood over his head that night, so she couldn’t see his tonsure, but he was bending over the statue the way he had bent over her. Her heart began to pound again.

  “Where is Father Roche?” Agnes said, raising her head. “There he is,” she said, and ran toward him.

  “No—” Kivrin said, and started after her. “Don’t—”

  “Father Roche!” Agnes shouted. “Father Roche! We have been seeking you!” She had obviously forgotten all about the wicked man. “We looked in the church and we looked in the house, but you were not there!”

  She was running full tilt at him. He turned and bent down and scooped Agnes up into his arms all in one motion.

  “I sought you in the bell tower, but you were not there,” Agnes said without the slightest trace of fear. “Rosemund said you had gone.”

  Kivrin stopped even with the last pillar, trying to get her heart to slow down.

  “Were you hiding?” Agnes asked. She put one arm trustingly around his neck. “Once Rosemund hid in the barn and jumped down on me. I cried out in a loud voice.”

  “Why did you seek me, Agnes?” he said. “Is someone ill?”

  He pronounced Agnes, “Agnus,” and he had nearly the same accent as the boy with the scurvy. The interpreter took a catch step before it translated what he’d said, and Kivrin felt a fleeting surprise that she couldn’t understand him. She had understood everything he said in the sickroom.

  He must have been speaking Latin to me, she thought, because there was no mistaking his voice. It was the voice that had said the last rites, the voice that had told her not to be afraid. And she wasn’t afraid. At the sound of his voice, her heart had stopped pounding.

  “Nay, none are ill,” Agnes said. “We would go with you to gather ivy and holly for the hall. Lady Kivrin and Rosemund and Saracen and I.”

  At the words, “Lady Kivrin,” Roche turned and saw her standing there by the pillar. He set Agnes down.

  Kivrin put out her hand to the pillar for support. “I beg your pardon, Holy Father,” she said. “I’m so sorry I screamed and ran from you. It was dark, and I didn’t recognize you—”