“The robbers had not been long gone, and I found their trail with ease and followed it, spurring my steed after them.”
Sir Bloet’s nephew was dangling Blackie by his front legs, and the puppy was whimpering pathetically.
“Kivrin!” Agnes cried, catching sight of her, and flung herself at Kivrin’s legs. Sir Bloet’s nephew immediately handed Kivrin the puppy and backed away, and the rest of the children scattered.
“You rescued Blackie!” Agnes said, reaching for him.
Kivrin shook her head. “It is time to go to bed,” she said.
“I’m not tired!” Agnes said in a whine that was scarcely convincing. She rubbed her eyes.
“Blackie is tired,” Kivrin said, squatting down beside Agnes, “and he won’t go to bed unless you will lie down with him.”
That argument seemed to interest her, and before she could find a flaw in it, Kivrin handed Blackie back to her, placing him in her arms like a baby, and scooped them both up in her arms. “Blackie would have you tell him a story,” Kivrin said, starting for the door.
“Soon I found myself in a place that I knew not,” Gawyn said, “a dark forest.”
Kivrin carried her charges outside and across the courtyard. “Blackie likes stories about cats,” Agnes said, rocking the puppy gently in her arms.
“You must tell him a story about a cat then,” Kivrin said. She took the puppy while Agnes climbed up the ladder to the loft. It was already asleep, worn out from all the handling. Kivrin laid it in the straw next to the pallet.
“A wicked cat,” Agnes said, grabbing him up again. “I am not going to sleep. I am only lying down with Blackie, so I need not take off my clothes.”
“No, you need not,” Kivrin said, covering Agnes and Blackie with a heavy fur. It was too cold in the barn for undressing.
“Blackie would fain wear my bell,” she said, trying to put the ribbon over its head.
“No, he wouldn’t,” Kivrin said. She confiscated the bell and spread another fur over them. Kivrin crawled in next to the little girl. Agnes pushed her small body against Kivrin.
“Once there was a wicked cat,” Agnes said, yawning. “Her father told her not to go into the forest, but she heeded him not.” She fought valiantly against falling asleep, rubbing her eyes and making up adventures for the wicked cat, but the darkness and the warmth of the heavy fur finally overcame her.
Kivrin continued to lie there, waiting till her breathing became light and steady, and then gently extricated Blackie from Agnes’s grip and laid him in the straw.
Agnes frowned in her sleep and reached for him, and Kivrin wrapped her arms around her. She should get up and go look for Gawyn. The rendezvous was in less than a week.
Agnes stirred and snuggled closer, her hair against Kivrin’s cheek.
And how will I leave you? Kivrin thought. And Rosemund? And Father Roche? And fell asleep.
When she woke, it was nearly light and Rosemund had crawled in beside Agnes. Kivrin left them sleeping, and crept down from the loft and across the gray courtyard, afraid she had missed the bell for mass, but Gawyn was still holding forth by the fire, and the bishop’s envoy was still sitting in the high seat, listening to Lady Imeyne.
The monk was sitting in the corner with his arm around Maisry, but the clerk was nowhere to be seen. He must have passed out and been put to bed.
The children must also have been put to bed, and some of the women had apparently gone up to the loft to rest. Kivrin didn’t see Sir Bloet’s sister or the sister-in-law from Dorset.
“‘Halt, knave!’ I cried,” Gawyn said. “‘For I would fight you in fair combat.’” Kivrin wondered if this was still the Rescue or one of Sir Lancelot’s adventures. It was impossible to tell, and if the purpose of it was to impress Eliwys, it was to no avail. She wasn’t in the hall. What was left of Gawyn’s audience didn’t seem impressed either. Two of them were playing a desultory game of dice on the bench between them, and Sir Bloet was asleep, his chin on his massive chest.
Kivrin obviously hadn’t missed any opportunities to speak to Gawyn by falling asleep, and from the look of things there wouldn’t be any for some time. She might as well have stayed in the loft with Agnes. She was going to have to make an opportunity—waylay Gawyn on his way to the privy or catch up to him on the way to mass and whisper, “Meet me afterwards in the stable.”
The churchmen didn’t look like they’d leave unless the wine gave out, but it was risky to cut it too close. The men might take a notion to go hunting tomorrow, or the weather might change, and whether the bishop’s envoy and his flunkies left or not it was still only five days to the rendezvous. No, four. It was already Christmas.
“He aimed a savage blow,” Gawyn said, standing up to illustrate, “and had it driven down as earnestly as he feinted, my head would have been cloven in twain.”
“Lady Katherine,” Imyene said. She had stood up and was beckoning to Kivrin. The bishop’s envoy was looking interestedly at her, and her heart began to pound, wondering what mischief they had cooked up between them now, but before Kivrin could cross the hall, Imeyne left him and came across to her, carrying a linen-wrapped bundle.
“I would have you carry these to Father Roche for the mass,” she said, folding the linen back so Kivrin could see the wax candles inside. “Bid him put these on the altar and say to him to pinch not the flames from the candles, for it breaks the wick. Bid him prepare the church that the bishop’s envoy may say the Christmas mass. I would have the church look like a place of the Lord, not a pig’s sty. And bid him put on a clean robe.”
So you get your proper mass after all, Kivrin thought, hurrying across the courtyard and along the passageway. And you’ve got rid of me. All you need now is to get rid of Roche, persuade the bishop’s envoy to demote him or take him to Bicester Abbey.
There was no one on the green. The dying bonfire flickered palely in the gray light, and the snow that had melted around it was refreezing in icy puddles. The villagers must have gone to bed, and she wondered if Father Roche had, too, but there was no smoke from his house and no answer to her knock on the door. She went along the path and in the side door of the church. It was still dark inside, and colder than it had been at midnight.
“Father Roche,” Kivrin called softly, groping her way to the statue of St. Katherine.
He didn’t answer, but she could hear the murmur of his voice. He was behind the rood screen, kneeling in front of the altar.
“Guide those who have travelled far this night safely home and protect them from danger and illness along the way,” he said, and his soft voice reminded her of the night in the sickroom when she had been so ill, steady and comforting through the flames. And of Mr. Dunworthy. She didn’t call to him again, but stayed where she was, leaning against the icy statue and listening to his voice in the darkness.
“Sir Bloet and his family came from Courcy to the mass, and all their servants,” he said, “and Theodulf Freeman from Henefelde. The snow stopped yestereve, and the skies showed clear for the night of Christ’s holy birth,” he went on in that matter-of-fact voice that sounded just like she did, praying into the corder. The attendance tally for the mass and the weather report.
Light was beginning to come in through the windows now, and she could see him through the filigreed rood screen, his robe threadbare and dirty around the hem, his face coarse and cruel– looking in comparison to the aristocratic envoy, the thin-faced clerk.
“This blessed night as the mass ended a messenger from the bishop came and with him two priests, all three of great learning and goodness,” Roche prayed.
Don’t be fooled by the gold and fancy clothes, Kivrin thought. You’re worth ten of them. “The bishop’s envoy will say the Christmas mass,” Imeyne had said and didn’t seem to be troubled at all by the fact that he hadn’t fasted or bothered to come to the church to prepare for the mass himself. You’re worth fifty of them, Kivrin thought. A hundred.
“There is word from Oxenford of
illness. Tord the Cottar fares better, though I bade him not come so far to the mass. Uctreda was too weak to come to the mass. I took her soup, but she ate it not. Walthef fell vomiting after the dancing from too much ale. Gytha burned her hand upon the bonfire in plucking a brand from it. I shall not fear, though the last days come, the days of wrath and the final judgment, for You have sent much help.”
Much help. He wouldn’t have any help if she stood here listening much longer. The sun was up now and in the rose and gold light from the windows she could see the drippings down the sides of the candlesticks, the tarnish on their bases, a big blot of wax on the altarcloth. The day of wrath and the final judgment would be the right words for what would happen if the church looked like this when Imeyne marched in to mass.
“Father Roche,” she said.
Roche turned immediately and then tried to stand up, his legs obviously stiff with the cold. He looked startled, even frightened, and Kivrin said quickly, “It’s Katherine,” and moved forward into the light of one of the windows so he could see her.
He crossed himself, still looking frightened, and she wondered if he had been half-dozing at his prayers and was still not awake.
“Lady Imeyne sent me with candles,” she said, coming around the rood screen to him. “She bade me tell you to set them in the silver candlesticks on either side of the altar. She bade me tell you—” She stopped, ashamed to be delivering Imeyne’s edicts. “I have come to help you prepare the church for mass. What would you have me do? Shall I polish the candlesticks?” She held out the candles to him.
He didn’t take the candles or say anything, and she frowned, wondering if in her eagerness to protect him from Imeyne’s wrath she had broken some rule. Women were not allowed to touch the elements or the vessels of the mass. Perhaps they weren’t allowed to handle the candlesticks either.
“Am I not allowed to help?” she asked. “Should I not have come into the chancel?”
Roche seemed suddenly to come to himself. “There is nowhere God’s servants may not go,” he said. He took the candles from her and laid them on the altar. “But such a one as you should not do such humble work.”
“It is God’s work,” she said briskly. She took the half– burned candles out of the heavy branched candlestick. Wax had dripped down the sides. “We’ll need some sand,” she said, “and a knife to scrape the wax off.”
He went to get them immediately, and while he was gone, she hastily took the candles down from the rood screen and replaced them with tallow ones.
He came in with the sand, a fistful of filthy rags, and a poor excuse for a knife. But it cut through wax, and Kivrin started in on the altarcloth, scraping at the spot of wax, worried that they might not have much time. The bishop’s envoy hadn’t looked in any hurry to heave himself out of the high seat and prepare for the mass, but who knew how long he could hold out against Imeyne.
I don’t have any time either, she thought, starting on the candlesticks. She had told herself there was plenty of time, but she had spent the entire night actively pursuing Gawyn and hadn’t even got close to him. And tomorrow he might decide to go hunting or Rescuing Fair Maidens, or the bishop’s envoy and his flunkies might drink up all the wine and set off in search of more, dragging her with them.
“There is nowhere God’s servants may not go,” Roche had said. Except to the drop, she thought. Except home.
She scrubbed viciously with the wet sand at some wax imbedded in the rim of the candlestick, and a piece flew off and hit the candle Roche was scraping. “I’m sorry,” she said, “Lady Imeyne—” and then stopped.
There was no point in telling him she was being sent away. If he tried to intercede for her with Lady Imeyne it would only make it worse, and she didn’t want him shipped off to Osney or worse for trying to help her.
He was waiting for her to finish her sentence. “Lady Imeyne bade me tell you the bishop’s envoy will say the Christmas mass,” she said.
“It will be a blessing to hear such holiness on the birthday of Christ Jesus,” he said, setting down the polished chalice.
The birthday of Christ Jesus. She tried to envision St. Mary the Virgin’s as it would look this morning, the music and the warmth, the laser candles glittering in the stainless steel candlesticks, but it was like something she had only imagined, dim and unreal.
She stood the candlesticks on either side of the altar. They shone dully in the multicolored light of the windows. She set three of Imeyne’s candles in them and moved the left on a little closer to the altar so they were even.
There was nothing she could do about Roche’s robe, which Imeyne knew full well was the only one he had. He had got wet sand on his sleeve, and she wiped it off with her hand.
“I must go wake Agnes and Rosemund for the mass,” she said, brushing at the front of his robe, and then went on almost without meaning to, “Lady Imeyne has asked the bishop’s envoy to take me with them to the nunnery at Godstow.”
“God has sent you to this place to help us,” he said. “He will not let you be taken from it.”
I wish I could believe you, Kivrin thought, going back across the green. There was still no sign of life, though smoke was coming from a couple of the roofs, and the cow had been turned out. It was nibbling the grass near the bonfire where the snow had melted. Perhaps they’re all asleep, and I can wake Gawyn and ask him where the drop is, she thought, and saw Rosemund and Agnes coming toward her. They looked considerably the worse for wear. Rosemund’s leaf-green velvet dress was covered with wisps of straw and hay dust, and Agnes had it in her hair. She broke free of Rosemund as soon as she saw Kivrin and ran up to her.
“You’re supposed to be asleep,’ Kivrin said, brushing straw from her red kirtle.
“Some men came,” Agnes said. “They wakened us.”
Kivrin looked inquiringly at Rosemund. “Has your father come?”
“Nay,” she said. “I know not who they are. I think they must be servants of the bishop’s envoy.”
They were. There were four of them, monks, though not of the class of the Cistercian monk, and two laden donkeys, and they had obviously only now caught up with their master. They unloaded two large chests while Kivrin and the girls watched, several wadmal bags, and an enormous wine cask.
“They must be planning to stay a long while,” Agnes said.
“Yes,” Kivrin said. God has sent you to this place. He will not let you be taken from it. “Come,” she said cheerfully. “I will comb your hair.”
She took Agnes inside and cleaned her up. The short nap hadn’t improved Agnes’s disposition, and she refused to stand still while Kivrin combed her hair. It took her till mass to get all the straw and most of the tangles out, and Agnes continued to whine the whole way to the church.
There had apparently been vestments as well as wine in the envoy’s luggage. The bishop’s envoy wore a black velvet chasuble over his dazzlingly white vestments, and the monk was resplendent in yards of samite and gilt embroidery. The clerk was nowhere to be seen, and neither was Father Roche, probably exiled because of his robe. Kivrin looked toward the back of the church, hoping he’d been allowed to witness all this holiness, but she couldn’t see him among the villagers.
They looked somewhat the worse for wear, too, and some of them were obviously badly hungover. As was the bishop’s envoy. He rattled through the words of the mass tonelessly and in an accent Kivrin could scarcely understand. It bore no resemblance to Father Roche’s Latin. Nor to what Latimer and the priest at Holy Reformed had taught her. The vowels were all wrong and the “c” in excelsis was almost a “z.” She thought of Latimer drilling her on the long vowels, of Holy Reformed’s priest insisting on “c as in eggshell,” on “the true Latin.”
And it was the true Latin, she thought. “I will not leave you,” he said. He said, “Be not afraid.” And I understood him.
As the mass progressed, the envoy chanted faster and faster, as if he was anxious to be done with it. Lady Imeyne didn’t
seem to notice. She looked smugly serene in the knowledge of doing good and nodded approvingly at the sermon, which seemed to be about forsaking worldly things.
As they were filing out, though, she stopped at the door of the church and looked toward the bell tower, her lips pursed in disapproval. Now what? Kivrin thought. A mote of dust on the bell?
“Saw you how the church looked, Lady Yvolde?” Imeyne said angrily to Sir Bloet’s sister over the sound of the bell. “He had set no candles in the chancel windows, but only cressets as a peasant uses.” She stopped. “I must stay behind to speak to him of this. He has disgraced our house before the bishop.”
She marched off toward the bell tower, her face set with righteous anger. And if he had set candles in the windows, Kivrin thought, they would have been the wrong kind or in the wrong place. Or he would have put them out incorrectly. She wished there were some way to warn him, but Imeyne was already halfway to the tower, and Agnes was tugging insistently on Kivrin’s hand.
“I’m tired,” she said. “I want to go to bed.”
Kivrin took Agnes to the barn, dodging among the villagers who were starting in on a second round of merrymaking. Fresh wood had been thrown on the bonfire, and several of the young women had joined hands and were dancing around it. Agnes lay down willingly in the loft, but she was up again before Kivrin made it into the house, trotting across the courtyard after her.
“Agnes,” Kivrin said sternly, her hands on her hips. “What are you doing up? You said you were tired.”
“Blackie is ill.”
“Ill?” Kivrin said. “What’s wrong with him?”
“He is ill,” Agnes repeated. She took hold of Kivrin’s hand and led her back to the barn and up to the loft. Blackie lay in the straw, a lifeless bundle. “Will you make him a poultice?”
Kivrin picked the puppy up and laid it back down gingerly. It was already stiff. “Oh, Agnes, I’m afraid it’s dead.”
Agnes squatted down and looked at it interestedly. “Grandmother’s chaplain died,” she said. “Had Blackie a fever?”
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