The Doomsday Book

by Connie Willis

  The village was obviously getting ready for Christmas. Smoke was coming from every hut, and two men were at the far end of the green, chopping wood and throwing it onto an already huge pile. A large, blackened chunk of meat—the goat?—was roasting over a spit beside the steward’s house. The steward’s wife was in front, milking the bony cow Kivrin had leaned against the day she tried to find the drop. She and Mr. Dunworthy had had a fight over whether she needed to learn to milk. She had told him no cows were milked in winter in the 1300s, that the contemps let them go dry and used goat’s milk for cheese. She had also told him goats were not meat animals.

  “Agnes!” Rosemund said furiously.

  Kivrin looked up. Agnes had come to a stop and was twisted backward in her saddle again. She obediently moved forward again, but Rosemund said, “I will wait for you no longer, ninney!” and kicked her horse into a trot, scattering the chickens and practically running down a barefoot little girl with an armload of faggots.

  “Rosemund!” Kivrin called, but she was already out of earshot, and Kivrin didn’t want to leave Agnes’s side to go after her.

  “Is your sister angry over fetching the holly?” Kivrin asked Agnes, knowing that wasn’t it, but hoping Agnes would volunteer something else.

  “She is ever cross-grained,” Agnes said. “Grandmother will be wroth that she rides so childishly.” She trotted her pony decorously across the green, a model of maturity, nodding her head to the villagers.

  The little girl Rosemund had almost run down stopped and stared at them, her mouth open. The steward’s wife looked up as they passed and smiled, and then went on milking, but the men who were cutting wood took off their caps and bowed.

  They rode past the hut where Kivrin had taken shelter the day she tried to find the drop. The hut she had sat in while Gawyn was bringing her things back to the manor.

  “Agnes,” Kivrin said, “did Father Roche go with you when you went after the Yule log?”

  “Aye,” Agnes said. “He had to bless it.”

  “Oh,” Kivrin said, disappointed. She had hoped perhaps he had gone with Gawyn to fetch her things and knew where the drop was. “Did anyone help Gawyn bring my things to the manor?”

  “Nay,” Agnes said, and Kivrin couldn’t tell whether she really knew or not. “Gawyn is very strong. He killed four wolves with his sword.”

  That sounded unlikely, but so did his rescuing a maiden in the woods. And it was obvious he would do anything if he thought it would win him Eliwys’s love, even to dragging the wagon home single-handed.

  “Father Roche is strong,” Agnes said.

  “Father Roche has gone,” Rosemund said, already off her horse. She had tied it to the lychgate, and was standing in the churchyard, her hands on her hips.

  “Have you looked in the church?” Kivrin asked.

  “Nay,” Rosemund said sullenly. “But look how cold it grows. Father Roche would have more wit than to wait here till it snows.”

  “We will look in the church,” Kivrin said, dismounting and holding her arms to Agnes. “Come on, Agnes.”

  “Nay,” Agnes said, sounding almost as stubborn as her sister, “I would wait here with Saracen.” She patted the pony’s mane.

  “Saracen will be all right,” Kivrin said. She reached for the little girl and lifted her down. “Come on, we’ll look in the church first.” She took her hand and opened the lychgate to the churchyard.

  Agnes didn’t protest, but she kept glancing anxiously over her shoulder at the horses. “Saracen likes not to be left alone.”

  Rosemund stopped in the middle of the churchyard and turned around, her hands on her hips. “What are you hiding, you wicked girl? Did you steal apples and put them in your saddlebags?”

  “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’s 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.” He was trying to bite her ear. She gave him to Rosemund, who took hold of the back of his 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 his neck, but once she was in her saddle, she wrapped him almost tenderly in the corner of her cloak and cupped him 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 St. 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 dishes 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.

&n
bsp; 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 bell tower.”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Kivrin said, taking Agnes’s 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 white 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 went over to the statue.

  The candle was set between the statue’s blocklike 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 boxlike 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 backward 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 them.

  “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?”

  16

  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 hadn’t been able to 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,” Agnes said, and let out a bloodcurdling 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.