The Doomsday Book

by Connie Willis

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 dirty 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 Re-Formed 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 Re-Formed’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 had said. He had said, “Be not afraid.” And I understood him.

  As the mass progressed, the envoy chanted faster and faster, as if he were 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 blown 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 would 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 bam 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 him back down gingerly. He was already stiff. “Oh, Agnes, I’m afraid he’s dead.”

  Agnes squatted down and looked at him interestedly. “Grandmother’s chaplain died,” she said. “Had Blackie a fever?”

  Blackie had too much handling, Kivrin thought. He had been passed from hand to hand, squeezed, trodden on, half choked. Killed with kindness. And on Christmas, though Agnes didn’t seem particularly upset.

  “Will there be a funeral?” she asked, putting out a tentative finger to Blackie’s ear.

  No, Kivrin thought. There hadn’t been any shoe-box burials in the Middle Ages. The contemps had disposed of dead animals by tossing them into the underbrush, by dumping them in a stream. “We will bury him in the woods,” she said, though she had no idea how they would manage that with the ground frozen. “Under a tree.”

  For the first time, Agnes looked unhappy. “Father Roche must bury Blackie in the churchyard,” she said.

  Father Roche would do nearly anything for Agnes, but Kivrin couldn’t imagine him agreeing to Christian burial for an animal. The idea of pets being creatures with souls hadn’t become popular until the nineteenth century, and even the Victorians hadn’t demanded Christian burial for their dogs and cats.

  “I will say the prayers for the dead,” Kivrin said.

  “Father Roche must bury him in the churchyard,” Agnes said, her face puckering. “And then he must ring the bell.”

  “We cannot bury him until after Christmas,” Kivrin said hastily. “After Christmas I will ask Father Roche what to do.”

  She wondered what she should do with the body for now. She couldn’t leave him lying there where the girls slept. “Come, we will take Blackie below,” she said. She picked up the puppy, trying not to grimace, and took him down the ladder.

  She looked around for a box or a bag to put Blackie in, but she couldn’t find anything. She finally laid him in a corner behind a scythe and had Agnes bring handfuls of straw to cover him with.

  Agnes flung the straw on him. “If Father Roche does not ring the bell for Blackie, he will not go to heaven,” she said, and burst into tears.

  It took Kivrin half an hour to calm her down again. She rocked her in her arms, wiping her streaked face and saying “Shh, shh.”

  She could hear noise from the courtyard. She wondered if the Christmas merrymaking had moved into the courtyard. Or if the men were going hunting. She could hear the whinny of horses.

  “Let’s go see what’s happening in the courtyard,” she said. “Perhaps your father is here.”

  Agnes sat up, wiping her nose. “I would tell him of Blackie,” she said, and got off Kivrin’s lap.

  They went outside. The courtyard was full of people and horses. “What are they doing?” Agnes asked.

  “I don’t know,” Kivrin said, but it was all too clear what they were doing. Cob was leading the envoy’s white stallion out of the stable, and the servants were carrying out the bags and boxes they had carried in early this morning. Lady Eliwys stood at the door, looking anxiously into the courtyard.

  “Are they leaving?” Agnes asked.

  “No,” Kivrin said. No. They can’t be leaving. I don’t know where the drop is.

  The monk came out, dressed in his white habit and his cloak. Cob went back into the stable and came out again, leading the mare Kivrin had ridden when they went to find the holly, and carrying a saddle.

  “They are leaving,” Agnes said.

  “I know,” Kivrin said. “I can see that they are.”

  23

  Kivrin grabbed Agnes’s hand and started back to the safety of the barn. She must hide until they were gone. “Where are we going?” Agnes asked.

  Kivrin darted around two of Sir Bloet’s servants carrying a chest. “To the loft.”

  Agnes stopped cold. “I do not wish to lie down!” she wailed. “I am not tired!”

  “Lady Katherine!” someone called from across the courtyard.

  Kivrin scooped Agnes up and started rapidly for the barn. “I am not tired!” Agnes shrieked. “I am nor!”

  Rosemund ran up beside her. “Lady Katherine! Did you not hear me? Mother wants you. The bishop’s envoy is leaving.” She took hold of Kivrin’s arm and turned her back toward the house.

  Eliwys was still standing in the door, watching them now, and the bishop’s envoy had come out and was standing beside her in his red cloak. Kivrin couldn’t see Imeyne anywhere. She was probably inside, packing Kivrin’s clothes.

  “The bishop’s envoy has urgent business at the priory at Bernecestre,” Rosemund said, leading Kivrin to the house, “and Sir Bloet goes with them.” She smiled happily at Kivrin. “Sir Bloet says he will accompany them to Courcy that they may lie there tonight and arrive in Bernescestre tomorrow.”

  Bernecestre. Bicester. At least it wasn’t Godstow. But Godstow was along the way. “What business?”

  “I know not,” Rosemund said, as if i
t were unimportant, and Kivrin supposed for her it was. Sir Bloet was leaving, and that was all that mattered. Rosemund plunged happily through the melée of servants and baggage and horses toward her mother.

  The bishop’s envoy was speaking to one of his servants, and Eliwys was watching him, frowning. Neither of them would see her if she turned and walked rapidly back behind the open doors of the stable, but Rosemund still had hold of her sleeve and was pulling her forward.

  “Rosemund, I must go back to the barn. I have left my cloak—” she began.

  “Mother!” Agnes cried and ran toward Eliwys and nearly into one of the horses. It whinnied and tossed its head, and a servant dived for its bridle.

  “Agnes!” Rosemund shouted and let go of Kivrin’s sleeve, but it was too late. Eliwys and the bishop’s envoy had already seen them and started over to them.

  “You must not run among the horses,” Eliwys said, catching Agnes against her.

  “My hound is dead,” Agnes said.

  “That is no reason to run,” Eliwys said, and Kivrin knew she hadn’t even heard her. Eliwys turned back to the bishop’s envoy.

  “Tell your husband we are grateful for the loan of your horses, that ours may be rested for the journey to Bernecestre,” he said, and he sounded distracted, too. “I will send them from Courcy with a servant.”

  “Would you see my hound?” Agnes said, tugging on her mother’s skirt.

  “Hush,” Eliwys said.

  “My clerk does not ride with us this afternoon,” he said. “I fear he made too merry yestereve and feels now the pains of too much drink. I beg you indulgence, good lady, that he may stay and follow when he is recovered.”

  “Of course he may stay,” Eliwys said. “Is there aught we can do to help him? My husband’s mother—”

  “Nay. Leave him be. There is naught can help an aching head save sleep. He will be well by evening,” he said, looking like he had made too merry himself. He seemed nervous, inattentive, as if he had a splitting headache, and his aristocratic face was gray in the bright morning light. He shivered and pulled his cloak around him.

  He hadn’t so much as glanced at Kivrin, and she wondered if he had forgotten his promise to Lady Imeyne in his haste. She looked anxiously toward the gate, hoping Imeyne was still chastising Roche and wouldn’t suddenly appear to remind him of it.

  “I regret that my husband is not here,” Eliwys said, “and that we could not give you better welcome. My husband—”

  “I must see to my servants,” he interrupted. He held out his hand and Eliwys dropped to one knee and kissed his ring. Before she could rise, he had stridden off toward the stable. Eliwys looked after him worriedly.

  “Do you wish to see him?” Agnes said.

  “Not now,” Eliwys said. “Rosemund, you must make your farewells to Sir Bloet and Lady Yvolde.”

  “He is cold,” Agnes said.

  Eliwys turned to Kivrin. “Lady Katherine, know you where Lady Imeyne is?”

  “She stayed behind in the church,” Rosemund said.

  “Perhaps she is still at her prayers,” Eliwys said. She stood on tiptoe and scanned the crowded courtyard. “Where is Maisry?”

  Hiding, Kivrin thought, which is what I should be doing.

  “Would you have me seek for her?” Rosemund asked.

  “Nay,” Eliwys said. “You must bid Sir Bloet farewell. Lady Katherine, go and fetch Lady Imeyne from the church that she may bid the bishop’s envoy good-bye. Rosemund, why do you still stand there? You must bid your betrothed farewell.”

  “I will find Lady Imeyne,” Kivrin said, thinking, I’ll go out through the passage, and if she’s still in the church, I’ll duck behind the huts and go into the woods.

  She turned to go. Two of Sir Bloet’s servants were struggling with a heavy chest. They set it down with a thunk in front of her, and it tipped over onto its side. She backed up and started around them, trying to keep from walking behind the horses.

  “Wait!” Rosemund said, catching up with her. She caught hold of her sleeve. “You must come with me to bid Sir Bloet farewell.”

  “Rosemund—” Kivrin said, looking toward the passage. Any second Lady Imeyne would come through there, clutching her Book of Hours.

  “Please,” Rosemund said. She looked pale and frightened.

  “Rosemund—”

  “It will but take a moment and then you can fetch Grandmother.” She pulled Kivrin over to the stable. “Come. Now, while his sister-in-law is with him.”

  Sir Bloet was standing watching his horse being saddled and talking to the lady with the amazing coif. It was no less enormous this morning, but had obviously been put on hastily. It listed sharply to one side.

  “What is this urgent business of the bishop’s envoy?” she was saying.

  He shook his head, frowning, and then smiled at Rosemund and stepped forward. She stepped back, holding tightly to Kivrin’s arm.

  His sister-in-law bobbed her wimple at Rosemund and went on, “Has he had news from Bath?”

  “There has been no messenger last night or this morning,” he said.

  “If there has been no message, why spoke he not of this urgent business when first he came?” the sister-in-law said.

  “I know not,” he said impatiently. “Hold. I must bid my betrothed farewell.” He reached for Rosemund’s hand, and Kivrin could see the effort it took her not to pull it back.

  “Farewell, Sir Bloet,” she said stiffly.

  “Is that how you would part from your husband?” he asked. “Will you not give him a farewell kiss?”

  Rosemund stepped forward and kissed him rapidly on the cheek, then stepped immediately back and out of his reach. “I thank you for your gift of the brooch,” she said.

  Bloet dropped his gaze from her white face to the neck of her cloak. “ ‘You are here in place of the friend I love,’ ” he said, fingering it.

  Agnes ran up, shouting, “Sir Bloet! Sir Bloet!” and he caught her and swung her up into his arms.

  “I have come to bid you good-bye,” she said. “My hound died.”

  “I will bring you a hound for a wedding gift,” he said, “if you will give me a kiss.”

  Agnes flung her arms around his neck and planted a noisy kiss on each red cheek.

  “You are not so chary of your kisses as your sister,” he said, looking at Rosemund. He set Agnes down. “Or will you give your husband two kisses as well?”

  Rosemund didn’t say anything.

  He stepped forward and fingered the brooch. “ ‘Io suiicien lui dami amo,’ ” he said. He put his hands on her shoulders. “You must think of me whenever you wear my brooch.” He leaned forward and kissed her throat.

  Rosemund didn’t flinch away from him, but the color drained out of her face.

  He released her. “I will come for you at Eastertide,” he said, and it sounded like a threat.

  “Will you bring me a black hound?” Agnes said.

  Lady Yvolde came up to them, demanding “What have your servants done with my traveling cloak?”

  “I will fetch it,” Rosemund said and darted off toward the house with Kivrin still in tow.

  As soon as they were safely away from Sir Bloet, Kivrin said, “I must find Lady Imeyne. Look, they are nearly ready to leave.”

  It was true. The jumble of servants and boxes and horses had resolved itself into a procession, and Cob had opened the gate. The horses the three kings had ridden in on the night before were loaded with their chests and bags, their reins tied together. Sir Bloet’s sister-in-law and her daughters were already mounted, and the bishop’s envoy was standing beside Eliwys’s mare, tightening the cinch on the saddle.

  Only a few more minutes, Kivrin thought, let her stay in the church a few more minutes, and they’ll be gone.

  “Your mother bade me find Lady Imeyne,” Kivrin said.

  “You must come with me into the hall first,” Rosemund said. Her hand on Kivrin’s arm was still trembling.

  “Rosemund,
there isn’t any time—”

  “Please,” she said. “What if he comes into the hall and finds me?”

  Kivrin thought of Sir Bloet kissing her on the throat. “I will come with you,” she said, “but we must hurry.”

  They ran across the courtyard, through the door, and nearly into the fat monk. He was coming down the steps from the bower, and looked angry or hungover. He went out through the screens without a glance at either of them.

  There was no one else in the hall. The table was still covered with cups and platters of meat, and the fire was burning smokily, untended.

  “Lady Yvolde’s cloak is in the loft,” Rosemund said. “Wait for me.” She scrambled up the ladder as though Sir Bloet were after her.

  Kivrin went back to the screens and looked out. She couldn’t see the passageway. The bishop’s envoy was standing over by Eliwys’s mare with one hand on the pommel of its saddle, listening to the monk, who was leaning close as he spoke. Kivrin glanced up the stairs at the shut door of the bower, wondering if the clerk was truly hungover or had had some sort of falling out with his superior. The monk’s gestures were obviously upset.

  “Here it is,” Rosemund said, climbing down, clutching the cloak in one hand and the ladder in the other. “I would have you take it to Lady Yvolde. It will take but a minute.”

  It was the chance she’d been waiting for. “I will,” she said, took the heavy cloak from Rosemund, and started out. As soon as she was outside, she would give the cloak to the nearest servant to deliver to Bloet’s sister and head straight for the passageway. Let her stay in the church a few more minutes, she prayed. Let me make it to the green. She stepped out of the door, into Lady Imeyne.

  “Why are you not ready to leave?” Imeyne said, looking at the cloak in her arms. “Where is your cloak?”

  Kivrin shot a glance at the bishop’s envoy. He had both hands on the pommel and was stepping onto Cob’s linked hands. The friar was already mounted.

  “My cloak is in the church,” Kivrin said. “I will fetch it.”

  “There is no time. They are departing.”

  Kivrin looked desperately around the courtyard, but they were all out of reach: Eliwys standing with Gawyn by the stable, Agnes talking animatedly to one of Sir Bloet’s nieces, Rosemund nowhere to be seen, presumably still in the house hiding.