"It is a bell!" Agnes said delightedly, holding it up and shaking it. It was brass and round, like a horse's sleigh bell, and had a metal loop at the top.
Agnes insisted on Kivrin taking her up to the bower to fetch a ribbon to thread through it so she could wear it around her wrist for a bracelet. "My father brought me this ribbon from the fair," Agnes said, pulling it out of the chest Kivrin's clothes had been kept in. It was patchily dyed and so stiff Kivrin had trouble threading it through the hole. Even the cheapest ribbons at Woolworth's or the paper ribbons used for wrapping Christmas presents were better than this obviously treasured one.
Kivrin tied it to Agnes's wrist, and they went back downstairs. The bustle and unloading had moved inside, servants carrying chests and bedding and what looked like early versions of the carpet bag into the hall. She needn't have worried about Sir Bloet et al carrying her off. It looked like they were here for the winter at the least.
She needn't have worried about them discussing her fate, either. None of them had so much as cast a glance at her, even when Agnes insisted on going over to her mother and showing off her bracelet. Eliwys was deep in conversation with Bloet, Gawyn, and the nice-looking man, who must be a son or a nephew, and Eliwys was twisting her hands again. The news from Bath must be bad.
Lady Imeyne was at the end of the hall, talking to the stout woman and a pale-looking man in a cleric's robe, and it was clear from the expression on her face that she was complaining about Father Roche.
Kivrin took advantage of the noisy confusion to pull Rosemund away from the other girls and ask her who everyone was. The pale man was Sir Bloet's chaplain, which she had more or less figured out. The lady in the bright blue cloak was his foster- daughter. The stout woman with the starched coif was Sir Bloet's brother's wife, come up from Dorset to stay with him. The two redheaded young men and the giggling girls were all hers. Sir Bloet didn't have any children.
Which of course was why he was marrying one, with, apparently, everyone's approval. The carrying on of the line was the all-important concern in 1320. The younger the woman, the better her chance of producing enough heirs that one at least would survive to adulthood, even if its mother didn't.
The shrew with the faded red hair was, horror of horrors, Lady Yvolde, his unmarried sister. She lived at Courcy with him and, Kivrin saw, watching her shouting at poor Maisry for dropping a basket, had a bunch of keys at her belt. That meant she ran the household, or would until Easter. Poor Rosemund wouldn't stand a chance.
"Who are all the others?" Kivrin had asked, hoping there might be at least one ally for Rosemund among them.
"Servants," Rosemund said, as if it were obvious, and ran back to the girls.
There were at least twenty of them, not counting the grooms who were putting the horses up, and nobody, not even the nervous Eliwys, seemed surprised by their number. She had read that noble households had had dozens of servants, but had thought those figures must be off. Eliwys and Imeyne had scarcely any servants at all, had had to put practically the whole village to work to get ready for Yule, and although she had put part of it down to their being in trouble, she had also thought the numbers of attendants for the rural manors must have been exaggerated. They obviously weren't.
The servants swarmed over the hall, serving supper. Kivrin had not known whether they would eat an evening meal at all, since Christmas Eve was a fast day, but as soon as the pale chaplain finished reading vespers, obviously on Lady Imeyne's orders, the herd of servants trooped in with a meal of bread, watered wine, and dried cod which had been soaked in lyewater and then roasted.
Agnes was so excited she didn't eat a bite, and after supper had been cleared away, she refused to come and sit quietly by the hearth, but ran round the hall, ringing her bell and pestering the dogs.
Sir Bloet's servants and the steward brought in the Yule log and dumped it on the hearth, scattering sparks everywhere. The women stepped back, laughing, and the children screamed with delight. Rosemund, as eldest child of the house, lit the log with a faggot saved from the Yule log the year before, touching it gingerly to the tip of one of the crooked roots. There was laughter and applause when it caught, and Agnes waved her arm wildly to make her bell ring.
Rosemund had said earlier that the children were allowed to stay up for the mass at midnight, but Kivrin had hoped she could at least coax Agnes to lie down on the bench beside her and take a nap. Instead, as the evening progressed, Agnes got wilder and wilder, shrieking and ringing her bell till Kivrin had to take it away from her.
The women sat down by the hearth, talking quietly. The men stood in little groups, their arms folded across their chests, and several times they all went outside, except for the chaplain, and came back in stamping the snow off their feet and laughing. It was obvious from their red faces and Imeyne's look of disapproval that they had been out in the brewhouse with a keg of ale, breaking their fast.
When they came in the third time, Bloet sat down across the hearth and stretched out his legs to the fire, watching the girls. The three gigglers and Rosemund were playing Blind Man's Bluff. When Rosemund, blindfolded, came close to the benches, Bloet reached out and pulled her onto his lap. Everyone laughed.
Imeyne spent the long evening sitting by the chaplain, reciting her grievances against Father Roche to him. He was ignorant, he was clumsy, he had said the Confiteor before the Adjutorum during the mass last Sunday. And he was out there in that ice-cold church on his knees, Kivrin thought, while the chaplain warmed his hands at the fire and nodded disapprovingly.
The fire died down to glowing embers. Rosemund slid off Bloet's lap and ran back to the game. Gawyn told the story of how he had killed six wolves, watching Eliwys the whole time. The chaplain told a story about a dying woman who made false confession. When the chaplain had touched her forehead with the holy oil, her skin had smoked and turned black before his eyes.
Halfway through the chaplain's story, Gawyn stood up, rubbed his hands over the fire and went over to the beggar's bench. He sat down and pulled off his boot.
After a minute, Eliwys stood up and went over to him. Kivrin couldn't hear what she said to him, but he stood up, the boot still in his hand.
"The trial is once more delayed," Kivrin heard Gawyn say. "The judge who was to hear it is taken ill."
She couldn't hear Eliwys's answer, but Gawyn nodded, and said, "It is good news. The new judge is from Swindone and less kindly disposed to King Edward," but neither of them looked like it was good news. Eliwys was nearly as white as she had been when Imeyne told her she'd sent Gawyn to Courcy.
She twisted her heavy ring. Gawyn sat down again, brushed the rushes from the bottom of his hose, and pulled the boot on, and then looked up again and said something. Eliwys turned her head aside and Kivrin couldn't see her expression for the shadows, but she could see Gawyn's.
And so could anyone else in the hall, Kivrin thought, and looked hastily around to see if the couple had been observed. Imeyne was deep in complaint with the chaplain, but Sir Bloet's sister was watching, her mouth tight with disapproval, and so, on the opposite side of the fire, were Bloet and the other men.
Kivrin had hoped she might have a chance to speak with Gawyn tonight, but she obviously could not among all these watchful people. A bell rang, and Eliwys started and looked toward the door.
"It is the devil's knell," the chaplain said quietly, and even the children stopped their games to listen.
In some villages the contemps had rung the bell once for each year since the birth of Christ. In most it had only been tolled for the hour before midnight, and Kivrin doubted whether Roche, or even the chaplain, could count high enough to toll the years, but she began keeping count anyway, thinking, Gilchrist told me to do a temporal check as soon as possible.
Three servants came in, bearing logs and kindling, and replenished the fire. It flared up brightly, throwing huge, distorted shadows on the walls. Agnes jumped up and pointed, and one of Sir Bloet's nephews made a rabbit with
his hands.
Mr. Latimer had told her that the contemps had read the future in the Yule log's shadows. She wondered what the future held for them, Lord Guillaume in trouble and all of them in danger.
The king had forfeited the lands and property of convicted criminals. They might be forced to live in France or to accept charity from Sir Bloet and endure snubs from the steward's wife.
Or Lord Guillaume might come home tonight with good news and a falcon for Agnes, and they would all live happily ever after. Except Eliwys. And Rosemund. What would happen to her?
It's already happened, Kivrin thought wonderingly. The verdict is already in and Lord Guillaume's come home and found out about Gawyn and Eliwys. Rosemund's already been handed over to Sir Bloet. And Agnes has grown up and married and died in childbirth, or of blood poisoning, or cholera, or pneumonia.
They've all died, she thought, and couldn't make herself believe it. They've all been dead over seven hundred years.
"Look!" Agnes shrieked. "Rosemund has no head!" She pointed to the distorted shadows the fire cast on the walls as it flared up. Rosemund's, oddly elongated, ended at the shoulders.
One of the red-headed boys ran over to Agnes. "I have no head either!" he said, jumping on tiptoe to change the shadow's shape.
"You have no head, Rosemund," Agnes shouted happily. "You will die ere the year is out."
"Say not such things," Eliwys said, starting toward her. Everyone looked up.
"Kivrin has a head," Agnes said. "I have a head, but poor Rosemund has none."
Eliwys caught hold of Agnes by both arms. "Those are but foolish games," she said. "Say not such things."
"The shadow -- " Agnes said, looking like she was going to cry.
"Sit you down by Lady Katherine and be still," Eliwys said. She brought her over to Kivrin and almost pushed her onto the bench. "You are grown too wild."
Agnes huddled next to Kivrin, trying to decide whether to cry or not. Kivrin had lost count, but she picked up where she had left off. Forty-six, forty-seven.
"I want my bell," Agnes said, climbing off the bench.
"Nay, we must sit quietly," Kivrin said. She took Agnes onto her lap.
"Tell me of Christmas."
"I can't, Agnes. I can't remember."
"Do you remember naught that you can tell me?"
I remember it all, Kivrin thought. The shops are full of ribbons, satin and mylar and velvet, red and gold and blue, brighter even than my woad-dyed cloak, and there's light everywhere and music. Great Tom and Magdalen's bells and Christmas carols.
She thought of the Carfax carillon, trying to play "It Came Upon the Midnight Clear," and the tired old piped in carols in the shops along the High. Those carols haven't even been written yet, Kivrin thought, and felt a sudden wash of homesickness.
"I would ring my bell," Agnes said, struggling to get off Kivrin's lap. "Give it to me." She held out her wrist.
"I will tie it on if you will lie down a little on the bench beside me," Kivrin said.
She started to pucker up into a pout again. "Must I sleep?"
"No. I will tell you a story," Kivrin said, untying the bell from her own wrist, where she had put it for safekeeping. "Once -- " she said and then stopped, wondering if 'once upon a time' dated as far back as 1320 and what sort of stories the contemps told their children. Stories about wolves and about witches whose skin turned black when they were given extreme unction.
"There once was a maiden," she said, tying the bell on Agnes's chubby wrist. The red ribbon had already begun to fray at the edges. It wouldn't tolerate many more knottings and unknottings. She bent over it. "A maiden who lived -- "
"Is this the maiden?" a woman's voice said.
Kivrin looked up. It was Bloet's sister Yvolde, with Imeyne behind her. She stared at Kivrin, her mouth pinched with disapproval, and then shook her head.
"Nay, this is not Uluric's daughter," she said. "That maid was short and dark."
"Nor de Ferrers' ward?" Imeyne said.
"She is dead," Yvolde said. "Do you remember naught of who you are?" she asked Kivrin.
"Nay, good lady," Kivrin said, remembering too late that she was supposed to keep her eyes modestly on the floor.
"She was struck upon the head," Agnes volunteered.
"Yet you remember your name and how to speak. Are you of good family?"
"I do not remember my family, good lady," she said, trying to keep her voice meek.
She sniffed. "She sounds of the west. Have you sent to Bath for news?"
"Nay," Imeyne said. "My son's wife would wait on his arrival. You have heard naught from Oxenford?"
"Nay, but there is much illness there," Yvolde said.
Rosemund came up. "Know you Lady Katherine's family, Lady Yvolde?" she asked.
Yvolde turned her pinched look on her. "Nay. Where is the brooch my brother gave you?"
"I ... 'tis on my cloak," Rosemund stammered.
"Do you not honor his gifts enough to wear them?"
"Go and fetch it," Lady Imeyne said. "I would see this brooch."
Rosemund's chin went up, but she went over to the outer wall where the cloaks hung.
"She shows as little eagerness for my brother's gifts as for his presence," Yvolde said. "She spoke not once to him at supper."
Rosemund came back, carrying her green cloak with the brooch pinned to it. She showed it wordlessly to Imeyne. "I would see it," Agnes said, and Rosemund bent down to show her.
The brooch had red stones set on a round gold ring, and the pin in the center. It had no hinge, but had to be pulled up and stuck through the garment. Letters ran around the outside of the ring: "Io suiicen lui dami amo."
"What does it say?" Agnes said, pointing to the letters ringing the gold circle.
"I know not," Rosemund said in a tone that clearly meant, "And I don't care."
Yvolde's jaw tightened, and Kivrin said hastily, "It says, 'You are here in place of the friend I love,' Agnes," and then realized sickly what she had done. She looked up at Imeyne, but Imeyne didn't seem to have noticed anything.
"Such words should be on your breast instead of hanging on a peg," Imeyne said. She took the brooch and pinned it to the front of Rosemund's kirtle.
"And you should be at my brother's side as befits his betrothed," Yvolde said, "instead of playing childish games." She extended her hand in the direction of the hearth where Bloet was sitting, nearly asleep and obviously the worse for all the trips outside, and Rosemund looked beseechingly at Kivrin.
"Go and thank Sir Bloet for such a generous gift," Imeyne said coldly.
Rosemund handed Kivrin her cloak and started toward the hearth.
"Come, Agnes," Kivrin said. "You must rest."
"I would stay up for the devil's knell," Agnes said.
"Lady Katherine," Yvolde said, and there was an odd emphasis on the word, 'Lady,' "you told us you remembered naught. Yet you read Lady Rosemund's brooch with ease. Can you read, then?"
I can read, Kivrin thought, but fewer than a third of the contemps could, and even fewer of women.
She glanced at Imeyne, who was looking at her the way she had the first morning she was here, fingering her clothes and examining her hands.
"No," Kivrin said, looking Yvolde directly in the eye, "I fear I cannot read even the Paternoster. Your brother told us what the words meant when he gave the brooch to Rosemund."
"Nay, he did not," Agnes said.
"You were looking at your bell," Kivrin said, thinking, Lady Yvolde will never believe that, she'll ask him and he'll say he never spoke to me.
But Yvolde seemed satisfied. "I did not think such a one as she would be able to read," she said to Imeyne. She gave her her hand, and they walked over to Sir Bloet.
Kivrin sank down on the bench.
"I would have my bell," Agnes said.
"I will not tie it on unless you lie down."
Agnes crawled into her lap. "You must tell me the story first. Once there was a maiden."
>
"Once there was a maiden," Kivrin said. She looked at Imeyne and Yvolde. They had sat down next to Sir Bloet and were talking to Rosemund. She said something, her chin up and her cheeks very red. Sir Bloet laughed, and his hand closed over the brooch and then slid down over Rosemund's breast.
"Once there was a maiden -- " Agnes said insistently.
" -- who lived at the edge of a great forest," Kivrin said. "'Do not go into the forest alone,' her father said-"
"But she would not heed him," Agnes said, yawning.
"No, she wouldn't heed him. Her father loved her and cared only for her safety, but she wouldn't listen to him."
"What was in the woods?" Agnes asked, nestling against Kivrin.
Kivrin pulled Rosemund's cloak up over her. Cutthroats and thieves, she thought. And lecherous old men and their shrewish sisters. And illicit lovers. And husbands. And judges. "All sorts of dangerous things."
"Wolves," Agnes said sleepily.
"Yes, wolves." She looked at Imeyne and Yvolde. They had moved away from Sir Bloet and were watching her, whispering.
"What happened to her?" Agnes said sleepily, her eyes already closing.
Kivrin cradled her close. "I don't know," she murmured. "I don't know."
CHAPTER TWENTY
Agnes could not have been asleep more than five minutes before the devil's knell began to ring.
"Father Roche begins too soon. It is not midnight yet," Lady Imeyne said, and it wasn't even out of her mouth before the other bells started: Wychlade and Bureford and, far way to the east, too far to be more than a breath of an echo, the bell of Oxford.
There are the Osney bells, and there's Carfax, Kivrin thought, and wondered if they were ringing at home tonight, too.
Sir Bloet heaved himself to his feet and then helped his sister up. One of their servants hurried in with their cloaks and a squirrel-fur-lined mantle. The chattering girls pulled their cloaks from the pile and fastened them, still chattering. Lady Imeyne shook Maisry, who'd fallen asleep on the beggar's bench, and told her to fetch her Book of Hours, and Maisry shuffled off to the loft ladder, yawning. Rosemund came over and reached with exaggerated carefulness for her cloak, which had slid off Agnes's shoulders.
Willis, Connie - Doomsday Book (v2.1) Page 34
