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?"
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 shoebox 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 has to 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 it 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 it 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 it 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."
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
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'm 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 not!"
Rosemund ran up beside her. "Lady Katherine! Did you not hear me? Mother wants you. The bishop's env
oy 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 Bernecestre tomorrow."
Bernecestre. Bicester. At least it wasn't Godstow. But Godstow was along the way. "What business?"
"I know not," Rosemund said, as if it were unimportant, and Kivrin supposed for her it was. Sir Bloet was leaving, and that was all that mattered. Rosemund plunged happily through the melee 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.
Willis, Connie - Doomsday Book (v2.1) Page 40
