Doomsday Book

CHAPTER TEN

The fire was out. Kivrin could still smell smoke in the room, but she knew it was from a fire burning in a hearth somewhere. It's no wonder, she thought. Chimneys didn't become extant in England until the late fourteenth century, and this is only 1320. And as soon as she had formed that thought, awareness of the rest of it came: I am in 1320, and I've been ill. I've had a fever.

For awhile she didn't think any further than that. It was peaceful to just lie there and rest. She felt worn out, as if she had come through some terrible ordeal that took all her strength. I thought they were trying to burn me at the stake, she thought. She remembered struggling against them and the flames leaping up, licking at her hands, burning her hair.

They had to cut off my hair, she thought, and wondered if that were a memory or something she had dreamed. She was too tired to raise her hand to her hair, too tired to even try to remember. I have been very ill, she thought. They gave me the last rites. "There is naught to fear," he had said. "You do but go home again." Requiscat in pace. And slept.

When she woke again, it was dark in the room, and a bell was ringing a long way off. She had the idea that it had been ringing for a long time, the way the lone bell had rung when she came through, but after a minute another one chimed in, and then one so close it seemed to be just outside the window, drowning out the others as they chimed in. Matins, Kivrin thought, and seemed to remember them ringing like that before, a ragged, out- of-tune chiming that matched the beating of her heart, but that was impossible.

She must have dreamed it. She had dreamed they were burning her at the stake. She had dreamed they cut off her hair. She had dreamed the contemps spoke a language she didn't understand.

The nearest bell stopped, and the others went on for awhile, as if glad of the opportunity to make themselves heard, and Kivrin remembered that, too. How long had she been here? It had been night, and now it was morning. It seemed like one night, but now she remembered the faces leaning over her. When the woman had brought her the cup and again when the priest had come in, and the cutthroat with him, she had been able to see them clearly, without the flicker of unsteady candlelight. And in between she remembered darkness and the smoky light of tallow lamps and the bells, ringing and stopping and ringing again.

She felt a sudden stab of panic. How long had she been lying here? What if she had been ill for weeks and had already missed the rendezvous? But that was impossible. People weren't delirious for weeks, even if they had typhoid fever, and she couldn't have typhoid fever. She had had her inoculations.

It was cold in the room, as if the fire had gone out in the night. She felt for the bed coverings, and hands came up out of the dark immediately and pulled something soft over her shoulders.

"Thank you," Kivrin said, and slept.

The cold woke her again, and she had the feeling she had only slept a few moments, though there was a little light in the room now. It came from a narrow window recessed in the stone wall. The window's shutters had been opened, and that was where the cold was coming from, too.

A woman was standing on tip-toe on the stone seat under the window, fastening a cloth over the opening. She was wearing a black robe and a white wimple and coif, and for a moment Kivrin thought, I'm in a nunnery, and then remembered that women covered their hair when they were married. Only unmarried girls wore their hair loose and uncovered.

The woman didn't look old enough to be married, or to be a nun either. There had been a woman in the room while she was ill, but that woman had been much older. When Kivrin had clutched at her hands in her delirium, they had been rough and wrinkled, and the woman's voice had been harsh with age, though perhaps that had been part of the delirium, too.

The woman leaned into the light from the window. The white coif was yellowed and it was not a robe, but a kirtle like Kivrin's, with a dark green surcote over it. It was badly dyed and looked like it had been made from a burlap sack, the weave so large Kivrin could see it easily even in the dim light. She must be a servant, then, but servants didn't wear linen wimples or carry bunches of keys like the one that hung from the woman's belt. She had to be a person of some importance, the housekeeper, perhaps.

And this was a place of importance. Probably not a castle, because the wall the bed lay up against wasn't stone — it was unfinished wood — but very likely a manor house of at least the first order of nobility, a minor baron, and possibly higher than that. The bed she was lying in was a real bed with a raised wooden frame and hangings and stiff linen sheets, not just a pallet, and the coverings were fur. The stone seat under the window had embroidered cushions in it.

The woman tied the cloth to little projections of stone on either side of the narrow window, stepped down from the windowseat and leaned over to get something. Kivrin couldn't see what it was because the bed-hangings obstructed her view. They were heavy, almost like rugs, and had been pulled back and tied with what looked like rope.

The woman straightened up again, holding a wooden bowl, and then, catching her skirts up with her free hand, stepped onto the windowseat and began brushing something thick onto the cloth. Oil, Kivrin thought. No, wax. Waxed linen used in place of glass in windows. Glass was supposed to have been common in fourteenth-century manor houses. The nobility were supposed to have carried glass windows along with the luggage and the furniture when they travelled from house to house.

I must get this on the corder, Kivrin thought, that some manor houses didn't have glass windows, and she raised her hands and pressed them together, but the effort of holding them up was too great, and she let them fall back onto the coverings.

The woman glanced over toward the bed and then turned back to the window and went on painting the cloth with long, unconcerned strokes. I must be getting better, Kivrin thought. She was right by the bed the whole time I was ill. She wondered again how long that time had been. I will have to find out, she thought, and then I must find the drop.

It couldn't be very far. If this was the village she had intended to go to, the drop wasn't more than a mile away. She tried to remember how long the trip to the village had taken. It had seemed to take a long time. The cutthroat had put her on a white horse, and it had had bells on its harness. But he wasn't a cutthroat. He was a kind-looking young man with red hair.

She would have to ask the name of the village she had been brought to, and hopefully it would be Skendgate. But even if it wasn't, she would know from the name where she was in relation to the drop. And, of course, as soon as she was a little stronger, they could show her where it was.

What is the name of this village you have brought me to? She had not been able to think of the words last night, but that was because of the fever, of course. She had no trouble now. Mr. Latimer had spent months on her pronunciation. They would certainly be able to understand, "In whatte londe am I?" or even, "Whatte be thisse holding?" and even if there were some variation in local dialect, the interpreter would automatically correct it.

"Whatte place hast thou brotte me?" Kivrin said.

The woman turned, looking startled. She stepped down from the windowseat, still holding the bowl in one hand and the brush in the other, only it wasn't a brush, Kivrin could see as she approached the bed. It was a squarish wooden spoon with a nearly flat bowl.

"Gottebae plaise tthar tleve," the woman said, holding spoon and bowl together in front of her. "Beth naught agast."

The interpreter was supposed to translate what was said immediately. Maybe Kivrin's pronunciation was all off, so far off that the woman thought she was speaking a foreign language and was trying to answer her in clumsy French or German.

"Whatte place hast thou brotte me?" she said slowly so the interpreter would have time to translate what she said.

"Wick londebay yae comen lawdayke awtreen godelae deynorm andoar sic straunguwlondes. Spekefaw eek waenoot awfthy taloorbrede."

"Lawyes sharess loostee?" a voice said.

The woman turned around to look at a door Kivrin couldn't see, and another woman came in, much older, her face under the coif wrinkled and her hands the hands Kivrin remembered from her delirium, rough and old. She was wearing a silver chain and carrying a small leather chest. It looked like the casket Kivrin had brought through with her, but it was smaller and bound with iron instead of brass. She set the casket down on the windowseat.

"Auf specheryit darmayt?"

She remembered the voice, too, harsh and almost angry- sounding, speaking to the woman by Kivrin's bed as if she were a servant. Well, perhaps she was, and this was the lady of the house, though her coif was no whiter, her dress no finer. But there weren't any keys at her belt, and now Kivrin remembered that it wasn't the housekeeper who carried the keys but the lady of the house.

The lady of the manor in yellowed linen and badly-dyed burlap, which meant that Kivrin's dress was all wrong, as wrong as Latimer's pronunciations, as wrong as Dr. Ahrens' assurances that she would not get any mediaeval diseases.

"I had my inoculations," she murmured, and both women turned to look at her.

"Ellavih swot wardesdoor feenden iss?" the older woman asked sharply. Was she the younger woman's mother, or her mother-in- law, or her nurse? Kivrin had no idea. None of the words she'd said, not even a proper name or a form of address, separated itself out.

"Maetinkerr woun dahest wexe hoordoumbe," the younger woman said, and the older one answered, "Nor nayte bawcows derouthe."

Nothing. Shorter sentences were supposed to be easier to translate, but Kivrin couldn't even tell whether she had said one word or several.

The younger woman's chin in the tight coif lifted angrily. "Certessan, shreevadwomn wolde nadae seyvous," she said sharply.

Kivrin wondered if they were arguing over what to do with her. She pushed on the coverlet with her weak hands, as if she could push herself away from them, and the young woman set down her bowl and spoon and came immediately up beside the bed.

"Spaegun yovor tongawn glais?" she said, and it might be, "Good morning," or "Are you feeling better?" or "We're burning you at dawn," for all Kivrin knew. Perhaps her illness was keeping the interpreter from working. Perhaps when the fever went down, she would understand everything they said.

The old woman knelt beside the bed, holding a small silver box at the end of the chain between her folded hands, and began to pray. The young woman leaned forward to look at Kivrin's forehead and then reached around behind her head, doing something that pulled at Kivrin's hair, and she realized they must have bandaged the wound on her forehead. She touched her hand to the cloth and then put it on her neck, feeling for her tangled locks, but there was nothing there. Her hair ended in a ragged fringe just below her ears.

"Vae motten tiyez thynt," the young woman said worriedly. "Far thotyiwort wount sorr." She was giving Kivrin some kind of explanation, though Kivrin couldn't understand it, and actually she did understand it: she had been very ill, so ill she had thought her hair was on fire. She remembered someone — the old woman? — trying to grab at her hands and her flailing wildly at the flames. They had had no alternative.

And Kivrin had hated the unwieldy mass of hair and the endless time it took to wash, had worried about how mediaeval women wore their hair, whether they braided it or not, and wondered how on earth she was going to get through the sixteen days of her practicum without washing it. She should be glad they had cut it off, but all she could think of was Joan of Arc, who had had short hair, who they had burned at the stake.

The young woman had drawn her hands back from the bandage and was watching Kivrin, looking frightened. Kivrin smiled at her, a little quaveringly, and she smiled back. She had a gap where two teeth were missing on the right side of her mouth, and the tooth next to the gap was brown, but when she smiled she looked no older than a first year student.

She finished untying the bandage and laid it on the coverlet. It was the same yellowed linen as her coif, but torn into fraying strips, and stained with brownish blood. There was more blood than Kivrin would have thought there would be. Mr. Gilchrist's wound must have started bleeding again.

The woman touched Kivrin's temple nervously, as if she wasn't sure what to do. "Vexeyaw hongroot?" she said, and put one hand behind Kivrin's neck and helped her raise her head.

Her head felt terribly light. That must be because of my hair, Kivrin thought.

The older woman handed the young one a wooden bowl, and she put it to Kivrin's lips. Kivrin sipped carefully at it, thinking confusedly that it was the same bowl that had held the wax. It wasn't, and it wasn't the drink they'd given her before. It was a thin, grainy gruel, less bitter than the drink last night, but with a greasy aftertaste.

"Thasholde nayive gros vitaille towayte," the older woman said.

Definitely her mother-in-law, Kivrin thought.

"Shimote lese hoor fource," the young woman answered back mildly.

The gruel tasted good. Kivrin tried to drink it all, but after only a few sips she felt worn out.

The young woman handed the bowl to the older one, who had come around to the side of the bed, too, and eased Kivrin's head back down onto the pillow. She picked up the bloody bandage, touched Kivrin's temple again as if she was debating whether to put the bandage back on again, and then handed it to the other woman, who set it and the bowl down on the chest that must be at the foot of the bed.

"Lo, liggethsteallouw," the young woman said, smiling her gap-toothed smile, and there was no mistaking her tone even though she couldn't make out the words at all. The woman had told her to go to sleep. She closed her eyes.

"Durmidde shoalausbrekkeynow," the older woman said, and they left the room, shutting the heavy door behind them.

Kivrin repeated the words slowly to herself, trying to catch some familiar word. The interpreter was supposed to enhance her ability to separate out phonemes and recognize syntactical patterns, not just store Middle English vocabulary, but she might as well be listening to Serbo-Croatian.

And maybe I am, she thought. Who knows where they've brought me? I was delirious. Maybe the cutthroat put me on a boat and took me across the Channel. She knew that wasn't possible. She remembered most of the night's journey, even though it had a disjointed, dreamlike quality to it. I fell off the horse, she thought, and a redheaded man picked me up. And we came past a church.

She frowned, trying to remember more about the direction they had travelled. They had headed into the woods, away from the thicket, and then come to a road, and the road forked, and that was where she had fallen off. If she could find the fork in the road, perhaps she could find the drop from there. The fork was only a little way from the tower.

But if the drop were that close, she was in Skendgate and the women were speaking Middle English, but if they were speaking Middle English, why couldn't she understand them?

Maybe I hit my head when I fell off the horse, and it's done something to the interpreter, she thought, but she had not hit her head. She had let go and slid down until she was sitting on the road. It's the fever, she thought. It's somehow keeping the interpreter from recognizing the words.

It recognized the Latin, she thought, and a little knot of fear began to form in her chest. It recognized the Latin, and I can't be ill. I had my inoculations. She remembered suddenly that her plague inoculation had itched and made a lump under her arm, but Dr. Ahrens had checked it just before she came through. Dr. Ahrens had said it was all right. And I can't have the plague, she thought. I don't have any of the symptoms.

Plague victims had huge lumps under their arms and on the insides of their thighs. They vomited blood, and the blood vessels under their skin ruptured and turned black. It wasn't the plague, but what was it, and how had she contracted it? She had been inoculated against every major disease extant in 1320, and anyway, she hadn't been exposed to any disease. She had begun to have symptoms as soon as she came through, before she had even met anyone. Germs didn't just hover near the drop, waiting for someone to come through. They had to be spread by contact or sneezing or fleas. The plague had been spread by fleas.

It's not the plague, she told herself firmly. People who have the plague don't wonder if they have it. They're too busy dying.

It wasn't the plague. The fleas that had spread it lived on rats and humans, not out in the middle of a forest, and the Black Death hadn't reached England till 1348. It must be some mediaeval disease Dr. Ahrens hadn't known about. There had been all sorts of strange diseases in the Middle Ages — the king's evil and St. Vitus's dance and unnamed fevers. It must be one of them, and it had taken her enhanced immune system awhile to figure out what it was and begin fighting it. But now it had, and her temperature was down and the interpreter would begin working. All she had to do was rest and wait and get better. Comforted by that thought, she closed her eyes again, and slept.

Someone was touching her. She opened her eyes. It was the mother-in-law. She was examining Kivrin's hands, turning them over and over again in hers, rubbing her chapped forefinger along the backs, scrutinizing the nails. When she saw Kivrin's eyes were open, she dropped her hands, as if in disgust, and said, "Sheavost ahvheigh parage attelest, baht hoore der wikkonasshae haswfolletwe?"

Nothing. Kivrin had hoped that somehow, while she slept, the interpreter's enhancers would have sorted and deciphered everything she'd heard, and she would wake to find the interpreter working. But their words were still unintelligible. It sounded a little like French, with its dropped endings and delicate rising inflections, but Kivrin knew Norman French — Mr. Dunworthy had made her learn it — and she couldn't make out any of the words.

"Hastow naydepesse?" the old woman said.

It sounded like a question, but all French sounded like a question.

The old woman took hold of Kivrin's arm with one rough hand and put her other arm around her, as if to help her up. I'm too ill to get up, Kivrin thought. Why would she make me get up? To be questioned? To be burned?

The younger woman came into the room, carrying a footed cup. She set it down on the windowseat and came to take Kivrin's other arm. "Hastontee natour yowrese?" she asked, smiling her gap- toothed smile at Kivrin, and Kivrin thought, maybe they're taking me to the bathroom, and made an effort to sit up and put her legs over the side of the bed.

She was immediately dizzy. She sat, her bare legs dangling over the side of the high bed, waiting for it to pass. She was wearing her linen shift and nothing else. She wondered where her clothes were. At least they had let her keep her shift. People in the Middle Ages didn't usually wear anything to bed.

People in the Middle Ages didn't have indoor plumbing either, she thought, and hoped she wouldn't have to go outside to a privy. Castles sometimes had enclosed garderobes, or corners over a shaft that had to be cleaned out at the bottom, but this wasn't a castle.

The young woman put a thin, folded blanket around Kivrin's shoulders like a shawl, and they both helped her off the bed. The planked wooden floor was icy. She took a few steps and was dizzy all over again. I'll never make it all the way outside, she thought.

"Wotan shay wootes nawdaor youse der jordane?" the old woman said sharply, and Kivrin thought she recognized jardin, the French for garden, but why would they be discussing gardens?

"Thanway maunhollp anhour," the young woman said, putting her arm around Kivrin and draping Kivrin's arm over her shoulders. The old woman gripped her other arm with both hands. She hardly came to Kivrin's shoulder, and the young woman didn't look like she weighed more than ninety pounds, but between them they walked her to the end of the bed.

Kivrin got dizzier with every step. I'll never make it all the way outside, she thought, but they had stopped at the end of the bed. There was a chest there, a low wooden box with a bird or possibly an angel carved roughly into the top. On it lay a wooden basin full of water, the bloody bandage that had been around Kivrin's forehead, and a smaller, empty bowl. Kivrin, concentrating on not falling over, didn't realize what it was until the old woman said, "Swoune nawmaydar oupondre yorresette," and pantomimed lifting her heavy skirts and sitting on it.

A chamberpot, Kivrin thought gratefully. Mr. Dunworthy, chamberpots were extant in country village manor houses in 1320. She nodded to show she understood and let them ease her down onto it, though she was so dizzy she had to grab at the heavy bedhangings to keep from falling, and her chest hurt so badly when she tried to stand up again that she doubled over.

"Maisry!" the old woman shouted toward the door. "Maisry, Com undtvae holpoon!" and the inflection indicated clearly that she was calling someone — Marjorie? Mary?-to come and help, but no one appeared, so perhaps she was wrong about that, too.

She straightened a little, testing the pain, and then tried to stand up, and the pain had lessened a little, but they still had to nearly carry her back to the bed, and she was exhausted by the time she was back under the bedcoverings. She closed her eyes.

"Slaeponpon donu paw daton," the young woman said, and she had to be saying, "Rest," or "Go to sleep," but she still couldn't decipher it. The interpreter's broken, she thought, and the little knot of panic started to form again, worse than the pain in her chest.

It can't be broken, she told herself. It's not a machine. It's a chemical syntax and memory enhancer. It can't be broken. It could only work with words in its memory, though, and obviously Mr. Latimer's Middle English was useless. Whan that Aprille with his shoures sote. Mr. Latimer's pronunciations were so far off the interpreter couldn't recognize what it was hearing as the same words, but that didn't mean it was broken. It only meant it had to collect new data, and the few sentences it had heard so far weren't enough.

It recognized the Latin, she thought, and the panic stabbed at her again, but she resisted it. It had been able to recognize the Latin because the rite of extreme unction was a set piece. She had already known what words should be there. The words the women spoke weren't a set piece, but they were still decipherable. Proper names, forms of address, nouns and verbs and prepositional phrases would appear in set positions that repeated again and again. They would separate themselves out rapidly, and the interpreter would be able to use them as the key to the rest of the code. And what she needed to do now was collect data, listen to what was said without even trying to understand it, and let the interpreter work.

"Thin keowre hoorwoun desmoortale?" the young woman asked.

"Got tallon wottes," the old woman said.

A bell began to ring, far away. Kivrin opened her eyes. Both women had turned to look at the window, even though they couldn't see through the linen.

"Bere wichebay gansanon," the young woman said.

The old woman didn't answer. She was staring at the window, as if she could see past the stiffened linen, her hands clasped in front of her as if in prayer.

"Aydreddit ister fayve riblaun," the young woman said, and in spite of her resolution, Kivrin tried to make it into, "It is time for vespers," or "There is the vespers bell," but it wasn't vespers. The bell went on tolling, and no other bells joined in. She wondered if it was the bell she had heard before, ringing all alone in the late afternoon.

The old woman turned abruptly away from the window. "Nay, Elwiss, itbahn diwolffin." She picked up the chamberpot from the wooden chest. "Gawynha thesspyd — "

There was a sudden scuffling outside the door, a sound of footsteps running up stairs, and a child's voice crying, "Modder! Eysmertemay!"

A little girl burst into the room, blonde braids and cap strings flying, nearly colliding with the old woman and the chamberpot. The child's round face was red and smeared with tears.

"Wol yadothoos forshame ahnyous!" the old woman growled at her, lifting the treacherous bowl out of reach. "Yowe maun naroonso inhus."

The little girl paid no attention to her. She ran straight at the young woman, sobbing, "Rawzamun hattmay smerte, Modder!"

Kivrin gasped. Modder. That had to be mother.

The little girl held up her arms, and her mother, oh, yes, definitely mother picked her up. She fastened her arms around her mother's neck and began to howl.

"Shh, ahnyous, shh," the mother said. That guttural's a G, Kivrin thought. A hacking German G. Shh, Agnes.

Still holding her, the mother sat down on the window seat. She wiped at the tears with the tail of her coif. "Spekenaw dothass bifel, Agnes."

Yes, definitely Agnes. And speken was tell. Tell me what happened.

"Shayoss mayswerte!" Agnes said, pointing at another child who had just come into the room. The second girl was considerably older, nine or ten at least. She had long brown hair that hung down her back and was held in place by a dark blue kerchief.

"Itgan naso, ahnyous," she said. "Tha pighte rennin gawn derstayres," and there was no mistaking that combination of affection and contempt. She didn't look like the blonde little girl, but Kivrin was willing to bet this dark-haired girl was the little one's sister. "Shay pighte renninge ahndist eyres, modder."

Mother again, and shay was she and pighte must be fell. It sounded French, but the key to this was German. The pronunciations, the constructions were German. Kivrin could almost feel it click into place.

"Na comfitte horr thusselwys," the older woman said. "She hathnau woundes. Hoor teres been fornaught mais gain thy pitye."

"Hoor nay ganful bloody," the woman whose name was Eliwys said, but Kivrin couldn't hear her. She was hearing instead the interpreter's translation, still clumsy and obviously more than a beat behind, but a translation:

"Don't pamper her, Eliwys. She is not injured. Her tears are but to get your attention."

And the mother, whose name was Eliwys, "Her knee is bleeding."

"Rossmunt brangund oorwarsted frommecofre," she said, pointing at the foot of the bed, and the interpreter was right behind her. "Rosemund, fetch me the cloth on the chest." The ten-year-old moved immediately toward the trunk at the foot of the bed.

The older girl was Rosemund, and the little one was Agnes, and the impossibly young mother in her wimple and coif was Eliwys.

Rosemund held out a frayed cloth that must surely be the one Eliwys had taken off Kivrin's forehead.

"Touch it not! Touch it not!" Agnes screamed, and Kivrin wouldn't have even needed the interpreter for that one. It was still far more than a beat behind.

"I would but tie cloth to stop the bleeding," Eliwys said, taking the rag from Rosemund. Agnes tried to push it away. "The cloth will not — " There was a blank space as if the interpreter didn't know a word, and then, " — you, Agnes." The word was obviously hurt or harm, and Kivrin wondered if the interpreter had not had the word in its memory and why it couldn't have come up with an approximation from context.

" — will penaunce," Agnes shouted, and the interpreter echoed, "It will — " and then the blank again. The space must be so that she could hear the actual word and make her own guess at its meaning. It wasn't a bad idea, but the interpreter was so far behind the space that Kivrin couldn't hear the word she was intended to. If the interpreter did this every time it didn't recognize a word, she was in serious trouble.

"It will penaunce," Agnes wailed, pushing her mother's hand away from her knee. "It will pain," the interpreter whispered, and Kivrin felt relieved that it had managed to come up with something, even though "to pain" was scarcely a verb.

"How came you to fall?" Eliwys asked to distract Agnes.

"She was running up the stairs," Rosemund said. "She was running to give you the news that…had come."

The interpreter left a space again, but Kivrin caught the word this time. Gawyn, which was probably a proper name, and the interpreter had apparently reached the same conclusion because by the time Agnes had shrieked, "I would have told Mother Gawyn had come," the interpreter included it in the translation.

"I would have told," Agnes said, really crying now, and buried her face against her mother, who promptly took advantage of the opportunity to tie the bandage around Agnes's knee.

"You can tell me now," she said.

Agnes shook her buried head.

"You tie the bandage too loosely, daughter-in-law," the older woman said. "It will but fall away."

The bandage looked tight enough to Kivrin, and obviously any attempt to bind the wound tighter would result in renewed screams. The old woman was still holding the chamberpot in both hands. Kivrin wondered why she didn't go empty it.

"Shh, shh," Eliwys said, rocking the little girl gently and patting her back. "I would fain have you tell me."

"Pride goes before a fall," the old woman said, seemingly determined to make Agnes cry again. "You were to blame that you fell. You should not have run in the hall."

"Was Gawyn riding a white mare?" Eliwys asked.

A white mare. Kivrin wondered if Gawyn could be the man who had helped her onto his horse and brought her to the manor.

"Nay," Agnes said in a tone that indicated her mother had made some sort of joke. "He was riding his own black stallion Gringolet. And he rode up to me and said, 'Good Lady Agnes, I would speak with thy mother.'"

"Rosemund, your sister was hurt because of your carelessness," the old woman said. She hadn't succeeded in upsetting Agnes, so she'd decided to go after some other victim. "Why were you not tending her?"

"I was at my broidery," Rosemund said, looking to her mother for support. "Maisry was to keep watch over her."

"Maisry went out to see Gawyn," Agnes said, sitting up on her mother's lap.

"And dally with the stableboy," the old woman said. She went to the door and shouted, "Maisry!"

Maisry. That was the name the old woman had called out before, and now the interpreter wasn't even leaving spaces when it came to proper names. Kivrin didn't know who Maisry was, probably a servant, but if the way things were going was any indication, Maisry was going to be in a lot of trouble. The old woman was determined to find a victim, and the missing Maisry seemed perfect.

"Maisry!" she shouted again, and the name echoed.

Rosemund took the opportunity to go and stand beside her mother. "Gawyn bade us tell you he begged leave to come and speak with you."

"Waits he below?" Eliwys asked.

"Nay. He went first to the church to speak of the lady with Father Rock."

Pride goes before a fall. The interpreter was obviously getting overconfident. Father Rolfe, perhaps, or Father Peter. Obviously not Father Rock.

"Why went he to speak to Father Rock?" the old woman demanded, coming back into the room.

Kivrin tried to hear the real word under the maddening whisper of the translation. Roche. The French word for "rock." Father Roche.

"Mayhap he has found somewhat of the lady," Eliwys said, glancing at Kivrin. It was the first indication she, or anyone, had given that they remembered Kivrin was in the room. Kivrin quickly closed her eyes to make them think she was asleep so they would go on discussing her.

"Gawyn rode out this morning to seek the ruffians," Eliwys said. Kivrin opened her eyes to slits, but she was no longer looking at her. "Mayhap he has found them." She bent and tied the dangling strings of Agnes's linen cap. "Agnes, go to the church with Rosemund and tell Gawyn we would speak with him in the hall. The lady sleeps. We must not disturb her."

Agnes darted for the door, shouting, "I would be the one to tell him, Rosemund."

"Rosemund, let your sister tell," Eliwys called after them. "Agnes, do not run."

The girls disappeared out the door and down the invisible stairs, obviously running.

"Rosemund is near-grown," the old woman said. "It is not seemly for her to run after your husband's men. Ill will come of your daughters being untended. You would do wisely to send to Oxenford for a nurse."

"No," Eliwys said with a firmness Kivrin wouldn't have guessed at. "Maisry can keep watch over them."

"Maisry is not fit to watch sheep. We should not have come from Bath in such haste. Surely we could have waited till…" something.

The interpreter left a gap again, and Kivrin didn't recognize the phrase, but she had caught the important facts. They had come from Bath. They were near Oxford.

"Let Gawyn fetch a nurse. And a leech-woman to see to the lady."

"We will send for no one," Eliwys said.

"To…," another place name the interpreter couldn't manage. "Lady Yvolde has repute with injuries. And she would gladly lend us one of her waiting women for a nurse."

"No," Eliwys said. "We will tend her ourselves. Father Roche — "

"Father Roche," she said contemptuously. "He knows naught of medicine."

But I understood everything he said, Kivrin thought. She remembered his quiet voice chanting the last rites, his gentle touch on her temples, her palms, the soles of her feet. He had told her not to be afraid and asked her her name. And held her hand.

"If the lady is of noble birth," the older woman said, "would you have it told you let an ignorant village priest tend her? Lady Yvolde — "

"We will send for no one," Eliwys said, and for the first time Kivrin realized she was afraid. "My husband bade us keep here till he come."

"He had sooner have come with us."

"You know he could not," Eliwys said. "He will come when he can. I must go to speak with Gawyn," she said walking past the old woman to the door. "Gawyn told me he would search the place where first he found the lady to seek for signs of her attackers. Mayhap he has found somewhat that will tell us what she is."

The place where first he found the lady. Gawyn was the man who had found her, the man with the red hair and the kind face who had helped her onto his horse and brought her here. That much at least she hadn't dreamed, though she must have dreamed the white horse. He had brought her here, and he knew where the drop was.

"Wait," Kivrin said. She pushed herself up against the pillows. "Wait. Please. I would speak with Gawyn."

The women stopped. Eliwys came around beside the bed, looking alarmed.

"I would speak with the man called Gawyn," Kivrin said carefully, waiting before each word until she had the translation. Eventually the process would be automatic, but for now she thought the word and then waited till the interpreter translated it and repeated it out loud. "I must discover this place where he found me."

Eliwys laid her hand on Kivrin's forehead, and Kivrin brushed it impatiently away.

"I would speak with Gawyn," she said.

"She has no fever, Imeyne," Eliwys said to the old woman, "and yet she tries to speak, though she knows we cannot understand her."

"She speaks in a foreign tongue," Imeyne said, making it sound criminal. "Mayhap she is a French spy."

"I'm not speaking French," Kivrin said. "I'm speaking Middle English."

"Mayhap it is Latin," Eliwys said. "Father Roche said she spoke in Latin when he shrove her."

"Father Roche can scarce say his Paternoster," Lady Imeyne said. "We should send to…" the unrecognizable name again. Kersey? Courcy?

"I would speak with Gawyn," Kivrin said in Latin.

"Nay," Eliwys said. "We will await my husband."

The old woman wheeled angrily, slopping the contents of the chamberpot onto her hand. She wiped it off onto her skirt and went out the door, slamming it shut behind her. Eliwys started after her.

Kivrin grabbed at her hands. "Why don't you understand me?" she said. "I understand you. I have to talk to Gawyn. He has to tell me where the drop is."

Eliwys disengaged Kivrin's hand. "There, you mustn't cry," she said kindly. "Try to sleep. You must rest, so you can go home."

I'm in a lot of trouble, Mr. Dunworthy. I don't know where I am, and I can't speak the language. Something's gone wrong with the interpreter. I can understand some of what the contemps say, but they can't understand me at all. And that's not the worst of it.

I've caught some sort of disease. I don't know what it is. It's not the plague because I don't have any of the right symptoms and because I'm getting better. And I had a plague inoculation. I had all my inoculations and T-cell enhancement and everything, but one of them must not have worked or else this is some Middle Ages disease there aren't any inoculations for.

The symptoms are headache and fever and dizziness, and I get a pain in my chest when I try to move. I was delirious for a while, which is why I don't know where I am. A man named Gawyn brought me here on his horse, but I don't remember very much about the trip except that it was dark and it seemed to take hours. I'm hoping I was wrong and the fever made it seem longer, and I'm in Ms. Montoya's village after all.

It could be Skendgate. I remember a church, and I think this is a manor house. I'm in a bedroom or a solar, and it's not just a loft because there are stairs, so that means the house of a minor baron at least. There's a window, and as soon as the dizziness subsides I'll climb up on the window seat and see if I can see the church. It has a bell — it rang for vespers just now. The one at Ms. Montoya's village didn't have a belltower, and that makes me afraid I'm not in the right place. I know we're fairly close to Oxford, because one of the contemps talked about fetching a doctor from there. It's also close to a village called Kersey — or Courcy-which is not one of the villages on the map of Ms. Montoya's I memorized, but that could be the name of the landowner.

Because of being out of my head, I'm not sure of my temporal location either. I've been trying to remember, and I think I've only been sick two days, but it might be more. And I can't ask them what day it is because they don't understand me, and I can't get out of bed without falling over, and they've cut my hair off, and I don't know what to do. What happened? Why won't the interpreter work? Why didn't the T-cell enhancement?

There's a rat under my bed. I can hear it scrabbling in the dark.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

They couldn't understand her. Kivrin had tried to communicate with Eliwys, to make her understand, but she had merely smiled kindly, uncomprehendingly, and told Kivrin to rest.

"Please," Kivrin had said as Eliwys started for the door. "Don't leave. This is important. Gawyn is the only one who knows where the drop is."

"Sleep," Eliwys said. "I will be back in a little."

"You have to let me see him," Kivrin said desperately, but Eliwys was already nearly to the door. "I don't know where the drop is."

There was a clattering on the stairs. Eliwys opened the door and said, "Agnes, I bade you go tell — "

She stopped in midsentence and took a step back. She did not look frightened or even upset, but her hand on the lintel jerked a little, as if she would have slammed the door, and Kivrin's heart began to pound. This is it, she thought wildly. They've come to take me to the stake.

"Good morning, my lady," a man's voice said. "Your daughter Rosemund told me I would find you in hall, but I did not."

He came into the room. Kivrin couldn't see his face. He was standing at the foot of the bed, hidden from her by the hangings. She tried to shift her head so she could see him, but the movement made her head spin violently. She lay back down.

"I thought I would find you with the wounded lady," the man said. He was wearing a padded jerkin and leather hose. And a sword. She could hear it clank as he took a step forward. "How does she?"

"She fares better today," Eliwys said. "My husband's mother has gone to brew her a decoction of woundwort for her injuries."

She had taken her hand from the door, and his comment about "your daughter Rosemund" surely meant that this was Gawyn, the man she had sent to look for Kivrin's attackers, but Eliwys had taken two more steps backward as he spoke, and her face looked guarded, wary. The thought of danger flickered through Kivrin's mind again, and she wondered suddenly if she might not have dreamed Mr. Dunworthy's cutthroat after all, if that man, with his cruel face, might be Gawyn.

"Found you aught that might tell us of the lady's identity?" Eliwys said carefully.

"Nay," he said. "Her goods had all been stolen and the horses taken. I hoped the lady might tell me somewhat of her attackers, how many there were and from what direction they came upon her."

"I fear she cannot tell you anything," Eliwys said.

"Is she mute then?" he said and moved so she could see him.

He was not so tall as Kivrin remembered him, standing over her, and his hair looked less red and more blonde in the daylight, but his face still looked as kind as when he had set her on his horse. His black horse Gringolet.

After he had found her in the clearing. He was not the cutthroat — she had dreamed the cutthroat, conjured him out of her delirium and Mr. Dunworthy's fears, along with the white horse and the Christmas carols — and she must be misunderstanding Eliwys's reactions the way she had misunderstood their getting her up to use the chamberpot.

"She is not mute, but speaks in some strange tongue I do not know," Eliwys said. "I fear her injuries have addled her wits." She came around to the side of the bed and Gawyn followed her. "Good lady. I have brought my husband's privé Gawyn."

"Good day, my lady," Gawyn said, speaking slowly and over- distinctly, as if he thought Kivrin were deaf.

"It was he who found you in the woods," Eliwys said.

Where in the woods? Kivrin thought desperately.

"I am pleased that your wounds are healing," Gawyn said, emphasizing every word. "Can you tell me of the men who attacked you?"

I don't know if I can tell you anything, she thought, afraid to speak for fear he wouldn't understand her either. He had to understand her. He knew where the drop was.

"How many men were there?" Gawyn said. "Were they on horseback?"

Where did you find me? she thought, emphasizing the words the way Gawyn had. She waited for the interpreter to work out the whole sentence, listening carefully to the intonations, checking them against the language lessons Mr. Dunworthy had given her.

Gawyn and Eliwys were waiting, watching her intently. She took a deep breath. "Where did you find me?"

They exchanged quick glances, his surprised, hers saying plainly, "You see?"

"She spoke thus that night," he said. "I thought it was her injury that made her speak so."

"And so I do," Eliwys said. "My husband's mother thinks she is of France."

He shook his head. "It is not French she speaks." He turned back to Kivrin. "Good lady," he said, nearly shouting, "came you from another land?"

Yes, Kivrin thought, another land, and the only way back is the drop, and only you know where it is.

"Where did you find me?" she said again.

"Her goods were all taken," Gawyn said, "but her wagon was of rich make, and she had many boxes."

Eliwys nodded. "I fear she is of high birth and her people seeking her."

"In what part of the woods did you find me?" Kivrin said, her voice rising.

"We are upsetting her," Eliwys said. She leaned over Kivrin and patted her hand. "Shh. Take your rest." She moved away from the bed, and Gawyn followed.

"Would you have me ride to Bath to Lord Guillaume?" Gawyn said, out of sight behind the hangings.

Eliwys stepped back the way she had when he first came in, as if she were afraid of him. But they had stood side by side at the bed, their hands nearly touching. They had spoken together like old friends. This wariness must be coming from something else.

"Would you have me bring your husband?" Gawyn said.

"Nay," Eliwys said, looking down at her hands. "My lord has enough to worry him, and he cannot leave until the trial is finished. And he bade you stay with us and guard us."

"By your leave, then, I will return to the place where the lady was set upon and search further."

"Aye," Eliwys said, still not looking at him. "In their haste, some token may have fallen to the ground nearby that will tell us of her."

The place where the lady was set upon, Kivrin recited under her breath, trying to hear his words under the interpreter's translation and memorize them. The place where I was set upon.

"I will take my leave and ride out again," Gawyn said.

Eliwys looked up at him. "Now?" she said. "It grows dark."

"Show me the place where I was set upon," Kivrin said.

"I do not fear the dark, Lady Eliwys," he said, and strode out, the sword clanking.

"Take me with you," Kivrin said, but it was no use. They were already gone, and the interpreter was broken. She had deceived herself into thinking it was working. She had understood what they were saying because of the language lessons Mr. Dunworthy had given her, not because of the interpreter, and perhaps she was only deceiving herself that she understood them.

Perhaps the conversation had not been about who she was at all, but about something else altogether — finding a missing sheep or putting her on trial.

The lady Eliwys had shut the door when they went out, and Kivrin couldn't hear anything. Even the tolling bell had stopped, and the light from the waxed linen was faintly blue. It grows dark.

Gawyn had said he was going to ride back to the drop. If the window overlooked the courtyard, she might at least be able to see which way he rode out. It is not far, he had said. If she could just see the direction he rode, she could find the drop herself.

She pushed herself up in the bed, but even that much exertion made the pain in her chest stab again. She put her feet over the side, but the action made her dizzy. She lay back against the pillow and closed her eyes.

Dizziness and fever and a pain in the chest. What were those symptoms of? Smallpox started out with fever and chills, and the pox didn't appear until the second or third day. She lifted her arm up to see if there were the beginnings of the pox. She had no idea how long she had been ill, but it couldn't be smallpox because the incubation period was ten to twenty-one days. Ten days ago she had been in hospital in Oxford, where the smallpox virus had been extinct for nearly a hundred years.

She had been in hospital, getting inoculated against all of them: smallpox, typhoid fever, cholera, plague. So how could it be any of them? And if it wasn't any of them, what was it? St. Vitus's dance? She had told herself that before, that this was something she had not been vaccinated against, but she had had her immune system augmented, too, to fight off any infection.

There was a sound of running on stairs. "Modder!" a voice that she already recognized as Agnes's shouted. "Rosemund waited not!"

She didn't burst into the room with quite as much violence because the heavy door was shut and she had to push it open, but as soon as she had squeezed through, she raced for the windowseat, wailing.

"Modder! I would have told Gawyn!" she sobbed, and then stopped when she saw her mother wasn't in the room. The tears stopped too, Kivrin noticed.

Agnes stood by the window for a minute, as if she were debating whether to try this scene at a later time, and then ran back to the door. Halfway there, she spied Kivrin and stopped again.

"I know who you are," she said, coming around to the side of the bed. She was scarcely tall enough to see over the bed. Her cap strings had come undone again. "You are the lady Gawyn found in the wood."

Kivrin was afraid that her answer, garbled as the interpreter obviously made it, would frighten the little girl. She pushed herself up a little against the pillows and nodded.

"What befell your hair?" Agnes asked. "Did the robbers steal it?"

Kivrin shook her head, smiling at the odd idea.

"Maisry says the robbers stole your tongue," Agnes said. She pointed at Kivrin's forehead. "Hurt you your head?"

Kivrin nodded.

"I hurt my knee," she said, and tried to pick it up with both hands so Kivrin could see the dirty bandage. The old woman was right. It was already slipping. She could see the wound under it. Kivrin had supposed it was just a skinned knee, but the wound looked fairly deep.

Agnes tottered, let go of the knee, and leaned against the bed again. "Will you die?"

I don't know, Kivrin thought, thinking of the pain in her chest. The mortality rate for smallpox had been seventy-five per cent in 1320, and her augmented immune system wasn't working.

"Brother Hubard died," Agnes said wisely. "And Gilbert. He fell from his horse. I saw him. His head was all red. Rosemund said Brother Hubard died of the blue sickness."

Kivrin wondered what the blue sickness was — choking perhaps, or apoplexy — and if he was the chaplain that Eliwys' mother-in- law was so eager to replace. It was usual for noble households to travel with their own priests. Father Roche was apparently the local priest, probably uneducated and possibly even illiterate, though she had understood his Latin perfectly well. And he had been kind. He had held her hand and told her not to be afraid. There are nice people in the Middle Ages, Mr. Dunworthy, she thought. Father Roche and Eliwys and Agnes.

"My father said he would bring me a magpie when he comes from Bath," Agnes said. "Adeliza has a tercel. She lets me hold him sometimes." She held her bent arm up and out, the dimpled fist closed as if a falcon were perched on her imaginary gauntlet. "I have a hound."

"What is your hound's name?" Kivrin asked.

"I call him Blackie," Agnes said, though Kivrin was certain that was only the interpreter's version. More likely she had said Blackamon or Blakkin. "He is black. Have you a hound?"

Kivrin was too surprised to answer. She had spoken and made herself understood. Agnes hadn't even acted like her pronunciation was unusual. She had spoken without thinking about the interpreter or waiting for it to translate, and perhaps that was the secret.

"Nay, I have no hound," she said finally, trying to duplicate what she'd done before.

"I will teach my magpie to talk. I will teach him to say, 'Good morrow, Agnes.'"

"Where is your hound?" Kivrin said, trying again. The words sounded different to her, lighter, with that murmuring French inflection she had heard in the women's speech.

"Do you wish to see Blackie? He is in the stable," she said. It sounded like a direct response, but the way Agnes talked it was difficult to tell. She might simply have been volunteering information. To be sure, Kivrin would have to ask her something completely off the subject and something with only one answer.

Agnes was stroking the soft fur of the bedcovering and humming a toneless little tune.

"What is your name?" she asked, trying to let the interpreter control her words. It translated her modern sentence into something like, "How are youe cleped?" which she was not sure was correct, but Agnes didn't hesitate.

"Agnes," the little girl said promptly. "My father says I may have a tercel when I am old enough to ride a mare. I have a pony." She stopped stroking the fur, propped her elbows on the edge of the bed and rested her chin in her little hands. "I know your name," she said, sounding smugly pleased. "It is Katherine."

"What?" Kivrin said blankly. Katherine. How had they come up with Katherine? Her name was supposed to be Isabel. Was it possible that they thought they knew who she was?

"Rosemund said none knew your name," she went on, looking smug, "but I heard Father Roche tell Gawyn you were called Katherine. Rosemund said you could not speak, but yet you can."

Kivrin had a sudden image of the priest bending over her, his face obscured by the flames that seemed constantly in front of her, saying in Latin, "What is your name that you might be shriven?"

And she, trying to form the word though her mouth was so dry she could hardly speak, afraid she would die and they would never know what had happened to her.

"Are you called Katherine?" Agnes was demanding, and she could hear the little girl's voice clearly under the interpreter's translation. It sounded just like Kivrin.

"Aye," Kivrin said, and felt like crying.

"Blackie has a…," Agnes said. The interpreter didn't catch the word. Karette? Chavette? "It is red. Would you like to see it?" and before Kivrin could stop her, went running out through the still partly-opened door.

Kivrin waited, hoping she would come back and that a karette wasn't alive, wishing she had asked where she was and how long she'd been here, though Agnes was probably too young to know. She looked no more than three, though of course she would be much smaller than a modern three-year-old. Five, then, or possibly six. I should have asked her how old she was, Kivrin thought, and then remembered that she might not know that either. Joan of Arc hadn't known how old she was when the Inquisitors asked her at her trial.

At least she could ask questions, Kivrin thought. The interpreter was not broken after all. It must have been temporarily stymied by the strange pronunciations, or affected somehow by her fever, but it was all right now, and Gawyn knew where the drop was and could show it to her.

She sat up straighter among the pillows so she could see the door. The effort hurt her chest and made her dizzy, and her head ached. She anxiously felt her forehead and then her cheeks. They felt warm, but that could be because her hands were cold. It was icy in the room, and on her excursion to the chamberpot, she hadn't seen any sign of a brazier or even a warming pan.

Had warming pans been invented yet? They must have. Otherwise how would people have survived the Little Ice Age? It was so cold.

She was beginning to shiver. Her fever must be going back up. Were they supposed to come back? In her Med History lecture she had read about fevers breaking, and after that the patient was weak, but the fever didn't come back, did it? Of course it did. What about malaria? Shivering, headache, sweats, recurring fever. Of course they came back.

Well, it obviously wasn't malaria. Malaria had never been endemic to England, mosquitoes didn't live in Oxford in midwinter and never had, and the symptoms were wrong. She hadn't experienced any sweating, and the shivering she was having was due to fever.

Typhus produced headache and a high fever, and it was transmitted by body lice and rat fleas, both of which were endemic to England in the Middle Ages and probably endemic to the bed she was lying on, but the incubation period was too long, nearly two weeks.

Typhoid fever's incubation period was only a few days, and it caused headache, aching in the limbs, and high fever too. She didn't think it was a recurring fever, but she remembered it was normally highest at night, so that must mean it went down during the day and then up again in the evening.

Kivrin wondered what time it was. Eliwys had said, "It grows dark," and the light from the linen-covered window was faintly blue, but the days were short in December. It might only be mid-afternoon. She felt sleepy, but that was no sign either. She had slept off and on all day.

Drowsiness was a symptom of typhoid fever. She tried to remember the others from Dr. Ahrens' "short course" in mediaeval medicine. Nosebleeds, coated tongue, rose-colored rash. The rash wasn't supposed to appear until the seventh or eighth day, but Kivrin pulled her shift up and looked at her stomach and chest. No rash, so it couldn't be smallpox. The pox started appearing by the second or third day.

She wondered what had happened to Agnes. Perhaps someone had belatedly had the good sense to bar her from the sickroom, or perhaps the unreliable Maisry was actually watching her. Or, more likely, she had stopped to see her puppy in the stable and forgotten she was going to show her chavotte to Kivrin.

The plague started out with a headache and a fever, and Dr. Ahrens had been worried about her plague inoculation. She had wanted to wait until the swelling under Kivrin's arm went down. It can't be the plague, Kivrin thought. You don't have any of the symptoms. Buboes that grew to the size of oranges, a tongue that swelled till it filled the whole mouth, subcutaneous hemorrhages that turned the whole body black. You don't have the plague.

It must be some sort of flu. It was the only disease that came on so suddenly, and Dr. Ahrens had been upset over Mr. Gilchrist's moving the date up because the antivirals wouldn't take full effect until the fifteenth, and she'd only have partial immunity. It had to be the flu. What was the treatment for the flu? Antivirals, rest, fluids.

Well then, rest, she told herself, and closed her eyes.

She did not remember falling asleep, but she must have, because the two women were in the room again, talking, and Kivrin had no memory of their having come in.

"What said Gawyn?" the old woman said. She was doing something with a bowl and a spoon, mashing the spoon against the side of it. The iron-bound casket sat open beside her, and she reached into it, pulled out a small cloth bag, sprinkled the contents into the bowl and stirred it again.

"He found naught among her belongings that might tell us the lady's origins. Her goods had all been stolen, the chests broken open and emptied of all that might identify her. But he said her wagon was of rich make. Certes, she is of good family."

"And certes, her family searches for her," the old woman said. She had set down the bowl and was tearing cloth with a loud ripping sound. "We must send to Oxenford and tell them she lies safe with us."

"No," Eliwys said, and Kivrin could hear the resistance in her voice. "Not to Oxenford."

"What have you heard?"

"I have heard naught," Eliwys said, "but that my lord bade us keep here. He will be here within the week if all goes well."

"If all had gone well he would have been here now."

"The trial had scarce begun. Mayhap he is on his way home even now."

"Or mayhap…," another one of those untranslatable names, Torquil? "…waits to be hanged, and my son with him. He should not have meddled in such a matter."

"He is a friend, and guiltless of the charges."

"He is a fool, and my son more fool for testifying on his behalf. A friend would have bade him leave Bath." She ground the spoon into the side of the bowl again. "I have need of mustard for this," she said and stepped to the door. "Maisry!" she called, and went back to tearing the cloth. "Found Gawyn aught of the lady's attendants?"

Eliwys sat down on the windowseat. "No, nor of their horses nor hers."

A girl with a pocked face and greasy hair hanging over it came in. Surely this couldn't be Maisry, who dallied with stableboys instead of watching her charges. She bent her knee in a curtsey that was more of a stumble and said, "Wotwardstu, Lawttymayeen?"

Oh, no, Kivrin thought. What's wrong with the interpreter?

"Fetch me the pot of mustard from the kitchen and tarry not," the old woman said, and the girl started for the door. "Where are Agnes and Rosemund? Why are they not with you?"

"Shiyrouthamay," she said sullenly.

Eliwys stood up. "Speak up," she said sharply.

"They hide (something) from me."

It wasn't the interpreter after all. It was simply the difference of the Norman English the nobles spoke and the still Saxon-sounding dialect of the peasants, neither of which sounded anything like the Middle English Mr. Latimer had blithely taught her. It was a wonder the interpreter was picking up anything at all.

"I was seeking them when Lady Imeyne called, good lady," Maisry said, and the interpreter got it all, though it was taking several seconds. It gave an imbecilic slowness to Maisry's speech, which might or might not be appropriate.

"Where did you look for them? In the stable?" Eliwys said, and brought her hands together on either side of Maisry's head like a pair of cymbals. Maisry howled and clapped a dirty hand to her left ear. Kivrin shrank back against the pillows.

"Go and fetch the mustard to Lady Imeyne and find you Agnes."

Maisry nodded, not looking particularly frightened but still holding her ear. She stumbled another curtsey and went out no more quickly than she had come in. She seemed less upset by the sudden violence than Kivrin was, and Kivrin wondered if Lady Imeyne would get her mustard any time soon.

It was the swiftness and the calmness of the violence that had surprised her. Eliwys had not even seemed angry, and as soon as Maisry was gone she went back to the windowseat, sat down, and said quietly, "The lady could not be moved though her family did come. She can bide with us until my husband returns. He will be here by Christmas surely."

There was noise on the stairs. Apparently she had been wrong, Kivrin thought and the ear-boxing had done some good. Agnes rushed in, clutching something to her chest.

"Agnes!" Eliwys said. "What do you here?"

"I brought my…," the interpreter still didn't have it. Charette? "to show the lady."

"You are a wicked child to hide from Maisry and come hence to disturb the lady," Eliwys said. "She suffers greatly from her injuries."

"But she told me she wished to see it." She held it up. It was a toy two-wheeled cart painted red and gilt.

"God punishes those who bear false witness with everlasting torment," Lady Imeyne said, grabbing the little girl roughly. "The lady cannot speak. You know full well."

"She spoke to me," Agnes said sturdily.

Good for you, Kivrin thought. Everlasting torment. What horrible things to threaten a child with. But this was the Middle Ages, when priests talked constantly of the last days and the final judgment, of the pains of hell.

"She told me she wished to see my wagon," Agnes said. "She said she did not have a hound."

"You are making up tales," Eliwys said. "The lady cannot speak," and Kivrin thought, I have to stop this. They'll box her ears, too.

She pushed herself up on her elbows. The effort left her breathless. "I spoke with Agnes," she said, praying the interpreter would do what it was supposed to. If it chose to blink out again at this moment and ended up getting Agnes a beating, that would be the last straw. "I bade her bring her cart to me."

Both women turned and looked at her. Eliwys's eyes widened. The old woman looked astonished and then angry, as if she thought Kivrin had deceived them.

"I told you," Agnes said, and marched over to the bed with the wagon.

Kivrin lay back against the pillows, exhausted. "What is this place?" she asked.

It took Eliwys a moment to recover herself. "You rest safely in the house of my lord and husband…" The interpreter had trouble with the name. It sounded like Guillaume D'Iverie or possibly Devereaux.

Eliwys was looking at her anxiously. "My husband's privé found you in the woods and brought you hence. You had been set upon by robbers and grievously injured. Who attacked you?"

"I know not," Kivrin said.

"I am called Eliwys, and this is the mother of my husband, the Lady Imeyne. What is your name?"

And now was the time to tell them the whole carefully researched story. She had told the priest her name was Katherine, but Lady Imeyne had already made it clear she put no stock in anything he said. She didn't even believe he could speak Latin. Kivrin could say he had misunderstood, that her name was Isabel de Beauvrier. She could tell them she had called out her mother's, her sister's name in her delirium. She could tell them she had been praying to St. Katherine.

"Of what family are you?" Lady Imeyne asked.

It was a very good story. It would establish her identity and position in society and would ensure that they wouldn't try to send for her family. Yorkshire was too far away, and the road north was impassable.

"Whither were you bound?" Eliwys said.

Mediaeval had thoroughly researched the weather and the road conditions. It had rained every day for two weeks in December, and there hadn't been a hard frost to freeze the mired roads till late January. But she had seen the road to Oxford. It had been dry and clear. And Mediaeval had thoroughly researched the color of her dress, and the prevalence of glass windows among the upper classes. They had thoroughly researched the language.

"I remember not," Kivrin said.

"Not?" Eliwys said, and turned to Lady Imeyne. "She remembers not." They think I'm saying "naught," Kivrin thought, that I don't remember anything. The inflection, the pronunciation didn't differentiate between the two words.

"It is her wound," Eliwys said. "It has shaken her memory."

"No…nay…," Kivrin said. She was not supposed to feign amnesia. She was supposed to be Isabel de Beauvrier, from the East Riding. Just because the roads were dry here didn't mean they weren't impassable farther north, and Eliwys would not even let Gawyn ride to Oxford to get news of her or to Bath to fetch her husband. She surely wouldn't send him to the East Riding.

"Can you not even remember your own name?" Lady Imeyne said impatiently, leaning so close Kivrin could smell her breath. It was very foul, an odor of decay. She must have rotting teeth, too.

"What is your name?"

Mr. Latimer had said Isabel was the most common woman's name in the 1300's. How common was Katherine? And Mediaeval didn't know the daughters' names. What if Yorkshire wasn't distant enough, after all, and Lady Imeyne knew the family. She would take it as further proof that she was a spy. She had better stay with the common name and tell them she was Isabel de Beauvrier.

The old woman would be only too happy to believe that the priest had gotten her name wrong. It would be further proof of his ignorance, of his incompetence, further reason to send to Bath for a new chaplain. And he had held Kivrin's hand, he had told her not to be afraid.

"My name is Katherine," she said.

I'm not the only one in trouble, Mr. Dunworthy. I think the contemps who've taken me in are, too.

The lord of the manor, Lord Guillaume, isn't here. He's in Bath, testifying at the trial of a friend of his, which is apparently a dangerous thing to do. His mother, Lady Imeyne, called him a fool for getting mixed up in it, and Lady Eliwys, his wife, seems worried and nervous.

They've come here in a great hurry and without servants. Fourteenth-century noblewomen had at least one lady-in-waiting apiece, but neither Eliwys nor Imeyne has any, and they left the children's — Guillaume's two little girls are here-nurse behind. Lady Imeyne wanted to send for a new one, and a chaplain, but Lady Eliwys won't let her.

I think Lord Guillaume must be expecting trouble and has spirited his womenfolk away here to keep them safe. Or possibly the trouble's already happened — Agnes, the littler of the two girls, told me about the chaplain's death and someone named Gilbert whose "head was all red," so perhaps there's already been bloodshed, and the women have come here to escape it. One of Lord Guillaume's privés has come with them, and he's fully armed.

There weren't any major uprisings against Edward II in Oxfordshire in 1320, although no one was very happy with the king and his favorite, Hugh Despenser, and there were plots and minor skirmishes everywhere else. Two of the barons, Lancaster and Mortimer, took sixty-three manors away from the Despensers that year — this year. Lord Guillaume-or his friend-may have got involved in one of those plots.

It could be something else entirely, of course, a land dispute or something. People in the 1300's spent almost as much time in court as the contemps in the last part of the twentieth century. But I don't think so. Lady Eliwys jumps at every sound, and she's forbidden Lady Imeyne to tell the neighbors they're here.

I suppose in one way this is a good thing. If they aren't telling anyone they're here, they won't tell anyone about me or send messengers to try to find out who I am. On the other hand, there is the chance of armed men kicking in the door at any moment. Or of Gawyn, the only person who knows where the drop is, getting killed defending the manor.

15 December, 1320 (Old Style.) The interpreter is working now, more or less, and the contemps seem to understand what I'm saying. I can understand them, though their Middle English bears no resemblance to what Mr. Latimer taught me. It's full of inflections and has a much softer French sound. Mr. Latimer wouldn't even recognize his "Whan that Aprille with his shoures sote."

The interpreter translates what the contemps say with the syntax and some of the words intact, and at first I tried to phrase what I said the same way, saying "Aye" and "Nay" and, "I remember naught of whence I came," but thinking about it's deadly — the interpreter takes forever to come up with a translation, and I stammer and struggle with the pronunciations. So I just speak modern English and hope what comes out of my mouth is close to being right, and that the interpreter isn't slaughtering the idioms and the inflections. Heaven only knows how I sound. Like a French spy probably.

The language isn't the only thing off. My dress is all wrong, of far too fine a weave, and the blue is too bright, dyed with woad or not. I haven't seen any bright colors at all. I'm too tall, my teeth are too good, and my hands are wrong, in spite of my muddy labors at the dig. They should not only have been dirtier, but I should have chilblains. Everyone's hands, even the children's, are chapped and bleeding. It is, after all, December.

December the fifteenth. I overheard part of an argument between Lady Imeyne and Lady Eliwys about getting a replacement chaplain, and Imeyne said, "There is more than time enough to send. It is full ten days till Christ's mass." So tell Mr. Gilchrist I've ascertained my temporal location at least. But I don't know how far from the drop I am. I've tried to remember Gawyn bringing me here, but that whole night is hopelessly muddled, and part of what I remember didn't happen. I remember a white horse that had bells on its harness, and the bells were playing Christmas carols, like the carillon in Carfax Tower.

The fifteenth of December means it's Christmas Eve there, and you'll be giving your sherry party and then walking over to St. Mary the Virgin's for the ecumenical service. It is hard to comprehend that you are over seven hundred years away. I keep thinking that if I got out of bed (which I can't because I'm too dizzy — I think my temp is back up) and opened the door I would find not a mediaeval hall but Brasenose's lab, and all of you waiting for me, Badri and Dr. Ahrens and you, Mr. Dunworthy, polishing your spectacles and saying I told you so. I wish you were.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Lady Imeyne did not believe Kivrin's story about having amnesia. When Agnes brought her hound, which turned out to be a tiny black puppy with huge feet, in to Kivrin, she said, "This is my hound, Lady Kivrin." She held it out to Kivrin, clutching its fat middle. "You can pet him. Do you remember how?"

"Aye," Kivrin said, taking the puppy out of Agnes's too- tight grasp and stroking its baby-soft fur. "Aren't you supposed to be at your sewing?"

Agnes took the puppy back from her. "Grandmother went to chide with the steward, and Maisry went out to the stable." She twisted the puppy around to give it a kiss. "So I came to speak to you. Grandmother is very angry. The steward and all his family were living in the hall when we came hence." She gave the puppy another kiss. "Grandmother says it is his wife who tempts him to sin."

Grandmother. Agnes had not said anything like "grandmother." The word hadn't even existed until the eighteenth century, but the interpreter was taking huge, disconcerting leaps now, though it left Agnes's mispronunciation of Katherine intact and sometimes left blanks in places where the meaning should have been obvious from context. She hoped her subconscious knew what it was doing.

"Are you a daltriss, Lady Kivrin?" Agnes said.

Her subconscious obviously didn't know what it was doing. "What?" she asked.

"A daltriss," Agnes said. The puppy was trying desperately to squirm out of Agnes's grip. "Grandmother says you are one. She says a wife fleeing to her lover would have good cause to remember naught."

An adultress. Well, at least it was better than a French spy. Or perhaps Lady Imeyne thought she was both.

Agnes kissed the puppy again. "Grandmother said a lady had no good cause to travel through the woods in winter."

They were both right, Kivrin thought, Lady Imeyne and Mr. Dunworthy. She still had not found out where the drop was, although she had asked to speak with Gawyn when Lady Eliwys came in the morning to bathe her temple.

"He has ridden out to search for the wicked men who robbed you," Eliwys had said, putting an ointment on Kivrin's temple that smelled like garlic and stung horribly. "Do you remember aught of them?"

Kivrin had shaken her head, hoping her faked amnesia wouldn't end in some poor peasant's being hanged. She could scarcely say, "No, that isn't the man," when she supposedly couldn't remember anything.

Perhaps she shouldn't have told them she couldn't remember anything. The probability that they would have known the de Beauvriers was very small, and her lack of an explanation had obviously made Imeyne even more suspicious of her.

Agnes was trying to put her cap on the puppy. "There are wolves in the woods," she said. "Gawyn slew one with his ax."

"Agnes, did Gawyn tell you of his finding me?" Kivrin asked.

"Aye. Blackie likes to wear my cap," she said, tying the strings in a choking knot.

"He doesn't act like it," Kivrin said. "Where did Gawyn find me?"

"In the woods," Agnes said. The puppy twisted out of the cap and nearly fell off the bed. She set it in the middle of the bed and lifted it by its front paws. "Blackie can dance."

"Here. Let me hold it," Kivrin said, to rescue the poor thing. She cradled it in her arms. "Where in the woods did Gawyn find me?"

Agnes stood on tiptoe, trying to see the puppy. "Blackie sleeps," she whispered.

The puppy was asleep, exhausted from Agnes's attentions. Kivrin laid it beside her on the fur bedcovering. "Was the place he found me far from here?"

"Aye," Agnes said, and Kivrin could tell she had no idea.

This was no use. Agnes obviously didn't know anything. She would have to talk to Gawyn. "Has Gawyn returned?"

"Aye," Agnes said, stroking the sleeping puppy. "Would you speak with him?"

"Yes," Kivrin said.

"Are you a daltriss?"

It was difficult to follow Agnes's conversational jumps. "No," she said, and then remembered she was not supposed to be able to remember anything. "I don't remember anything about who I am."

Agnes petted Blackie. "Grandmother says only a daltriss would ask so boldly to speak with Gawyn."

The door opened, and Rosemund came in. "They're looking for you everywhere, simplehead," she said, her hands on her hips.

"I was speaking with Lady Kivrin," Agnes said, with an anxious glance at the coverlet where Blackie lay, nearly invisible against the sable fur. Apparently hounds were not allowed inside. Kivrin pulled the rough sheet up over it so Rosemund wouldn't see.

"Mother said the lady must rest so that her wounds will heal," Rosemund said sternly. "Come. I must tell Grandmother I found you." She led the little girl out of the room.

Kivrin watched them leave, hoping fervently that Agnes wouldn't tell Lady Imeyne Kivrin had asked again to speak to Gawyn. She had thought she had a good excuse to talk to Gawyn, that they would understand that she was anxious to find out about her belongings and her attackers. But it was "unseemly" for unmarried noblewomen in the 1300's to "boldly ask" to speak to young men.

Eliwys could talk to him because she was the head of the house with her husband gone, and his employer, and Lady Imeyne was his lord's mother, but Kivrin should have waited until Gawyn spoke to her and then answered him "with all modesty as fits a maid." But I must talk to him, she thought. He's the only one who knows where the drop is.

Agnes came dashing back in and snatched up the sleeping puppy. "Grandmother was very angry. She thought I had fallen in the well," she said, and ran back out again.

And no doubt "Grandmother" had boxed Maisry's ears because of it, Kivrin thought. Maisry had already been in trouble once today for losing Agnes, who had come to show Kivrin Lady Imeyne's silver chain, which she said was "a rillieclary," a word that defeated the interpreter. Inside the little box, she told Kivrin, was a piece of the shroud of St. Stephen. Maisry had had her pocked cheek slapped by Imeyne for letting Agnes take the reliquary and for not watching her, though not for letting the little girl in the sickroom.

None of them seemed concerned at all about the little girls getting close to Kivrin or to be aware that they might catch what she had. Neither Eliwys nor Imeyne took any precautions in caring for her.

The contemps hadn't understood the mechanics of disease transmission, or course — they believed it was a consequence of sin and epidemics were a punishment from God — but they had known about contagion. The motto of the Black Death had been, "Depart quickly, go far, tarry long," and there had been quarantines before that.

Not here, Kivrin thought, and what if the little girls come down with this? Or Father Roche?

He had been near her all through her fever, touching her, asking her name. She frowned, trying to remember that night. She had fallen off the horse, and then there was a fire. No, she had imagined that in her delirium. And the white horse. Gawyn's horse was black.

They had ridden through a wood and down a hill past a church, and the cutthroat had — . It was no use. The night was a shapeless dream of frightening faces and bells and flames. Even the drop was hazy, unclear. There had been an oak tree and willows, and she had sat down against the wagon wheel because she felt so dizzy, and the cutthroat had — No, she had imagined the cutthroat. And the white horse. Perhaps she had imagined the church as well.

She would have to ask Gawyn where the drop was, but not in front of Lady Imeyne, who thought she was a daltriss. She had to get well, to get enough strength to get out of bed and go down to the hall, out to the stable, to find Gawyn to speak to him alone. She had to get better.

She was a little stronger, though she was still too weak to walk to the chamberpot unaided. The dizziness was gone, and the fever, but her shortness of breath persisted. They apparently thought she was improving, too. They had left her alone most of the morning, and Eliwys had only stayed long enough to smear on the foul-smelling ointment. And have me make improper advances toward Gawyn, Kivrin thought.

Kivrin tried not to worry about what Agnes had told her or why the antivirals hadn't worked or how far the drop was, and to concentrate on getting her strength back. No one came in all afternoon, and she practiced sitting up and putting her feet over the side of the bed. When Maisry came with a rushlight to help her to the chamberpot, she was able to walk back to the bed by herself.

It grew colder in the night, and when Agnes came to see her in the morning, she was wearing a red cloak and hood of very thick wool and white fur mittens. "Would you like to see my silver buckle? Sir Bloet gave it me. I will bring it on the morrow. I cannot come today, for we go to cut the Yule log."

"The Yule log?" Kivrin said, alarmed. The ceremonial log had traditionally been cut on the twenty-fourth, and this was only the seventeenth. Had she misunderstood Lady Imeyne?

"Aye," Agnes said. "At home we do not go till Christmas Eve, but it is like to storm, and Grandmother would have us ride out to fetch it while it is yet fine weather."

Like to storm, Kivrin thought. How would she recognize the drop if it snowed? The wagon and her boxes were still there, but if it snowed more than a few inches she would never recognize the road.

"Does everyone go to fetch the Yule log?" Kivrin asked.

"Nay. Father Roche called Mother to tend a sick cottar."

That explained why Imeyne was playing the tyrant, bullying Maisry and the steward and accusing Kivrin of adultery. "Does your grandmother go with you?"

"Aye," she said. "I will ride my pony."

"Does Rosemund go?"

"Aye."

"And the steward?"

"Aye," she said impatiently. "All the village goes."

"Does Gawyn?"

"Nay," she said, as if that were self-evident. "I must go out to the stable and bid Blackie farewell." She ran off.

Lady Imeyne was going, and the steward, and Lady Eliwys was somewhere nursing a peasant who was ill. And Gawyn, for some reason that was obvious to Agnes but not to her, wasn't. Perhaps he had gone with Eliwys. But if he hadn't, if he were staying here to guard the manor, she could talk to him alone.

Maisry was obviously going. When she brought Kivrin's breakfast she was wearing a rough brown poncho and had ragged strips of cloth wrapped around her legs. She helped Kivrin to the chamberpot, carried it out and brought up a brazier full of hot coals, moving with more speed and initiative than Kivrin had seen before.

Kivrin waited an hour after Maisry left, until she was sure they were all gone, and then got out of bed and walked to the windowseat and pulled the linen back. She could not see anything except branches and dark gray sky, but the air was even colder than that in the room. She climbed up on the windowseat.

She was above the courtyard. It was empty, and the large wooden gate stood open. The stones of the courtyard and of the low thatched roofs around it looked wet. She stuck her hand out, afraid it had already begun to snow, but she couldn't feel any moisture. She climbed down, holding onto the ice-cold stones, and huddled by the brazier.

It gave off almost no heat. Kivrin hugged her arms to her chest, shivering in her thin shift. She wondered what they had done with her clothes. Clothes were hung on poles beside the bed in the Middle Ages, but this room had no poles, and no hooks either.

Her clothes were in the chest at the foot of the bed, neatly folded. She took them out, grateful that her boots were still there, and then sat on the closed lid of the chest for a long time, trying to catch her breath.

I have to speak to Gawyn this morning, she thought, willing her body to be strong enough. It's the only time everyone will be gone. And it's going to snow.

She dressed, sitting down as much as possible and leaning against the bedposts to pull her hose and boots on, and then went back over to the bed. I'll rest a little, she thought, just till I'm warmed through, and was immediately asleep.

The bell woke her, the one from the southwest she had heard when she came through. It had rung all yesterday and then stopped, and Eliwys had gone over to the window and stood there for awhile, as if trying to see what had happened. The light from the window was dimmer, but it was only that the clouds were thicker, lower. Kivrin put on her cloak and opened the door. The stairs were steep, set into the stone side of the hall, and had no railing. Agnes was lucky she had only skinned her knee. She might have pitched headlong onto the floor below. Kivrin kept her hand on the wall and rested halfway, looking at the hall.

I'm really here, she thought. It really is 1320. The hearth in the middle of the room glowed a dull red with the banked coals, and there was a little light from the smoke-hole above it and the high, narrow windows, but most of the hall was in shadow.

She stopped where she was, peering into the smoky gloom, trying to see if anyone was there. The high-seat, with its carved back and arms, sat against the end wall with Lady Eliwys's slightly lower, slightly less ornate one next to it. There were tapestries on the wall behind them and a ladder at the far end of the wall up to what must be a loft. Heavy wooden tables hung along the other walls above the wide benches, and a narrower bench sat next to the wall just below the stairs. The beggar's bench. And the wall it sat against was the screens.

Kivrin came down the rest of the stairs and tiptoed across to the screens, her feet crunching loudly on the dried rushes scattered on the floor. The screens were really a partition, an inside wall that shut off the draft from the door.

Sometimes the screens formed a separate room, with box beds in either end, but behind these there was only a narrow passage, with the missing hooks for hanging up cloaks. There were none there now. Good, Kivrin thought, they're all gone.

The door was open. On the floor next to it was a pair of shaggy boots, a wooden bucket, and Agnes's cart. Kivrin stopped in the little anteroom to catch her already ragged breath, wishing she could sit down a moment, and then looked carefully out the door and went outside.

There was no one in the enclosed courtyard. It was cobbled with flattish yellow stones, but the center of it, where a water trough hollowed out of a tree stood, was deep in mud. There were trampled hoof and footprints all around it, and several puddles of brown water. A thin, mangy-looking chicken was drinking daintily from one of the pools. Chickens had only been raised for their eggs. Pigeons and doves had been the chief meat fowls in the 1300's.

And there was the dovecote by the gate, and the thatch- roofed building next to it must be the kitchen, and the other, smaller buildings that the storehouses. The stable, with its wide doors, stood along the other side, and then a narrow passage, and then the big stone barn.

She tried the stable first. Agnes's puppy came bounding out to meet her on its clumsy feet, yipping happily, and she had to hastily push it back inside and shut the heavy wooden door. Gawyn obviously wasn't in there. He wasn't in the barn either, or in the kitchen or in the other buildings, the largest of which turned out to be the brewhouse. Agnes had said he wasn't going with the procession to cut the Yule log as if it were something obvious, and Kivrin had assumed he had to stay here to guard the manor, but now she wondered if he had gone with Eliwys to visit the cottar.

If he has, she thought, I'll have to go find the drop myself. She started toward the stable again, but halfway there she stopped. She would never be able to get up on a horse by herself, feeling as weak as she did, and if she did somehow manage it, she was too dizzy to stay on. And too dizzy to go looking for the drop. But I have to, she thought. They're all gone, and it's going to snow.

She looked toward the gate and then the passage between the barn and the stable, wondering which way to go. They had come down a hill, past a church. She remembered hearing the bell. She didn't remember the gate or the courtyard, but that was most likely the way they had come.

She walked across the cobbles, sending the chicken clucking frantically over to the shelter of the well, and looked out the gate at the road. It crossed a narrow stream with a log bridge and wound off to the south into the trees. But there wasn't any hill, and no church, no village, no indication that that was the way to the drop.

There had to be a church. She had heard the bell, lying in bed. She walked back into the courtyard and across to the muddy path. It led past a round wattle pen with two dirty pigs in it, and the privy, unmistakable in its smell, and Kivrin was afraid that the path was only the way to the outhouse, but it wound around behind the privy and opened out onto a green.

And there was the village. And the church, sitting at the far end of the green just the way Kivrin remembered it, and beyond it was the hill they had come down.

The green didn't look like a green. It was a ragged open space with the huts on one side and the willow-edged stream on the other, but there was a cow grazing on what was left of the grass and a goat tethered to a big leafless oak. The huts straggled along the near side between piles of hay and muck heaps, getting smaller and more shapeless the farther they were from the manor house, but even the one closest to the manor house, which should be the steward's, was nothing but a hovel. It was all smaller and dirtier and more tumbledown. Only the church looked the way it was supposed to.

The bell tower stood separate from it, between the churchyard and the green. It had obviously been built later than the church with its Norman round-arched windows and grayed stone. The tower was tall and round, and its stone was yellower, almost golden.

A track, no wider than the road near the drop, led past the churchyard and the tower and up the hill into the woods.

That's the way we came, Kivrin thought, and started across the green, but as soon as she stepped out of the shelter of the barn, the wind hit her. It went through her cloak as if it were nothing, and seemed to stab into her chest. She pulled the cloak tight around her neck, held it with her flattened hand against her chest, and went on.

The bell in the southwest began again. She wondered what it meant. Eliwys and Imeyne had talked about it, but that was before she could understand what they were saying, and when it began again yesterday, Eliwys hadn't even acted like she heard it. Perhaps it was something to do with Advent. The bells were supposed to ring at twilight on Christmas Eve and then for an hour before midnight, Kivrin knew. Perhaps they rang at other times during Advent as well.

The track was muddy and rutted. Kivrin's chest was beginning to hurt. She pressed her hand tighter against it and went on, trying to hurry. She could see movement out beyond the fields. They would be the peasants coming back with the Yule log, or getting in the animals. She couldn't make them out. It looked as if it were already snowing out there. She must hurry.

The wind whipped her cloak around her and swirled dead leaves past her. The cow moved off the green, its head down, into the shelter of the huts. Which were no shelter at all. They seemed hardly taller than Kivrin and as if they had been bundled together out of sticks and propped in place, and they didn't stop the wind at all.

The bell continued to ring, a slow, steady tolling, and Kivrin realized she had slowed her tread to match it. She mustn't do that. She must hurry. It might start snowing any minute. But hurrying made the pain stab so sharply she began to cough. She stopped, bent double with the coughing.

She was not going to make it. Don't be foolish, she told herself, you have to find the drop. You're ill. You have to get back home. Go as far as the church and you can rest inside for a minute.

She started on again, willing herself not to cough, but it was no use. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't make it to the church, let alone the drop. You have to make it, she shouted to herself over the pain. You have to will yourself to make it.

She stopped again, bending over against the pain. She had been worried that a peasant would come out of one of the huts, but now she wished someone would so they could help her back to the manor. They wouldn't. They were all out in this freezing wind, getting in the last of the potatoes and gathering up the animals. She looked out toward the fields. The distant figures who had been out there were gone.

She was opposite the last hut. Beyond it was a scattering of ramshackle sheds she hoped no one lived in, and surely nobody did. They must be outbuildings — cowbyres and granaries-and beyond them, surely not that far away, the church. Perhaps if I take it slowly, she thought, and started toward the church again. Her whole chest jarred at every step. She stopped, swaying a little, thinking, I mustn't faint. No one knows where I am.

She turned and looked back at the manor house. She couldn't even get back to the hall. I have to sit down, she thought, but there was nowhere to sit in the muddy track. Lady Eliwys was tending the cottar, Lady Imeyne and the girls and the entire village were out cutting the Yule log. No one knows where I am.

The wind was picking up, coming now not in gusts but in a straight, determined push across the fields. I must try to get back to the house, Kivrin thought, but she couldn't do that either. Even standing was too much of an effort. If there were anywhere to sit she would sit down, but the space between the huts, right up to their fences, was all mud. She would have to go into the hut.

It had a rickety wattle fence around it, made by weaving green branches between stakes. The fence was scarcely knee-high and wouldn't have kept a cat out, let alone the sheep and cows it was intended against. Only the gate had supports even waist- high, and Kivrin leaned gratefully against one of them. "Hello," she shouted into the wind, "is anyone there?"

The front door of the hut was only a few steps from the gate, and the hut couldn't be soundproof. It wasn't even windproof. She could see a hole in the wall where the daubed clay and chopped straw had cracked and fallen away from the matted branches underneath. They could surely hear her. She lifted the loop of leather that held the gate shut, went in, and knocked on the low, planked door.

There was no answer, and Kivrin hadn't expected any. She shouted again, "Is anyone home?" not even bothering to listen to how the interpreter translated it, and tried to lift the wooden bar that lay across it. It was too heavy. She tried to slide it out of the notches cut in the protruding lintels, but she couldn't. The hut looked like it could blow away at any minute, and she couldn't get the door open. She would have to tell Mr. Dunworthy mediaeval huts weren't as flimsy as they looked. She leaned against the door, holding her chest.

Something made a sound behind her, and she turned, already saying, "I'm sorry I intruded into your garden." It was the cow, leaning casually over the fence and browsing among the brown leaves, hardly reaching at all.

She would have to go back to the manor. She used the gate for support, making sure she shut it behind her and looped the leather back over the stake, and then the cow's bony back. The cow followed with her a few steps, as if she thought Kivrin was leading her in to be milked, and then went back to the garden.

The door of one of the sheds that nobody could possibly live in opened, and a barefoot boy came out. He stopped, looking frightened.

Kivrin tried to straighten up. "Please," she said, breathing hard between the words, "may I rest awhile in your house?"

The boy stared dumbly at her, his mouth hanging open. He was hideously thin, his arms and legs no thicker than the twigs in the hut fences.

"Please, run to the manor and tell the men in the stable come. Tell them I'm ill."

He can no more run than I can, she thought as soon as she said it. The boy's feet were blue with cold. His mouth looked sore, and his cheeks and upper lip were smeared with dried blood from a nosebleed. He's got scurvy, Kivrin thought, he's worse off than I am, but she said again, "Run to the manor and bid them come."

The boy crossed himself with a chapped, bony hand. "Bighaull emeurdroud ooghattund enblastbardey," he said, backing into the hut.

Oh, no, Kivrin thought despairingly. He can't understand me, and I don't have the strength to try to make him. "Please help me," she said, and the boy looked almost like he understood that. He took a step toward her and then darted suddenly away in the direction of the church.

"Wait!" Kivrin called.

He darted past the cow and around the fence and disappeared behind the hut. Kivrin looked at the shed. It could hardly even be called that. It looked more like a haystack — grass and pieces of thatch wadded into the spaces between the poles, but its door was a mat of sticks tied together with blackish rope, the kind of door you could blow down with one good breath, and the boy had left it open. She stepped over the raised doorstep and went into the hut.

It was dark inside and so smoky Kivrin couldn't see anything. It smelled terrible. Like a stable. Worse than a stable. Mingled with the barnyard smells were smoke and mildew and the nasty odor of rats. Kivrin had had to bend over almost double to get through the door. She straightened, and hit her head on the sticks that served as crossbeams.

There was nowhere to sit in the hut, if that was really what it was. The floor was as covered with sacks and tools as if it was a shed after all, and there was no furniture except an uneven table whose rough legs splayed unevenly from the center. But the table had a wooden bowl and a heel of bread on it, and in the center of the hut, in the only cleared space, a little fire was burning in a shallow, dug-out hole.

It was apparently the source of all the smoke even though there was a hole in the ceiling above it for a draft. It was a little fire, only a few sticks, but the other holes in the unevenly stuffed walls and roof drew the smoke, too, and the wind, coming in from everywhere, gusted it around the cramped hut. Kivrin started to cough, which was a terrible mistake. Her chest felt as if it would break apart with every spasm.

Gritting her teeth to keep from coughing, she eased herself down on a sack of onions, holding onto the spade propped against it and then the fragile-looking wall. She felt immediately better as soon as she was sitting down, even though it was so cold she could see her breath. I wonder how this place smells in the summer, she thought. She wrapped her cloak around her, folding the tails like a blanket across her knees.

There was a cold draft along the floor. She tucked the cloak around her feet and then picked up a bill hook lying next to the sack and poked at the meager fire with it. The fire blazed up halfheartedly, illuminating the hut and making it look more than ever like a shed. A low lean-to had been built on at one side, probably for a stable because it was partitioned off from the rest of the hut by an even lower fence than the cottage had had. The fire wasn't bright enough for Kivrin to see into the lean-to corner, but a scuffling sound came from it.

A pig, maybe, although the peasants' pigs were supposed to have been slaughtered by now, or maybe a milchgoat. She poked at the fire again, trying to get a little more light from the corner.

The scuffling sound came from in front of the pathetic fence, from a large dome-shaped cage. It was elaborately out-of- place in the filthy corner with its smooth curved metal band, its complicated door, its fancy handle. Inside the cage, his eyes glinting in the firelight Kivrin had stirred up, was a rat.

He sat on his haunches, his hand-like paws holding the chunk of cheese that had tempted him into imprisonment, watching Kivrin. There were several other crumbled and probably moldy bits of cheese on the floor of the cage. More food than in this entire hut, Kivrin thought, sitting very still on the lumpy sack of onions. One wouldn't think they had anything worth protecting from a rat.

She had seen a rat before, of course, in History of Psych and when they tested her for phobias during her first years, but not this kind. Nobody had seen this kind, in England at least, in fifty years. It was a very pretty rat, actually, with silky black fur, not much bigger than History of Psych's white laboratory rats, not nearly as big as the brown rat she'd been tested with.

It looked much cleaner than the brown rat, too. He had looked like he belonged in the sewers and drains and tube tunnels he'd no doubt come out of, with his matted dust-brown coat and long, obscenely naked tail. When she had first started studying the Middle Ages, she had been unable to understand how the contemps had tolerated the disgusting things in their barns, let alone their houses. The thought of the one in the wall by her bed had filled her with revulsion. But this rat was actually quite clean-looking, with its black eyes and shiny coat. Certainly cleaner than Maisry, and probably more intelligent. Harmless-looking.

As if to prove her point, the rat took another dainty nibble on the cheese.

"You're not harmless, though," Kivrin said. "You're the scourge of the Middle Ages."

The rat dropped the chunk of cheese and took a step forward, his whiskers twitching. He took hold of two of the metal bars with his pinkish hands and looked appealingly through them.

"I can't let you out, you know," Kivrin said, and his ears pricked up as if he understood her. "You eat precious grain and contaminate food and carry fleas and in another twenty-eight years you and your chums will wipe out half of Europe. You're what Lady Imeyne should be worrying about instead of French spies and illiterate priests." The rat looked at her. "I'd like to let you out, but I can't. The Black Death was bad enough as it was. It killed over a third of Europe. If I let you out, your descendants might make it even worse."

The rat let go of the bars and began running around the cage, crashing against the bars, circling in frantic, random movements.

"I'd let you out if I could," Kivrin said. The fire had nearly gone out. Kivrin stirred it again, but it was all ashes. The door she had left open in the hope that the boy would bring someone back looking for her banged shut, plunging the hut in darkness.

They won't have any idea where to look for me, Kivrin thought, and knew they weren't even looking yet. They all thought she was in Rosemund's bower asleep. Lady Imeyne wouldn't even check on her until she brought her her supper. They wouldn't even start to look for her until after vespers, and by then it would be dark.

It was very quiet in the hut. The wind must have died down. She couldn't hear the rat. A twig on the fire snapped once, and sparks flew onto the dirt floor.

Nobody knows where I am, she thought, and put her hand up to her chest as if she had been stabbed. Nobody knows where I am. Not even Mr. Dunworthy.

But surely that wasn't true. Lady Eliwys might have come back and gone up to put more ointment on, or Maisry might have come in from the stable or the boy might have darted off to fetch the men from the fields, and they would be here any minute, even though the door was shut. And even if they didn't realize she was gone until after vespers, they had torches and lanterns, and the parents of the boy with scurvy would come back to cook supper and find her and would go and fetch someone from the manor. No matter what happens, she told herself, you're not completely alone, and that comforted her.

Because she was completely alone. She had tried to convince herself she wasn't, that some reading on the net's monitor's had told Gilchrist and Montoya something had gone wrong, that Mr. Dunworthy had made Badri check and recheck everything, that they knew what had happened somehow and were holding the drop open. But they weren't. They no more knew where she was than Agnes and Lady Eliwys did. They thought she was safely in Skendgate, studying the Middle Ages, with the drop clearly located and the Domesday Book already half full of observations about quaint customs and rotation of crops. They wouldn't even realize she was gone until they opened the drop in two weeks.

"And by then it will be dark," Kivrin said.

She sat still, watching the fire. It was nearly out, and there weren't any more sticks anywhere that she could see. She wondered if the boy had been left at home to gather faggots and what they would do for a fire tonight.

She was all alone, and the fire was going out, and nobody knew where she was except the rat who was going to kill half of Europe. She stood up, cracking her head again, pushed the door of the hut open, and went outside.

There was still no one in sight in the fields. The wind had died down, and she could hear the bell from the southwest tolling clearly. A few flakes of snow drifted out of the gray sky. The little rise the church was on was completely obscured with snow. Kivrin started toward the church.

Another bell began. It was more to the south and closer, but with the higher, more metallic sound that meant it was a smaller bell. It tolled steadily, too, but a little behind the first bell so that it sounded like an echo.

"Kivrin! Lady Kivrin!" Agnes called. "Where have you been?" She ran up beside Kivrin, her round little face red with exertion or cold. Or excitement. "We've been looking everywhere for you." She darted back in the direction she had come from, shouting, "I found her! I found her!"

"Nay, you did not!" Rosemund said. "We all saw her." She hurried forward ahead of Lady Imeyne and Maisry, who had her ragged poncho thrown over her shoulders. Her ears were bright red. She looked sullen, which probably meant she had been blamed for Kivrin's disappearance or thought she was going to be, or maybe she was just cold. Lady Imeyne looked furious.

"You did not know it was Kivrin," Agnes shouted, running back to Kivrin's side. "You said you were not certain it was Kivrin. I was the one who found her."

Rosemund ignored her. She took hold of Kivrin's arm. "What has happened? Why did you leave your bed?" she asked anxiously. "Gawyn came to speak with you and found that you had gone."

Gawyn came, Kivrin thought weakly. Gawyn, who could have told me exactly where the drop is, and I wasn't there.

"Aye, he came to tell you that he had found no trace of your attackers, and that — "

Lady Imeyne came up. "Whither were you bound?" she said, and it sounded like an accusation.

"I could not find my way back," Kivrin said, trying to think what to say to explain her wandering about the village.

"Went you to meet someone?" Lady Imeyne demanded, and it was definitely an accusation.

"How could she go to meet someone?" Rosemund asked. "She knows no one here and remembers naught of before."

"I went to look for the place where I was found," Kivrin said, trying not to lean on Rosemund. "I thought maybe the sight of my belongings might…"

"Help you to remember," Rosemund said. "But — "

"You need not have risked your health to do so," Lady Imeyne said. "Gawyn has fetched them here this day."

"Everything?" Kivrin asked.

"Aye," Rosemund said, "the wagon and all your boxes."

The second bell stopped, and the first bell kept on alone, steadily, slowly, and surely it was a funeral. It sounded like the death of hope itself. Gawyn had brought everything to the manor.

"It is not meet to hold Lady Katherine talking in this cold," Rosemund said, sounding like her mother. "She has been ill. We must needs get her inside ere she catches a chill."

I have already caught a chill, Kivrin thought. Gawyn has brought everything to the manor, all traces of where the drop had been. Even the wagon.

"You are to blame for this, Maisry," Lady Imeyne said, pushing Maisry forward to take Kivrin's arm. "You should not have left her alone."

Kivrin flinched away from the filthy Maisry.

"Can you walk?" Rosemund asked, already buckling under Kivrin's weight. "Should we bring the mare?"

"No," Kivrin said. She somehow couldn't bear the thought of that, brought back like a captured prisoner on the back of a jangling horse. "No," she repeated. "I can walk."

She had to lean heavily on Rosemund's arm and Maisry's filthy one, and it was slow going, but she made it. Past the huts and the steward's house and the interested pigs, and into the courtyard. The stump of a big ash tree lay on the cobbles in front of the barn, its twisted roots catching the flakes of snow.

"She will have caught her death with her behavior," Lady Imeyne said, gesturing to Maisry to open the heavy wooden door. "She will no doubt have a relapse."

It began to snow in earnest. Maisry opened the door. It had a latch like the little door on the rat's cage. I should have let him go, Kivrin thought, scourge or not. I should have let him go.

Lady Imeyne motioned to Maisry, and she came back to take Kivrin's arm again. "No," she said, and shrugged off her hand and Rosemund's and walked alone and without help through the door and into the darkness inside.

18 December 1320 (Old Style.) I think I have pneumonia. I tried to go find the drop, but I didn't make it, and I've had some sort of relapse or something. There's a stabbing pain under my ribs every time I take a breath, and when I cough, which is constantly, it feels like everything inside is breaking to pieces. I tried to sit up awhile ago and was instantly bathed in sweat, and I think my temp is back up. Those are all symptoms Dr. Ahrens told me indicate pneumonia.

Lady Eliwys isn't back yet. Lady Imeyne put a horrible- smelling poultice on my chest and then sent for the steward's wife. I thought she wanted to "chide with" her for usurping the manor, but when the steward's wife came, carrying her six-month old baby, Imeyne told her, "The wound has fevered her lungs," and she looked at my temple and then went out and came back without the baby and with a bowl full of a bitter-tasting tea. It must have had willow bark or something in it because my temp came down, and my ribs don't hurt quite so much.

The steward's wife is thin and small, with a sharp face and ash-blonde hair. I think Lady Imeyne is probably right about her being the one to tempt the steward "into sin." She came in wearing a fur-trimmed kirtle with sleeves so long they nearly dragged on the floor, and her baby wrapped in a finely-woven wool blanket, and she talks in an odd, slurred accent which I think is an attempt to mimic Lady Imeyne's speech.

"The embryonic middle class," as Mr. Latimer would say, nouveau riche and waiting for its chance, which it will get in thirty years when the Black Death hits and a third of the nobility is wiped out.

"Is this the lady was found in the woods?" she asked Lady Imeyne when she came in, and there wasn't any "seeming modesty" in her manner. She smiled at Imeyne as if they were old chums and came over to the bed.

"Aye," Lady Imeyne said, managing to get impatience, disdain, and distaste all in one syllable.

The steward's wife was oblivious. She came over to the bed and then stepped back, the first person to show any indication they thought I might be contagious. "Has she the (something) fever?" The interpreter didn't catch the word, and I couldn't get it either because of her peculiar accent. Flouronen? Florentine?

"She has a wound to the head," Imeyne said sharply. "It has fevered her lungs."

The steward's wife nodded. "Father Roche told us how he and Gawyn found her in the woods."

Imeyne stiffened at the familiar use of Gawyn's name, and the steward's wife did catch that and hurried out to brew up the willow bark. She even ducked a bow to Lady Imeyne when she left the second time.

Rosemund came in to sit with me after Imeyne left — I think they've assigned her to keep me from trying to escape again — and I asked her if it was true that Father Roche had been with Gawyn when he found me.

"Nay," she said. "Gawyn met Father Roche on the road as he brought you here and left you to his care that he might seek your attackers, but he found naught of them, and they brought you here. You need not worry over it. Gawyn has brought your things to the manor."

I don't remember Father Roche being there, except in the sickroom, but if it's true, and Gawyn didn't meet him too far from the drop, maybe he knows where it is.

I have been thinking about what Lady Imeyne said. "The wound to her head has fevered her lungs," she said. I don't think anyone here realizes I'm ill. They let the little girls in the sickroom all the time, and none of them seem the least afraid, except the steward's wife, and as soon as Lady Imeyne told her I had "fevered lungs," she came up to the bed without any hesitation.

But she was obviously worried about the possibility of my illness's being contagious, and when I asked Rosemund why she hadn't gone with her mother to see the cottar, she said, as if it were self-evident, "She forbade me to go. The cottar is ill."

I don't think they know I have a disease. I didn't have any obvious marker symptoms, like pox or a rash, and I think they put my fever and delirium down to my injuries. Wounds often became infected, and there were frequent cases of blood poisoning. There would be no reason to keep the little girls away from an injured person.

And none of them have caught it. It's been five days, and if it is a virus, the incubation period should only be twelve to forty-eight hours. Dr. Ahrens told me the most contagious period is before there are any symptoms, so maybe I wasn't contagious by the time the little girls started coming in. Or maybe this is something they've all had already, and they're immune. The steward's wife asked if I had had "the Florentine? Flahntin? fever," and Mr. Gilchrist's convinced there was an influenza epidemic in 1320. Maybe that's what I caught.

It's afternoon. Rosemund is sitting in the windowseat, sewing a piece of linen with dark red wool, and Blackie's asleep beside me. I've been thinking about how you were right, Mr. Dunworthy. I wasn't prepared at all, and everything's completely different from the way I thought it would be. But you were wrong about it's not being like a fairy tale.

Everywhere I look I see things from fairy tales: Agnes's red cape and hood and the rat's cage and bowls of porridge, and the village's huts of straw and sticks that a wolf could blow down without half trying.

The bell tower looks like the one Rapunzel was imprisoned in, and Rosemund, bending over her embroidery, with her dark hair and white cap and red cheeks, looks for all the world like Snow White.

I think my fever is back up. I can smell smoke in the room. Lady Imeyne is praying, kneeling beside the bed with her Book of Hours. Rosemund told me they have sent for the steward's wife again. Lady Imeyne despises her. I must be truly ill for her to have sent for her. I wonder if they will send for the priest. If they do, I must ask him if he knows where Gawyn found me. It's so hot in here. This part is not like a fairy tale at all. They only send for the priest when someone is dying, but Probability says there was a seventy-two per cent chance of dying of pneumonia in the 1300's. I hope he comes soon, to tell me where the drop is and hold my hand.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Two more cases, both students, came in while Mary was interrogating Colin on how he had got through the perimeter.

"It was easy," Colin had said indignantly. "They're trying to keep people from getting out, not getting in," and had been about to give the particulars when the registrar came in.

Mary had made Dunworthy accompany her to the casualties ward to see if he could identify them. "And you stay here," she had told Colin. "You've caused quite enough trouble for one night."

Dunworthy didn't recognize either of the new cases, but it didn't matter. They were conscious and lucid and were already giving the house officer the names of all their contacts when he and Mary got there. He took a good look at each of them and shook his head. "They might have been part of that crowd on the High Street, I can't tell," he said.

"It's all right," she said. "You can go home if you like."

"I thought I'd wait and have my blood test," he said.

"Oh, but that isn't till — " she said, looking at her digital. "Good Lord, it's after six."

"I'll just go up and check on Badri," he said, "and then I'll be in the waiting room."

Badri was asleep, the nurse said. "I wouldn't wake him."

"No, of course not," Dunworthy said and went back down to the waiting room.

Colin was sitting crosslegged in the middle of the floor, digging in his duffel. "Where's Great-Aunt Mary?" he asked. "She's a bit flakked at my showing up, isn't she?"

"She thought you were safely back in London," Dunworthy said. "Your mother told her your train had been stopped at Barton."

"It was. They made everyone get off and get on another train going back to London."

"And you got lost in the changeover?"

"No. I overheard these people talking about the quarantine, and how there was this terrible disease and everybody was going to die and everything — " He stopped to rummage further in his duffel. He took out and replaced a large number of items, tapes and a pocket vidder and a pair of scuffed and dirty runners. He was obviously related to Mary. "And I didn't want to be stuck with Eric and miss all the excitement."

"Eric?"

"My mother's livein." He pulled out a large red gobstopper, picked off a few bits of lint, and popped it in his mouth. It made a mumplike lump in his cheek. "He is absolutely the most necrotic person in the world," he said around the gobstopper. "He has this flat down in Kent and there is absolutely nothing to do."

"So you got off the train at Barton. What did you do then? Walk back to Oxford?"

He took the gobstopper out of his mouth. It was no longer red. It was a mottled bluish-green color. Colin looked critically at all sides of it and put it back in his mouth. "Of course not. Barton's a long way from Oxford. I took a taxi."

"Of course," Dunworthy said.

"I told him I was reporting the quarantine for my school paper and I wanted to get vids of the blockade. I had my vidder with me, you see, so it seemed the logical thing." He held up the pocket vidder to illustrate, and then stuffed it back in the duffel and began digging again.

"Did he believe you?"

"I think so. He did ask me which school I went to, but I just said, very offended, 'You should be able to tell,' and he said St. Edward's, and I said, 'Of course.' He must have believed me. He took me to the perimeter, didn't he?"

And I was worried about what Kivrin would do if no friendly traveller came along, Dunworthy thought. "What did you do then, give the police the same story?"

Colin pulled out a green wool jumper, folded it into a bundle, and laid it on top of the open duffel. "No. When I thought about it, it was rather a lame story. I mean, what is there to take pictures of, after all? It's not like a fire, is it? So I just walked up to the guard as if I were going to ask him something about the quarantine, and then just at the last I dodged sideways and ducked under the barrier."

"Didn't they chase you?"

"Of course. But not for more than a few streets. They're trying to keep people from getting out, not in. And then I walked about awhile till I saw a street sign I recognized."

Presumably it had been pouring rain this entire time but Colin hadn't mentioned it, and a collapsible umbrella wasn't among the items he'd rooted out of his bag.

"The hard part was finding Great-Aunt Mary," he said. He lay down with his head on the duffel. "I went to her flat, but she wasn't there. I thought maybe she was still at the tube station waiting for me, but it was shut down." He sat up, rearranged the wool jumper, and lay back down. "And then I thought, she's a doctor. She'll be at the infirmary."

He sat up again, punched the duffel into a different shape, lay down and closed his eyes. Dunworthy leaned back in the uncomfortable chair, envying the young. Colin was probably nearly asleep already, not at all frightened or disturbed by his adventures. He had walked all over Oxford in the middle of the night, or perhaps he had taken further taxis or pulled a collapsible bicycle out of his duffel, all by himself in a freezing winter rain, and he wasn't even fazed by the adventure.

Kivrin was all right. If the village wasn't where it was supposed to be she would walk until she found it, or take a taxi, or lie down somewhere with her head on her folded-up cloak, and sleep the undauntable sleep of youth.

Mary came in. "Both of them went to a dance in Headington last night," she said, dropping her voice when she saw Colin.

"Badri was there, too," Dunworthy whispered back.

"I know. One of them danced with him. They were there from nine to two, which puts it at from twenty-five to thirty hours and well within a forty-eight hour incubation period, if Badri's the one who infected them."

"You don't think he did?"

"I think it's more likely all three of them were infected by the same person, probably someone Badri saw early in the evening, and the others later."

"A carrier?"

She shook her head. "People don't usually carry myxoviruses without contracting the disease themselves, but he or she could have had only a mild manifestation or have been ignoring the symptoms."

Dunworthy thought of Badri collapsing against the console and wondered how it were possible to ignore one's symptoms.

"And if," Mary went on, "this person was in South Carolina four days ago — "

"You'll have your link with the American virus."

"And you can stop worrying over Kivrin. She wasn't at the dance in Headington," she said. "Of course, the connection is more likely to be several links away."

She frowned, and Dunworthy thought, several links that haven't checked in to hospital or even rung up a doctor. Several links who have all ignored their symptoms.

Apparently Mary was thinking the same thing. "These bellringers of yours, when did they arrive in England?"

"I don't know. But they only arrived in Oxford this afternoon, after Badri was at the net."

"Well, ask them anyway. When they landed, where they've been, whether any of them have been ill. One of them might have relations in Oxford and have come up early. You've no American undergraduates in college?"

"No. Montoya's an American."

"I hadn't thought of that," Mary said. "How long has she been here?"

"All term. But she might have been in contact with someone visiting from America."

"I'll ask her when she comes in for her bloodwork," she said. "I'd like you to question Badri about any Americans he knows, or students who've been to the States on exchange."

"He's asleep."

"And so should you be," she said. "I didn't mean now." She patted his arm. "There's no necessity of waiting till seven. I'll send someone in to take blood and BP so you can go home to bed." She took Dunworthy's wrist and looked at the temp monitor. "Any chills?"

"No."

"Headache?"

"Yes."

"That's because you're exhausted." She dropped his wrist. "I'll send someone straightaway."

She looked at Colin, stretched out on the floor. "Colin will have to be tested as well, at least till we're certain it's droplet."

Colin's mouth had fallen open, but the gobstopper was still firmly in place in his cheek. Dunworthy wondered if he were likely to choke. "What about your nephew?" he said. "Would you like me to take him back to Balliol with me?"

She looked immediately grateful. "Would you? I hate to burden you with him, but I doubt I'll be home till we get this under control." She sighed. "Poor boy. I hope his Christmas won't be too spoilt."

"I wouldn't worry too much about it," Dunworthy said.

"Well, I'm very grateful," Mary said. "And I'll see to the tests immediately."

She left. Colin sat up immediately.

"What sort of tests?" he asked. "Does this mean I might get the virus?"

"I sincerely hope not," Dunworthy said, thinking of Badri's flushed face, his labored breathing.

"But I might," Colin said.

"The chances are very slim," Dunworthy said. "I shouldn't worry about it."

"I'm not worried." He held out his arm. "I think I'm getting a rash," he said eagerly, pointing to a freckle.

"That isn't a symptom of the virus," Dunworthy said. "Collect your things. I'm taking you home with me after the tests." He gathered up his muffler and overcoat from the chairs he'd draped them over.

"What are the symptoms, then?"

"Fever and difficulty breathing," Dunworthy said. Mary's shopping bag was on the floor by Latimer's chair. He decided they'd best take it with them.

The nurse came in, carrying her bloodwork tray.

"I feel hot," Colin said. He clutched his throat dramatically. "I can't breathe."

The nurse took a startled step backward, clinking her tray.

Dunworthy grabbed Colin's arm. "Don't be alarmed," he said to the nurse. "It's only a case of gobstopper poisoning."

Colin grinned and bared his arm fearlessly for the blood test, then stuffed the jumper into the duffel and pulled on his still-damp jacket while Dunworthy had his blood drawn.

The nurse said, "Dr. Ahrens said you needn't wait for the results," and left.

Dunworthy put on his overcoat, picked up Mary's shopping bag, and led Colin down the corridor and out through the casualties ward. He couldn't see Mary anywhere, but she had said they needn't wait, and he was suddenly so tired he couldn't stand.

They went outside. It was just beginning to get light out and still raining. Dunworthy hesitated under the hospital porch, wondering if he should ring for a taxi, but he had no desire to have Gilchrist show up for his tests while they were waiting and have to hear his plans for sending Kivrin to the Black Death and the battle of Agincourt. He fished Mary's collapsible umbrella out of her bag and put it up.

"Thank goodness you're still here," Montoya said, skidding up on a bicycle, spraying water. "I need to find Basingame."

So do we all, Dunworthy thought, wondering where she had been during all those telephone conversations.

She got off the bike, pushed it up the rack, and keyed the lock. "His secretary said no one knows where he is. Can you believe that?"

"Yes," Dunworthy said. "I've been trying most of today…yesterday to reach him. He's on holiday somewhere in Scotland, no one knows exactly where. Fishing, according to his wife."

"At this time of year?" she said. "Who would go fishing in Scotland in December? Surely his wife knows where he is or has a number where he can be reached or something."

Dunworthy shook his head.

"This is ridiculous! I go to all the trouble to get the National Health Board to grant me access to my dig, and Basingame's on vacation!" She reached under her slick and brought out a sheaf of colored papers. "They agreed to give me a waiver if the Head of History would sign an affidavit saying the dig was a project necessary and essential to the welfare of the university. How could he just go off like this without telling anybody?" She slapped the papers against her leg, and raindrops flew everywhere. "I have to get this signed before the whole dig floats away. Where's Gilchrist?"

"He should be here shortly for his blood tests," Dunworthy said. "If you manage to find Basingame, tell him he needs to come back immediately. Tell him we've got a quarantine here, we don't know where an historian is, and the tech is too ill to tell us."

"Fishing," Montoya said disgustedly, heading for Casualties. "If my dig is ruined, he's going to have a lot to answer for."

"Come along," Dunworthy said to Colin, anxious to be gone before anyone else showed up. He held the umbrella so it would cover Colin, too, and then gave up. Colin walked rapidly ahead, managing to hit nearly every puddle, then dawdled behind to look at shop windows and a stranded worm on the pavement.

There was no one on the streets, though whether that was from the quarantine or the early hour, Dunworthy couldn't tell. Perhaps they'll all be asleep, he thought, and we can sneak in and go straight to bed.

"I thought there'd be more going on," Colin said, sounding disappointed. "Sirens and all that."

"And dead-carts going through the streets, calling, 'Bring out your dead'?" Dunworthy said. "You should have gone with Kivrin. Quarantines in the Middle Ages were far more exciting than this one's likely to be, with only four cases and a vaccine on its way from the States."

"Who is this Kivrin person?" Colin asked. "Your daughter?"

"She's my pupil. She's just gone to 1320."

"Time travel? Apocalyptic!"

They turned the corner of the Broad. "The Middle Ages?" Colin said. "That's Napoleon, isn't it? Trafalgar, and all that?"

"It's the Hundred Years' War," Dunworthy said, and Colin looked blank. What are they teaching children in the schools these days? he thought. "Knights and ladies and castles."

"The Crusades?"

"The Crusades are a bit earlier."

"That's where I'd want to go. The Crusades."

They were at Balliol's gate. "Quiet, now," Dunworthy said. "Everyone will be asleep."

There was no one at the porter's gate, and no one in the front quadrangle. Lights were on in the hall, the bellringers having breakfast probably, but there were no lights in the senior common room, and none in Salvin. If they could get up the stairs without seeing anyone and without Colin's suddenly announcing he was hungry, they might make it safely to his rooms.

"Shhh," he said, turning back to caution Colin, who had stopped in the quad to take out his gobstopper and examine its color, which was now a purplish-black. "We don't want to wake everyone," he said, his finger to his lips, turned around, and collided with a couple in the doorway.

They were wearing rain slicks and embracing energetically, and the young man seemed oblivious to the collision, but the young woman pulled free and looked frightened. She had short red hair and was wearing a student nurse's uniform under her slick. The young man was William Gaddson.

"Your behavior is inappropriate to both the time and the place," Dunworthy said sternly. "Public displays of affection are strictly forbidden in college. It is also ill-advised, since your mother may arrive at any moment."

"My mother?" he said, looking as dismayed as Dunworthy had when he saw her coming down the corridor with her valise. "Here? In Oxford? What's she doing here? I thought there was a quarantine on."

"There is, but a mother's love knows no bounds. She is concerned about your health, as am I, considering the circumstances." He frowned at William and the young woman, who giggled. "I would suggest you escort your fellow perpetrator home and then make preparations for your mother's arrival."

"Preparations?" he said, looking truly stricken. "You mean she's staying?"

"She has no alternative, I'm afraid. There is a quarantine on."

Lights came on suddenly inside the staircase, and Finch emerged. "Thank goodness you're here, Mr. Dunworthy," he said.

He had a sheaf of colored papers, too, which he waved at Dunworthy. "National Health has just sent over another thirty detainees. I told them we hadn't any room, but they wouldn't listen, and I don't know what to do. We simply do not have the necessary supplies for all these people."

"Lavatory paper," Dunworthy said.

"Yes!" Finch said, brandishing the papers. "And food stores. We went through half the eggs and bacon this morning alone."

"Eggs and bacon?" Colin said. "Are there any left?"

Finch looked enquiringly at Colin and then at Dunworthy.

"He's Dr. Ahrens' nephew," he said, and before Finch could start off again, "he'll stay in my rooms."

"Well, good, because I simply cannot find space for another person."

"We have both been up all night, Mr. Finch, so — "

"Here's the list of supplies as of this morning." He handed Dunworthy a dampish blue paper. "As you can see — "

"Mr. Finch, I appreciate your concern about the supplies, but surely this can wait until after — "

"This is a list of your telephone calls with the ones you need to return marked with asterisks. This is a list of your appointments. The vicar wishes you to be at St. Mary's at a quarter past six to rehearse the Christmas Eve service."

"I will return all these calls, but after I — "

"Dr. Ahrens telephoned twice. She wanted to know what you've found out about the bellringers."

Dunworthy gave up. "Assign the new detainees to Warren and Basevi, three to a room. There are extra cots in the cellar of the hall."

Finch opened his mouth to protest.

"They'll simply have to put up with the paint smell."

He handed Colin Mary's shopping bag and the umbrella. "That building over there with the lights on is the hall," he said, pointing at the door. "Go tell the scouts you want some breakfast and then get one of them to let you into my rooms."

He turned to William, who was doing something with his hands under the student nurse's rain slick. "Mr. Gaddson, find your accomplice a taxi and then find the students who've been here during vac and ask them whether they've been to the States in the past week or had contact with anyone who has. Make a list. You haven't been to the States recently, have you?"

"No, sir," he said, removing his hands from the nurse. "I've been up the whole vac, reading Petrarch."

"Ah, yes, Petrarch," Dunworthy said. "Ask the students what they know about Badri Chaudhuri's activities from Monday on and question the staff. I need to know where he was and who he was with. I want the same sort of report on Kivrin Engle. Do a thorough job, and refrain from further public displays of affection, and I'll arrange for your mother to be assigned a room as far from you as possible."

"Thank you, sir," William said. "That would mean a great deal to me, sir."

"Now, Mr. Finch, if you'll tell me where I might find Ms. Taylor?"

Finch handed him more sheets, with the room assignments on them, but Ms. Taylor wasn't there. She was in the junior common room with her bellringers and, apparently, the still unassigned detainees.

One of them, an imposing woman in a fur coat, grabbed his arm as soon as he came in. "Are you in charge of this place?" she demanded.

Clearly not, Dunworthy thought. "Yes," he said.

"Well, what are you going to do about getting us someplace to sleep. We've been up all night."

"So have I, madam," Dunworthy said, afraid this was Ms. Taylor. She had looked thinner and less dangerous on the telephone, but visuals could be deceiving and the accent and the attitude were unmistakable. "You wouldn't be Ms. Taylor?"

"I'm Ms. Taylor," a woman in one of the wing chairs said. She stood up. She looked even thinner than she had on the telephone and apparently less angry. "I spoke with you on the phone earlier," she said, and the way she said it they might have had a pleasant chat about the intricacies of change ringing. "This is Ms. Piantini, our tenor," she said, indicating the woman in the fur coat.

Ms. Piantini looked like she could yank Great Tom straight off its moorings. She had obviously not had any viruses lately.

"If I could speak with you privately for a moment, Ms. Taylor?" He led her out into the corridor. "Were you able to cancel your concert in Ely?"

"Yes," she said. "And Norwich. They were very understanding." She leaned forward anxiously. "Is it true it's cholera?"

"Cholera?" Dunworthy said blankly.

"One of the women who was down at the station said it was cholera, that someone had brought it from India and people were dropping like flies."

It had apparently not been a good night's sleep, but fear that had worked the change in her manner. If he told her there were only four cases she would very likely demand they be taken to Ely.

"The disease is apparently a myxovirus," he said carefully. "When did your group come to England?"

Her eyes widened. "You think we're the ones who brought it? We haven't been to India."

"There is a possibility it is the same myxovirus as one reported in South Carolina. Are any of your members from South Carolina?"

"No," she said. "We're all from Colorado except Ms. Piantini. She's from Wyoming. And none of us has been sick."

"How long have you been in England?"

"Three weeks. We've been visiting all the Traditional Council chapters and doing handbell concerts. We rang a Boston Treble Bob at St. Katherine's and Post Office Caters with three of the Bury St. Edmund's chapter ringers, but of course neither of those was a new peal. A Chicago Surprise Minor — "

"And you all arrived in Oxford yesterday morning?"

"Yes."

"None of your group came early, to see the sights or visit friends?"

"No," she said, sounding shocked. "We're on tour, Mr. Dunworthy, not on vacation."

"And you said that none of you had been ill?"

She shook her head. "We can't afford to get sick. There are only six of us."

"Thank you for your help," Dunworthy said and sent her back down to the common room.

He rang up Mary, who couldn't be found, left a message, and started down Finch's asterisks. He rang up Andrews, Jesus College, Mr. Basingame's secretary, and St. Mary's without getting through. He rang off, waited a five minute interval and tried again. During one of the intervals, Mary phoned.

"Why aren't you in bed yet?" she demanded. "You look exhausted."

"I've been interrogating the bellringers," he said. "They've been here in England for three weeks. None of them came to Oxford before yesterday afternoon and none of them are ill. Do you want me to come back and question Badri?"

"It won't do any good, I'm afraid. He's not coherent."

"I'm trying to get through to Jesus to see what they know of his comings and goings."

"Good," she said. "Ask his landlady, too. And get some sleep. I don't want you getting this." She paused. "We've got six more cases."

"Any from South Carolina?"

"No," she said, "and none who couldn't have had contact with Badri. So he's still the index case. Is Colin all right?"

"He's having breakfast," he said. "He's all right. Don't worry about him."

He didn't get to bed until after one-thirty in the afternoon. It took him two hours to get through to all the starred names on Finch's list, and another hour to discover where Badri lived. His landlady wasn't at home, and when Dunworthy got back, Finch insisted on going over the complete inventory of supplies.

Dunworthy finally got away from him by promising to telephone the NHS and demand additional lavatory paper. He let himself into his rooms.

Colin had curled up on the window seat, his head on his pack and a crocheted laprobe over him. It didn't reach as far as his feet. Dunworthy took a blanket from the foot of the bed and covered him up, and sat down in the Chesterfield opposite to take off his shoes.

He was almost too tired to do that, though he knew he would regret it if he went to bed in his clothes. That was the province of the young and non-arthritic. Colin would wake refreshed in spite of digging buttons and constricting sleeves. Kivrin could wrap up in her too-thin white cloak and rest her head on a tree stump none the worse for wear, but if he so much as omitted a pillow or left his shirt on, he would wake stiff and cramped. And if he sat here with his shoes in his hand, he would not get to bed at all.

He heaved himself out of the chair, still holding the shoes, switched the light off, and went into the bedroom. He put on his pajamas and turned back the bed. It looked impossibly inviting.

I shall be asleep before my head hits the pillow, he thought, taking off his spectacles. He got into bed and pulled the covers up. Before I've even switched off the light, he thought, and switched off the light.

There was scarcely any light from the window, only a dull gray showing through the tangle of darker gray vines. The rain beat faintly against the dry leaves. I should have drawn the curtains, he thought, but he was too tired to get up again.

At least Kivrin wouldn't have to contend with rain. It was the Little Ice Age. It would be snow if anything. The contemps had slept huddled together by the hearth until it had finally occurred to someone to invent the chimney and the fireplace, and that hadn't been extant in Oxfordshire villages till the mid- fifteenth century. But Kivrin wouldn't care. She would curl up like Colin and sleep the easy, the unappreciated sleep of the young.

He wondered if it had stopped raining. He couldn't hear the patter of it on the window. Perhaps it had slowed to a drizzle or was getting ready to rain again. It was so dark, and too early for the afternoon to be drawing in. He drew his hand out from under the covers and looked at the illuminated numbers on his digital. Only two. It would be six in the evening where Kivrin was. He needed to phone Andrews again when he woke up and have him read the fix so they would know exactly where and when she was.

Badri had said there was only four hours' slippage, that he'd doublechecked the first-year apprentice's coordinates and they were correct, but he wanted to make certain. Gilchrist had taken no precautions and even with precautions, things could go wrong. Today had proved that.

Badri had had the full course of antivirals. Colin's mother had seen him safely onto the tube and given him extra money. The first time Dunworthy had gone to London he had almost not made it back, and they had taken endless precautions.

It had been a simple there-and-back-again to test the on- site net. Only thirty years. Dunworthy was to go through to Trafalgar Square, take the tube from Charing Cross to Paddington and the 10:48 train to Oxford where the main net would be open. They had allowed plenty of time, checked and rechecked the net, researched the ABC and the tube schedules, double-checked the dates on the money. And when he had got to Charing Cross the tube station was closed. The lights in the ticket kiosks were off, and an iron gate was pulled across the entrance, in front of the wooden turnstiles.

He pulled the blankets up over his shoulder. Any number of things could have gone wrong, things no one had even thought of. It had probably never occurred to Colin's mother that Colin's train would be stopped at Barton. It had not occurred to any of them that Badri would suddenly fall forward into the console.

Mary's right, he thought, you've a dreadful streak of Mrs. Gaddsonitis. Kivrin overcame any number of obstacles to get to the Middle Ages. Even if something goes wrong, she can handle it. Colin hadn't let a little thing like a quarantine stop him. And Dunworthy had made it safely back from London.

He had banged on the shut gate and then run back up the stairs to read the signs again, thinking that perhaps he had come in the wrong way. He hadn't. He had looked for a clock. Perhaps there had been more slippage than the checks indicated, he'd thought, and the underground was shut down for the night. But the clock above the entrance said nine-fifteen.

"Accident," a disreputable-looking man in a filthy cap had said. "They've shut down till they can get it cleaned up."

"B…But I must take the Bakerloo line," he'd stammered, but the man had shuffled off.

He'd stood there staring into the darkened station, unable to think what to do. He hadn't brought enough money for a taxi, and Paddington was all the way across London. He'd never make the 10:48.

"Whah ya gan, mite?" a young man with a black leather jacket and green hair like a cockscomb had said. Dunworthy could scarcely understand him. Punker, he'd thought. The young man had moved menacingly closer.

"Paddington," he'd said, and it had come out as little more than a squeak.

The punker had reached in his jacket pocket for what Dunworthy had been sure was his switchblade, but he'd pulled out a laminated tube pass and begun reading the map on the back. "Yuh cuhn get District or Sahcle from Embankment. Gaw dahn Craven Street and tike a left."

He had run the whole way, certain the punker's gang would leap out at him and steal his historically accurate money at any moment, and when he got to Embankment, he had had no idea how to work the ticket machine.

A woman with two toddlers had helped him, punching in the destination and amount for him and showing him how to insert his ticket in the slot. He had made it to Paddington with time to spare.

"Aren't there any nice people in the Middle Ages?" Kivrin had asked him, and of course there were. Young men with switchblades and tube maps had existed in all ages. So had mothers and toddlers and Mrs. Gaddsons and Latimers. And Gilchrists.

He rolled over onto his other side. "She will be perfectly all right," he said aloud, but softly, so as not to wake Colin. "The Middle Ages are no match for my best pupil." He pulled the blanket up over his shoulder and closed his eyes, thinking of the young man with the green cockscomb poring over the map. But the image that floated before him was of the iron gate, stretched between him and the turnstiles, and the darkened station beyond.

19 December 1320 (Old Style.) I'm feeling better. I can go three or four careful breaths at a time without coughing, and I was actually hungry this morning, though not for the greasy porridge Maisry brought me. I would kill for a glass of orange juice.

And a bath. I am absolutely filthy. Nothing's been washed since I got here except my forehead, and the last two days Lady Imeyne has glued poultices made of strips of linen covered with a disgusting-smelling paste to my chest. Between that, the intermittent sweats that I'm still having, and the bed (which hasn't been changed since the 1200's), I positively reek, and my hair, short as it is, is crawling. I'm the cleanest person here.

Dr. Ahrens was right in wanting to cauterize my nose. Everyone, even the little girls, smells terrible, and it's the dead of winter and freezing cold in here. I can't imagine what it must be like in August. They all have fleas. Lady Imeyne stops even in mid-prayer to scratch, and when Agnes pulled down her hose to show me her knee, there were red bites all up and down her leg.

Eliwys, Imeyne, and Rosemund have comparatively clean faces, but they don't wash their hands, even after emptying the chamberpot, and the idea of washing the dishes or changing the flock in the mattresses has yet to be invented. By rights, they should all have long since died of infection, but, except for scurvy and a lot of bad teeth, everyone seems to be in good health. Even Agnes's knee is healing nicely. She comes to show me the scab every day. And her silver buckle, and her wooden knight, and poor, over-loved Blackie.

She is a treasure trove of information, most of it volunteered without my even asking. Rosemund is "in her thirteenth year," which means she's twelve, and the room they've been tending me in is her bower. It's hard to imagine she's of marriagable age, and thus has a private "maiden's bower," but girls were frequently married at thirteen and fourteen in the 1300's. Eliwys can scarcely have been older than that when she married. Agnes also told me she has three older brothers, all of whom stayed in Bath with their father.

The bell in the southwest is Swindone. Agnes can name all the bells by the sound of their ringing. The distant one that always rings first is the Osney bell, the forerunner of Great Tom. The double bells are at Courcy, where Sir Bloet lives, and the two closest are Witenie and Esthcote. That means I'm close to Skendgate. It has the ash trees, it's about the right size, and the church is in the right place. The dig's church didn't have a bell tower, but Ms. Montoya may simply not have found it yet. Unfortunately, the name of the village is the one thing Agnes hasn't known.

She did know where Gawyn was. She told me he was out hunting my attackers, "And when he finds them, he will slay them with his sword. Like that," she said, demonstrating with Blackie. I'm not certain the things she tells me can always be depended upon. She told me King Edward is in France, and that Father Roche saw the devil, dressed all in black and riding on a black stallion.

This last is possible. (That Father Roche told her that, not that he saw the devil.) The line between the spiritual world and the physical wasn't clearly drawn until the Renaissance, and the contemps routinely saw visions of angels, the Last Judgment, the Virgin Mary.

Lady Imeyne complains constantly about how ignorant and illiterate and incompetent Father Roche is. She is still trying to convince Eliwys to send Gawyn to Osney to fetch a monk. When I asked her if she would send for him so he could pray with me (I decided that request couldn't possibly be considered "over- bold"), she gave me a half-hour recital of how he had forgotten part of the Venite, had blown the candles out instead of pinching them so that "much wax is wasted," and filled the servants' heads with superstitious prate (no doubt of the devil and his horse).

Village-level priests in the 1300's were merely peasants who'd been taught the mass by rote and a smattering of Latin. Everyone smells about the same to me, but the nobility viewed their serfs as a different species altogether, and I'm sure it offends Imeyne's aristocratic soul to have to tell her confession to this "villein!"

He's no doubt as superstitious and illiterate as she claims. But he's not incompetent. He held my hand when I was dying. He told me not to be afraid. And I wasn't.

I'm feeling better by leaps and bounds. This afternoon I sat up for half an hour, and tonight I went downstairs for supper. Lady Eliwys brought me a brown wadmal kirtle and mustard-colored surcote to wear, and a sort of kerchief to cover my chopped-off hair (not a wimple and coif, so Eliwys must still think I'm a maiden, in spite of all Imeyne's talk about "daltrisses") I don't know if my clothes were inappropriate or simply too nice to be worn for everyday, Eliwys didn't say anything. She and Imeyne helped me dress. I wanted to ask if I could wash before I put my new clothes on, but I'm afraid of doing anything that will make Imeyne more suspicious.

She watched me fasten my points and tie my shoes as it was, and kept a sharp eye on me all through dinner. I sat between the girls and shared a trencher with them. The steward was relegated to the very end of the table, and Maisry was nowhere to be seen. According to Mr. Latimer, the parish priest ate at the lord's table, but Lady Imeyne probably doesn't like Father Roche's table manners either.

We had meat, I think venison, and bread. The venison tasted of cinnamon, salt and lack of refrigeration and the bread was stone-hard, but it was better than porridge, and I don't think I made any mistakes in table manners.

Though I'm certain I must be making mistakes all the time, and that's why Lady Imeyne is so suspicious of me. My clothes, my hands, probably my sentence structure, is slightly (or not so slightly) off, and it all combines to make me seem foreign, peculiar — suspicious.

Lady Eliwys is too worried over her husband's trial to notice my mistakes, and the girls are too young. But Lady Imeyne notices everything and is probably making a list like the one she has for Father Roche. Thank goodness I didn't tell her I was Isabel de Beauvrier. She'd have ridden to Yorkshire, winter or no, to catch me out.

Gawyn came in after dinner. Maisry, who'd finally slunk in with a scarlet ear and a wooden bowl of ale, dragged the benches over to the hearth and put several logs of fat pine on the fire, and the women were sewing by its yellow light.

Gawyn stopped in front of the screens, obviously just in from a hard ride, and for a minute no one noticed him. Rosemund was brooding over her embroidery. Agnes was pushing her cart back and forth with the wooden knight in it, and Eliwys was talking earnestly to Imeyne about the cottar, who apparently isn't doing very well. The smoke from the fire was making my chest hurt, and I turned my head away from it, trying to keep from coughing, and saw him standing there, looking at Eliwys.

After a moment, Agnes ran her cart into Imeyne's foot, and Imeyne told her she was the devil's own child, and Gawyn came on into the hall. I lowered my eyes and prayed he would speak to me.

He did, bowing on one knee in front of where I sat on the bench. "Good lady," he said. "I am glad to see you improved."

I had no idea what, if anything, was appropriate to say. I ducked my head lower.

He remained on one knee, like a servitor. "I was told you remember naught of your attackers, Lady Katherine. Is it so?"

"Yes," I murmured.

"Nor of your servants, where they might have fled?"

I shook my head, eyes still downcast.

He turned toward Eliwys. "I have news of the renegades, Lady Eliwys. I have found their trail. There were many of them, and they had horses."

I'd been afraid he was going to say he'd caught some poor wood-gathering peasant and hanged him.

"I beg your leave to pursue them and avenge the lady," he said, looking at Eliwys.

Eliwys looked uneasy, wary, the way she had when he came before. "My husband bade us keep to this place till he comes," she said, "and he bade you stay with us to guard us. Nay."

"You have not supped," Lady Imeyne said in a tone that closed the matter.

Gawyn stood up.

"I thank you for your kindness, sir," I said rapidly. "I know it was you who found me in the woods." I took a breath, and coughed. "I beg you, will you tell me of the place you found me, where it is?" I had tried to say too much too fast. I began to cough, gasped too deep a breath, and doubled over with the pain.

By the time I got the coughing under control, Imeyne had set meat and cheese on the table for Gawyn, and Eliwys had gone back to her sewing, so I still don't know anything.

No, that's not true. I know why Eliwys looked so wary when he came in and why he made up a tale about a band of renegades. And what that conversation about "daltrisses" was all about.

I watched him standing there in the doorway looking at Eliwys, and I didn't need an interpreter to read his face. He's obviously in love with his lord's wife.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Dunworthy slept straight through till morning.

"Your secretary wanted to wake you up, but I wouldn't let him," Colin said. "He said to give you these." He thrust a messy sheaf of papers at him.

"What time is it?" Dunworthy said, sitting up stiffly in bed.

"Half past eight," Colin said. "All the bellringers and DT's are in hall eating breakfast. Oatmeal." He made a gagging sound. "It was absolutely necrotic. Your secretary chap says we need to ration the eggs and bacon because of the quarantine."

"Half past eight in the morning?" Dunworthy asked, blinking nearsightedly at the window. It was as dark and dismal as when he'd fallen asleep. "Good Lord, I was supposed to have gone back to hospital to question Badri."

"I know," Colin said. "Great-Aunt Mary said to let you sleep, that you couldn't question him anyway because they're running tests."

"She rang up?" Dunworthy asked, groping blindly for his spectacles on the bedstand.

"I went over this morning. To have my blood tested. Great- aunt Mary said to tell you we only need to come once a day for our blood tests."

He hooked his spectacles over his ears and looked at Colin. "Did she say whether they'd identified the virus?"

"Huh-unh," Colin said around a lump in his cheek. Dunworthy wondered if the gobstopper had been in his mouth all night, and if so why it hadn't diminished in size. "She sent you the contacts charts." He handed the papers to him. "The lady we saw at the infirmary rang up, too. The one on the bicycle."

"Montoya?"

"Yes. She wanted to know if you knew how to get in touch with Mr. Basingame's wife. I told her you'd ring her back. When does the post come, do you know?"

"The post?" Dunworthy said, looking through the stack.

"Mum didn't have my presents bought in time to send them on the tube with me," Colin said. "She said she'd send them by post. You don't think the quarantine will delay it, do you?"

Some of the papers Colin had handed him were stuck together, no doubt because of Colin's periodic examinations of his gobstopper, and most of them seemed to be, not the contact charts, but assorted memoranda from Finch: One of the heating vents in Salvin was stuck shut. The National Health Service ordered all inhabitants of Oxford and environs to avoid contact with infected persons. Mrs. Basingame was in Torquay for Christmas. They were running very low on lavatory paper.

"You don't, do you? Think it will delay it?" Colin asked.

"Delay what?" Dunworthy said.

"The post!" Colin said disgustedly. "The quarantine won't delay it, will it? What time is it supposed to come?"

"Ten," Dunworthy said. He sorted all the memoranda into one pile and opened a large manila envelope. "It's usually a bit late at Christmas because of all the parcels and Christmas cards.

The stapled sheets in the envelope weren't the contact charts either. They were William Gaddson's report on Badri's and Kivrin's whereabouts, neatly typed and organized into the morning, afternoon, and evening of each day. It looked far neater than any essay he'd ever handed in. Amazing what a salutory influence a mother could have.

"I don't see why it should be," Colin said. "I mean, it's not as if it's people, is it, so it can't be contagious? Where does it come, to the hall?"

"What?"

"The post."

"Porter's lodge," Dunworthy said, reading the report on Badri. He had gone back to the net Tuesday afternoon after he was at Balliol. Finch had spoken to him at two o'clock, when he had asked where Mr. Dunworthy was, and again at a little before three, when Badri had given him the note. At some time between two and three, John Yi, a third-year student, had seen him cross the quad to the laboratory, apparently looking for someone.

At three the porter at Brasenose had logged Badri in. He had worked in the net until half-past seven and then gone back to his flat and dressed for the dance.

Dunworthy phoned Latimer. "When you were at the net Tuesday afternoon?"

He blinked bewilderedly at Dunworthy from the screen. "Tuesday?" he said, looking around as if he had mislaid something. "Was that yesterday?"

"The day before the drop," Dunworthy said. "You went to the Boleian in the afternoon."

He nodded. "She wanted to know how to say, 'Help me for I have been set upon by thieves.'"

Dunworthy assumed by "she" he meant Kivrin. "Did Kivrin meet you at the Bodleian or at Brasenose?"

He put his hand to his chin, pondering. "We had to work until late in the evening deciding on the form of the pronouns," he said. "The decay of pronomial inflections was advanced in the 1300's but not complete."

"Did Kivrin come to the net to meet you?"

"The net?" Latimer said doubtfully.

"To the laboratory at Brasenose," Dunworthy snapped.

"Brasenose? The Christmas Eve service isn't at Brasenose, is it?"

"The Christmas Eve service?"

"The vicar said he wished me to read the benediction," Latimer said. "Is it being held at Brasenose?"

"No. You met with Kivrin Tuesday afternoon to work on her speech. Where did you meet her?"

"The word 'thieves' was very difficult to translate. It derives from the Old English theof, and is — "

This was useless. "The Christmas Eve service is at St. Mary the Virgin's at seven," he said and rang off.

He phoned the porter at Brasenose, who was still decorating his tree, and made him look up Kivrin in his log book. She hadn't been there Tuesday afternoon.

He fed the contacts charts into the console and entered the additions from William's report. Kivrin hadn't seen Badri Tuesday. Tuesday morning she had been in Infirmary and then with Dunworthy. Tuesday afternoon she'd been with Latimer and Badri would have been gone to the dance in Headington before they left the Bodleian. Monday from three on she was in Infirmary, but there was still a gap between twelve and half-past two on Monday.

He scanned the contacts sheets they had filled out again. Montoya's was only a few lines long. She had filled in her contacts for Wednesday morning, but none for Monday and Tuesday, and she hadn't listed any information on Badri. He wondered why, and then remembered she had come in after Mary gave the instructions for filling up the forms.

Perhaps Montoya had seen Badri before Wednesday morning, or knew where he'd spent the gap between noon and half-past two on Monday.

"When Ms. Montoya phoned, did she tell you her telephone number?" he asked Colin. There was no answer. He looked up. "Colin?"

He wasn't in the room, nor in the sitting room, though his duffel was, its contents spread all over the carpet.

Dunworthy looked up Montoya's number at Brasenose and rang it up, not expecting any answer. If she was still looking for Basingame, that meant she hadn't gotten permission to go out to the dig and was doubtless at the NHS or the National Trust, badgering them to have it declared "of irreplaceable value."

He dressed and went across to the hall, looking for Colin. It was still raining, the sky the same sodden gray as the paving stones and the bark on the beech trees. He hoped that the bellringers and detainees had breakfasted early and gone back to their assigned rooms, but it was a fond hope. He could hear the high hubbub of female voices before he was halfway across the quad.

"Thank goodness you're up, sir," Finch said, meeting him at the door. "The NHS just phoned. They want us to take twenty more detainees."

"Tell them we can't," Dunworthy said, looking through the crowd. "We're under orders to avoid contact with infected persons. Have you seen Dr. Ahrens' nephew?"

"He was just here," Finch said, peering over the heads of the women, but Dunworthy had already spotted him. He was standing at the end of the table where the bellringers were sitting, buttering several pieces of toast.

Dunworthy made his way to him. "When Ms. Montoya telephoned, did she tell you where she might be reached?"

"The one with the bicycle?" Colin said, smearing marmalade on the buttered toast.

"Yes."

"No, she didn't."

"Will you have breakfast, sir?" Finch said. "I'm afraid there aren't any bacon and eggs, and we're getting very low on marmalade," he glared at Colin, "but there's oatmeal and — "

"Just tea," Dunworthy said. "She didn't mention where she was phoning from?"

"Do sit down," Ms. Taylor said. "I've been wanting to speak to you about our Chicago Surprise."

"What exactly did Ms. Montoya say?" Dunworthy said to Colin.

"That nobody cared that her dig was being ruined and an invaluable link with the past was being lost, and what sort of person went fishing in the middle of winter anyway," Colin said, scraping marmalade off the sides of the bowl.

"We're nearly out of tea," Finch said, pouring Dunworthy a very pale cup.

Dunworthy sat down. "Would you like some cocoa, Colin? Or a glass of milk?" Dunworthy asked.

"We're nearly out of milk," Finch said.

"I don't need anything, thanks," Colin said, slapping the slices of toast jam sides together, "I'm just going to take these with me out to the gate so I can wait for the post."

"The vicar telephoned," Finch said. "He said to tell you you needn't be there to go over the order of worship until half- past six."

"Are they still holding the Christmas Eve service?" Dunworthy said. "I shouldn't think anyone would come under the circumstances."

"He said the Ecumenical Committee had voted to hold it regardless," Finch said, pouring a quarter-teaspoon of milk in the pallid tea and handing it to him. "He said they felt carrying on as usual will help keep up morale."

"We're going to perform several pieces on the handbells," Ms. Taylor said. "It's hardly a substitute for a peal, of course, but it's something. The priest from Holy Re-Formed is going to read from the Mass in Time of Pestilence."

"Ah," Dunworthy said. "That should help in keeping up morale."

"Do I have to go?" Colin said.

"He has no business going out in this weather," Mrs. Gaddson said, appearing like a harpy with a large bowl of gray oatmeal. She set it in front of Colin. "And no business being exposed to germs in a drafty church. He can stay here with me during the church service." She pushed a chair up behind him. "Sit down and eat your oatmeal."

Colin looked beseechingly at Dunworthy.

"Colin, I left Ms. Montoya's telephone number in my rooms," Dunworthy said. "Would you fetch it for me?"

"Yes!" Colin said, and was out of his chair like a shot.

"When that child comes down with the Indian flu," Mrs. Gaddson said, "I hope you will remember that you were the one who encouraged him in his poor eating habits. It is clear to me what led to this epidemic. Poor nutrition and a complete lack of discipline. It's disgraceful, the way this college is run. I asked to be put in with my son William, but instead I've been assigned a room in another building altogether, and — "

"I'm afraid you'll have to take that up with Finch," Dunworthy said. He stood up, wrapped Colin's marmaladed toast in a napkin, and put it in his pocket. "I'm needed at the infirmary," he said and escaped before Mrs. Gaddson could start off again.

He went back to his rooms and rang up Andrews. The line was engaged. He rang up the dig, on the off-chance that Montoya had obtained her quarantine waiver, but there was no answer. He rang up Andrews again. Amazingly enough, the line was free. It rang three times and then switched to a message service.

"This is Mr. Dunworthy," he said. He hesitated and then gave the number of his rooms. "I need to speak with you immediately. It's important."

He rang off, pocketed the disk, picked up his umbrella and Colin's toast, and walked out through the quad.

Colin was huddling under the shelter of the gate, looking anxiously down the street toward Carfax.

"I'm going to the infirmary to see my tech and your great- aunt," Dunworthy said, handing him the napkin-wrapped toast. "Would you like to go with me?"

"No, thanks," Colin said. "I don't want to miss the post."

"Well, for goodness' sake, go and fetch your jacket so Mrs. Gaddson doesn't come out and begin haranguing you."

"The Gallstone's already been," Colin said. "She tried to make me put on a muffler. A muffler!" He gave another anxious look down the street. "I ignored her."

"I hadn't thought of that," Dunworthy said. "I should be home in time for lunch. If you need anything, ask Finch."

"Umm," Colin said, obviously not listening. Dunworthy wondered what his mother was sending that merited such devotion. Obviously not a muffler.

He pulled his own muffler up round his neck and set off for Infirmary through the rain. There were only a few people in the streets, and they kept out of each others' way, one woman stepping off the pavement altogether to avoid meeting Dunworthy.

Without the carillon banging away at "It Came Upon The Midnight Clear," one would have had no idea at all that it was Christmas Eve. No one carried gifts or holly, no one carried parcels at all. It was as if the quarantine had knocked the memory of Christmas out of their heads completely.

Well, and hadn't it? He hadn't given a thought to shopping for gifts or a tree. He thought of Colin huddled at Balliol's gate and hoped his mother at least hadn't forgotten to send his gifts. On the way home he'd stop and get Colin a small present, a toy or a vid or something, something besides a muffler.

At the infirmary, he was hustled immediately into Isolation and taken off to question the new cases. "It's essential we establish an American connection," Mary said. "There's been a snag at the WIC. There's no one on duty who can run a sequencing because of the holidays. They're supposed to be at full readiness at all times, of course, but apparently it's after Christmas that they usually get problems — food poisonings and over-indulgence masquerading as viruses — so they give time off before. At any rate, the CDC in Atlanta agreed to send the vaccine prototype to the WIC without a positive S-ident, but they can't begin manufacturing without a definite connection."

She led him down a cordoned-off corridor. "The cases are all following the profile of the South Carolina virus — high fever, body aches, secondary pulmonary complication, but unfortunately, that's not proof." She stopped outside a ward. "You didn't find any American connections for Badri, did you?"

"No, but there are still a good many gaps. Do you want me to question him, as well?"

She hesitated.

"He's worse," Dunworthy said.

"He's developed pneumonia. I don't know if he'll be able to tall you anything. His fever is still very high, which follows the profile. We have him on the antimicrobials and adjuvants which the South Carolina virus responded to." She opened the door to the ward. "The chart lists all the cases which have come in. Ask the nurse on duty which bed they're in." She typed something into the console by the first bed. It lit up a chart as branching and intertwined as the big beech in the quad. "You don't mind having Colin with you for another night, do you?"

"I don't mind in the slightest."

"Oh, good. I doubt very much I'll be able to get home before tomorrow, and I do worry about him staying alone in the flat. I'm apparently the only one who does, however," she said angrily. "I finally got through to Dierdre down in Kent, and she wasn't even concerned. 'Oh, is there a quarantine on?' she said. 'I've been so rushed I haven't had time to catch the news,' and then she proceeded to tell me all about her and her livein's plans, with the clear implication that she'd have had no time at all for Colin and was glad she was rid of him. There are times when I'm convinced she's not my niece."

"Did she send Colin's Christmas presents, do you know? He said she planned to send them by post."

"I'm certain she's been far too rushed to remember to buy them, let alone send them. The last time Colin was with me for Christmas, his gifts didn't arrive till Epiphany. Oh, which reminds me, do you know what's become of my shopping bag? It had Colin's gifts in it."

"I've got it at Balliol," he said.

"Oh, good. I didn't finish my shopping, but if you'd wrap up the muffler and the other things, he'll have something under the tree, won't he?" She stood up. "If you find any possible connection, come tell me immediately. As you can see, we've already traced several of the secondaries to Badri, but those may only be cross-connections, and the real connection be someone else."

She left, and he sat down beside the bed of the woman of the purple umbrella.

"Ms. Breen?" he said. "I'm afraid I must ask you some questions."

Her face was very red, and her breathing sounded like Badri's, but she answered his questions promptly and clearly. No, she hadn't been to America in the past month. No, she didn't know any Americans or anyone who'd been to America. But she had taken the tube up from London to shop for the day. "At Blackwell's, you know," and she had been all over Oxford shopping and then at the tube station, and there were at least five hundred people she had had contact with who might be the connection Mary was looking for.

It took him till past two to finish questioning the primaries and adding the contacts to the chart, none of which were the connection Mary was looking for, though he had found out that one of them had been to the same dance in Headington as Badri.

He went up to Isolation, though he didn't have much hope of Badri's being able to answer his questions, but Badri seemed improved. He was sleeping when Dunworthy came in, but when Dunworthy touched his hand, his eyes opened and focused on him.

"Mr. Dunworthy," he said. His voice was weak and hoarse. "What are you doing here?"

Dunworthy sat down. "How are you feeling?"

"It's odd, the things one dreams. I thought…I had such a headache…"

"I need to ask you some questions, Badri. Do you remember who you saw at the dance you went to in Headington?"

"There were so many people," he said, and swallowed as if his throat hurt. "I didn't know most of them."

"Do you remember who you danced with?"

"Elizabeth — " he said, and it came out a croak. "Sisu somebody, I don't know her last name," he whispered. "And Elizabeth Yakamoto."

The grim-looking ward sister came in. "Time for your X- ray," she said without looking at Badri. "You'll have to leave, Mr. Dunworthy."

"Could I have just a few more minutes? It's important," he asked, but she was already tapping keys on the console.

He leaned over the bed. "Badri, when you got the fix, how much slippage was there?"

"Mr. Dunworthy," the sister said insistently.

Dunworthy ignored her. "Was there more slippage than you expected?"

"No," Badri said huskily. He put his hand to his throat.

"How much slippage was there?"

"Four hours," Badri whispered, and Dunworthy let himself be ushered out.

Four hours. Kivrin had gone through at half-past twelve. That would have put her there at half-past four, nearly sunset, but still enough light left to see where she was, enough time to have walked to Skendgate if necessary.

He went to find Mary and give her the two names of the girls Badri had danced with. Mary checked them against the list of new admissions. Neither of them were on it, and Mary told him he could go home and took his temp and bloods so he wouldn't have to come back. He was about to start home when they brought Sisu Fairchild in. He didn't make it home till nearly teatime.

Colin wasn't at the gate nor in hall, where Finch was nearly out of sugar and butter. "Where's Dr. Ahrens' nephew?" Dunworthy asked him.

"He waited by the gate all morning," Finch said, anxiously counting over sugar cubes. "The post didn't come till past one, and then he went over to his great-aunt's flat to see if the parcels had been sent there. I gather they hadn't. He came back looking very glum, and then about half an hour ago, he said suddenly, 'I've just thought of something,' and shot out. Perhaps he'd thought of some other place the parcel might have been sent to."

But weren't, Dunworthy thought. "What time do the shops close today?" he asked Finch.

"Christmas Eve? Oh, they're already closed, sir. They always close early on Christmas Eve, and some of them closed at noon due to the lack of trade. I've a number of messages, sir — "

"They'll have to wait," Dunworthy said, snatched up his umbrella, and went out again. Finch was right. The shops were all closed. He went down to Blackwell's, thinking they had surely stayed open, but they were shut up tight. They had already taken advantage of the selling points of the situation, though. In the window, arranged amid the snow-covered houses of the toy Victorian village, were self-help medical books, drug compendia, and a brightly-colored paperback entitled, Laughing Your Way to Perfect Health.

He finally found an open post-office off the High, but it had only cigarettes, cheap sweets, and a rack of greeting cards, nothing in the way of suitable gifts for twelve-year-old boys. He went out without buying anything and then went back and purchased a pound's worth of toffee, a gobstopper the size of a small asteroid, and several packets of a sweet that looked like soap tablets. It wasn't much, but Mary had said she'd bought some other things.

The other things turned out to be a pair of gray woolen socks, even grimmer than the muffler, and a vocabulary improvement vid. There were crackers, at least, and sheets of wrapping paper, but a pair of socks and some toffee hardly made a Christmas. He looked around the study, trying to think what he had that might do.

Colin had said, "Apocalyptic!" when Dunworthy had told him Kivrin was in the Middle Ages. He pulled down The Age of Chivalry. It only had illustrations, no holos, but it was the best he could do on short notice. He wrapped it and the rest of the presents hastily, changed his clothes, and hurried over to St. Mary the Virgin's in a downpour, ducking across the deserted courtyard of the Bodleian and trying to avoid the spilling gutters.

No one in their right mind would come out in this. Last year the weather had been dry, and the church was still only half-full. Kivrin had gone with him. She had stayed up for the vac to study, and he had found her in the Bodleian and insisted on her coming to his sherry party and then to church.

"I shouldn't be doing this," she'd said on the way to the church. "I should be doing research."

"You can do it at St. Mary the Virgin. Built in 1139 and all just as it was in the Middle Ages, including the heating system."

"The ecumenical service is authentic, too, I suppose," she'd said.

"I have no doubt that in spirit it is as well-meant and as fraught with foolishness as any medieval mass," he had said.

He hurried down the narrow path next to Brasenose and opened the door of St. Mary's to a blast of hot air. His spectacles steamed up. He stopped in the narthex and wiped them on the tail of his muffler, but they clouded up again immediately.

"The vicar's looking for you," Colin said. He was wearing a jacket and shirt, and his hair was combed. He handed Dunworthy an order of service from a large stack he was holding.

"I thought you were going to stay at home," Dunworthy said.

"With Mrs. Gaddson? What a necrotic idea! Even church is better than that, so I told Ms. Taylor I'd help carry the bells over."

"And the vicar put you to work," Dunworthy said, still trying to get his spectacles clear. "Have you had any business?"

"Are you joking? The church is jammed."

Dunworthy peered into the nave. The pews were already full, and folding chairs were being set up at the back.

"Oh, good, you're here," the vicar said, bustling over with an armful of hymnals. "Sorry about the heat. It's the furnace. The National Trust won't let us put in a new fused-air, but it's nearly impossible to get parts for a fossil-fuel. At the moment it's the thermostat that's gone wrong. The heat's either on or off." He fished two slips of paper out of his cassock pocket and looked at them. "You haven't seen Mr. Latimer yet, have you? He's supposed to read the benediction."

"No," Dunworthy said. "I reminded him of the time."

"Yes, well, last year he muddled things and arrived an hour early." He handed Dunworthy one of the slips of paper. "Here's your Scripture. It's from the King James this year. The Church of the Millennium insisted on it, but at least it's not the People's Common like last year. The King James may be archaic, but at least it's not criminal."

The outside door opened and a knot of people, all taking down umbrellas and shaking out hats, came in, were order-of- serviced by Colin, and went into the nave.

"I knew we should have used Christ Church," the vicar said.

"What are they all doing here?" Dunworthy said. "Don't they realize we're in the midst of an epidemic?"

"It's always this way," the vicar said. "I remember the beginning of the Pandemic. Largest collections ever taken. Later on you won't be able to get them out of their houses, but just now they want to huddle together for comfort."

"And it's exciting," the priest from Holy Re-Formed said. He was wearing a black turtleneck, bags, and a red and green plaid alb. "One sees the same sort of thing during wartime. They come for the drama of the thing."

"And spread the infection twice as fast, I should think," Dunworthy said. "Hasn't anyone told them the virus is contagious?"

"I intend to," the vicar said. "Your Scripture comes directly after the bellringers. It's been changed. Church of the Millennium again. Luke 2:1-19." He went off to distribute hymnals.

"Where is your pupil, Kivrin Engle?" the priest asked. "I missed her at the Latin mass this afternoon."

"She's in 1320, hopefully in the village of Skendgate, hopefully in out of the rain."

"Oh, good," the priest said. "She so wanted to go. And how lucky she's missing all this."

"Yes," Dunworthy said. "I suppose I should read through the Scripture at least once."

He went into the nave. It was even hotter in there, and it smelled strongly of damp wool and damp stone. Laser candles flickered wanly in the windows and on the altar. The bellringers were setting up two large tables in front of the altar and covering them with heavy red wool covers. Dunworthy stepped up into the lectern and opened the Bible to Luke.

"And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus, that all the world should be taxed," he read.

Archaic, he thought. And where Kivrin is, it hasn't been written yet.

He went back out to Colin. People continued to stream in. The priest from Holy Re-Formed and the Muslim imam went across to Oriel for more chairs, and the vicar fiddled with the thermostat on the furnace.

"I saved us two seats in the second row," Colin said. "Do you know what Mrs. Gaddson did at tea? She threw my gobstopper away. She said it was covered with germs. I'm glad my mother's not like that." He straightened his stack of folded orders of service, which had shrunk considerably. "I think what happened is her presents couldn't get through because of the quarantine, you know. I mean, they probably had to send provisions and things first." He straightened the already straight pile again.

"Very likely," Dunworthy said. "When would you like to open your other gifts? Tonight or in the morning?"

Colin tried to look nonchalant. "Christmas morning, please." He gave an order of service and a dazzling smile to a lady in a yellow slicker.

"Well," she snapped, snatching it out of his hand, "I'm glad to see someone's still got the Christmas spirit, even though there's a deadly epidemic on."

Dunworthy went in and sat down. The vicar's attentions to the furnace didn't seem to have done any good. He took off his muffler and overcoat and draped them on the chair beside him.

It had been freezing last year. "Extremely authentic," Kivrin had whispered to him, "and so was the Scripture. 'Around then the politicos dumped a tax hike on the ratepayers,'" she'd said, quoting from the People's Common. She'd grinned at him. "The Bible back then was in a language they didn't understand either."

Colin came in and sat down on Dunworthy's coat and muffler. The priest from Holy Re-Formed stood up and wedged himself between the bellringers' tables and the front of the altar. "Let us pray," he said.

There was a plump of kneeling pads on the stone floor, and everyone knelt.

"'O God, who have sent this affliction among us, say to Thy destroying angel, hold Thy hand and let not the land be made desolate, and destroy not every living soul.'"

So much for morale, Dunworthy thought.

"'As in those days when the Lord sent a pestilence on Israel, and there died of the people from Dan to Bersabee seventy thousand men, so now we are in the midst of affliction and we beseech Thee to take away the scourge of Thy wrath from the faithful.'"

The pipes of the ancient furnace began clanging, but it didn't seem to deter the priest. He went on for a good five minutes, mentioning a number of instances in which God had smitten the unrighteous and "brought plagues among them" and then asked everyone to stand and sing, "God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen, Let Nothing You Dismay."

Montoya ducked in and sat down next to Colin. "I have spent all day at the NHS," she whispered, "trying to get them to give me a dispensation. They seem to think I intend to run around spreading the virus. I told them I'd go straight to the dig, that there's no one out there to infect, but do you think they'd listen?"

She turned to Colin. "If I do get the dispensation, I'm going to need volunteers to help me. How would you like to dig up bodies?"

"He can't," Dunworthy said hastily. "His great-aunt won't let him." He leaned across Colin and whispered, "We're trying to determine Badri Chaudhuri's whereabouts on Monday afternoon from noon till half-past two. Did you see him?"

"Shh," the woman who had snapped at Colin said.

Montoya shook her head. "I was with Kivrin, going over the map and the layout of Skendgate," she whispered back.

"Where? At the dig?"

"No, at Brasenose."

"And Badri wasn't there?" he asked, but there was no reason for Badri to have been at Brasenose. He hadn't asked Badri to run the drop until he met with him at half-past two.

"No," Montoya whispered.

"Shh!" the woman hissed.

"How long did you meet with Kivrin?"

"From ten till she had to go check into Infirmary, three, I think," Montoya whispered.

"Shh!"

"I've got to go read a 'Prayer to the Great Spirit,'" Montoya whispered, standing up and starting along the row of chairs.

She read her American Indian chant, after which the bellringers, wearing white gloves and determined expressions, played, "O Christ Who Interfaces with the World," which sounded a good deal like the banging of the pipes.

"They're absolutely necrotic, aren't they?" Colin whispered behind his order of worship.

"It's Late Twentieth Century Atonal," Dunworthy whispered back. "It's supposed to sound dreadful."

When the bellringers appeared to be finished, Dunworthy mounted the lectern and read the Scripture. "'And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus, that all the world should be taxed…'"

Montoya stood up and edged her way past Colin to the side aisle and ducked out the door. He had wanted to ask her if she'd seen Badri at all on Monday or Tuesday or knew of any Americans he might have had contact with.

He could ask her tomorrow when they went for their bloodwork. He had found out the most important thing — that Kivrin hadn't seen Badri on Monday afternoon. Montoya had said she was with her till she left for Infirmary, and by that time Badri was already at Balliol meeting with him. Badri couldn't possibly have exposed her.

"'And the angel said, Be not afraid, for behold I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people…'"

No one seemed to be paying any attention. The woman who had snapped at Colin was wrestling her way out of her coat, and everyone else had already shed theirs and were fanning themselves with their orders of service.

He thought of Kivrin, at the service last year, kneeling on the stone floor, gazing raptly, intently at him while he read. She had not been listening either. She had been imagining Christmas Eve in 1320, when the Scripture was in Latin and candles flickered in the windows.

I wonder if it's the way she imagined it, he thought, and then remembered it wasn't Christmas Eve there. Where she was it was still two weeks away. If she was really there. If she was all right.

"'…but Mary kept all these things and pondered them in her heart,'" Dunworthy finished and went back to his seat.

The imam announced the times of the Christmas Day services at all the churches, and read the NHS bulletin on avoiding contact with infected persons. The vicar began his sermon.

"There are those," he said, looking hard at the priest from Holy Re-Formed, "who think that diseases are a punishment from God, and yet Christ spent his life healing the sick, and were he here, I have no doubt he would cure those afflicted with this virus, just as he cured the Samaritan leper," and launched into a ten-minute lecture on how to protect oneself from influenza. He listed the symptoms, explained droplet transmission, and demonstrated the use of an NHS face mask.

"Drink fluids and rest," he said, extending his hands out over the pulpit as if it were a benediction, "and at the first sign of any of these symptoms, telephone your doctor."

The bellringers pulled on their white gloves again and accompanied the organ in "Angels from the Realms of Glory," which actually sounded recognizable.

The minister from the Converted Unitarian Church mounted the pulpit. "On this very night over two thousand years ago, God sent his Son, His precious child, into our world. Can you imagine what kind of incredible love it must have taken to do that? On that night Jesus left his heavenly home and went into a world full of dangers and diseases," the minister said. "He went as an ignorant and helpless babe, knowing nothing of the evil, of the treachery he would encounter. How could God have sent His only Son, his precious child, into such danger? The answer is love. Love."

"Or incompetence," Dunworthy muttered.

Colin looked up from his examination of his gobstopper and stared at him.

And after He'd let him go, He worried about Him every minute, Dunworthy thought. I wonder if he tried to stop it.

"It was love that sent Christ into the world, and love that made Christ willing, nay, eager to come."

She's all right, he thought. The coordinates were correct. There was only four hours' slippage. She wasn't exposed to the flu. She's safely in Skendgate, with the rendezvous date determined and her corder already half-full of observations, healthy and excited and blissfully unaware of all this.

"He was sent into the world to help us in our trials and tribulations," the minister said.

The vicar was signaling to Dunworthy. He leaned across Colin. "I've just gotten word that Mr. Latimer's ill," the vicar whispered. He handed Dunworthy a folded sheet of paper. "Will you read the benediction?"

"…a messenger from God, an emissary of love," the minister said, and sat down.

Dunworthy went to the lectern. "Will you please rise for the benediction?" he said, opening the sheet of paper and looking at it. "Oh, Lord, stay Thy wrathful hand," it began.

Dunworthy wadded it up. "Merciful Father," he said, "protect those absent from us, and bring them safely home."

20 December 1320. I'm nearly completely well. My enhanced T-cells or the antivirals or something must have finally kicked in. I can breathe in without it hurting, my cough's gone, and I feel as though I could walk all the way to the drop, if I knew where it was.

The cut on my forehead is healed, too. Lady Eliwys looked at it this morning and then went and got Imeyne and had her examine it. "It is a miracle," Eliwys said delightedly, but Imeyne only looked suspicious. Next she'll decide I'm a witch.

It has become immediately apparent that now that I'm not an invalid, I'm a problem. Besides Imeyne thinking I'm spying or stealing the spoons, there's the difficulty of who I am — what my status is and how I should be treated — and Eliwys doesn't have the time or the energy to deal with it.

She has enough problems. Lord Guillaume still isn't here, his privé is in love with her, and Christmas is coming. She's recruited half the village as servants and cooks, and they are out of a number of essential supplies which Imeyne insists they send to Oxford or Courcy for. Agnes adds to the problem by being underfoot and constantly running away from Maisry.

"You must send to Sir Bloet for a waiting woman," Imeyne said when they found her playing in the barn loft. "And for sugar. We have none for the subtlety nor the sweetmeats."

Eliwys looked exasperated. "My husband bade us — "

"I will watch Agnes," I said, hoping the interpreter had translated "waiting women" properly and that the history vids had been right, and the position of children's nurse was sometimes filled by women of noble birth. Apparently it was. Eliwys looked immediately grateful, and Imeyne didn't glare any more than usual. So I'm in charge of Agnes. And apparently Rosemund, who asked for help with her embroidery this morning.

The advantages of being their nurse is that I can ask them all about their father and the village, and I can go out to the stable and the church and find the priest and Gawyn. The disadvantage is that a good deal is being kept from the girls. Once already Eliwys stopped talking to Imeyne when Agnes and I came into the hall, and when I asked Rosemund why they had come here to stay, she said, "My father deems the air is healthier at Ashencote."

This is the first time anyone has mentioned the name of the village. There isn't any Ashencote on the map or in the Domesday Book. I suppose there's a chance it could be another "lost village." With a population of thirty, it could easily have died out in the Black Death or been absorbed by one of the nearby towns, but I still think it's Skendgate.

I asked the girls if they knew of a village named Skendgate, and Rosemund said she'd never heard of it, which doesn't prove anything, since they're not from around here, but Agnes apparently asked Maisry, and she'd never heard of it either. Ms. Montoya puts the "gate" (which was actually a weir) at 1360 or later, and many of the Anglo-Saxon place names were replaced by Normanized ones or named for their new owners. Which bodes ill for Guillaume D'Iverie, and for the trial he still has not returned from. Unless this is another village altogether. Which bodes ill for me.

Gawyn's feelings of courtly love for Eliwys are apparently not disturbed by dalliances with the servants. I asked Agnes to take me out to the stable to see her pony on the chance that Gawyn would be there. He was, in one of the boxes with Maisry, making less-than-courtly grunting noises. Maisry looked no more terrified than usual, and her hands were holding her skirts in a wad above her waist instead of clutching her ears, so it apparently wasn't rape. It wasn't l'amour courtois either.

I had to hastily distract Agnes and get her out of the stable, so I told her I wanted to go across the green to see the bell tower. We went inside and looked at the heavy rope.

"Father Roche rings the bell when someone dies," Agnes said. "If he does not, the devil will come and take their soul, and they can not go to heaven," which, I suppose, is more of the superstitious prate which irritates Lady Imeyne.

Agnes wanted to ring the bell, but I talked her into going into the church to find Father Roche instead.

Father Roche wasn't there. Agnes told me that he was probably still with the cottar, "who dies not though he has been shriven," or was somewhere praying. "Father Roche is wont to pray in the woods," she said, peering through the rood screen to the altar.

The church is Norman, with a central aisle and sandstone pillars, and a flagged stone floor. The stained-glass windows are very narrow and small and of dark colors. They let in almost no light. There is only one tomb, halfway up the nave.

An effigy of a knight lies on top of the tomb, his arms in gauntlets, crossed over his breast, and his sword at his side. The carving on the side says, "Requiscat cum Sanctis tuis in aeternum." May he rest with Thy saints forever.

Agnes told me the tomb is her grandfather's, who died of a fever "a long time ago."

Except for the tomb and a rough statue, the nave is completely empty. The contemps stood during church so there aren't any pews, and the practice of filling the nave with monuments and memorials didn't take hold until the 1500's.

A carved wooden rood screen, twelfth century, separates the nave from the shadowy recesses of the chancel and the altar. Above it, on either side of the crucifix, are two crude paintings of the Last Judgment. One is of the faithful entering heaven and the other of sinners being consigned to hell, but they seem nearly alike. Both are painted in garish reds and blues, and their expressions look equally dismayed.

The altar's plain, covered with a white linen cloth, with two silver candelabra on either side of it. The badly-carved statue is not, as I'd assumed, the Virgin, but St. Catherine of Alexandria. It has the foreshortened body and large head of pre- Renaissance sculpture, and an odd, squarish coif that stops just below her ears. She stands with one arm around a doll-sized child and the other holding a wheel. A short yellowish candle and two oil cressets were sitting on the floor in front of it.

"Lady Kivrin, Father Roche says you are a saint," Agnes said when we went back outside.

It was easy to see where the confusion had come in this time, and I wondered if she'd done the same thing with the bell and the devil in the black horse.

"I am named for St. Catherine of Alexandria," I said, "as you are named for St. Agnes, but we ourselves are not saints."

She shook her head. "He says in the last days God will send his saints to sinful man. He says when you pray, you speak in God's own tongue."

I've tried to be careful about talking into the corder, to record my observations only when there's no one in the room, but I don't know about when I was ill. I remember that I kept asking him to help me, and you to come and get me. And if Father Roche heard me speaking modern English, he could very well believe I was speaking in tongues. At least he thinks I'm a saint, and not a witch, but Lady Imeyne was in the sickroom, too. I will have to be more careful.

I went out to the stable again (after making sure Maisry was in the kitchen), but Gawyn wasn't there, and neither was Gringolet. My boxes and the dismantled remains of the wagon were, though. Gawyn must have made a dozen trips to bring everything here. I looked through it all, and I can't find the casket. I'm hoping he missed it, and it's still by the road where I left it. If it is, it's probably completely buried in snow, but the sun is out today, and it's beginning to melt a little.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Kivrin's recovery from pneumonia came so suddenly she was convinced that something had happened to finally activate in her immune system. The pain in her chest went away, she stopped coughing, and the cut on her forehead disappeared completely.

Imeyne examined it suspiciously, as if she suspected Kivrin of faking her injury, and Kivrin was infinitely glad the wound hadn't been duped. "You must thank God that He has healed you on this Sabbath day," Imeyne said disapprovingly, and knelt beside the bed.

She had been to mass and was wearing her silver reliquary. She folded it between her palms — "like the corder," Kivrin thought — and recited the Paternoster, then pulled herself to her feet.

"I wish I could have gone with you to the mass," Kivrin said.

Imeyne sniffed. "I deemed you were too ill," she said, with an insinuating emphasis on the word "ill," "and it was but a poor mass."

She launched into a recital of Father Roche's sins: he had read the gospel before the Kyrie, his alb was stained with candlewax, he had forgotten part of the Confiteor Deo. Listing his sins seemed to put her in a better mood, and when she finished she patted Kivrin's hand and said, "You are not yet fully healed. Stay you in bed yet another day."

Kivrin did, using the time to record her observations onto the corder, describing the manor and the village and everyone she'd met so far. The steward came with another bowl of his wife's bitter tea, a dark, burly man who looked uncomfortable in his Sunday best jerkin and a too-elaborate silver belt, and a boy about Rosemund's age came in to tell Eliwys that her mare's forefoot was "amiss." But the priest didn't come again. "He has gone to shrive the cottar," Agnes told her.

Agnes was continuing to be an excellent informant, answering all of Kivrin's questions readily, whether she knew the answers or not, and volunteering all sorts of information about the village and its occupants. Rosemund was quieter and very much concerned with appearing grown-up. "Agnes, it is childish to speak so. You must learn to keep a watch on your tongue," she said repeatedly, a comment which happily had no effect whatsoever on Agnes. Rosemund did talk about her brothers and her father who "has promised he will come to us for Christmas without fail." She obviously worshipped him and missed him. "I wish I had been a boy," she said when Agnes was showing Kivrin the silver penny Sir Bloet had given her. "Then I had stayed with Father in Bath."

Between the two girls, and snatches of Eliwys's and Imeyne's conversations, plus her own observations, she was able to piece together a good deal about the village. It was smaller than Probability had predicted Skendgate would be, small even for a mediaeval village. Kivrin guessed it contained no more than forty people, including Lord Guillaume's family and the steward's. He had five children "And a new-christened babe," according to Rosemund.

There were two shepherds and several farmers, but it was "the poorest of all Guillaume's holdings," Imeyne said, complaining again about them having to spend Christmas there. The steward's wife was the resident social climber, and Maisry's family the local ne'er-do-wells. Kivrin recorded everything, statistics and gossip, folding her hands in prayer whenever she had the chance.

The snow that had started when they brought her back to the manor continued all that night and into the next afternoon, snowing nearly a foot. The first day Kivrin was up, it rained, and Kivrin hoped the rain would melt the snow, but it merely hardened the crust to ice.

She was afraid she'd have no hope at all of recognizing the drop without the wagon and boxes there. She would have to get Gawyn to show it to her, but that was easier said than done. He only came into the hall to eat or to ask Eliwys something, and Imeyne was always there, watching, when he was, so she didn't dare approach him.

Kivrin began taking the girls on little excursions — around the courtyard, out into the village — in the hopes that she might run into him, but he was not in the barn or the stable. Gringolet was not there either. Kivrin wondered if he had gone after her attackers in spite of Eliwys's orders, but Rosemund said he was out hunting. "He kills deer for the Christmas feast," Agnes said.

No one seemed to care where she took the little girls or how long they were gone. Lady Eliwys nodded abstractly when Kivrin asked if she might take the little girls to the stable, and Lady Imeyne didn't even tell Agnes to fasten her cloak or wear her mittens. It was as if they had given the children over into Kivrin's care and then forgotten them.

They were very busy with preparations for Christmas. Eliwys had recruited every girl and old woman in the village and set them to baking and cooking. The two pigs were slaughtered, and over half the doves killed and plucked. The courtyard was full of feathers and the smell of baking bread.

In the 1300's Christmas had been a two-week celebration with feasting and games and dancing, but Kivrin was surprised that Eliwys was doing all this under the circumstances. She must be convinced Lord Guillaume would really come for Christmas, as he'd promised.

Imeyne supervised the cleaning of the hall, complaining constantly about the poor conditions and the lack of decent help. This morning she had brought in the steward and another man to take down the heavy tables from the walls and set them on two trestles. She was supervising Maisry and a woman with the patchy white scars of scrofula on her neck while they scrubbed the table with sand and heavy brushes.

"There is no lavendar," she said to Eliwys. "And not enough new rushes for the floor."

"We shall have to make do with what we have then," Eliwys said.

"We have no sugar for the subtlety, either, and no cinnamon. At Courcy they are amply provided. He would welcome us."

Kivrin was putting on Agnes's boots, getting ready to take her out to see her pony in the stable again. She looked up, alarmed.

"It is but a half day's journey," Imeyne said. "Lady Yvolde's chaplain will likely say the mass, and — "

Kivrin didn't hear the rest of it because Agnes said, "My pony is called Saracen."

"Um," Kivrin murmured, trying to hear the conversation. Christmas was a time when the nobility often went visiting. She should have thought of that before. They took their entire households and stayed for weeks, at least until Epiphany. If they went to Courcy, they might stay until long after the rendezvous.

"Father named him Saracen for that he has a heathen heart," Agnes said.

"Sir Bloet will take it ill when he finds we have sat so near through Yule without a visit," Lady Imeyne said. "He will think the betrothal has gone amiss."

"We cannot go to Courcy for Yule," Rosemund said. She had been sitting on the bench across from Kivrin and Agnes, sewing, but now she stood up. "My father promised without fail that he would come by Christmas. He will be ill-pleased to come and find us gone."

Imeyne turned and glared at Rosemund. "He will be ill- pleased to find his daughters grown so wild they speak when they will and meddle in matters that do not concern them." She turned back to Eliwys, who was looking worried. "My son would surely have the wit to seek us at Courcy."

"My husband bade us stay here and wait till he comes," Eliwys said. "He will be pleased that we have done his bidding." She went over to the hearth and picked up Rosemund's sewing, clearly putting an end to the conversation.

But not for long, Kivrin thought, watching Imeyne. The old woman pursed her lips angrily and pointed at a spot on the table. The woman with the scrofula scars immediately moved to scrub it.

Imeyne wouldn't let it rest. She would bring it up again, putting forth argument after argument why they should go to Sir Bloet, who had sugar and rushes and cinnamon. And an educated chaplain to say the Christmas masses. Lady Imeyne was determined not to hear mass from Father Roche. And Eliwys was more and more worried all the time. She might suddenly decide to go to Courcy for help, or even back to Bath. Kivrin had to find the drop.

She tied the dangling strings of Agnes's cap and pulled the hood of her cloak up over her head.

"I rode Saracen every day in Bath," Agnes said. "I would we could go riding here. I would take my hound."

"Dogs don't ride horses," Rosemund said. "They run alongside."

Agnes pooched her lip out stubbornly. "Blackie is too little to run."

"Why can you not go riding here?" Kivrin said to head off a fight.

"There is none to accompany us," Rosemund said. "In Bath our nurse and one of father's privés rode with us."

One of Father's privés. Gawyn could accompany them, and she could not only ask him where the drop was but have him show it to her. Gawyn was here. She had seen him in the courtyard this morning, which was why she had suggested the trip to the stable, but having him ride with them was better.

Imeyne came over to where Eliwys was sitting. "If we are to stay here, we must have game for the Christmas pie."

Lady Eliwys set aside her sewing and stood up. "I will bid the steward and his eldest son go hunting," she said quietly.

"Then will there be no one to fetch the ivy and the holly."

"Father Roche goes out to gather it this day," Lady Eliwys said.

"He gathers it for the church," Lady Imeyne said. "Will you have none in the hall, then?"

"We'll fetch it," Kivrin said.

Eliwys and Imeyne both turned to look at her. Mistake, Kivrin thought. She had been so intent on finding a way to speak to Gawyn she had forgotten everything else, and now she had spoken without being spoken to and "meddled in matters" that obviously didn't concern her. Lady Imeyne would be more convinced than ever that they should go to Courcy and get a proper nurse for the girls.

"I'm sorry if I spoke out of turn, good lady," she said, ducking her head. "I know there is much to do and there are few to do it. Agnes and Rosemund and I might easily ride into the woods to fetch the holly."

"Aye," Agnes said eagerly. "I could ride Saracen."

Eliwys started to speak, but Imeyne interrupted her. "Have you no fear of the woods then, though you are only lately healed of your injuries?"

Mistake upon mistake. She was supposed to have been attacked and left for dead, and here she was volunteering to take two little girls into the same woods.

"I didn't mean that we should go alone," Kivrin said, hoping she wasn't making it worse. "Agnes told me that she rode out with one of your husband's men to guard her."

"Aye," Agnes piped up. "Gawyn can ride with us, and my hound Blackie."

"Gawyne is not here," Imeyne said, and then turned quickly back to the women scrubbing the table in the silence that followed.

"Where has he gone?" Eliwys said, quietly enough, but her cheeks had flushed bright red.

Imeyne took Maisry's rag away from her and began scrubbing at a spot on the table. "He has undertaken an errand for me."

"You have sent him to Courcy," Eliwys said, and it was a statement, not a question.

Imeyne turned back to face her. "It is not meet for us to be so close to Courcy, and yet send no greeting. He will say we have cast him off, and we can ill afford in these times to anger such a man as powerful as — "

"My husband bade us tell no one we were here," Eliwys cut in.

"My son did not bid us slight Sir Bloet, and lose him his good will, now when it may be sorely needed."

"What did you bid him say to Sir Bloet?"

"I bade him deliver kind greetings," Imeyne said, twisting the rag in her hands. "I bade him say we would be glad to receive them for Christmas." She lifted her chin defiantly. "We could do aught else, with our two families to be joined so soon in marriage. They will bring provisions for the Christmas feast, and servants — "

"And Lady Yvolde's chaplain to say the mass?" Eliwys asked coldly.

"Do they come here?" Rosemund asked. She had stood up again, and her sewing had slid off her knees and onto the floor.

Eliwys and Imeyne looked at her blankly, as if they had forgotten there was anyone else in the hall, and then Eliwys turned on Kivrin. "Lady Katherine," she snapped, "were you not taking the children to gather greens for the hall?"

"We cannot go without Gawyn," Agnes said.

"Father Roche can ride with you," Eliwys said.

"Yes, good lady," Kivrin said. She took Agnes's hand to lead her from the room.

"Do they come here?" Rosemund asked again, and her cheeks were nearly as red as her mother's.

"I know not," Eliwys said. "Go with your sister and Lady Katherine."

"I am to ride Saracen," Agnes said, and tore free of Kivrin's hand and ran out of the hall.

Rosemund looked as if she were going to say something and then went to get her cloak from the passage behind the screens.

"Maisry," Eliwys said. "The table looks well enough. Go and fetch the saltcellar and the silver platter from the chest in the loft."

The woman with the scrofula scars scurried out of the room and even Maisry didn't dawdle going up the ladder. Kivrin pulled her cloak on and tied it hastily, afraid Lady Imeyne would say something else about her being attacked, but neither of the women said anything. They stood, Imeyne still twisting the rag between her hands, obviously waiting for Kivrin and Rosemund to be gone.

"Does — " Rosemund said, and then ran off after Agnes.

Kivrin hurried after them. Gawyn was gone, but she had permission to go into the woods and transportation. And the priest to go with them. Rosemund had said Gawyn had met him on the road when he was bringing her to the manor. Perhaps Gawyn had taken him to the clearing.

She practically ran across the courtyard to the stable, afraid that at the last minute Eliwys would call across the courtyard to her that she had changed her mind, Kivrin was not well enough, and the woods were too dangerous.

The girls had apparently had the same idea. Agnes was already on her pony, and Rosemund was cinching the girth on her mare's saddle. The pony wasn't a pony at all; it was a sturdy sorrel scarcely smaller than Rosemund's mare and Agnes looked impossibly high up on the high-backed saddle. The boy who had told Eliwys about the mare's foot was holding the reins.

"Do not stand gawking, Cob!" Rosemund snapped at him. "Saddle the roan for Lady Katherine!"

He obediently let go of the reins. Agnes leaned far forward to grab them.

"Not Mother's mare!" Rosemund said. "The roncin!"

"We will ride to the church, Saracen," Agnes said, "and tell Father Roche we would go with him, and then we will go riding. Saracen loves to go riding." She leaned much too far forward to pat the pony's cropped mane, and Kivrin had to keep herself from grabbing for her.

She was obviously perfectly able to ride — neither Rosemund nor the boy saddling Kivrin's horse gave her a glance — but she looked so tiny perched up there in the saddle with her soft-soled boot in the jerked-up stirrup, and she was no more capable of riding carefully than she was of walking slowly.

Cob saddled the roan, led it out, and then stood there, waiting.

"Cob!" Rosemund said rudely. He bent down and made a step out of his linked hands. Rosemund stepped up on it and swung into the saddle. "Do not stand there like a witless fool. Help Lady Katherine."

He hurried awkwardly over to give Kivrin a hand up. She hesitated, wondering what was wrong with Rosemund. She had obviously been upset by the news that Gawyn had gone to Sir Bloet's. Rosemund hadn't seemed to know anything about her father's trial, but perhaps she was aware of more than Kivrin, or her mother and grandmother, thought.

"A man as powerful as Sir Bloet," Imeyne had said, and "his good will may be sorely needed." Perhaps Imeyne's invitation was not as self-serving as it seemed. Perhaps it meant Lord Guillaume was in even more trouble than Eliwys imagined, and Rosemund, sitting quietly at her sewing, had figured that out.

"Cob!" Rosemund snapped, though he was clearly waiting for Kivrin to mount. "Your dawdling will make us miss Father Roche!"

Kivrin smiled reassuringly at Cob, and put her hands on the boy's shoulder. One of the first things Mr. Dunworthy had insisted on was riding lessons, and she had managed fairly well. The side-saddle hadn't been introduced until the 1390's, which was a blessing, and mediaeval saddles had a high saddle-bow and cantle. This saddle was even higher in the back than the one she'd learned on.

But I'll probably be the one to fall off, not Agnes, she thought, looking at Agnes perched confidently on her pony. She wasn't even holding on but was twisted around messing with something in the saddlebag behind her.

"Let us be gone!" Rosemund said impatiently.

"Sir Bloet says he will bring me a silver bridle-chain for Saracen," she said, still fussing with the saddlebag.

"Agnes! Stop dawdling and come," Rosemund said.

"Sir Bloet says he will bring it when he comes at Easter."

"Agnes!" Rosemund said. "Come! It is like to rain."

"Nay, it will not," Agnes said unconcernedly. "Sir Bloet — "

Rosemund turned furiously on her sister. "Oh, and can you now sooth the weather? You are naught but a babe! A mewling babe!"

"Rosemund!" Kivrin said. "Don't speak that way to your sister." She stepped up to Rosemund's mare and took hold of the loosely looped reins. "What's the matter, Rosemund? Is something troubling you?"

Rosemund pulled the reins sharply taut. "Only that we dawdle here while the babe prattles!"

Kivrin let go of the reins, frowning, and let Cob make a step of his laced fingers for her foot so she could mount. She had never seen Rosemund act like this.

They rode out of the courtyard past the now empty pigpens and out onto the green. It was a leaden day, with a low blanketing layer of heavy clouds and no wind at all. Rosemund was right about it being "like to rain." There was a damp, misty feeling to the cold air. She kicked her horse into a faster walk.

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 1300's, 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 backwards 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 about 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 singlehanded.

"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' 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." It was trying to bite her ear. She gave it to Rosemund, who took hold of the back of its 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 its neck, but once she was in her saddle, she wrapped it almost tenderly in the corner of her cloak and cupped it 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 Saint 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 glasses 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.

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 belltower."

"No, I don't think so," Kivrin said, taking Agnes' 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 gray 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 over to the statue.

The candle was set between the statue's block-like 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 box- like 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 backwards 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 the reins.

"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?"

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

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 couldn't 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," she said, and let out a blood-curdling 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.

She lifted Agnes down. "Come. We must go find him."

She didn't know what she'd do if he'd already gone. She couldn't take Agnes back to the manor to tell Lady Imeyne how she had screamed. And she couldn't go back without explaining to Father Roche. Explaining what? That she'd thought he was a robber, a rapist? That she'd thought he was a nightmare from her delirium?

"Must we go into the church again?" Agnes asked reluctantly.

"It's all right. There's no one there except Father Roche."

In spite of Kivrin's assurances, Agnes was unwilling to go back in the church. She hid her head in Kivrin's skirts when Kivrin opened the door and clung to her leg.

"It's all right," Kivrin said, peering into the nave. He was no longer by the tomb. The door shut behind her, and she stood there with Agnes pressed against her, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. "There's nothing to be afraid of."

He's not a cutthroat, she told herself. There's nothing to be afraid of. He gave you the last rites. He held your hand. But her heart was pounding.

"Is the wicked man there?" Agnes whispered, her head jammed against Kivrin's knee.

"There isn't any wicked man," she said, and then saw him. He was standing in front of St. Catherine's statue. He was holding the candle Kivrin had dropped, and he bent and set it in front of the statue, and then straightened again.

She had thought perhaps it had been some trick of the darkness and the candle's flame, lighting his face from below, and he wasn't the cutthroat after all, but he was. He had worn a hood over his head that night, so she couldn't see his tonsure, but he was bending over the statue the way he had bent over her. Her heart began to pound again.

"Where is Father Roche?" Agnes said, raising her head. "There he is," she said, and ran toward him.

"No — " Kivrin said, and started after her. "Don't-"

"Father Roche!" Agnes shouted. "Father Roche! We have been seeking you!" She had obviously forgotten all about the wicked man. "We looked in the church and we looked in the house, but you were not there!"

She was running full tilt at him. He turned and bent down and scooped Agnes up into his arms all in one motion.

"I sought you in the bell tower, but you were not there," Agnes said without the slightest trace of fear. "Rosemund said you had gone."

Kivrin stopped even with the last pillar, trying to get her heart to slow down.

"Were you hiding?" Agnes asked. She put one arm trustingly around his neck. "Once Rosemund hid in the barn and jumped down on me. I cried out in a loud voice."

"Why did you seek me, Agnes?" he said. "Is someone ill?"

He pronounced Agnes, "Agnus," and he had nearly the same accent as the boy with the scurvy. The interpreter took a catch step before it translated what he'd said, and Kivrin felt a fleeting surprise that she couldn't understand him. She had understood everything he said in the sickroom.

He must have been speaking Latin to me, she thought, because there was no mistaking his voice. It was the voice that had said the last rites, the voice that had told her not to be afraid. And she wasn't afraid. At the sound of his voice, her heart had stopped pounding.

"Nay, none are ill," Agnes said. "We would go with you to gather ivy and holly for the hall. Lady Kivrin and Rosemund and Saracen and I."

At the words, "Lady Kivrin," Roche turned and saw her standing there by the pillar. He set Agnes down.

Kivrin put out her hand to the pillar for support. "I beg your pardon, Holy Father," she said. "I'm so sorry I screamed and ran from you. It was dark, and I didn't recognize you — "

The interpreter, still a half-beat behind, translated that as, "I knew you not."

"She knows naught," Agnes interrupted. "The wicked man struck her on the head, and she remembers naught save for her name."

"I had heard this," he said, still looking at Kivrin. "Is it true you have no memory of why you have come among us?"

She felt the same longing to tell him the truth that she had felt when he'd asked her her name. I'm an historian, she wanted to say. I came here to observe you, and I fell ill, and I don't know where the drop is.

"She remembers naught of who she is," Agnes said. "She did not yet remember how to speak. I had to teach her."

"You remember naught of who you are?" he asked.

"No."

"And naught of your coming here?" he said.

She could answer that truthfully at least. "No," she said. "Except that you and Gawyn brought me to the manor."

Agnes was obviously tired of the conversation. "Might we go with you now to gather holly?"

He didn't act as if he'd heard her. He extended his hand as if he were going to bless Kivrin, but he touched her temple instead, and she realized that was what he had intended to do before, beside the tomb. "You have no wound," he said.

"It's healed," she said.

"We wish to go now," Agnes said, tugging on Roche's arm.

He raised his hand, as if to touch her temple again, and then withdrew it. "You must not fear," he said. "God has sent you among us for some good purpose."

No, He hasn't, Kivrin thought. He hasn't sent me here at all. Mediaeval sent me. But she felt comforted.

"Thank you," she said.

"I would go now!" Agnes said, tugging on Kivrin's arm. "Go fetch your donkey," she told Father Roche, "and we will fetch Rosemund."

Agnes started down the nave, and Kivrin had no choice but to go with her to keep her from running. The door banged open just before they reached it, and Rosemund looked in, blinking.

"It is raining. Found you Father Roche?" she demanded.

"Took you Blackie to the stable?" Agnes asked.

"Aye. You were too late, then, and Father Roche had gone?"

"Nay. He is here, and we are to go with him. He was in the church, and Lady Kivrin — "

"He has gone to fetch his donkey," Kivrin said to keep Agnes from launching into the story of what had happened.

"I was affrighted that time when you jumped from the loft, Rosemund," Agnes said, but Rosemund had already stomped off to her horse.

It wasn't raining, but there was a fine mist in the air. Kivrin helped Agnes into her saddle and mounted the sorrel, using the lychgate as a step. Father Roche led the donkey out to them, and they started off on the track past the church and up through the little band of trees behind it, along a little space of snow- covered meadow and on into the woods.

"There are wolves in these woods," Agnes said. "Gawyn killed one."

Kivrin scarcely heard her. She was watching Father Roche walking beside his donkey, trying to remember the night he had brought her to the manor. Rosemund had said Gawyn had met him on the road and he had helped Gawyn bring her the rest of the way to the manor, but that couldn't be right.

He had leaned over her as she sat against the wagon wheel. She could see his face in the flickering light from the fire. He had said something to her she didn't understand, and she had said, "Tell Mr. Dunworthy to come and get me."

"Rosemund does not ride in seemly fashion for a maid," Agnes said primly.

She had ridden out ahead of the donkey and was nearly out of sight where the road curved, waiting impatiently for them to catch up.

"Rosemund!" Kivrin called, and Rosemund galloped back, nearly colliding with the donkey and then pulling her mare's reins up short.

"Can we go no faster than this?" she demanded, wheeled around, and rode ahead again. "We will never finish ere it rains."

They were riding in thick woods now, the road scarcely wider than a bridle path. Kivrin looked at the trees, trying to remember having seen them. They passed a thicket of willows, but it was set too far back from the road, and a trickle of ice- bordered water ran next to it.

There was a huge sycamore on the other side of the path. It stood in a little open space, draped with mistletoe. Beyond it was a line of wild service trees, so evenly spaced they might have been planted. She didn't remember ever having seen any of this before.

They had brought her along this road, and she'd hoped that something might trigger her memory, but nothing looked familiar at all. It had been too dark and she had been too ill.

All she really remembered was the drop, though it had the same hazy, unreal quality as the trip to the manor. There had been a clearing and an oak and a thicket of willows. And Father Roche's face bending over her as she sat against the wagon wheel.

He must have been with Gawyn when he found her, or else Gawyn had brought him back to the drop. She could see his face clearly in the light from the fire. And then she'd fallen off the horse at the fork.

They hadn't come to any fork yet. She hadn't even seen any paths, though she knew they had to be there, cutting from village to village and leading to the fields and the hut of the sick cottar Eliwys had gone to see.

They climbed a low hill, and at the top of it Father Roche looked back to see if they were following. He knows where the drop is, Kivrin thought. She had hoped he had some idea where it was, that Gawyn had described it to him or told him which road it lay along, but he hadn't had to. Father Roche already knew where the drop was. He had been there.

Agnes and Kivrin came to the top of the hill, but all she could see was trees, and below them more trees. They had to be in Wychwood Forest, but if they were there were over a hundred square kilometers in which the drop could be hidden. She would never have found it on her own. She could scarcely see ten meters into the underbrush.

She was amazed at the thickness of the woods as they came down the hill into the heart of them. There were clearly no paths between the trees here. There was scarcely any space at all, and what there was was filled with fallen branches and tangled thickets and snow.

She had been wrong about not recognizing anything — she knew these woods after all. It was the forest Snow White had got lost in, and Hansel and Gretel, and all those princes. There were wolves in it, and bears, and perhaps even witch's cottages, and that was where all those stories had come from, wasn't it, the Middle Ages? And no wonder. Anyone could get lost in there.

Roche stopped and stood beside his donkey while Rosemund cantered back to him and they caught up, and Kivrin wondered wryly if he had lost his way. But as soon as they came up to him, he plunged off through a thicket and onto an even narrower path that wasn't visible from the road.

Rosemund couldn't pass Father Roche and his donkey without shoving them aside, but she followed nearly treading on the donkey's hind hooves, and Kivrin wondered again what was bothering her. "Sir Bloet has many powerful friends," Lady Imeyne had said. She had called him an ally, but Kivrin wondered if he really was, or if Rosemund's father had told her something about him that made her so distressed at the prospect of his coming to Ashencote.

They went a short way along the path, past a thicket of willows that looked like the one by the drop, and then turned off the path, squeezing through a stand of firs and emerging next to a holly tree.

Kivrin had been expecting holly bushes like the ones in Brasenose's quad, but this was a tree. It towered over them, spreading out above the confines of the spruces, its red berries bright among the masses of glossy leaves.

Father Roche began taking the sacks from the back of the donkey, Agnes attempting to help him. Rosemund pulled a short, fat-bladed knife our of her girdle and began hacking at the sharp-leaved lower branches.

Kivrin waded through the snow to the other side of the tree. She had caught a glimpse of white she thought might be the stand of birches, but it was only a branch, half-fallen between two trees and covered with snow.

Agnes appeared, with Roche behind her carrying a wicked- looking dagger. Kivrin had thought that knowing who he was would work some transformation, but he still looked like a cutthroat, standing there looming over Agnes.

He handed Agnes one of the coarse bags. "You must hold the bag open like this," he said, bending down to show her how the top of the bag should be folded back, "and I will put the branches into it." He began chopping at the branches, oblivious to the spiky leaves. Kivrin took the branches from him and put them in the bag carefully, so the stiff leaves wouldn't break.

"Father Roche," she said, "I wanted to thank you for helping me when I was ill and for bringing me to the manor when I — "

"When that you were fallen," he said, hacking at a stubborn branch.

She had intended to say, "when I was set upon by thieves," and his response surprised her. She remembered falling off the horse and wondered if that was when he had happened along. But if it was, they had already come a long way from the drop, and he wouldn't know where it was. And she remembered him there, at the drop.

There was no point in speculating. "Do you know the place where Gawyn found me?" she asked, and held her breath.

"Aye," he said, sawing at a thick branch.

She felt suddenly sick with relief. He knew where the drop was. "Is it far from here?"

"Nay," he said. He wrenched the branch off.

"Would you take me there?" Kivrin asked.

"Why would you go there?" Agnes asked, spreading her arms out wide to keep the bag open. "What if the wicked men be still there?"

Roche was looking at her as if he were wondering the same thing.

"I thought that if I saw the place, I might remember who I am and where I came from," she said.

He handed her the branch, holding it so she could take it without being stabbed. "I will take you there," he said.

"Thank you," Kivrin said. Thank you. She slid the branch in next to the others, and Roche tied the top shut and hoisted the bag over his shoulder.

Rosemund appeared, dragging her bag in the snow behind her. "Are you not finished yet?" she said.

Roche took her bag, too, and tied them on the donkey's back. Kivrin lifted Agnes onto her pony and helped Rosemund mount, and Father Roche knelt and linked his big hands so Kivrin could step up into the stirrup.

He had helped her back on the white horse when she fell off. When that she was fallen. She remembered his big hands steadying her. But they had come a long way from the drop by then, and why would Gawyn have taken Roche all the way back to the drop? She did not remember going back, but it was all so dim and confused. In her delirium it must have seemed farther than it was.

Roche led the donkey back through the firs and onto the path, going back the way they had come. Rosemund let him get ahead and then said, in a voice just like Imeyne's, "Where goes he now? The ivy lies not this way."

"We go to see the place where Lady Katherine was set upon," Agnes said.

Rosemund looked at Kivrin suspiciously. "Why would you go thence?" she asked. "Your goods and gear have already been fetched to the manor."

"She wots that if she see the place she will remember somewhat," Agnes said. "Lady Kivrin, if you remember you who you are, must you return home?"

"Certes, she will," Rosemund said. "She must needs return to her family. She cannot stay with us forever." She was only doing this to provoke Agnes, and it worked.

"She can!" Agnes said. "She will be our nurse."

"Why would she wish to stay with such a mewling babe?" Rosemund said, kicking her horse into a trot.

"I am no babe!" Agnes called after her. "You are the babe!" She rode back to Kivrin. "I do not wish you to leave me!"

"I won't leave you," she said. "Come, Father Roche is waiting."

He was at the road, and as soon as they rode up, he started on. Rosemund was already far ahead, dashing along the snow- filled path, sending up sprays of snow.

They crossed a little stream and came to a fork, the part they were on curving away to the right, the other continuing nearly straight for a hundred meters or so and then making a sharp jog to the left. Rosemund sat at the fork, letting her horse stamp and toss its head to express her impatience.

I fell off the white horse at a fork in the road, Kivrin thought, trying to remember the trees, the road, the little stream, anything. There were dozens of forks along the paths that criss-crossed Wychwood Forest and no reason to think this was the one, but it apparently was. Father Roche turned right at the fork and went a few meters and then plunged into the woods, leading the donkey.

There were no willows where he left the road, and no hill. He must be going back the way Gawyn had brought her. She remembered them going a long way through the woods before they came to the fork.

They followed him into the trees, Rosemund in the rear, and almost immediately had to dismount and lead their horses. Roche wasn't following any path that Kivrin could see. he picked his way through the snow, ducking under low branches that showered snow down on his neck, and skirting around a spiny clump of blackthorn.

Kivrin tried to memorize the scenery so she could find her way back here, but it all had a defeating sameness. As long as there was snow she could follow their foot- and hoofprints. She would have to come back alone before it melted and mark the trail with notches or scraps of cloth or something. Or breadcrumbs, like Hansel and Gretel.

It was easy to see how they, and Snow White, and the princes, had got lost in the woods. They had only gone a few hundred meters and already, looking back, Kivrin wasn't sure which direction the road lay, even with the footprints. Hansel and Gretel could have wandered for months and never found their way back home, or found the witch's cottage either.

Father Roche's donkey stopped.

"What is it?" Kivrin asked.

Father Roche led the donkey off to the side and tied it to an alder tree. "This is the place."

It wasn't the drop. It was scarcely even a clearing, only a space where an oak tree had spread out its branches and kept the other trees from growing. It made almost a tent, and under it the ground was only powdered with snow.

"Can we build a fire?" Agnes asked, walking under the branches to the remains of a campfire. A fallen log had been dragged over to it. Agnes sat down on it. "I am cold," she said, poking at the blackened stones with her foot.

It hadn't burned very long. The sticks were barely charred. Someone had kicked dirt on it to put it out. Father Roche had squatted in front of her, the light from the fire flickering on his face.

"Well?" Rosemund said impatiently. "Do you remember aught?"

She had been here. She remembered the fire. She had thought they were lighting it for the stake. But that couldn't be right. Roche had been at the drop. She remembered him leaning over her as she sat against the wagon wheel.

"Are you sure this is the place where Gawyn found me?"

"Aye," he said, frowning.

"If the wicked man comes, I will fight him with my dirk," Agnes said, pulling one of the half-charred sticks out of the fire and brandishing it in the air. The blackened end broke off. Agnes squatted next to the fire and pulled out another stick and then sat down on the ground, her back against the log, and struck the two sticks together. Pieces of charred wood flew off them.

Kivrin looked at Agnes. She had sat against the log while they made the fire, and Gawyn had leaned over her, his hair red in the fire's light, and said something to her that she couldn't understand. And then he had put the fire out, kicking it apart with his boots, and the smoke came up and blinded her.

"Have you remembered you?" Agnes said, tossing the sticks back among the stones.

Roche was still frowning at her. "Are you ill, Lady Katherine?" he asked.

"No," she said, trying to smile. "It was just…I'd hoped that if I saw the place where I was attacked, I might remember."

He looked at her solemnly a moment, the way he had in the church, and then turned and went over to his donkey. "Come," he said.

"Have you remembered?" Agnes insisted, clapping her fur mittens together. They were covered with soot.

"Agnes!" Rosemund said. "Look you how you have dirtied your mittens." She pulled Agnes roughly to her feet. "And you have ruined your cloak, sitting in the cold snow. You wicked girl!"

Kivrin pulled the two girls apart. "Rosemund, untie Agnes's pony," she said. "It is time to go gather the ivy." She brushed the snow off Agnes's cloak and wiped ineffectually at the white fur.

Father Roche was standing by his donkey, waiting for them, still with that odd, sober expression.

"We'll clean your mittens when we get home," she said hastily. "Come, we must go with Father Roche."

Kivrin took the mare's reins and followed the girls and Father Roche back the way they had come for a few meters and then in another direction that brought them almost immediately out onto a road. She couldn't see the fork, and she wondered if they were farther along the road or on a different road altogether. It all looked the same — willows and little clearings and oak trees.

It was clear what had happened. Gawyn had tried to take her to the manor, but she had been too ill. She had fallen off his horse and he had taken her into the woods and built a campfire and left her there, propped against the fallen log, while he went for help.

Or he had intended to build a fire and stay there with her until morning, and Father Roche had seen the campfire and come to help, and between them they had taken her to the manor. Father Roche had no idea where the drop was. He had assumed Gawyn had found her there, under the oak tree.

The image of him leaning over her as she sat against the wagon wheel was part of her delirium. She had dreamed it as she lay in the sickroom, the way she had dreamed the bells and the stake and the white horse.

"Where does he go now?" Rosemund asked peevishly, and Kivrin felt like slapping her. "There is ivy nearer to home. And now it begins to rain."

She was right. The mist was turning into a drizzle.

"We could have been finished and home ere now if the babe Agnes had not brought her puppy!" She galloped off ahead again, and Kivrin didn't even try to stop her.

"Rosemund is a churl," Agnes said.

"Yes," Kivrin said. "She is. Do you know what's the matter with her?"

"It is because of Sir Bloet," Agnes said. "She is to wed him."

"What?" Kivrin said. Imeyne had said something about a wedding, but she'd assumed one of Sir Bloet's daughters was to marry one of Lord Guillaume's sons. "How can Sir Bloet marry Rosemund? Isn't he already married to Lady Yvolde?"

"Nay," Agnes said, looking surprised. "Lady Yvolde is Sir Bloet's sister."

"But Rosemund isn't old enough," she said, and knew she was. Girls in the thirteen hundreds had frequently been betrothed before they were of age, sometimes even at birth. Marriage in the Middle Ages had been a business arrangement, a way to join lands and enhance social standing, and Rosemund had no doubt been groomed from Agnes's age to be married to someone like Sir Bloet. But every mediaeval story of virginal girls married to toothless, dissipated old men came to her in a rush.

"Does Rosemund like Sir Bloet?" Kivrin asked. Of course she didn't like him. She had been hateful, ill-tempered, nearly hysterical ever since she heard he was coming.

"I like him," Agnes said. "He is to give me a silver bridle-chain when they wed."

Kivrin looked ahead at Rosemund, waiting far down the road. Sir Bloet might not be old and dissipated at all. She was assuming that the way she had assumed Lady Yvolde was his wife. He might be young, and Rosemund's bad temper might only be nervousness. Or she might change her mind about him before the wedding. Girls weren't usually married till they were fourteen or fifteen, certainly not before they started exhibiting signs of maturation.

"When are they to be married?" Kivrin asked Agnes.

"At Eastertide," Agnes said.

They had come to another fork. This one was much narrower, the two roads running nearly parallel for a hundred meters before the one Rosemund had taken started up a low hill.

Twelve years old and to be married in three months. No wonder Lady Eliwys hadn't wanted Sir Bloet to know they were here. Perhaps she didn't approve of Rosemund marrying so young, and the betrothal had only been arranged to get her father out of the trouble he was in.

Rosemund rode to the top of the hill and galloped back to Father Roche. "Where do you lead us?" she demanded. "We come soon to open ground."

"We are nearly there," Father Roche said mildly.

She wheeled her mare around and galloped out of sight over the hill, reappeared, galloped back nearly to Kivrin and Agnes, turned the mare sharply and rode ahead again. Like the rat in the trap, Kivrin thought, frantically looking for a way out.

The drizzle was turning into a sleety rain. Father Roche pulled his hood up over his tonsured head and led the donkey up the low hill. It plodded steadily up the incline to the top, and then stopped. Father Roche jerked on the reins, and the donkey pulled back against them.

Kivrin and Agnes caught up to him. "What's wrong?" Kivrin asked.

"Come, Balaam," Father Roche said, and took hold of the reins with both his huge hands, but the donkey didn't budge. It strained against the priest, digging in its rear hooves and leaning back so it was nearly sitting.

"Mayhap he likes not the rain," Agnes said.

"Can we help?" Kivrin asked.

"Nay," he said, waving them past him. "Ride ahead. It will go better with him if the horses are not here."

He wrapped the reins around his hand and went around behind as if he intended to push. Kivrin rode over the crest with Agnes, looking back to make sure the donkey didn't suddenly kick him in the head. They started down the other side.

The forest below them was veiled in rain. It was already melting the snow from the road, and the bottom of the hill was a muddy bog. There were thick bushes on either side, covered with snow. Rosemund sat at the top of the next hill. It had trees only halfway up its sides, and above them there was an expanse of snow. And beyond that, Kivrin thought, is an open plain and a view of the road, and Oxford.

"Where are you going, Kivrin? Wait!" Agnes cried, but Kivrin was already down the hill and off her sorrel, shaking the snow-covered bushes, trying to see if they were willows. They were, and beyond them she could see the crown of a big oak. She threw the sorrel's reins over the reddish willow branches, and pushed into the thicket. The snow had frozen the willow branches together. She struck at them, and snow showered down on her. A flurry of birds launched itself into the air, screeching. She fought her way through the snowy branches and pushed through to the clearing that had to be there. It was.

And there was the oak, and beyond it, away from the road, the stand of white-trunked birches that had looked like thinner woods. It had to be the drop.

But it didn't look right. The clearing had been smaller, hadn't it? And the oak had had more leaves on it, more nests. There was a blackthorn bush to one side of the clearing, its purple-black buds poking out from the vicious thorns. She didn't remember its being there. She would surely have remembered that, wouldn't she?

It's the snow, she thought, it's making the clearing look larger. It was nearly half a meter deep here, and smooth, untouched. It didn't look as if anyone had ever been here.

"Is this the place where Father Roche would have us gather ivy?" Rosemund said, pushing through the thicket. She looked around the clearing, her hands on her hips. "There is no ivy here."

There had been ivy, hadn't there, wound around the base of the oak, and mushrooms? It's the snow, she thought. The snow has covered up all the distinguishing landmarks. And the tracks, where Gawyn had dragged away the wagon and the boxes.

The casket — Gawyn had not brought the casket back to the manor. He hadn't seen it because she'd hidden it in the weeds by the road.

She pushed past Rosemund through the willows, not even trying to avoid the showering snow. The casket would be buried in snow, too, but it wasn't as deep by the road, and the casket was nearly forty centimeters tall.

"Lady Katherine!" Rosemund shouted, right behind her. "Where would you now?"

"Kivrin!" Agnes said, a pathetic echo. She had tried to climb down off her pony in the middle of the road, but she had got her foot caught in the stirrup. "Lady Kivrin, come you here!"

Kivrin looked at her blindly for a moment, and then glanced up the hill.

Father Roche was still at the top, struggling with the donkey. She had to find the casket before he came. "Stay on your pony, Agnes," she said and began scrabbling at the snow under the willows.

"What do you seek?" Rosemund said. "There is no ivy here!"

"Lady Kivrin, you come now!" Agnes said.

Perhaps the snow had bent the willows over, and the casket was farther in underneath them. She bent over, clinging to the thin, brittle branches, and tried to sweep the snow aside. But the trunk wasn't there. She had seen that as soon as she started. The willows had protected the weeds and the ground underneath them. There were only a few centimeters of snow. But if this is the place, it must be here, Kivrin thought numbly. If this is the place.

"Lady Kivrin!" Agnes shouted, and Kivrin glanced back at her. She had managed to get down off her pony and was running toward Kivrin.

"Don't run," Kivrin started to say, but she didn't get it half out before Agnes caught her foot on one of the ruts and went down.

It knocked the breath out of her, and Kivrin and Rosemund were both to her before she even started to cry. Kivrin scooped her into her arms and pushed her hand against Agnes's middle to straighten her and make her take a breath.

Agnes gasped, and then drew in a long breath and began to shriek.

"Go and fetch Father Roche," Kivrin said to Rosemund. "He's at the top of the hill. His donkey balked."

"He is already coming," Rosemund said. Kivrin turned her head. He was running clumsily down the hill, without the donkey, and Kivrin almost called out, "Don't run!" to him, too, but he could not have heard her over Agnes's screaming.

"Shh," Kivrin said. "You're all right. You just had the wind knocked out of you."

Father Roche caught up to them, and Agnes immediately flung herself across into his arms. He hugged her against him. "Hush, Agnus," he murmured in his wonderful comforting voice. "Hush." Her screams quieted to sobs.

"Where did you hurt yourself?" Kivrin asked, brushing the snow from Agnes's cloak. "Did you scrape your hands?"

Father Roched turned her around in his arms so Kivrin could take her white fur mittens off her. Her hands were bright red, but they weren't scraped. "Where did you hurt yourself?"

"She is not hurt," Rosemund said. "She cries because she is a babe!"

"I am not a babe!" Agnes said with such force she nearly flung herself out of Father Roche's arms. "I struck my knee on the ground."

"Which one?" Kivrin asked. "The one you hurt before?"

"Yes! Do not look!" she said as Kivrin reached for her leg.

"All right, I won't," Kivrin said. The knee had been scabbing over. She had probably knocked the scab loose. Unless it was bleeding badly enough to soak through her leather hose, there was no point in making her colder by undressing her here in the snow. "But you must let me look at it at home."

"Can we go thence now?" Agnes asked.

Kivrin looked helplessly across at the thicket. This had to be the place. The willows, the clearing, the treeless crest. It had to be the place. Perhaps she had put the casket farther back in the thicket than she thought, and the snow -

"I would go home now!" Agnes said, and began to sob. "I am cold!"

"All right," Kivrin nodded. Agnes's mittens were too wet to put back on her. Kivrin took off her borrowed gloves and gave them to her. They went all the way up Agnes's arm, which delighted her, and Kivrin began to think she had forgotten about her knee, but when Father Roche tried to put her on her pony, she sobbed, "I would ride with you."

Kivrin nodded again and got on her sorrel. Father Roche handed Agnes up to her and led Agnes's pony up the hill. The donkey was standing at the top, by the side of the road, eating the weeds that poked up through the thin snow.

Kivrin looked back at the thicket through the rain, trying to see the clearing. It's surely the drop, she told herself, but she wasn't sure. Even the hill looked somehow wrong from here.

Father Roche took hold of the donkey's reins, and the donkey immediately stiffened and dug in its hooves, but as soon as Father Roche turned its head and started down the far side of the hill with Agnes's pony, it came willingly.

The rain was melting the snow, and Rosemund's mare slipped a little as she galloped it on the straight stretch back to the fork. She slowed it to a trot.

At the next fork, Roche took the lefthand way. There were willows all along it, and oak trees, and muddy ruts at the bottom of every hill.

"Do we go home now, Kivrin?" Agnes said, shivering against her.

"Yes," Kivrin said. She pulled the tail of her cloak forward over Agnes. "Does your knee still hurt?"

"Nay. We did not gather any ivy." She sat up straight and twisted around to look at Kivrin. "Did you remember you when you saw the place?"

"No," Kivrin said.

"Good," Agnes said, settling back against her. "Now you must stay with us forever."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Andrews did not telephone Dunworthy until late afternoon on Christmas Day. Colin had, of course, insisted on getting up at an ungodly hour to open his small pile of gifts.

"Are you going to stay in bed all day?" he'd demanded while Dunworthy groped for his spectacles. "It's nearly eight o' clock."

It was in fact a quarter past six, pitch black outside, too dark even to see if it was still raining. Colin had had a good deal more sleep than he had. After the ecumenical service, Dunworthy had sent Colin back to Balliol and gone to Infirmary to find out about Latimer.

"He has a fever, but no lung involvement thus far," Mary had told him. "He came in at five, said he'd started feeling headachy and confused around one. Forty-eight hours on the button. There's obviously no need to question him to find out who he contracted it from. How are you feeling?"

She had made him stay for blood tests, and then a new case had come in, and he'd waited to see if he could identify him. It was nearly one before he'd gone to bed.

Colin handed Dunworthy a cracker and insisted he snap it, put on the yellow tissue paper crown, and read his motto aloud. It said, "When are Santa's reindeer most likely to come inside? When the door is open."

Colin was already wearing his red crown. He sat on the floor and opened his gifts. The soap tablets were a huge success. "See," Colin said, sticking out his tongue, "they turn it different colors." They did, also his teeth and the edges of his lips.

He seemed pleased with the book, though it was obvious he wished there were holos. He flipped through the pages, looking at the illustrations.

"Look at this," he said, thrusting the volume at Dunworthy, who was still trying to wake up.

It was a knight's tomb, with the standard carved effigy in full armor on top, his face and posture the image of eternal rest, but on the side, in an inset frieze like a window into the tomb, the dead knight's corpse struggled up in his coffin, his tattered flesh falling away from him like grave wrappings, his skeleton's hands curved into frantic claws, his face a skull's empty socketed horror. Worms crawled in and out between his legs, over and under his sword. "Oxfordshire, c. 1350," the caption read. "An example of the macabre tomb decoration prevalent following the bubonic plague."

"Isn't it apocalyptic?" Colin said delightedly.

He was even polite about the muffler. "I suppose it's the thought that counts, isn't it?" he said, holding it up by one end, and then after a minute, "Perhaps I can wear it when I visit the sick. They won't care what it looks like."

"Visit what sick?" Dunworthy asked.

Colin got up off the floor and went over to his duffel and began rummaging through it. "The vicar asked me last night if I'd run errands for him, check on people and take them medicine and things."

He fished a paper bag out of the duffel. "This is your present," he said, handing it to Dunworthy. "It's not wrapped," he added unnecessarily. "Finch said we ought to save paper for the epidemic."

Dunworthy opened the bag and pulled out a flattish red book.

"It's an appointment calendar," Colin said. "It's so you can mark off the days till your girl gets back." He opened it to the first page. "See, I made sure to get one that had December."

"Thank you," Dunworthy said, opening it. Christmas. The Slaughter of the Innocents. New Year's. Epiphany. "That was very thoughtful."

"I wanted to get you this model of Carfax Tower that plays 'I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day'," Colin said, "but it cost twenty pounds!"

The telephone rang, and Colin and Dunworthy both dived for it. "I'll bet it's my mother," Colin said.

It was Mary, calling from the infirmary. "How are you feeling?"

"Half-asleep," Dunworthy said.

Colin grinned at him.

"How's Latimer?" Dunworthy asked.

"Good," Mary said. She was still wearing her lab coat, but she'd combed her hair, and she looked cheerful. "He seems to have a very mild case. We've established a connection with the South Carolina virus."

"Latimer was in South Carolina?"

"No. One of the students I had you question last night…good Lord, I mean two nights ago. I'm losing all track of time. One of the ones who'd been at the dance in Headington. He lied at first because he'd skipped off from his college to see a young woman and left a friend to cover for him."

"Skipped off to South Carolina?"

"No, London. But the young woman was from the States. She'd flown in from Texas and changed planes in Charleston, South Carolina. The CDC's working to find out what cases were in the airport. Let me speak to Colin. I want to wish him a happy Christmas."

Dunworthy put him on, and he launched into a recital of his gifts, down to and including the motto in his cracker. "Mr. Dunworthy gave me a book about the Middle Ages." He held it up to the screen. "Did you know they cut off people's heads for stealing and stuck them up on London Bridge?"

"Thank her for the muffler, and don't tell her you're running errands for the vicar," Dunworthy whispered, but Colin was already holding the receiver out to him. "She wants to speak to you again."

"It's clear you're taking good care of him," Mary said. "I'm very grateful. I haven't been home yet, and I should have hated him to be alone on Christmas. I don't suppose the promised gifts from his mother have arrived?"

"No," Dunworthy said cautiously, looking at Colin, who was looking at the pictures in the Middle Ages book.

"Nor telephoned," she said disgustedly. "The woman hasn't a drop of maternal blood in her body. For all she knows, Colin might be lying in hospital with a temp of forty degrees, mightn't he?"

"How is Badri?" Dunworthy asked.

"The fever was down a bit this morning, but there's still a good deal of lung involvement. We're putting him on synthamycin. The South Carolina cases have responded very well to it." She promised to try to come over for Christmas dinner and then rang off.

Colin looked up from his book. "Did you know in the Middle Ages they burned people at the stake?"

Mary didn't come nor telephone, and neither did Andrews. Dunworthy sent Colin over to hall for breakfast and tried phoning the tech, but all the lines were engaged, "due to the holiday crush," the computer voice said, obviously not reprogrammed since the beginning of the quarantine. It advised him to delay all nonessential calls until the next day. He tried twice more, with the same result.

Finch came over, bearing a tray. "Are you all right, sir?" he said anxiously. "You're not feeling ill?"

"I'm not feeling ill. I'm waiting for a trunk call to come through."

"Oh, thank goodness, sir. When you didn't come over for breakfast I feared the worst." He took the rain-spotted cover off the tray. "I'm afraid it's a poor sort of Christmas breakfast, but we're nearly out of eggs. I don't know what sort of Christmas dinner it will be. There isn't a goose left inside the perimeter."

It actually seemed to be quite a respectable breakfast, a boiled egg, kippers, muffins with jam.

"I tried for a Christmas pudding, sir, but we're nearly out of brandy," Finch said, pulling a plastic envelope out from under the tray and handing it to Dunworthy.

He opened it. On top was an NHS directive headed: "Early Symptoms of Influenza. 1.) Disorientation. 2.) Headache. 3.) Muscle Aches. Avoid contracting it. Wear your NHS regulation face mask at all times."

"Face mask?" Dunworthy asked.

"The NHS delivered them this morning," Finch said. "I don't know how we're going to manage the washing up. We're nearly out of soap."

There were four other directives, all similar in tone, and a note from William Gaddson with a printout of Badri's credit account for Monday, the twentieth of December, attached. Badri had apparently spent that missing time from noon to half-past two Christmas shopping. He had purchased four books, paperback, at Blackwell's, a muffler, red, and a digital carillon, miniature, at Debenham's. Wonderful. That meant dozens and dozens more contacts.

Colin came in carrying a napkinful of muffins. He was still wearing his paper crown which was a good deal the worse for the rain.

"It would reassure everyone, sir," Finch said, "if after your call comes through, you'd come over to hall. Mrs. Gaddson particularly is convinced you've come down with the virus. She said you'd contracted it through poor ventilation in the dormitories."

"I'll put in an appearance," Dunworthy promised.

Finch went to the door and then turned back. "About Mrs. Gaddson, sir. She's behaving dreadfully, criticizing the college and demanding that she be moved in with her son. She's completely undermining morale."

"I'll say," Colin said, dumping the muffins on the table. "The Gallstone told me hot breads were bad for my immune system."

"Isn't there some sort of volunteer work she could do at Infirmary or something?" Finch asked. "To keep her out of college?"

"We can hardly inflict her on poor helpless flu victims. It might kill them. What about asking the vicar? He was looking for volunteers to run errands."

"The vicar?" Colin said. "Have a heart, Mr. Dunworthy. I'm working for the vicar."

"The priest from Holy Re-Formed then," Dunworthy said. "He's fond of reciting the Mass in Time of Pestilence for morale. They should get along swimmingly."

"I'll phone him straightaway," Finch said, and left.

Dunworthy ate his breakfast, except for the muffin, which Colin appropriated, and then took the empty tray over to hall, leaving orders for Colin to come get him immediately if the tech rang up. It was still raining, the trees black and dripping and the Christmas tree lights spotted with rain.

Everyone was still at table except for the bellringers, who stood off to one side in their white gloves, their handbells on the table in front of them. Finch was demonstrating the wearing of the NHS regulation masks, pulling off the tapes at either side and pressing them to his cheeks.

"You don't look well at all, Mr. Dunworthy," Mrs. Gaddson said. "And no wonder. The conditions in this college are appalling. It is a wonder to me that there has not been an epidemic before this. Poor ventilation and an extremely uncooperative staff. Your Mr. Finch was quite rude to me when I spoke to him about moving into my son's rooms. He told me I had chosen to be in Oxford during a quarantine, and that I had to take whatever accommodations I was given."

Colin came skidding in. "There's someone on the telephone for you," he said.

Dunworthy started past her, but she placed herself solidly in his way. "I told Mr. Finch that he might be content to stay at home when his son was in danger, but that I was not."

"I'm afraid I'm wanted on the telephone," Dunworthy said.

"I told him no real mother could fail to go when her child was alone and ill in a far away place."

"Mr. Dunworthy," Colin said. "Come along!"

"Of course you clearly have no idea what I'm talking about. Look at this child!" She grabbed Colin by the arm. "Running about in the pouring rain with no coat on!"

Dunworthy took advantage of her shift in position to get past her.

"You obviously care nothing about your boy's catching the Indian flu," she said. Colin wrenched free. "Letting him gorge himself on muffins and go about soaked to the skin."

Dunworthy sprinted across the quad, Colin at his heels.

"I will not be surprised if this virus turns out to have originated here in college," Mrs. Gaddson shouted after them. "Sheer negligence, that's what it is. Sheer negligence!"

Dunworthy burst into the room and snatched up the phone. There was no picture. "Andrews," he shouted. "Are you there? I can't see you."

"The telephone system's overbooked," Montoya said. "They've cut the visual. It's Lupe Montoya. Is Mr. Basingame salmon or trout?

"What?" Dunworthy said, frowning at the blank screen.

"I've been calling fishing guides in Scotland all morning. When I could get through. They say where he's gone depends on whether he's salmon or trout. What about friends? Is there someone in the university he goes fishing with who might know?"

"I don't know," Dunworthy said. "Ms. Montoya, I'm afraid I'm waiting for a most important — "

"I've tried everything else — hotels, inns, boat rentals, even his barber. I tracked his wife down in Torquay, and she said he didn't tell her where he was going. I hope that doesn't mean he's off somewhere with a woman and not really in Scotland at all."

"I hardly think Mr. Basingame — "

"Yes, well, then, why doesn't anyone know where he is? And why hasn't he called in now that the epidemic's all over the papers and the vids?"

"Ms. Montoya, I — "

"I suppose I'll have to call both the salmon and trout guides. I'll let you know if I find him."

She rang off finally, and Dunworthy put the receiver down and stared at it, certain Andrews had tried to ring while he was on the line with Montoya.

"Didn't you say there were a lot of epidemics in the Middle Ages?" Colin asked. He was sitting in the window seat with the Middle Ages book on his knees, eating muffins.

"Yes."

"Well, I can't find them in this book. How do you spell it?"

"Try Black Death," Dunworthy said.

Dunworthy waited an anxious quarter of an hour and then tried to ring Andrews again. The lines were still jammed.

"Did you know the Black Death was in Oxford?" Colin said. He had polished off the muffins and begun on the soap tablets. "At Christmas. Just like us!"

"Influenza scarcely compares with the plague," he said, watching the telephone as if he could will it to ring. "The Black Death killed one-third to one-half of Europe."

"I know," Colin said. "And the plague was a lot more interesting. It was spread by rats, and you got these enormous bobos — "

"Buboes."

"Buboes under your arms, and they turned black and swelled up till they were enormous and then you died! The flu doesn't have anything like that," he said, sounding disappointed.

"No."

"And the flu's only one disease. There were three sorts of plague. Bubonic, that's the one with the buboes, pneumonic," he said, pronouncing the P. "It went in your lungs and you coughed up blood, and sep-tah-keem-ic — "

"Septicemic."

"Septicemic, which went into your bloodstream and killed you in three hours and your body turned black all over! Isn't that apocalyptic?"

"Yes," Dunworthy said.

The telephone rang just after eleven o'clock and Dunworthy snatched it up again, but it was Mary, saying she wouldn't be able to manage dinner. "We've had five new cases this morning."

"We'll come to Infirmary as soon as my trunk call has come through," Dunworthy promised. "I'm waiting for one of my techs to phone. I'm going to have him come and ready the fix."

Mary looked wary. "Have you cleared this with Gilchrist?"

"Gilchrist! He's busy planning how to send Kivrin to the Black Death!"

"Nevertheless, I don't think you should do this without telling him. He is Acting Head, and there's no point in antagonizing him. If something has gone wrong, and Adnrews needs to abort the drop, you'll need his cooperation." She smiled at Dunworthy. "We'll discuss it when you come. And when you're here, I want you to have an inoculation."

"I thought you were waiting for the analogue."

"I was, but I'm not satisfied with the way the primary cases are responding to Atlanta's recommended course of treatment. A few of them are showing a slight improvement, but Badri is worse, if anything. I want all high-risk people to have T-cell enhancement."

Andrews still hadn't phoned by noon. Dunworthy sent Colin over to Infirmary to be inoculated. He came back looking pained.

"As bad as all that?" Dunworthy asked.

"Worse," Colin said, flinging himself down on the windowseat. "Mrs. Gaddson caught me coming in. I was rubbing my arm, and she demanded to know where I'd been and why I was getting inoculated instead of William." He looked reproachfully at Dunworthy. "Well, it hurts! She said if anyone was high-risk it was poor Willy and it was absolute necrophilia for me to be jabbed instead of him."

"Nepotism."

"Nepotism. I hope the priest finds her an absolutely cadaverous job."

"How was your Great-Aunt Mary?"

"I didn't see her. They were awfully busy, beds in the corridor and everything."

Colin and Dunworthy took turns going over to hall for Christmas dinner. Colin was back in something less than fifteen minutes. "The bellringers started to play," he said. "Mr. Finch said to tell you we're out of sugar and butter and nearly out of cream." He pulled a jelly tart out of his jacket pocket. "Why is it they never run out of Brussels sprouts and things?"

Dunworthy gave him orders to come tell him at once if Andrews phoned and to take down any other messages and went over. The bellringers were in full cry, jangling away at a Mozart canon.

Finch handed Dunworthy a plate that seemed to be mostly Brussels sprouts. "We're nearly out of turkey, I'm afraid, sir," he said. "I'm glad you've come. It's nearly time for the Queen's Christmas message."

The bellringers finished the Mozart to enthusiastic applause, and Ms. Taylor came over, still wearing her white gloves. "There you are, Mr. Dunworthy," she said. "I missed you at breakfast, and Mr. Finch said you were the one to talk to. We need a practice room."

He was tempted to say, "I'd no idea you practiced." He ate a Brussels sprout.

"A practice room?"

"Yes. So we can practice our Chicago Surprise Minor. I've arranged with the dean of Christ Church to ring our peal here on New Year's Day, but we have to have somewhere to practice. I told Mr. Finch the big room in Beard would be perfect — "

"The senior common room."

"But Mr. Finch said it was being used as a storeroom for supplies."

What supplies? he thought. According to Finch, they were either out or nearly out of everything save Brussels sprouts.

"And he said the lecture rooms were being kept to use as an infirmary. We have to have a quiet place where we can focus. The Chicago Surprise Minor is very complicated. The in and out- of-course changes and the lead end alterations require complete concentration. And of course there's the extra dodging."

"Of course," Dunworthy said.

"The room doesn't have to be large, but it does need to be secluded. We've been practicing here in the dining room, but there are people in and out all the time, and the tenor keeps losing her place."

"I'm sure we can find something."

"Of course with seven bells, we should be doing Triples, but the North American Council rang Philadelphia Triples here last year, and did a very sloppy job of it, too, as I understand. The tenor a full count behind and absolutely terrible stroking. Which is another reason we've got to have a good practice room. Stroking is so important."

"Of course," Dunworthy said.

Mrs. Gaddson appeared in the far doorway, looking fierce and maternal. "I'm afraid I have an important trunk call coming in," he said, standing up so that Ms. Taylor was between him and Mrs. Gaddson.

"Trunk call?" Ms. Taylor said, shaking her head. "You English! I don't understand what you're saying half the time."

Dunworthy escaped out the buttery door, promising to find a practice room so that they could perfect their snapping leads, and went back up to his rooms. Andrews hadn't phoned. There was one message, from Montoya. "She said to tell you, 'never mind,'" Colin said.

"That's all? She didn't say anything else?"

"No. She said, 'Tell Mr. Dunworthy never mind.'"

He wondered if she had by some miracle located Basingame and obtained his signature or if she had merely found out whether he was "salmon" or "trout." He debated ringing her back, but he was afraid the lines would choose that moment to unjam and Andrews would phone.

He didn't, or they didn't, until nearly four. "I'm terribly sorry I didn't ring you sooner," Andrews said.

There was still no picture, but Dunworthy could hear music and talk in the background. "I was away till last night, and I've had a good deal of trouble getting through to you," Andrews said. "The lines have been engaged, the holiday crush, you know. I've been trying every — "

"I need you to come up to Oxford," Dunworthy cut in. "I need you to read a fix."

"Of course, sir," Andrews said promptly. "When?"

"As soon as possible. This evening?"

"Oh," he said, less promptly. "Would tomorrow do? My livein won't get in till late tonight, so we'd planned on having our Christmas tomorrow, but I could get a train up in the afternoon or evening. Will that do, or is there a limit on taking the fix?"

"The fix is already taken, but the tech's come down with a virus, and I need someone to read it," Dunworthy said. There was a sudden burst of laughter from Andrews end. Dunworthy raised his voice. "What time do you think you can be here?"

"I'm not certain. Can I ring you back tomorrow and tell you when I'll be coming in on the tube?"

"Yes, but you can only take the tube as far as Barton. You'll need to take a taxi from there to the perimeter. I'll arrange for you to be let through. All right, Andrews?"

He didn't answer, though Dunworthy could still hear the music. "Andrews?" Dunworthy said. "Are you still there?" It was maddening not to be able to see.

"Yes, sir," Andrews said, but warily. "What was it you said you wanted me to do?"

"Read a fix. It's already been taken, but the tech — ."

"No, the other bit. About taking the train to Barton."

"Take the train to Barton," Dunworthy said loudly and carefully. "That's as far as it goes. From there, you'll have to get a taxi to the quarantine perimeter."

"Quarantine?"

"Yes," Dunworthy said, irritated. "I'll arrange for you to be allowed into the quarantine area."

"What sort of quarantine?"

"A virus," he said. "You haven't heard about it?"

"No, sir. I was running an on-site in Florence. I only arrived back this afternoon. Is it serious?" He did not sound frightened, only interested.

"Eighty-one cases so far," Dunworthy said.

"Eighty-two," Colin said from the windowseat.

"But they've identified it, and the vaccine's on the way. There haven't been any fatalities."

"But a lot of unhappy people who wanted to be home for Christmas, I'll wager," he said. "I'll call you in the morning then, as soon as I know what time I'll arrive."

"Yes," Dunworthy shouted to make sure Andrews could hear over the background noise. "I'll be here."

"Right," Andrews said. There was another burst of laughter and then silence as he rang off.

"Is he coming?" Colin asked.

"Yes. Tomorrow." He punched in Gilchrist's number.

Gilchrist appeared, sitting at his desk and looking belligerent. "Mr. Dunworthy, if this is about pulling Ms. Engle out — "

I would if I could, Dunworthy thought, and wondered if Gilchrist truly didn't realize Kivrin had already left the drop site and wouldn't be there if they did open the net.

"No," he said. "I've located a tech who can come read the fix."

"Mr. Dunworthy, may I remind you — "

"I am fully aware that you are in charge of this drop," Dunworthy said, trying to keep his temper. "I was merely trying to help. Knowing the difficulty of finding techs over vac, I telephoned one in Reading. He can be here tomorrow."

Gilchrist pursed his lips disapprovingly. "None of this would be necessary if your tech hadn't fallen ill, but, as he has, I suppose this will have to do. Have him report to me as soon as he arrives."

Dunworthy managed to say goodbye civilly, but as soon as the screen went blank he slammed the receiver down, yanked it up again, and began stabbing numbers. He would find Basingame if it took all afternoon.

But the computer came on and informed him all lines were engaged again. He laid the receiver down and stared at the blank screen.

"Are you waiting for another call?" Colin asked.

"No."

"Then can we walk over to the infirmary? I've a present for Great-Aunt Mary."

And I can see about getting Andrews into the quarantine area, he thought. "Excellent idea. You can wear your new muffler."

Colin stuffed it in his jacket pocket. "I'll put it on when we get there," he said, grinning. "I don't want anyone to see me on the way."

There was no one to see them. The streets were completely deserted, not even any bicycles or taxis. Dunworthy thought of the vicar's remark that when the epidemic took hold people would hole up in their houses. Either that, or they had been driven inside by the sound of the Carfax carillon, which was not only still banging away at "The Carol of the Bells" but seemed louder, echoing through the empty streets. Or they were napping after too much Christmas dinner. Or they knew enough to keep in out of the rain.

They saw no one at all until they got to Infirmary. A woman in a Burberry stood in front of the casualties ward holding a picket sign that said, "Ban Foreign Diseases." A man wearing a regulation face mask opened the door for them and handed Dunworthy a very damp flyer.

Dunworthy asked at the admissions desk for Mary and then read the flyer. In boldface type it said, "FIGHT INFLUENZA. VOTE TO SECEDE FROM THE EC." Underneath was a paragraph: "Why will you be separated from your loved ones this Christmas? Why are you forced to stay in Oxford? Why are you in danger of getting ill and DYING? Because the EC allows infected foreigners to enter England, and England doesn't have a thing to say about it. An Indian immigrant carrying a deadly virus — "

Dunworthy didn't read the rest. He turned it over. It read, "A Vote for Secession is a Vote for Health. Committee for an Independent Great Britain."

Mary came in, and Colin grabbed his muffler out of his pocket and wrapped it hastily around his neck. "Happy Christmas," he said. "Thank you for the muffler. Shall I open your cracker for you?"

"Yes, please," Mary said. She looked tired. She was wearing the same lab coat she had been two days ago. Someone had pinned a cluster of holly to the lapel.

Colin snapped the cracker.

"Put your hat on," he said, unfolding a blue paper crown.

"Have you managed to get any rest at all?" Dunworthy asked.

"A bit," she said, putting the crown on over her untidy gray hair. "We've had thirty new cases since noon, and I've spent most of the day trying to get the sequencing from the WIC, but the lines are jammed."

"I know," Dunworthy said. "Can I see Badri?"

"Only for a minute or two." She frowned. "He's not responding at all to the synthamycin, and neither are the two students from the dance in Headington. Ms. Breen is a bit improved." She frowned. "It worries me. Have you had your inoculation?"

"Not yet. Colin's had his."

"And it hurt like blood," Colin said, unfolding the slip of paper inside the cracker. "Shall I read your motto for you?"

She nodded.

"I need to bring a tech into the quarantine area tomorrow to read Kivrin's fix," Dunworthy said. "What must I do to arrange it?"

"Nothing, so far as I know. They're trying to keep people in, not out."

The registrar took Mary aside, and spoke softly and urgently to her.

"I must go," she said. "I don't want you to leave till you've had your enhancement. Come back down here when you've seen Badri. Colin, you wait here for Mr. Dunworthy."

Dunworthy went up to Isolation. There was no one at the desk, so he wrestled his way into a set of SPG's, remembering to put the gloves on last, and went inside.

The pretty nurse who had been so interested in William was taking Badri's pulse, her eyes on the screens. Dunworthy stopped at the foot of the bed.

Mary had said Badri wasn't responding, but Dunworthy was still shocked by the sight of him. His face was dark with fever again, and his eyes looked bruised, as if someone had hit him. His right arm was hooked to an elaborate shunt. It was bruised a purple-blue on the inside of the elbow. The other arm was worse, black all along the forearm.

"Badri?" he said, and the nurse shook her head.

"You can only stay a moment," she said.

Dunworthy nodded.

She laid Badri's unresisting hand down at his side, typed something on the console, and went out.

Dunworthy sat down beside the bed and looked up at the screens. They looked the same, still indecipherable, the graphs and jags and generating numbers telling him nothing. He looked at Badri, who lay there looking battered, beaten. He patted his hand gently and stood up to go.

"It was the rats," Badri murmured.

"Badri?" Dunworthy said gently. "It's Mr. Dunworthy."

"Mr. Dunworthy…" Badri said, but he didn't open his eyes. "I'm dying, aren't I?"

He felt a twinge of fear. "No, of course not," he said heartily. "Where did you get that idea?"

"It's always fatal," Badri said.

"What is?"

Badri didn't answer. Dunworthy sat with him until the nurse came in, but he didn't say anything else.

"Mr. Dunworthy?" she said. "He needs to rest."

"I know." He walked to the door and then looked back at Badri, lying in the bed. He opened the door.

"It killed them all," Badri said. "Half of Europe."

Colin was standing at the registrar's desk when he came back down, telling her about his Christmas gifts. "My mother's gifts didn't arrive because of the quarantine. The postman wouldn't let them through."

Dunworthy told the registrar about the T-cell enhancement and she nodded and said, "It will just be a moment."

They sat down to wait. It killed them all, Dunworthy thought. Half of Europe.

"I didn't get to read her her motto," Colin said. "Would you like to hear it?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Where was Father Christmas when the lights went out?" He waited expectantly.

Dunworthy shook his head.

"In the dark."

He took his gobstopper out of his pocket, unwrapped it, and stuck it in his mouth. "You're worried about your girl, aren't you?"

"Yes."

He folded up the gobstopper wrapper into a tiny packet. "What I don't understand is, why can't you go get her?"

"She isn't there. We must wait for the rendezvous."

"No, I mean why can't you go back to the same time you sent her through and get her while she was still there? Before anything happened? I mean you can go to any time you want, can't you?"

"No," he said. "You can send an historian to any time, but once she's there, the net can only operate in real time. Did you study the paradoxes at school?"

"Yes," Colin said, but he sounded uncertain. "They're like time-travel rules?"

"The space-time continuum doesn't allow paradoxes," Dunworthy said. "It would be a paradox if Kivrin made something happen that hadn't happened, or if she caused an anachronism."

Colin was still looking uncertain.

"One of the paradoxes is that no one can be in two places at the same time. She's already been in the past for four days. There's nothing we can do to change that. It's already happened."

"Then how does she get back?"

"When she went through, the tech took what's called a fix. It tells the tech exactly where she is, and it acts as a…um…" he groped for an understandable word. "A tether. It ties the two times together so the net can be reopened at a certain time, and she can be picked up."

"Like, 'I'll meet you at the church at half-past six?'"

"Exactly. It's called a rendezvous. Kivrin's is in two weeks. The twenty-eighth of December. On that day the tech will open the net, and Kivrin will come back through."

"I thought you said it was the same time there. How can the twenty-eighth be two weeks from now?"

"They used a different calendar in the Middle Ages. It's December the seventeenth there. Our rendezvous date is the sixth of January." If she's there. If I can find a tech to open the net.

Colin pulled out his gobstopper and looked at it thoughtfully. It was a mottled bluish-white and looked rather like a map of the moon. He stuck it back in his mouth.

"So, if I went to 1320 on the twenty-sixth of December, I could have Christmas twice."

"Yes, I suppose so."

"Apocalyptic," he said. He unfolded the gobstopper wrapper and folded it into an even tinier packet. "I think they've forgotten about you, don't you?"

"It's beginning to look that way," Dunworthy said. The next time a house officer came through, Dunworthy stopped him and told him he was waiting for T-cell enhancement.

"Oh?" he said, looking surprised. "I'll try to find out about it." He disappeared into Casualties.

They waited some more. "It was the rats," Badri had said. And that first night he had asked Dunworthy, "What year is it?" But he had said there was minimal slippage. He had said the apprentice's calculations were correct.

Colin took his gobstopper out and examined it several times for change in color. "If something terrible happened, couldn't you break the rules?" he said, squinting at it. "If she got her arm cut off or she died or a bomb blew her up or something?"

"They're not rules, Colin. They're scientific laws. We couldn't break them if we tried. If we attempted to reverse events that had already happened, the net wouldn't open."

Colin spit his gobstopper into the wrapper and folded the wrinkled paper carefully around it. "I'm sure your girl's all right," he said.

He jammed the wrapped gobstopper in his jacket pocket and pulled out a lumpy parcel. "I forgot to give Great-Aunt Mary her Christmas present," he said.

He jumped up and started into Casualties before Dunworthy could caution him to wait, got opposite the door, and came tearing back.

"Blood! The Gallstone's here!" he said. "She's coming this way."

Dunworthy stood up. "That's all that's needed."

"This way," Colin said. "I came in the back door the night I got here." He sprinted off in the other direction. "Come on!"

Dunworthy could not manage a sprint, but he walked quickly down the labyrinth of corridors Colin indicated and out a service entrance into a side street. A man in a sandwich board was standing outside the door in the rain. The sandwich board said, "The doom we feared is upon us," which seemed oddly fitting.

"I'll make certain she didn't see us," Colin said, and dashed around to the front.

The man handed Dunworthy a flyer. "THE END OF TIME IS NEAR!" it said in fiery capital letters. "'Fear God, for the hour of his judgment is come.' Rev. 14:7."

Colin waved to Dunworthy from the corner. "It's all right," Colin said, slightly out of breath. "She's inside shouting at the registrar."

Dunworthy handed the flyer back to the man and followed Colin. He led the way along the side street to Woodstock Road. Dunworthy looked anxiously toward the door of Casualties, but he couldn't see anyone, not even the anti-EC picketers.

Colin sprinted another block, and then slowed to a walk. He pulled the packet of soap tablets out of his pocket and offered Dunworthy one.

He declined.

Colin popped a pink one in his mouth and said, none too clearly, "This is the best Christmas I've ever had."

Dunworthy pondered that sentiment for several blocks. The carillon was massacring, "In the Bleak Midwinter," which also seemed fitting, and the streets were still deserted, but as they turned down the Broad, a familiar figure hurried toward them, hunched against the rain.

"It's Mr. Finch," Colin said.

"Good Lord," Dunworthy said. "What do you suppose we've run out of now?"

"I hope it's Brussels sprouts."

Finch had looked up at the sound of their voices. "There you are, Mr. Dunworthy. Thank goodness. I've been looking for you everywhere."

"What is it?" Dunworthy said. "I told Ms. Taylor I'd see about a practice room."

"It isn't that, sir. It's the detainees. Two of them are down with the virus."

21 December 1320 (Old Style.) Father Roche doesn't know where the drop is. I made him take me to the place where Gawyn met him, but even standing in the clearing didn't jog my memory. It's obvious Gawyn didn't happen upon him until he was a long way from the drop, and by that time I was completely delirious.

And I realized today I'll never be able to find the drop on my own. The woods are too big, and they're full of clearings and oak trees and willow thickets that all look alike now that it's snowed. I should have marked the drop with something besides the casket.

Gawyn will have to show me where the drop is, and he's not back yet. Rosemund told me it's only a half day's ride to Courcy, but that he will probably spend the night there because of the rain.

It's been raining hard since we got back, and I suppose I should be happy since it may melt the snow, but it makes it impossible for me to go out and look for the drop, and it's freezing in the manor house. Everyone's wearing their cloaks and huddling next to the fire.

What do the villagers do? Their huts can't even keep the wind out, and the one I was in had no sign of a blanket. They must be literally freezing, and Rosemund said the steward said it was going to rain till Christmas Eve.

Rosemund apologized for her ill-tempered behavior in the woods and told me, "I was wroth with my sister."

Agnes had nothing to do with it — what upset her was obviously the news that her fiancé had been invited for Christmas, and when I had a chance with Rosemund alone, I asked her if she was worried over her marriage.

"My father has arranged it," she said, threading her needle. "We were betrothed at Martinmas. We are to be wed at Easter."

"And is it with your consent?" I asked.

"It is a good match," she said. "Sir Bloet is highly placed, and he has holdings that adjoin my father's."

"Do you like him?"

She stabbed the needle into the linen in the wooden frame. "My father would never let me come to harm," she said, and pulled the long thread through.

She didn't volunteer anything else, and all I could get out of Agnes was that Sir Bloet was nice and had brought her a silver penny, no doubt as part of the betrothal gifts.

Agnes was too concerned about her knee to tell me anything else. She stopped complaining about it halfway home, and then limped exaggeratedly when she got down off the sorrel. I thought she was just trying to get attention, but when I looked at it, the scab had come off completely. The area around it is red and swollen.

I washed it off, wrapped it in as clean a cloth as I could find, (I'm afraid it may have been one of Imeyne's coifs — I found it in the chest at the foot of the bed) and made her sit quietly by the fire and play with her knight, but I'm worried. If it gets infected, it could be serious. There weren't any antimicrobials in the 1300's.

Eliwys is worried, too. She clearly expected Gawyn back tonight, and has been going to stand by the screens all day, looking out the door. I have not been able to figure out how she feels about Gawyn. Sometimes, like today, I think she loves him, and is afraid of what that means for both of them. Adultery was a mortal sin in the eyes of the church, and often a dangerous one. But most of the time I am convinced that his amour is completely unrequited, that she is so worried about her husband that she doesn't know he exists.

The pure, unattainable lady was the ideal of courtly romances, but it's clear he doesn't know whether or not she loves him either. His rescuing me in the wood and his story of the renegades was only an attempt to impress her (which would have been much more impressive if there had been twenty renegades, all armed with swords and maces and battle axes). He would obviously do anything to win her, and Lady Imeyne knows it. Which is why, I think, he's been sent off to Courcy.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

By the time they got back to Balliol, two more of the detainees were down with the virus. Dunworthy sent Colin to bed and helped Finch get the detainees to bed and phone the infirmary.

"All our ambulances are out," the registrar told him. "We'll send one as soon as possible."

As soon as possible was midnight. He didn't get back and to bed till past one.

Colin was asleep on the cot Finch had set up for him, The Age of Chivalry next to his head. Dunworthy debated pulling the book away but he didn't want to risk waking him. He went in to bed.

Kivrin could not be in the plague. Badri had said there was minimal slippage, and the plague had not hit England until 1348. Kivrin had been sent to 1320.

He turned over and closed his eyes determinedly. She could not be in the plague. Badri was delirious. He had said all sorts of things, talked about lids and breaking china as well as rats. None of it made any sense. It was the fever speaking. He had told Dunworthy to back up. He had given him imaginary notes. None of it meant anything.

"It was the rats," Badri had said. The contemps hadn't known it was spread by fleas on the rats. They had had no idea what caused it. They had accused everyone — Jews and witches and the insane. They had murdered halfwits and hanged old women. They had burned stranges at the stake.

He got out of bed and padded into the sitting room. He tiptoed around Colin's cot and slid The Age of Chivalry out from under Colin's head. Colin stirred but didn't wake.

Dunworthy sat on the windowseat and looked up the Black Death. It had started in China in 1333, and moved west on trading ships to Messina in Sicily and from there to Pisa. It had spread through Italy and France — eighty thousand dead in Siena, a hundred thousand in Florence, three hundred thousand in Rome — before it crossed the Channel. It had reached England in 1348, "a little before the Feast of St. John the Baptist," the twenty-fourth of June.

That meant a slippage of twenty-eight years. Badri had been worried about too much slippage, but he had been talking of weeks, not years.

He reached over the cot to the bookcase and took down Fitzwiller's Pandemics.

"What are you doing?" Colin asked sleepily.

"Reading about the Black Death," he whispered. "Go back to sleep."

"They didn't call it that," Colin mumbled around his gobstopper. He rolled over, wrapping himself in his blankets. "They called it the blue fever."

Dunworthy took both books back to bed with him. Fitzwiller gave the date of the plague's arrival in England as St. Peter's Day, the twenty-ninth of June, 1348. It had reached Oxford in December, London in October of 1349, and then moved north and back across the Channel to the Low Countries and Norway. It had gone everywhere except Bohemia, and Poland, which had a quarantine, and, oddly, parts of Scotland.

Where it had gone, it had swept through the countryside like the Angel of Death, devastating entire villages, leaving no one alive to administer the last rites or bury the putrefying bodies. In one monastery, all but one of the monks had died.

The single survivor, John Clyn, had left a record: "And lest things which should be remembered perish with time and vanish from the memory of those who are to come after us," he had written, "I, seeing so many evils and the whole world, as it were, placed within the grasp of the Evil One, being myself as if among the dead, I, waiting for death, have put into writing all the things that I have witnessed."

He had written it all down, a true historian, and then died himself, all alone. His words trailed off, and below them, in another hand, someone had written, "Here, it seems, the author died."

Someone knocked on the door. It was Finch in his bathrobe, looking bleary-eyed and distraught. "Another one of the detainees, sir," he said.

Dunworthy put his fingers to his lips and stepped outside the door with him. "Have you telephoned Infirmary?"

"Yes, sir, and they said it would be several hours before they can dispatch an ambulance. They said to isolate her, and give her dimantadine and orange juice."

"Which I suppose we're nearly out of," Dunworthy said irritably.

"Yes, sir, but that's not the problem. She won't cooperate."

Dunworthy made Finch wait outside the door while he dressed and found his face mask, and they went across to Salvin. A huddle of detainees were standing by the door, dressed in an odd assortment of underthings, coats, and blankets. Only a few of them were wearing their face masks. By day after tomorrow they'll all be down with it, Dunworthy thought.

"Thank goodness you're here," one of the detainees said fervently. "We can't do a thing with her."

Finch led him over to the detainee, who was sitting upright in bed. She was an elderly woman with sparse white hair, and she had the same fever-bright eyes, the same frenetic alertness Badri had had that first night.

"Go away!" she said when she saw Finch and made a slapping motion at him. She turned her burning eyes on Dunworthy. "Daddy!" she cried, and then stuck her lower lip out in a pout. "I was very naughty," she said in a childish voice. "I ate all the birthday cake, and now I have a stomachache."

"Do you see what I mean, sir?" Finch put in.

"Are the Indians coming, Daddy?" she asked. "I don't like Indians. They have bows and arrows."

It took them until morning to get her onto a cot in one of the lecture rooms. Dunworthy eventually had to resort to saying, "Your daddy wants his good girl to lie down now," and just after they had her quieted down, the ambulance came. "Daddy!" she wailed when they shut the doors. "Don't leave me here all alone!"

"Oh, dear," Finch said when the ambulance drove off. "It's past breakfast time. I do hope they haven't eaten all the bacon."

He went off to ration supplies, and Dunworthy went back to his rooms to wait for Andrews' call. Colin was halfway down the staircase, eating a piece of toast and pulling on his jacket. "The vicar wants me to help collect clothes for the detainees," he said with his mouth full of toast. "Aunt Mary telephoned. You're to ring her back."

"But not Andrews?"

"No."

"Has the visual been restored?"

"No."

"Wear your regulation face mask!" Dunworthy called after him, "and your muffler!"

He rang up Mary and waited impatiently for nearly five minutes until she came to the telephone.

"James?" Mary's voice said. "It's Badri. He's asking for you."

"He's better, then?"

"No. His fever's still very high, and he's become quite agitated, keeps calling your name, insists he has something to tell you. He's working himself into a very bad state. If you could come and speak with him, it might calm him down."

"Has he said anything about the plague?" he asked.

"The plague?" she said, looking annoyed. "Don't tell me you've been infected by these ridiculous rumors that are flying about, James — that it's cholera, that it's breakbone fever, that it's a recurrence of the Pandemic — "

"No," Dunworthy said. It's Badri. Last night he said, 'It killed half of Europe,' and 'It must have been the rats.'"

"He's delirious, James. It's the fever. It doesn't mean anything."

She's right, he told himself. The detainee ranted on about Indians with bows and arrows, and you didn't begin looking for Sioux warriors. She had conjured up too much birthday cake as an explanation for her being ill, and Badri had conjured up the plague. It didn't mean anything.

Nevertheless, he said he would be there immediately and went to find Finch. Andrews hadn't specified what time he would call, but Dunworthy couldn't risk leaving the phone unattended. He wished he'd made Colin stay while he spoke to Mary.

Finch would very likely be in hall, guarding the bacon with his life. He took the receiver off the hook so the phone would sound engaged and went across the quad to the hall.

Ms. Taylor met him at the door. "I was just coming to look for you," she said. "I heard some of the detainees came down with the virus last night."

"Yes," he said, scanning the hall for Finch.

"Oh, dear. So I suppose we've all been exposed."

He couldn't see Finch anywhere.

"How long is the incubation period?" Ms. Taylor asked.

"Twelve to forty-eight hours," he said. He craned his neck, trying to see over the heads of the detainees.

"That's awful," Ms. Taylor said. "What if one of us comes down with it in the middle of the peal? We're Traditional, you know, not Council. The rules are very explicit."

He wondered why Traditional, whatever that might be, had deemed it necessary to have rules concerning change ringers infected with influenza.

"Rule Three," Ms. Taylor said. "'Every man must stick to his bell without interruption.' It isn't as if we can put somebody else in halfway through if one of us suddenly keels over. And it would ruin the rhythm."

He had a sudden image of one of the bellringers in her white gloves collapsing and being kicked out of the way so as not to disrupt the rhythm.

"Aren't there any warning symptoms?" Ms. Taylor asked.

"No," he said.

"That paper the NHS sent around said disorientation, fever, and headache, but that isn't any good. The bells always give us headaches."

I can imagine, he thought, looking for William Gaddson or one of the other undergraduates he could get to listen for the phone.

"If we were Council, of course, it wouldn't matter. They let people substitute right and left. During a peal of Tittum Bob Maximus at York, they had nineteen ringers. Nineteen! I don't see how they can even call it a peal."

None of his undergraduates appeared to be in hall, Finch had no doubt barricaded himself in the buttery, and Colin was out collecting clothing. "Are you still in need of a practice room?" he asked Ms. Taylor.

"Yes, unless one of us comes down with this thing. Of course, we could do Stedmans, but that would hardly be the same thing, would it?"

"I'll let you use my sitting room if you will answer the telephone and take down any messages for me. I am expecting an important trunk — long distance call, so it's essential that someone be in the room at all times."

He led her back to his rooms.

"Oh, it's not very big, is it?" she said. "I'm not sure there's room to work on our raising. Can we move the furniture around?"

"You may do anything you like, so long as you answer the telephone and take down any messages. I'm expecting a call from Mr. Andrews. Tell him he doesn't need clearance to enter the quarantine area. Tell him to go straight to Brasenose and I'll meet him there."

"Well, all right, I guess," she said as if she were doing him a favor. "At least it's better than that drafty cafeteria."

He left her rearranging furniture, not at all convinced that it was a good idea to entrust her with this, and hurried off to see Badri. He had something to tell him. It killed them all. Half of Europe.

The rain had subsided to little more than a fine mist, and the anti-EC picketers were gathered in force in front of the Infirmary. They had been joined by a number of boys Colin's age wearing black face plasters and shouting, "Let my people go!"

One of them grabbed Dunworthy's arm. "The government's got no right to keep you here against your will," he said, thrusting his striped face up to Dunworthy's face mask.

"Don't be a fool," Dunworthy said. "Do you want to start another pandemic?"

The boy let go his arm, looking confused, and Dunworthy escaped inside.

Casualties was full of patients on stretcher trolleys, and there was one standing next to the elevator. An imposing looking nurse in voluminous SPG's was standing next to it, reading something to the patient from a polythene-wrapped book.

"'Whoever perished, being innocent?'" she said, and he realized with dismay that it wasn't a nurse. It was Mrs. Gaddson.

"'Or where were the righteous cut off?'" she recited.

She stopped and thumbed through the thin pages of the Bible, looking for another cheering passage, and he ducked down the side corridor and into a stairwell, eternally grateful to the NHS for issuing face masks.

"'The Lord shall smite thee with a consumption,'" she intoned, her voice resounding through the corridor as he fled, "'and with a fever, and with an inflammation.'"

And He shall smite thee with Mrs. Gaddson, he thought, and she shall read you Scriptures to keep your morale up.

He went up the stairs to Isolation, which had now apparently taken over most of the first floor.

"Here you are," the nurse said. It was the pretty blonde student nurse again. He wondered if he should warn her about Mrs. Gaddson.

"I'd nearly given you up," she said. "He's been calling for you all morning." She handed him a set of SPG's, and he put them on and followed her in.

"He was frantic for you half an hour ago," she whispered, "kept insisting he had something to tell you. He's a bit better now."

He looked, in fact, considerably better. He had lost the dark, frightening flush, and though he was still a bit pale under his brown skin, he looked almost like his old self. He was half- sitting against several pillows, his knees up, and his hands lying lightly on them, the fingers curved. His eyes were closed.

"Badri," the nurse said, putting her imperm-gloved hand on his chest and bending close to him. "Mr. Dunworthy's here."

He opened his eyes. "Mr. Dunworthy?"

"Yes." She nodded across the bed, indicating him. "I told you he'd come."

Badri sat up straighter against the pillows, but he didn't look at Dunworthy. He looked intently ahead.

"I'm here, Badri," he said, moving forward so he was in his line of vision. "What was it you wanted to tell me?"

Badri continued to look straight ahead and his hands began moving restlessly on his knees. Dunworthy glanced at the nurse.

"He's been doing that," she said. "I think he's typing." She looked at the screens and went out.

He was typing. His wrists rested on his knees, and his fingers tapped the blanket in a complex sequence. His eyes stared at something in front of him — a screen?-and after a moment he frowned. "That can't be right," he said and began typing rapidly.

"What is it, Badri?" Dunworthy said. "What's wrong?"

"There must be an error," Badri said. He leaned slightly sideways and said, "Give me a line-by-line on the TAA."

He was peaking into the console's ear, Dunworthy realized. He's reading the fix, he thought. "What can't be right, Badri?"

"The slippage," Badri said, his eyes fixed on the imaginary screen. "Readout check," he said into the ear. "That can't be right."

"What's wrong with the slippage?" Dunworthy asked. "Was there more slippage than you expected?"

Badri didn't answer. He typed for a moment, paused, watching the screen, and began typing frantically.

"How much slippage was there? Badri?" Dunworthy said.

He typed for a full minute and then stopped and looked up at Dunworthy. "So worried," he said thoughtfully.

"Worried over what, Badri?" Dunworthy said.

Badri suddenly flung the blanket back and grabbed for the bed rails. "I have to find Mr. Dunworthy," he said. He yanked at his shunt, pulling at the tape.

The screens behind him went wild, spiking crazily and beeping. Somewhere outside an alarm went off.

"You mustn't do that," Dunworthy said, reaching across the bed to stop him.

"He's at the pub," Badri said, ripping at the tape.

The screens went abruptly flatline. "Disconnect," a computer voice said. "Disconnect."

The nurse banged in. "Oh, dear, that's twice he's done that," she said. "Mr. Chaudhuri, you mustn't do that. You'll pull your shunt out."

"Go and get Mr. Dunworthy. Now," he said. "There's something wrong," but he lay back and let her cover him up. "Why doesn't he come?"

Dunworthy waited while the nurse retaped the shunt and reset the screens, watching Badri. He looked worn out and apathetic, almost bored. A new bruise was already forming above the shunt.

The nurse left with, "I think I'd best call down for a sedative."

As soon as she was gone, Dunworthy said, "Badri, it's Mr. Dunworthy. You wanted to tell me something. Look at me, Badri. What is it? What's wrong?"

Badri looked at him, but without interest.

"Was there too much slippage, Badri? Is Kivrin in the plague?"

"I don't have time," Badri said. "I was out there Saturday and Sunday." He began typing again, his fingers moving ceaselessly on the blanket. "That can't be right."

The nurse came back with a drip bottle. "Oh, good," he said, and his expression relaxed and softened, as if a great weight had been lifted. "I don't know what happened. I had such a terrific headache."

He closed his eyes before she had even hooked the drip to the shunt and began to snore softly.

The nurse led him out. "If he wakes and calls for you again, where can you be reached?" she asked.

He gave her the number. "What exactly did he say?" he asked, stripping off his gown. "Before I arrived?"

"He kept calling your name and saying he had to find you, that he had to tell you something important."

"Did he say anything about a rats?" he said.

"No. Once he said he had to find Karen — or Katherine-"

"Kivrin."

She nodded. "Yes. He said, 'I must find Kivrin. Is the laboratory open?' And then he said something about a lamb, but nothing about rats, I don't think. A good deal of the time I can't make it out."

He threw the imperm gloves into the bag. "I want you to write down everything he says. Not the unintelligible parts," he added before she could object. "But everything else. I'll be back this afternoon."

"I'll try," she said. "It's mostly nonsense."

He went downstairs. It was mostly nonsense, feverish ramblings that meant nothing, but he went outside to get a taxi. He wanted to get back to Balliol quickly, to speak to Andrews, to get him up here to read the fix.

"That can't be right," Badri had said, and it had to be the slippage. Could he have somehow misread the figure, thought it was only four hours and then discovered, what? That it was four years? Or twenty-eight?

"You'll get there faster walking," someone said. It was the boy with the black face plasters. "If you're waiting for a taxi, you'll stand there forever. They've all been commandeered by the bloody government."

He gestured toward one just pulling up to the door of Casualties. It had an NHS placard in the side window.

Dunworthy thanked the boy and started back to Balliol. It was raining again, and he walked rapidly, hoping that Andrews had already telephoned, that he was already on his way. "Go and get Mr. Dunworthy immediately," Badri had said. "Now. There's something wrong," and he was obviously reliving his actions after he had gotten the fix, when he had run through the rain to the Lamb and Cross to fetch him. "That can't be right," he had said.

He half-ran across the quad and up to his rooms. He was worried Ms. Taylor wouldn't have been able to hear the telephone's bell over her bell ringers' clanging, but when he opened the door, he found them standing in a circle in the middle of his sitting room in their face masks, their arms raised and hands folded as if in supplication, bringing their hands down in front of them and bending their knees one after the other in solemn silence.

"Mr. Basingame's scout called," Ms. Taylor said, rising and stooping. "He said he thought Mr. Basingame was somewhere in the Highlands. And Mr. Andrews said you were to ring him back. He just called."

Dunworthy put the trunk call through, feeling immensely relieved. While he waited for Andrews to answer, he watched the curious dance and trying to determine the pattern. Ms. Taylor seemed to bob on a semi-regular basis, but the others did their odd curtseys in no order he could detect. The largest one, Ms. Piantini, he thought, was counting to herself, frowning in concentration.

"I've gotten clearance for you to enter the quarantine area. When are you coming up?" he said as soon as the tech answered.

"That's the thing, sir," Andrews said. There was a visual, but it was too fuzzy to read his expression. "I don't think I'd better. I've been watching all about the quarantine on the vids, sir. They say this Indian flu is extremely dangerous."

"You needn't come in contact with any of the cases," Dunworthy said. "I can arrange for you to go straight to Brasenose's laboratory. You'll be perfectly safe. This is extremely important."

"Yes, sir, but the vidders say it might have been caused by the university's heating system."

"The heating system?" Dunworthy said. "The university has no heating system, and the individual ones of the colleges are over a hundred years old and incapable of heating, let alone infecting." The bellringers turned as one to look at him, but they did not break rhythm. "It has absolutely nothing to do with the heating system. Or India, or the wrath of God. It began in South Carolina. The vaccine is already on the way. It's perfectly safe."

Andrews looked stubborn. "Nevertheless, sir, I don't think it would be wise for me to come."

The bellringers abruptly stopped. "Sorry," Ms. Piantini said, and they started again.

"This fix must be read. We have an historian in 1320, and we don't know how much slippage there has been. I'll see to it that you're paid for hazardous duty," Dunworthy said, and then realized that was exactly the wrong approach. "I can arrange for you to be isolated or wear SPG's or — "

"I could read the fix from here," Andrews said. "I've a friend who'll set up the access connections. She's a student at Shrewsbury." He paused. "It's the best I can do. Sorry."

"Sorry," Ms. Piantini said again.

"No, no, you ring in second's place," Ms. Taylor said. "You dodge two-three up and down and three-four down and then lead a whole pull. And keep your eyes on the other ringers, not on the floor. One-two-and-off!" They started their minuet again.

"I simply can't take the risk," Andrews said.

It was clear he couldn't be persuaded. "What is the name of your friend at Shrewsbury?" Dunworthy asked.

"Polly Wilson," he said, sounding relieved. He gave Dunworthy her number. "Tell her you need a remote read, IA inquiry and bridge transmit. I'll stay by this number." He moved to ring off.

"Wait!" Dunworthy said. The bellringers glanced disapprovingly at him. "What would the maximal slippage be on a drop to 1320?"

"I've no idea," Andrews said promptly. "Slippage is difficult to predict. There are so many factors."

"An estimate," Dunworthy said. "Could it be twenty-eight years?"

"Twenty-eight years?" Andrews said, and the amazed tone sent a gust of relief through Dunworthy. "Oh, I wouldn't think so. There's a general tendency toward greater slippage the farther back you go, but the increase isn't exponential. The parameter checks will tell you."

"Mediaeval didn't do any."

"They sent an historian back without parameter checks?" Andrews sounded shocked.

"Without parameter checks, without unmanneds, without recon tests," Dunworthy said. "Which is why it's essential I get this fix read. I want you to do something for me."

Andrews stiffened.

"You don't have to come here to do it," he said rapidly. "Jesus has an on-site set up in London. I want you to go over there and run parameter checks on a drop to noon, 12 December, 1320."

"What are the locational coordinates?"

"I don't know. I'll get them when I go to Brasenose. I want you to telephone me here as soon as you've determined maximal slippage. Can you do that?"

"Yes," he said, but he was looking doubtful again.

"Good. I'll telephone Polly Wilson. Remote read, IA inquiry, bridge transmit. I'll ring you back as soon as she's got it set up at Brasenose," Dunworthy said, and rang off before Andrews could renege.

He held onto the receiver, watching the bellringers. The order changed each time, but Ms. Piantini apparently did not lose count again.

He telephoned Polly Wilson and gave her the specifications Andrews had dictated, wondering if she had been watching the vidders, too, and would be afraid of Brasenose's heating system, but she said promptly, "I'll need to find a gateway. I'll meet you there in forty-five minutes."

He left the bellringers still bobbing and went over to Brasenose. The rain had slowed to a fine mist, and there were more people on the streets, though many of the shops were closed. Whoever was in charge of the Carfax carillon had either come down with the flu or forgotten about it because of the quarantine. It was still playing "Bring a Torch, Jeanette Isabella," or possibly "O Tannenbaum."

There were three picketers outside an Indian grocer's and a half-dozen more outside Brasenose with a large banner they were holding between them that read, "TIME TRAVEL IS A HEALTH THREAT." He recognized the young woman on the end as one of the medics from the ambulance.

Heating systems and the EC and time travel. During the Pandemic it had been the American germ warfare program and air conditioning. Back in the Middle Ages they had blamed the Jews and the appearance of comets for their epidemics. Doubtless when the fact that the virus had originated in South Carolina was revealed, the Confederacy, or Southern fried chicken, would be blamed.

He went in the gate to the porter's desk. The Christmas tree was sitting on one end of it, the angel perched atop it. "I have a student from Shrewsbury meeting me to set up some communications equipment," he told the porter. "We'll need to be let into the laboratory."

"The laboratory is restricted, sir," the porter said.

"Restricted?"

"Yes, sir. It's been locked and no one's allowed in."

"Why? What's happened?"

"It's because of the epidemic, sir."

"The epidemic!?"

"Yes, sir. Perhaps you'd better speak with Mr. Gilchrist, sir."

"Perhaps I had. Tell him I'm here, and I need to be let into the laboratory."

"I'm afraid he's not here just now."

"Where is he?"

"At the Infirmary, I believe. He — "

Dunworthy didn't wait to hear the rest. Halfway to the Infirmary it occurred to him that Polly Wilson would be left waiting with no idea where he'd gone, and as he came up to the hospital, it came to him that Gilchrist might be there because he'd come down with the virus.

Good, he thought, it's what he deserves, but Gilchrist was in the little waiting room, hale and hearty, wearing an NHS face mask, rolling up his sleeve in preparation for the inoculation a nurse was holding.

"Your porter told me the laboratory's restricted," he said, stepping between them. "I need to get into it. I've found a tech to read Kivrin's fix."

Gilchrist looked belligerent. "It was my understanding that your tech had read the fix before he fell ill."

"He did, but he's in no condition to tell us what it said." And there's something wrong with it, he thought. "Andrews has agreed to read it by remote, but we need to set up transmission equipment."

"I'm afraid that's impossible," Gilchrist said. "The laboratory is under quarantine until the source of the virus is determined."

"The source of the virus?" he said incredulously. "The virus originated in South Carolina."

"We will not be certain of that until we've obtained positive identification. Until then, I felt it was best to minimize all possible risks to the university by restricting access to the laboratory. Now, if you will excuse me, I'm here to receive my immune system enhancement." He started past Dunworthy toward the nurse.

Dunworthy put out his arm to stop him. "What risks?"

"There has been considerable public concern that the virus was transmitted through the net."

"Public concern? Do you mean those three halfwits with the banner outside your gate?" he shouted.

"This is a hospital, Mr. Dunworthy," the nurse said. "Please keep your voice down."

He ignored her. "There has been 'considerable public concern,' as you call it, that the virus was caused by liberal immigration laws," he said. "Do you intend to secede from the EC as well?"

Gilchrist's chin went up, and the pinched lines appeared by his nose, visible even through the mask. "As Acting Head of the History Faculty, it is my responsibility to act in the university's interest. Our position in the community, as I'm certain you're aware, depends on maintaining the good will of the townspeople. I felt it important to calm the public's fears by closing the laboratory until the sequencing arrives. If it indicates that the virus is from South Carolina, then of course the laboratory will be reopened immediately."

"And in the meantime, what about Kivrin?"

"If you cannot keep your voice down," the nurse said, "I shall be forced to report you to Dr. Ahrens."

"Excellent. Go and fetch her," Dunworthy told her. "I want her to tell Mr. Gilchrist how ridiculous he's being. This virus cannot possibly have come through the net."

The nurse stamped out.

"If your protesters are too ignorant to understand the laws of physics," Dunworthy said, "surely they can understand the simple fact that this was a drop. The net was only open to 1320, not from it. Nothing came through from the past."

"If that is the case, then Ms. Engle is not in any danger, and it will do no harm to wait for the sequencing."

"Not in any danger? You don't even know where she is!"

"Your tech obtained the fix, and indicated the drop was successful and that there was minimal slippage," Gilchrist said. He rolled down his sleeve and carefully buttoned the cuff. "I'm satisfied Ms. Engle is where she's supposed to be."

"Well, I'm not. And I won't be until I know Kivrin made it through safely."

"I see I must remind you again that Ms. Engle is my responsibility, not yours, Mr. Dunworthy." He donned his coat. "I must do as I think best."

"And you think it best to set up a quarantine around the laboratory to placate a handful of crackpots," he said bitterly. "There is also 'considerable public concern' that the virus is a judgment from God. What do you intend to do to maintain the good will of those townspeople? Resume burning martyrs at the stake?"

"I resent that remark. And I resent your constant interference in matters which do not concern you. You have been determined from the first to undermine Mediaeval, to keep it from gaining access to time travel, and now you are determined to undermine my authority. May I remind you that I am Acting Head of History in Mr. Basingame's absence, and as such — "

"What you are is an ignorant, self-important fool who should never have been trusted with Mediaeval, let alone Kivrin's safety!"

"I see no reason to continue this discussion," Gilchrist said. "The laboratory is under quarantine. It will remain so until we obtain the sequencing." He walked out.

Dunworthy started after him and nearly collided with Mary. She was wearing SPG's and reading a chart.

"You will not believe what Gilchrist's done now," he said. "A group of picketers convinced him the virus came through the net, and he's barricaded the laboratory."

She didn't say anything or even look up from the chart.

"Badri said this morning that the slippage figures can't be right. He said over and over, 'There's something wrong.'"

She looked up at him distractedly and back at the chart.

"I have a tech ready to read Kivrin's fix remotely, but Gilchrist's locked the doors," he said. You must talk to him, tell him the virus has been firmly established as originating in South Carolina."

"It hasn't."

"What do you mean, it hasn't? Did the sequencing arrive?"

She shook her head. "The WIC located their tech, but she's still running it. But her preliminary read indicates it's not the South Carolina virus." She looked up at him. "And I know it's not." She looked back at the chart. "The South Carolina virus had a zero morbidity rate."

"What do you mean? Has something happened to Badri?"

"No," she said, shutting the chart and holding it to her chest. "Beverly Breen."

He must have looked blank. He had thought she was going to say Latimer.

"The woman with the lavendar umbrella," she said, and sounded angry. "She died just now."

22 December 1320 (Old Style.) Agnes's knee is worse. It's red and painful (an understatement — she screams when I try to touch it) and she can scarcely walk. I don't know what to do — if I tell Lady Imeyne, she'll put one of her poultices on it and make it worse, and Eliwys is distracted and obviously worried.

Gawyn still isn't back. He should have been home by noon yesterday, and when he hadn't shown up by vespers, Eliwys accused Imeyne of sending him to Oxford.

"I have sent him to Courcy, as I told you," Imeyne said defensively. "No doubt the rain keeps him."

"Only to Courcy?" Eliwys said angrily. "Or have you sent him otherwhere for a new chaplain?"

Imeyne drew herself up. "Father Roche is not fit to say the Christmas masses if Sir Bloet and his company come," she said. "Would you be shamed before Rosemund's fiancé?"

Eliwys went absolutely white. "Where have you sent him?"

"I have sent him with a message to the bishop, saying that we are in sore need of a chaplain," she said.

"To Bath?!" Eliwys said, and raised her hand as if she would strike her.

"Nay. Only to Cirencestre. The archdeacon was to lie at the abbey for Yule. I bade Gawyn give him the message. One of his churchmen will bear it thence. Though, certes, things go not so ill in Bath that Gawyn could not go thence himself without harm, else my son would have quitted it."

"Your son will be ill-pleased to find we have disobeyed him. He bade us, and Gawyn, keep to the manor till he come."

She still sounded furious, and as she lowered her hand, she clenched it into a fist, as if she would have liked to box Imeyne's ears the way she does Maisry's. But the color had come back in her cheeks as soon as Imeyne said, "Cirencestre," and I think she was at least a little relieved.

"Certes, things go not so ill in Bath that Gawyn could not go thence without harm," Imeyne said, but it's obvious Eliwys doesn't think he can. Is she afraid he'd ride into a trap or that he might lead Lord Guillaume's enemies here? And are things going so "ill" that Guillaume can't quit Bath?

Perhaps all three. Eliwys has been to the door to look out into the rain at least a dozen times this morning, and she's in as bad a temper as Rosemund was in the woods. Just now she asked Imeyne if she was certain the archdeacon was at Cierncestre. She's obviously worried that if he wasn't, Gawyn will have taken the message into Bath himself.

Her fear has infected everyone. Lady Imeyne has slunk off into a corner with her reliquary to pray, Agnes whines, and Rosemund sits with her embroidery in her lap, staring blindly at it.

I took Agnes to Father Roche this afternoon. Her knee was much worse. She couldn't walk at all, and there was what looked like the beginning of a red streak above it. I couldn't tell for certain — the entire knee is red and swollen-but I was afraid to wait.

There was no cure for blood poisoning in 1320, and it's my fault her knee is infected. If I hadn't insisted on going to look for the drop, she wouldn't have fallen. I know the paradoxes aren't supposed to let my presence here have any effect on what happens to the contemps, but I couldn't take that chance. I wasn't supposed to be able to get catch anything, either.

So when Imeyne went up to the loft, I carried Agnes over to the church to ask him to treat her. It was pouring by the time we got there, but Agnes wasn't whining over getting wet, and that frightened me more than the red streak.

The church was dark, and smelled musty. I could hear Father Roche's voice from the front of the church, and it sounded like he was talking to someone. "Lord Guillaume has still not arrived from Bath. I fear for his safety," he said.

I thought perhaps Gawyn had come back, and I wanted to hear what they said about the trial, so I didn't go forward. I stood there with Agnes in my arms and listened.

"It has rained these two days," Roche said, "and there is a bitter wind from the west. We have had to bring the sheep in from the fields."

After a minute of peering into the dark nave, straining to see, I finally made him out. He was on his knees in front of the rood screen, his big hands folded together in prayer.

"The steward's babe has a colic on the stomach and cannot keep his milk down. Tabord the Cottar fares ill."

He wasn't praying in Latin, and there was none of the priest at Holy Reformed's sing-song chanting or the vicar's oratory in his voice. He sounded businesslike and matter-of-fact, the way I sound now, talking to you.

God was supposed to be very real to the contemps in the 1300's, more vivid than the physical world they inhabited. "You do but go home again," Father Roche told me when I was dying, and that's what the contemps are supposed to have believed — that the life of the body is illusory and unimportant, and the real life is that of the eternal soul, as if they were only visiting life the way I am visiting this century, but I haven't seen much evidence of it. Eliwys dutifully murmurs her aves at vespers and matings and then rises and brushes off her kirtle as if her prayers had nothing to do with her worries over her husband or the girls or Gawyn. And Imeyne, for all her reliquary and her Book of Hours, is concerned only about her social standing. I'd seen no evidence that God was real at all to them till I stood there in the damp church, listening to Father Roche.

I wonder if he sees God and heaven as clearly as I can see you and Oxford, the rain falling in the quad and your spectacles steaming up so you have to take them off and polish them on your muffler. I wonder if they seem as close as you do, and as difficult to get to.

"Preserve our souls from evil and bring us safely into heaven," Roche said, and as if that were a cue, Agnes sat up in my arms and said, "I want Father Roche."

Father Roche stood up and started toward us. "What is it? Who is there?"

"It is Lady Katherine," I said. "I have brought Agnes. Her knee is — " What? Infected? "I would have you look at her knee."

He tried to look at it, but it was too dark in the church, so he carried her over to his house. It was scarcely lighter there. His house is not much larger than the hut I took shelter in, and no higher. He had to stoop the whole time we were there to keep from bumping his head against the rafters.

He opened the shutter on the only window, which let the rain blow in, and then lit a rushlight and set Agnes on a crude wooden table. He untied the bandage, and she flinched away from him.

"Sit you still, Agnus," he told her, "and I will tell you how Christ came to earth from far heaven."

"On Christmas Day," Agnes said.

Roche felt around the wound, poking at the swollen parts, talking steadily. "And the shepherds stood afraid, for they knew not what this light was. And sounds they heard, as of bells rung in heaven. But they beheld it was God's angel come down to them."

Agnes had screamed and pushed my hands away when I tried to touch her knee, but she let Roche prod the red area with his huge fingers. There was definitely the beginning of a red streak. Roche touched it gently and brought the rushlight closer.

"And there came from a far land," he said, squinting at it, "three kings bearing gifts." He touched the red streak again, gingerly, and then folded his hands together, as if he were going to pray, and I thought, don't pray. Do something.

He lowered his hands and looked across at me. "I fear the wound is poisoned," he said. "I will make an infusion of hyssop to draw the venom out." He went over to the hearth, stirred up a few lukewarm-looking coals, and poured water into an iron pot from a bucket.

The bucket was dirty, the pot was dirty, the hands he'd felt Agnes's wound with were dirty, and, standing there, watching him set the pot on the fire and dig into a dirty bag, I was sorry I'd come. He wasn't any better than Imeyne. An infusion of leaves and seeds wouldn't cure blood poisoning any more than one of Imeyne's poultices, and his prayers wouldn't help either, even if he did talk to God as if He was really there.

I almost said, "Is that all you can do?" and then realized I was expecting the impossible. The cure for infection was penicillin, T-cell enhancement, antiseptics, none of which he had in his burlap bag.

I remember Mr. Gilchrist talking about mediaeval doctors in one of his lectures. He talked about what fools they were for bleeding people and treating them with arsenic and goat's urine during the Black Death. But what did he expect them to do? They didn't have analogues or antimicrobials. They didn't even know what caused it. Standing there, crumbling dried petals and leaves between his dirty fingers, Father Roche was doing the best he could.

"Do you have wine?" I asked him. "Old wine?"

There's scarcely any alcohol in the hopless small ale and not much more in their wine, but the longer it's stood the higher the alcoholic content, and alcohol is an antiseptic.

"I have remembered me that old wine poured into a wound may sometimes stop infections."

He didn't ask me what "infection" was or how I was able to remember that when I supposedly can't remember anything else. He went immediately across to the church and got an earthenware bottle full of strong-smelling wine, and I poured it onto the bandage and washed the wound with it.

I brought the bottle home with me. I've hidden it under the bed in Rosemund's bower (in case it's part of the sacramental wine — that would be all Imeyne would need. She'd have Roche burned for a heretic.) so I can keep cleaning it. Before she went to bed, I poured some straight on.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

It rained till Christmas Eve, a hard, wintry rain that came through the smoke-vent in the roof and made the fire hiss and smoke.

Kivrin poured wine on Agnes's knee at every chance she got, and by the afternoon of the twenty-third it looked a little better. It was still swollen but the red streak was gone. Kivrin ran across to the church, holding her cloak over her head, to tell Father Roche, but he wasn't there.

Neither Imeyne nor Eliwys had noticed Agnes's knee was hurt. They were trying frantically to get ready for Sir Bloet's family, if they were coming, cleaning the loft room so the women could sleep there, strewing rose petals over the rushes in the hall, baking an amazing assortment of manchets, puddings and pies, including a grotesque one in the shape of the Christ child in the manger, with braided pastry for swaddling clothes.

In the afternoon Father Roche came to the manor, drenched and shivering. He had gone out in the freezing rain to fetch ivy for the hall. Imeyne wasn't there — she was in the kitchen cooking the Christ child — and Kivrin made Roche come in and dry his clothes by the fire.

She called for Maisry, and when she didn't come went out across the courtyard to the kitchen and fetched him a cup of hot ale. When she came in with it, Maisry was on the bench beside Roche, holding her tangled, filthy hair back with her hand, and Roche was putting goose grease on her ear. As soon as she saw Kivrin she clapped her hand to her ear, probably undoing all the good of Roche's treatment, and scuttled out.

"Agnes's knee is better," Kivrin told him. "The swelling has gone down, and a new scab is forming."

He didn't seem surprised, and she wondered if she'd been mistaken, if it hadn't been blood poisoning at all.

During the night the rain turned to snow. "They will not come," Lady Eliwys said the next morning, sounding relieved.

Kivrin had to agree with her. It had snowed nearly thirty centimeters in the night, and it was still coming down steadily. Even Imeyne seemed resigned to their not coming, though she kept on with the preparations, bringing down pewter trenchers from the loft and shouting for Maisry.

Around noon the snow stopped abruptly, and by two it had begun to clear, and Eliwys ordered everyone into their good clothes. Kivrin dressed the girls, surprised at the fanciness of their silk shifts. Agnes had a dark red velvet kirtle to wear over hers and her silver buckle, and Rosemund's leaf-green kirtle had long, split sleeves and a low bodice that showed the embroidery on her yellow shift. Nothing had been said to Kivrin about what she should wear, but after she had taken the girls' hair out of braids and brushed it over their shoulders, Agnes said, "You must put on your blue," and got her dress out of the chest at the foot of the bed. It looked less out-of-place among the girls' finery, but the weave was still too fine, the color too blue.

She didn't know what she should do about her hair. Unmarried girls wore their hair unbound on festive occasions, held back by a fillet or a ribbon, but her hair was too short for that, and only married women covered their hair. She couldn't just leave it uncovered — the chopped off hair looked terrible.

Apparently Eliwys agreed. When Kivrin brought the girls back downstairs, she bit her lip and sent Maisry up to the loft room to fetch a thin, nearly transparent veil which she fastened with Kivrin's fillet halfway back on her head so that her front hair showed, but the ragged cut ends were hidden.

Eliwys's nervousness seemed to have returned with the improving weather. She started when Maisry came in from outside and then cuffed her for getting mud on the floor. She suddenly thought of a dozen things that weren't ready and found fault with everyone. When Lady Imeyne said for the dozenth time, "If we had gone to Courcy…" Eliwys nearly snapped her head off.

Kivrin had thought it was a bad idea to dress Agnes before the last possible minute, and by mid-afternoon, the little girl's embroidered sleeves were grubby and she had spilled flour all down one side of the velvet skirt.

By late afternoon, Gawyn had still not returned, everyone's nerves were at the snapping point, and Maisry's ears were bright red. When Lady Imeyne told Kivrin to take six beeswax candles to Father Roche, she was delighted with the chance to get the girls out of the house.

"Tell him they must last through both the masses," Imeyne said irritably, "and poor masses will they be for our Lord's birth. We should have gone to Courcy."

Kivrin got Agnes into her cloak and called Rosemund, and they walked across to the church. Roche wasn't there. A large yellowish candle with bands marked on it sat in the middle of the altar, unlit. He would light it at sunset and use it to keep track of the hours till midnight. On his knees in the icy church.

He wasn't in his house either. Kivrin left the candles on the table. On the way back across the green, they saw Roche's donkey by the lychgate licking the snow.

"We forgot to feed the animals," Agnes said.

"Feed the animals?" Kivrin asked warily, thinking of their clothes.

"It is Christmas Eve," Agnes said. "Fed you not the animals at home?"

"She remembers not," Rosemund said. "On Christmas Eve, we feed the animals in honor of our Lord that he was born in a stable."

"Do you not remember naught of Christmas then?" Agnes asked.

"A little," Kivrin said, thinking of Oxford on Christmas Eve, of the shops in Carfax decorated with plastic evergreens and laser lights and jammed with last-minute shoppers, the High full of bicycles, and Magdalen Tower showing dimly through the snow.

"First they ring the bells and then you get to eat and then mass and then the Yule log," Agnes said.

"You have turned it all about," Rosemund said. "First we light the Yule log and then we go to mass."

"First the bells," Agnes said, glaring at Rosemund, "and then mass."

They went to the barn for a sack of oats and some hay and took them out to the stable to feed the horses. Gringolet wasn't among them, which meant Gawyn still wasn't back. She must speak with him as soon as he returned. The rendezvous was less than a week away, and she still had no idea where the drop was. And with Lord Guillaume coming, everything might change.

Eliwys had only put off doing anything with her till her husband came, and she had told the girls again this morning she expected him today. He might decide to take Kivrin to Oxford, or London, to look for her family, or Sir Bloet might offer to take her back with them to Courcy. She had to talk to him soon. But with guests here, it would be much easier to catch him alone, and in all the bustle and busyness of Christmas, she might even get him to show her the place.

Kivrin dawdled as long as she could with the horses, hoping Gawyn might come back, but Agnes got bored and wanted to go feed corn to the chickens. Kivrin suggested they go feed the steward's cow.

"It is not our cow," Rosemund snapped.

"She helped me on that day when I was ill," she said, thinking of how she had leaned against the cow's bony back the day she tried to find the drop. "I would thank her for her kindness."

They went past the pen where the pigs had lately been, and Agnes said, "Poor piglings. I would have fed them an apple."

"The sky to the north darkens again," Rosemund said. "I think they will not come."

"Ay, but they will," Agnes said. "Sir Bloet has promised me a trinket."

The steward's cow was in almost the same place Kivrin had found it, behind the second to the last hut, eating what was left of the same blackening pea vines.

"Good Christmas, Lady Cow," Agnes said, holding a handful of hay a good meter from the cow's mouth.

"They speak only at midnight," Rosemund said.

"I would come see them at midnight, Lady Kivrin," Agnes said. The cow strained forward. Agnes edged back.

"You cannot, simplehead," Rosemund said. "You will be at mass."

The cow extended her neck and took a large-hoofed step forward. Agnes retreated. Kivrin gave the cow a handful of hay.

Agnes watched enviously. "If all are at mass, how do they know the animals speak?" she asked.

Good point, Kivrin thought.

"Father Roche says it is so," Rosemund said.

Agnes came out from behind Kivrin's skirts and picked up another handful of hay. "What do they say?" She pointed it in the cow's general direction.

"They say you know not how to feed them," Rosemund said.

"They do not," Agnes said, thrusting her hand forward. The cow lunged for the hay, mouth open, teeth bared. Agnes threw the handful of hay at it and ran behind Kivrin's back. "They praise our blessed Lord. Father Roche said it."

There was a sound of horses. Agnes ran between the huts. "They are come!" she shouted, running back. "Sir Bloet is here. I saw them. They ride now through the gate."

Kivrin hastily scattered the rest of the hay in front of the cow. Rosemund took a handful of oats out of the bag and fed them to the cow, letting it nuzzle the grain out of her open hand.

"Come, Rosemund!" Agnes said. "Sir Bloet is here!"

Rosemund rubbed what was left of the oats off her hand. "I would feed Father Roche's donkey," she said, and started toward the church, not even glancing in the direction of the manor.

"But they've come, Rosemund," Agnes shouted, running after her. "Do you not want to see what they have brought?"

Obviously not. Rosemund had reached the donkey, which had found a tuft of foxtail grass sticking out of the snow next to the lychgate. She bent and stuck a handful of oats under its muzzle, to its complete disinterest, and then stood there with her hand on its back, her long dark hair hiding her face.

"Rosemund!" Agnes said, her face red with frustration. "Did you not hear me? They have come!"

The donkey nudged the oats out of the way and clamped its yellow teeth around a large head of the grass. Rosemund continued to offer it the oats.

"Rosemund," Kivrin said, "I will feed the donkey. You must go to greet your guests."

"Sir Bloet said he would bring me a trinket," Agnes said.

Rosemund opened her hands and let the oats fall. "If you like him so much, why do you not ask Father to let you marry him?" she said, and started for the manor.

"I am too little," Agnes said.

So is Rosemund, Kivrin thought, grabbing Agnes's hand and starting after her. Rosemund walked rapidly ahead, her chin in the air, not bothering to lift her dragging skirts, ignoring Agnes's repeated pleas to, "Wait, Rosemund."

The party had already passed into the courtyard, and Rosemund was already to the sty. Kivrin picked up the pace, pulling Agnes along at a run, and they all arrived in the courtyard at the same time. Kivrin stopped, surprised.

She had expected a formal meeting, the family at the door with stiff speeches and polite smiles, but this was like the first day of term — everyone carrying in boxes and bags, greeting each other with exclamations and embraces, talking at the same time, laughing. Rosemund hadn't even been missed. A large woman wearing an enormous starched coif grabbed Agnes up and kissed her, and three young girls clustered around Rosemund, squealing.

Servants, obviously in their holiday best, too, carried covered baskets and an enormous goose into the kitchen, and led the horses into the stable. Gawyn, still on Gringolet, was leaning down to speak to Imeyne. Kivrin heard him say, "Nay, the bishop is at Wiveliscombe," but Imeyne didn't look unhappy, so he must have got the message to the archdeacon.

She turned to help a young woman in a bright blue cloak even brighter than Kivrin's down from her horse, and led her over to Eliwys, smiling. Eliwys was smiling, too.

Kivrin tried to make out which was Sir Bloet, but there were at least a half-dozen mounted men, all with silver-chased bridles and fur-trimmed cloaks. None of them looked decrepit, thank goodness, and one or two were quite presentable-looking. She turned to ask Agnes which one he was, but she was still in the grip of the starched coif, who kept patting her head and saying, "You have grown so I scarce knew you." Kivrin stifled a smile. Some things truly never changed.

Several of the newcomers had red hair, including a woman nearly as old as Imeyne, who nevertheless wore her faded-pink hair down her back like a young girl. She had a pinched, unhappy-looking mouth and was obviously dissatisfied with the way the servants were unloading things. She snatched one overloaded basket out of the hands of a servant who was struggling with it and thrust it at a fat man in a green velvet kirtle.

He had red hair, too, and so did the nicest looking of the younger men. He was in his late twenties, but he had a round, open, freckled face and a pleasant expression at least.

"Sir Bloet!" Agnes cried, and flung herself past Kivrin and against the knees of the fat man.

Oh, no, Kivrin thought. She had assumed he was married to the pink-tressed shrew or the woman in the starched coif. He was at least fifty, and nearly twenty stone, and when he smiled at Agnes his large teeth were brown with decay.

"Have you no trinket for me?" Agnes was demanding, tugging on the hem of his kirtle.

"Ay," he said, looking toward where Rosemund still stood talking to the other girls, "for you and for your sister."

"I will fetch her," Agnes said, and darted across to Rosemund before Kivrin could stop her. Bloet lumbered after her. The girls giggled and parted as he approached, and Rosemund shot a murderous look at Agnes and then smiled and extended her hand to him. "Good day and welcome, sir," she said.

Her chin was up about as far as it would go, and there were two spots of feverish red in her pale cheeks, but Bloet apparently took these for shyness and excitement. He took her little fingers in his own fat ones and said, "Surely you will not greet your husband with such formality come spring."

The spots got redder. "It is still winter, sir."

"It will be spring soon enough," he said and laughed, showing his brown teeth.

"Where is my trinket?" Agnes demanded.

"Agnes, be not so greedy," Eliwys said, coming to stand between her daughters. "It is a poor welcome to demand gifts of a guest." She smiled at him, and if she dreaded this marriage, she showed no sign of it. She looked more relaxed than Kivrin had yet seen her.

"I promised my sister-in-law a trinket," he said, reaching into his too-tight belt and bringing out a little cloth bag, "and my betrothed a bride-gift." He fumbled in the little bag and brought out a brooch set with stones. "A loveknot for my bride," he said, unfastening the clasp. "You must think of me when you wear it."

He moved forward, puffing, to pin it to her cloak. I hope he has a stroke, Kivrin thought. Rosemund stood stockstill, her cheeks sharply red, while his fat hands fumbled at her neck.

"Rubies," Eliwys said delightedly. "Do you not thank your betrothed for his goodly gift, Rosemund?"

"I thank thee for the brooch," Rosemund said tonelessly.

"Where is my trinket?" Agnes said, dancing on one foot, then the other while he reached in the little bag again and brought out something clenched in his fist. He stooped down to Agnes's level, breathing hard, and opened his hand.

"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.

Agnes was dead to the world. Kivrin hesitated, hating to have to wake her up, but fairly sure even exhausted five-year-olds weren't excepted from this mass. "Agnes," she said softly.

"You must needs carry her to the church," Rosemund said, struggling with Sir Bloet's gold brooch. The steward's youngest boy came and stood in front of her with her white cloak, dragging it on the rushes.

"Agnes," Kivrin said again, and jostled her a little, amazed that the church bell hadn't waked her. It sounded louder and closer than it ever did for matins or vespers, its overtones nearly drowning out the other bells.

Agnes's eyes flew open. "You did not wake me," she said sleepily to Rosemund, and then more loudly as she came awake, "You promised to wake me."

"Get into your cloak," Kivrin said. "We must go to church."

"Kivrin, I would wear my bell."

"You're wearing it," Kivrin said, trying to fasten Agnes's red cape without stabbing her in the neck with the pin of the clasp.

"Nay, I have it not," Agnes said, searching her arm. "I would wear my bell!"

"Here it is," Rosemund said, picking it up off the floor, "It must have fallen from your wrist. But it is not meet to wear it now. This bell calls us to mass. The Christmas bells come after."

"I shall not ring it," Agnes said. "I would only wear it."

Kivrin didn't believe that for a minute, but everyone else was ready. One of Sir Bloet's men was lighting the horn lanterns with a brand from the fire and handing them to the servants. She hastily tied the bell to Agnes's wrist and took the girls by the hand.

Lady Eliwys laid her hand on Sir Bloet's upheld one. Lady Imeyne signalled to Kivrin to follow with the little girls, and the others fell in behind them solemnly, as if it were a procession, Lady Imeyne with Sir Bloet's sister, and then the rest of Sir Bloet's entourage. Lady Eliwys and Sir Bloet led the way out into the courtyard, through the gate, and onto the green.

It had stopped snowing, and the stars had come out. The village lay silent under its covering of white. Frozen in time, Kivrin thought. The dilapidated buildings looked different, the staggering fences and filthy daubed huts softened and graced by the snow. The lanterns caught the crystalline facets of the snowflakes and made them sparkle, but it was the stars that took Kivrin's breath away, hundreds of stars, thousands of stars, and all of them sparkling like jewels in the icy air. "It shines," Agnes said, and Kivrin didn't know whether she was talking about the snow or the sky.

The bell tolled evenly, calmly, its sound different again out in the frosty air — not louder, but fuller and somehow clearer. Kivrin could hear all the other bells now and recognize them, Esthcote and Witenie and Chertelintone, even though they sounded different, too. She listened for the Swindone bell, which had rung all this time, but she couldn't hear it. She couldn't hear the Oxford bells either. She wondered if she had only imagined them.

"You are ringing your bell, Agnes," Rosemund said.

"I am not," Agnes said. "I am only walking."

"Look at the church," Kivrin said. "Isn't it beautiful?"

It flamed like a beacon at the other end of the green, lit from inside and out, the stained-glass windows throwing wavering ruby and sapphire lights on the snow. There were lights all around it, too, filling the churchyard all the way to the bell tower. Torches. She could smell their tarry smoke. More torches made their way in from the white fields, winding down from the hill behind the church.

She thought suddenly of Oxford on Christmas Eve, the shops lit for last-minute shopping and the window of Brasenose shining yellow onto the quad. And the Christmas tree at Balliol lit with multi-colored strings of laser lights.

"I would that we had come to you for Yule," Lady Imeyne said to Lady Yvolde. "Then we had had a proper priest to say the masses. This place's priest can but barely say the Paternoster."

This place's priest just spent hours kneeling in an ice-cold church, Kivrin thought, hours kneeling in hose that have holes in the knees, and now this place's priest is ringing a heavy bell which has had to be tolled for an hour and will shortly go through an elaborate ceremony that he has had to memorize because he cannot read.

"It will be a poor sermon and a poor mass, I fear," Lady Imeyne said.

"Alas, there are many who do not love God in these days," Lady Yvolde said, "but we must pray to God that He will set the world right and bring men again to virtue."

Kivrin doubted if that answer was what Lady Imeyne wanted to hear.

"I have sent to the Bishop of Bath to send us a chaplain," Imeyne said, "but he has not yet come."

"My brother says there is much trouble in Bath," Yvolde said.

They were almost to the churchyard. Kivrin could make out faces now, lit by the smoky torches and by little oil cressets some of the women were carrying. Their faces, reddened and lit from below, looked faintly sinister. Mr. Dunworthy would think they were an angry mob, Kivrin thought, gathered to burn some poor martyr at the stake. It's the light, she thought. Everyone looks like a cutthroat by torchlight. No wonder they invented electricity.

They came into the churchyard. Kivrin recognized some of the people near the church doors: the boy with the scurvy who had run from her, two of the young girls who'd helped with the Christmas baking, Cob. The steward's wife was wearing a cloak with an ermine collar and carrying a metal lantern with four tiny panes of real glass. She was talking animatedly to the woman with the scrofula scars who had helped put up the holly. They were all talking and moving around to keep warm, and one man with a black beard was laughing so hard his torch swept dangerously close to the steward's wife's wimple.

Church officials had eventually had to do away with the midnight mass because of all the drinking and carousing, Kivrin remembered, and some of these parishioners definitely looked like they had spent the evening breaking fasts. The steward was talking animatedly to a rough-looking man Rosemund pointed out as Maisry's father. Both their faces were bright red from the cold or the torchlight or the liquor or all three, but they seemed gay rather than dangerous. The steward kept punctuating what he was saying with hard, thunking claps on Maisry's father's shoulder, and every time he did it the father laughed, a happy helpless giggle that made Kivrin think he was much brighter than she had supposed.

The steward's wife grabbed for her husband's sleeve, and he shook her off, but as soon as Lady Eliwys and Sir Bloet came through the lychgate, he and Maisry's brother fell back promptly to make a clear path into the church. So did all the others, falling silent as the entourage passed through the churchyard and in the heavy doors, and then beginning to talk again, but more quietly, as they came into the church behind them.

Sir Bloet unbuckled his sword and handed it to a servant, and he and Lady Eliwys knelt and genuflected as soon as they were in the door. They walked almost to the rood screen together and knelt again.

Kivrin and the little girls followed. When Agnes crossed herself, her bell jangled hollowly in the church. I'll have to take it off of her, Kivrin thought, and wondered if she should step out of the procession now and take Agnes off to the side by Lady Imeyne's husband's tomb and undo it, but Lady Imeyne was waiting impatiently at the door with Sir Bloet's sister.

She led the girls to the front. Sir Bloet had already gotten to his feet again. Eliwys stayed on her knees a little longer, and then stood, and Sir Bloet escorted her to the north side of the church, bowed slightly, and walked over to take his place on the men's side.

Kivrin knelt with the little girls, praying Agnes wouldn't make too much noise when she crossed herself again. She didn't, but when Agnes got to her feet she snagged her foot in the hem of her robe and caught herself with a clanging almost as loud as the bell still tolling outside. Lady Imeyne was, of course, right behind them. She glared at Kivrin.

Kivrin took the girls to stand beside Eliwys. Lady Imeyne knelt, but Lady Yvolde made only an obeisance. As soon as Imeyne rose, a servant hurried forward with a dark velvet covered prie- dieu and laid it on the floor next to Rosemund for Lady Yvolde to kneel on. Another servant had laid one in front of Sir Bloet on the men's side and was helping him get down on his knees on it. He puffed and clung to the servant's arm as he lowered his bulk, and his face got very red.

Kivrin looked at Lady Yvolde's prie-dieu longingly, thinking of the plastic kneeling pads that hung on the backs of the chairs in St. Mary's. She had never realized until now what a blessing they were, what a blessing the hard wooden chairs were either until they stood again and she thought about how they would have to remain standing through the whole service.

The floor was cold. The church was cold, in spite of all the lights. They were mostly cressets, set along the walls and in front of the holly-banked statue of St. Catherine, though there was a tall, thin, yellowish candle set in the greenery of each of the windows, but the effect was probably not what Father Roche had intended. The bright flames only made the colored panes of glass darker, almost black.

More of the yellowish candles were in the silver candelabra on either side of the altar, and holly was heaped in front of them and along the top of the rood screen, and Father Roche had set Lady Imeyne's beeswax candles in among the sharp, shiny leaves. He'd done a job of decorating the church that should please even Lady Imeyne, Kivrin thought, and glanced at her.

She was holding her reliquary between her folded hands, but her eyes were open, and she was staring at the top of the rood screen. Her mouth was tight with disapproval, and Kivrin supposed she hadn't wanted the candles there, but it was the perfect place for them. They illuminated the crucifix and the Last Judgment and lit nearly the whole nave.

They made the whole church seem different, homier, more familiar, like St. Mary's on Christmas Eve. Dunworthy had taken her to the ecumenical service last Christmas. She had planned to go to midnight mass at the Holy Re-Formed to hear it said in Latin, but there hadn't been a midnight mass. The priest had been asked to read the gospel for the ecumenical service, so he had moved the mass to four in the afternoon.

Agnes was fiddling with her bell again. Lady Imeyne turned and glared at her across her piously folded hands, and Rosemund leaned across Kivrin and shhhed her.

"You mustn't ring your bell until the mass is over," Kivrin whispered, bending close to Agnes so no one else could hear her.

"I rang it not," Agnes whispered back in a voice that could be heard all over the church. "The ribbon binds too tight. See you?"

Kivrin couldn't see any such thing. In fact, if she had taken the time to tie it tighter, it wouldn't be ringing at every movement, but there was no way she was going to argue with an overtired child when the mass was going to begin any minute. She reached for the knot.

Agnes must have been trying to pull the bell off over her wrist. The already fraying ribbon had tightened into a solid little knot. Kivrin picked at its edges with her fingernails, keeping an eye on the people behind her. The service would start with a procession, Father Roche and his acolytes, if he had any, would come down the aisle bearing the holy water and chant the Asperges.

Kivrin pulled on the ribbon and both sides of the knot, tightening it beyond any hope of ever getting it off without cutting it, but getting a little more slack. It still wasn't enough to get the ribbon off. She glanced back at the church door. The bell had stopped, but there was still no sign of Father Roche and no aisle for him to come up either. The townsfolk had crowded in, filling the whole rear of the church. Someone had lifted a child up onto Imeyne's husband's tomb and was holding him there so he could see, but there wasn't anything to see yet.

She went back to working on the bell. She got two fingers under the ribbon and pulled up on it, trying to stretch it.

"Tear it not!" Agnes said in that carrying stage whisper of hers. Kivrin took hold of the bell and hastily pulled it around so it lay in Agnes's palm.

"Hold it like this," she whispered, cupping Agnes's fingers over it. "Tightly."

Agnes obligingly clenched her little fist. Kivrin folded Agnes's other hand over the top of the fist in a so-so facsimile of a praying attitude and said softly, "Hold tight to the bell, and it will not ring."

Agnes promptly pressed her hands to her forehead in an attitude of angelic piety.

"Good girl," Kivrin said, and put her arm around her. She glanced back at the church doors. They were still closed. She breathed a sigh of relief and turned back to face the altar.

Father Roche was standing there. He was dressed in an embroidered white stole and a yellowed white alb with a hem more frayed than Agnes's ribbon, and was holding a book. He had obviously been waiting for her, had obviously stood there watching her the whole time she tended to Agnes, but there was no reproof in his face or even impatience. His face held some other expression entirely, and she was reminded suddenly of Mr. Dunworthy, standing and watching her through the thin-glass partition.

Lady Imeyne cleared her throat, a sound that was almost a growl, and he seemed to come to himself. He handed the book to Cob, who was wearing a grimy cassock and a pair of too-large leather shoes, and knelt in front of the altar. Then he took the book back and began saying the lections.

Kivrin said them to herself along with him, thinking the Latin and hearing the echo of the interpreter's translation.

"'Whom saw ye, O Shepherds?'" Father Roche recited in Latin, beginning the responsory. "'Speak: tell us who hath appeared on the earth.'"

He stopped, frowning at Kivrin.

He's forgotten it, she thought. She glanced anxiously at Imeyne, hoping she wouldn't realize there was more to come, but Imeyne had raised her head and was scowling at him, her jaw in the silk wimple clenched.

Roche was still frowning at Kivrin. "'Speak, what saw ye?'" he said, and Kivrin gave a sigh of relief. "'Tell us who hath appeared.'"

That wasn't right. She mouthed the next line, willing him to understand it. "'We saw the newborn Child.'"

He gave no indication that he had seen what she said, though he was looking straight at her. "I saw…" he said, and stopped again.

"'We saw the newborn Child,'" Kivrin whispered, and could feel Lady Imeyne turning to look at her.

"'And angels singing praise unto the Lord,'" Roche said, and that wasn't right either, but Lady Imeyne turned back to the front to fasten her disapproving gaze on Roche.

The bishop would no doubt hear about this, and about the candles and the fraying hem, and who knew what other errors and infractions he had committed.

"'Speak, what saw ye?'" Kivrin mouthed, and he seemed suddenly to come to himself.

"'Speak, what saw ye?'" he said clearly. "'And tell us of the birth of Christ. We saw the new-born Child and angels singing praise unto the Lord.'"

He began the Confiteor Deo, and Kivrin whispered it along with him, but he got through it without any mistakes, and Kivrin began to relax a little, though she watched him closely as he moved to the altar for the Orámus te.

He was hearing a black cassock under the alb, and both of them looked like they had once been richly made. They were much too short for Roche. She could see a good ten centimeters of his worn brown hose below the cassock's hem when he bent over the altar. They had probably belonged to the priest before him, or were castoffs of Imeyne's chaplain.

The priest at Holy Re-Formed had worn a polyester alb over a brown jumper and jeans. He had assured Kivrin that the mass was completely authentic, in spite of its being held in midafternoon. The antiphon dated from the eighth century, he had told her, and the gruesomely detailed stations of the cross were exact copies of Turin's. But the church had been a converted stationer's shop, they had used a folding table for an altar, and the Carfax carillon outside had been busily destroying "It Came Upon the Midnight Clear."

"Kyrie eléison," Cob said, his hands folded in prayer.

"Kyrie eléison," Father Roche said.

"Christe eléison," Cob said.

"Christe eléison," Agnes said brightly.

Kivrin hushed her, her finger to her lips. Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy. Lord have mercy.

They had used the kyrie at the ecumenical service, probably because of some deal Holy Re-Formed's priest had struck with the vicar in return for moving the time of the mass, and the minister of the Church of the Milennium had refused to recite it and had looked coldly disapproving throughout. Like Lady Imeyne.

Father Roche seemed all right now. He said the Gloria and the gradual without faltering and began the gospel. "Inituim sancti Envangelii secundum Luke," he said, and began to read haltingly in Latin, "'Now it came to pass in those days that a decree went forth from Caesar Augustus that a census of the whole world be taken.'"

The vicar had read the same verses at St. Mary's. He had read it from the People's Modern Bible, which had been insisted on by the Church of the Millenium, and it had begun, "Around then the P.M. landfilled a tax hike on the ratepayers," but it was the same gospel Father Roche was laboriously reciting.

"'And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying, "Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace among men of good will."'" Father Roche kissed the gospel. "Per evangélica dicta deléantur nostro delícta."

The sermon should come next, if there was one. In most village churches the priest only preached at the major masses, and even then it was usually no more than a catechism lesson, the listing of the seven deadly sins or the seven Acts of Mercy. The high mass Christmas morning was probably when the sermon would be.

But Father Roche stepped out in front of the central aisle, which had nearly closed up again as the villagers leaned against the pillars and each other, trying to find a more comfortable position, and began to speak.

"In the days when Christ came to earth from heaven, God sent signs that men might know his coming, and in the last days also will there be signs. There will be famines and pestilence, and Satan will ride abroad in the land."

Oh, no, Kivrin thought, don't talk about seeing the devil riding a black horse.

She glanced at Imeyne. The old woman looked furious. But it wouldn't matter what he'd said, Kivrin thought. She'd been determined to find mistakes and lapses she could tell the bishop about. Lady Yvolde looked mildly irritated, and everyone else had the look of tired patience people always got when listening to a sermon, no matter what the century. Kivrin had seen the same look in St. Mary's last Christmas.

The sermon at St. Mary's had been on rubbish disposal and the dean of Christ Church had begun it by saying, "Christianity began in a stable. Will it end in a sewer?"

But it hadn't mattered. It had been midnight, and St. Mary's had had a stone floor and a real altar, and when she'd closed her eyes, she'd been able to shut out the carpeted nave and the umbrellas and the laser candles. She had pushed the plastic kneeling pad out of her way and knelt on the stone floor and imagined what it would be like in the Middle Ages.

Mr. Dunworthy had told her it wouldn't be like anything she had imagined, and he was right, of course. But not about this mass. She had imagined it just like this, the stone floor and the murmured kyrie, the smells of incense and tallow and cold.

"The Lord will come with fire and pestilence, and all will perish," Roche said, "but even in the last days, God's mercy will not forsake us. He will send us help and comfort and bring us safely unto heaven."

Safely unto heaven. She thought of Mr. Dunworthy. "Don't go," he had said. "It won't be anything like you imagine." And he was right. He was always right.

But even he, with all his imagining of smallpox and cutthroats and witch-burnings, would never have imagined this: that she was lost. That she didn't know where the drop was, and the rendezvous was less than a week away. She looked across the aisle at Gawyn, who was watching Eliwys. She had to talk to him after the mass.

Father Roche moved to the altar to begin the mass proper. Agnes leaned against Kivrin, and Kivrin put her arm around her. Poor thing, she must be exhausted. Up since before dawn and all that wild running around. She wondered how long the mass would take.

The service at St. Mary's had taken an hour and a quarter, and halfway through the offertory Dr. Ahrens' bleeper had gone off. "It's a baby," she'd whispered to Kivrin and Dunworthy as she'd hurried out, "How appropriate."

I wonder if they're in church now, she thought and then remembered it wasn't Christmas there. They had had Christmas three days after she arrived, while she was still sick. It would be, what? The second of January, Christmas vac nearly over and all the decorations taken down.

It was starting to get hot in the church, and the candles seemed to be taking all the air. She could hear shiftings and shufflings behind her as Father Roche went through the ritualized steps of the mass, and Agnes sank farther and farther against her. She was glad when they reached the Sanctus and she could kneel.

She tried to imagine Oxford on the second of January, the shops advertising New Year's sales and the Carfax carillon silent. Dr. Ahrens would be at the Infirmary dealing with post- holiday stomach upsets and Mr. Dunworthy would be getting ready for Hilary term. No, he's not, she thought, and saw him standing behind the thin-glass. He's worrying about me.

Father Roche raised the chalice, knelt, kissed the altar. There was more shuffling, and a whispering on the men's side of the church. She looked across. Gawyn was sitting back on his heels, looking bored. Sir Bloet was asleep.

So was Agnes. She had collapsed so completely against Kivrin there would be no way she could stand for the paternoster. She didn't even try. When everyone else stood for it, Kivrin took the opportunity to gather Agnes in more closely and shift her head to a better position. Kivrin's knee hurt. She must have knelt in the depression between two stones. She shifted it, raising it slightly and cramming a fold of her cloak under it.

Father Roche put a piece of bread in the chalice and said the Haec commixtio, and everyone knelt for the Agnus dei. "Agnus dei, qui tollis peccata mundi: miserere nobis," he chanted. "Lamb of God, who takest away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us."

Agnus dei. Lamb of God. Kivrin smiled down at Agnes. She was sound asleep, her body a dead weight against Kivrin's side and her mouth slackly open, but her fist was still clenched tightly over the little bell. My lamb, Kivrin thought.

Kneeling on St. Mary's stone floor she had envisioned the candles and the cold, but not Lady Imeyne, waiting for Roche to make a mistake in the mass, not Eliwys or Gawyn or Rosemund. Not Father Roche, with his cutthroat's face and worn-out hose.

She could never in a hundred years, in seven hundred and thirty-four years, have imagined Agnes, with her puppy and her naughty tantrums, and her infected knee. I'm glad I came, she thought. In spite of everything.

Father Roche made the sign of the cross with the chalice and drank it. "Dominus vobiscum," he said and there was a general commotion behind Kivrin. The main part of the show was over, and people were leaving now, to avoid the crush. Apparently there was no deference to the lord's family when it came to leaving. Or even in waiting till they were outside to begin talking. She could scarcely hear the dismissal.

"Ite, Missa est," Father Roche said over the din, and Lady Imeyne was in the aisle before he could even lower his raised hand, looking like she intended to leave for Bath and the bishop immediately.

"Saw you the tallow candles by the altar?" she said to Lady Yvolde. "I bade him use the beeswax candles that I gave him."

Lady Yvolde shook her head and looked darkly at Father Roche, and the two of them swept out with Rosemund right at their heels.

Rosemund obviously had no intention of walking back to the manor with Sir Bloet if she could help it, and this should do it. The villagers had closed in behind the three women, talking and laughing. By the time he huffed and puffed his way to his feet, they would be all the way to the manor.

Kivrin was having trouble getting up herself. Her foot had gone to sleep, and Agnes was dead to the world. "Agnes," she said. "Wake up. It's time to go home."

Sir Bloet had gotten to his feet, his face nearly purple with the effort, and had come across to offer Eliwys his arm. "Your daughter has fallen asleep," he said.

"Aye," Eliwys said, glancing at Agnes.

She took his arm and they started out.

"Your husband has not come as he promised."

"Nay," Kivrin heard Eliwys say. Her grip tightened on his arm.

Outside, the bells began to ring all at once, and out of time, a wild, irregular chiming. It sounded wonderful. "Agnes," Kivrin said, shaking her, "it's time to ring your bell."

She didn't even stir. Kivrin tried to get the sleeping child onto her shoulder. Her arms flopped limply over Kivrin's shoulders, and the bell jangled.

"You waited all night to ring your bell," Kivrin said, getting to one knee. "Wake up, lamb."

She looked around for someone to help her. There was scarcely anyone left in the church. Cob was making the rounds of the windows, pinching the candle flames out between his chapped fingers. Gawyn and Sir Bloet's nephews were at the back of the nave, buckling on their swords. Father Roche was nowhere to be seen. She wondered if he was the one ringing the bell with such joyous enthusiasm.

Her numb foot was beginning to tingle. She flexed it in the thin shoe and then put her weight on it. It felt terrible, but she could stand on it. She hoisted Agnes farther over her shoulder and tried to stand up. Her foot caught in the hem of her skirt, and she pitched forward.

Gawyn caught her. "Good lady Katherine, my lady Eliwys bade me come to help you," he said, steadying her. He lifted Agnes easily out of her arms and onto his shoulder, and strode out of the church, Kivrin hobbling beside him.

"Thank you," Kivrin said, when they were out of the jammed churchyard. "My arms felt like they were going to fall off."

"She is a stout lass," he said.

Agnes's bell slid off her wrist and fell onto the snow, clattering with the other bells as it fell. Kivrin stooped and picked it up. The knot was almost too small to be seen, and the short ends of ribbon beyond it were frayed into thin threads, but the moment she took hold of it, the knot came undone. She tied it on Agnes's dangling wrist with a little bow.

"I am glad to assist a lady in distress," he said, but she didn't hear him.

They were all alone on the green. The rest of the family was nearly to the manor gate. She could see the steward holding the lantern over Lady Imeyne and Lady Yvolde as they started into the passage. There were a lot of people still in the churchyard, and someone had built a bonfire next to the road, and people were standing around it, warming their hands and passing a wooden bowl of something, but here, halfway across the green, they were all alone. The opportunity she had thought would never come was here.

"I wanted to thank you for trying to find my attackers, and for rescuing me in the woods and bringing me here," she said. "When you found me, how far from here was the place? Could you take me to it?"

He stopped and looked at her. "Did they not tell you?" he said. "All of your goods and gear that were found I brought to the manor. The thieves had taken your belongings, and though I rode after them, I fear I found naught." He started walking again.

"I know you brought my boxes here. Thank you. But that wasn't why I wanted to see the place you found me," Kivrin said rapidly, afraid they would catch up with the others before she finished asking him.

Lady Imeyne had stopped and was looking back their way. She had to get it asked before Imeyne sent the steward back to see what was keeping them.

"I lost my memory when I was injured in the attack," she said. "I thought if I could see the place where you found me, I might remember something."

He had stopped again and was looking at the road above the church. There were lights there, bobbing unsteadily and coming rapidly nearer. Latecomers to church?

"You're the only one who knows where the place is," Kivrin said, "or I wouldn't bother you, but if you could just tell me where it is, I could — "

"There is nothing there," he said vaguely, still looking at the lights. "I brought your wagon and your boxes to the manor."

"I know," Kivrin said, "and I thank you, but — "

"They are in the barn," he said. He turned at the sound of horses. The bobbing lights were lanterns carried by men on horseback. They galloped past the church and through the village, at least a half dozen of them, and pulled up short where Lady Eliwys and the others were standing.

"It's her husband," Kivrin thought, but before she could finish the thought, Gawyn had thrust Agnes into her arms and taken off toward them, pulling his sword as he ran.

Oh, no, Kivrin thought, and began to run, too, clumsy under Agnes's weight. It wasn't her husband. It was the men who were after them, the reason they were hiding, the reason Eliwys had been so angry at Imeyne for telling Sir Bloet they were here.

The men with the torches had gotten down off their horses. Eliwys walked forward to one of the three men still on horseback and then fell to her knees as if she had been struck.

No, oh, no, Kivrin thought, out of breath. Agnes's bell jangled wildly as she ran.

Gawyn ran up to them, his sword flashing in the lantern light, and then he was on his knees, too. Eliwys stood up, and stepped forward to the men on horseback, her arm out in a gesture of welcome.

Kivrin stopped, out of breath. Sir Bloet came forward, knelt, stood up. The men on horseback flung back their hoods. They were wearing hats of some kind, or crowns. Gawyn, still on his knees, sheathed his sword. One of the men on horseback raised his hand, and something glittered.

"What is it?" Agnes said sleepily.

"I don't know," Kivrin said.

Agnes twisted around in Kivrin's arms so she could see. "It is the three kings," she said wonderingly.

Christmas Eve 1320 (Old Style.) An envoy from the bishop has arrived, along with two other churchmen. They rode in just after midnight mass. Lady Imeyne is delighted. She's convinced they've come in response to her message demanding a new chaplain, but I'm not convinced of that. They've come without any servants, and there's an air of nervousness about them, as if they were on some secret, hurried mission.

It has to concern Lord Guillaume, though the Assizes are a secular court, not an ecclesiastical one. Perhaps the bishop is a friend of Lord Guillaume's or of King Edward II's, and they've come to strike some sort of deal with Eliwys for his freedom.

Whatever their reason for being here, they're here in style. Agnes thought they were the three Magi when she first saw them, and they do look like royalty. The bishop's envoy has a thin, aristocratic face, and they are all dressed like kings. One of them has a purple velvet cloak with the design of a white cross sewn in silk on the back of it.

Lady Imeyne immediately latched onto him with her sad story of how ignorant, clumsy, generally impossible Father Roche is. "He deserves not a parish," she said.

Unfortunately (and luckily for Father Roche) he was not the envoy, but only his clerk. The envoy was the one in the red, also very impressive, with gold embroidery and a sable hem.

The third is a Cistercian monk — at least he wears the white habit of one, though it's made of even finer wool than my cloak and has a silk cord for a sash, and he wears a ring fit for a king on each of his fat fingers, but he doesn't act like a monk. He and the envoy both demanded wine before they'd even dismounted, and it's obvious the clerk had already drunk a good deal before he got here. He slipped just now getting off his horse and had to be supported into the hall by the fat monk.

I was apparently wrong about the reason for their coming here. Eliwys and Sir Bloet went off in a corner with the bishop's envoy as soon as they got in the house, but they only talked to him for a few minutes, and I just heard her tell Imeyne, "They have heard naught of Guillaume."

Imeyne didn't seem surprised or even particularly concerned at this news. It's clear she thinks they're here to bring her a new chaplain, and she is falling all over them, insisting that the Christmas feast be brought in immediately and that the bishop's envoy sit in the high seat. They seem more interested in drinking than in eating. Imeyne fetched them cups of wine herself, and they've already gone through them and called for more. The clerk caught hold of Maisry's skirt as she brought the pitcher, pulled her in hand over hand, and stuck his hand down her shift. She, of course, clapped her hands over her ears.

The one good thing about them being here is that they add tremendously to the general confusion. I only had a moment to talk to Gawyn, but sometime in the next day or so I'll surely be able to speak to him without anyone noticing — especially since Imeyne's attention is riveted on the envoy, who just grabbed the pitcher from Maisry and poured his wine himself — and get him to show me where the drop is. There's plenty of time. I have nearly a week.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Two more people died on the twenty-eighth, both of them secondaries who had been at the dance in Headington, and Latimer had a stroke.

"He developed myocarditis, which caused a thromboembolism," Mary had said when she phoned. "At this point he's completely unresponsive."

Over half of Dunworthy's detainees were down with the flu, and there was only room in infirmary for the most severe cases. Dunworthy and Finch, and a detainee William had found who'd had a year of nurse's training, gave temps and dispensed orange juice round the clock.

And worried. When he had told Mary about Badri's saying, "That can't be right," of his saying, "It was the rats," she had said, "It's the fever, James. It has no connection with reality. I've one patient who keeps talking about the Queen's elephants," but he could not get the idea of Kivrin's being in 1348 out of his mind.

"What year is it?" Badri had said that first night, and, "That can't be right."

Dunworthy had telephoned Andrews after his argument with Gilchrist and told him he couldn't get access to Brasenose's net.

"It doesn't matter," Andrews had said. "The locational coordinates aren't as critical as the temporals. I'll get an L and L on the dig from Jesus. I've already talked to them about doing the parameter checks, and they said it's all right."

The visuals had been off again, but he had sounded nervous, as if he was afraid Dunworthy would broach the subject again of his coming to Oxford. "I've done some research on slippage," he said. "There are no theoretical limits, but in practice, the minimal slippage is always greater than zero, even in uninhabited areas. Maximal slippage has never gone above five years, and those were all unmanneds. The greatest slippage on a manned drop was a Seventeenth Century remote — two hundred and twenty-six days."

"Is there anything else it could be?" Dunworthy had asked, "Anything besides the slippage that could go wrong?"

"If the coordinates are correct, nothing," Andrews had said and promised to report as soon as he'd done the parameter checks.

Five years was 1325. The plague had not even begun in China then, and Badri had told Gilchrist there was minimal slippage. And it couldn't be the coordinates. Badri had checked them before he fell ill. But the fear continued to nag at him, and he spent the few free moments he could snatch telephoning techs, trying to find someone willing to come read the fix when the sequencing arrived and Gilchrist opened the laboratory again. It was supposed to have arrived yesterday, but when Mary phoned, she had still been waiting for it.

She phoned again in the late afternoon. "Can you set up a ward?" she asked. The visual was back on. Her SPG's looked like she'd slept in them, and her mask dangled from her neck by one tie.

"I've already set up a ward," he said. "It's full of detainees. We've got thirty-one cases as of this afternoon."

"Do you have space to set up another one? I don't need it yet," she said tiredly, "but at this rate I will. We're nearly at capacity here, and several of the staff are either down with it or are refusing to come in."

"And the sequencing hasn't come yet?" he asked.

"No. The WIC just phoned. They got a faulty result the first time through and had to run it again. It's supposed to be here tomorrow. Now they think it's a Uruguayan virus." She smiled wanly. "Badri hasn't been in contact with anyone from Uruguay, has he? How soon can you have the beds ready?"

"By this evening," Dunworthy said, but Finch informed him they were nearly out of folding cots, and he had to go to the NHS and argue them out of a dozen. They didn't get the ward set up, in two of the Fellows' teaching rooms, until morning.

Finch, helping assemble the cots and make beds, announced that they were nearly out of clean linens, face masks, and lavatory paper. "We haven't enough for the detainees," he said, tucking in a sheet, "let alone all these patients. And we have no bandages at all."

"It's not a war," Dunworthy said. "I doubt if there will be any wounded. Did you find out if any of the other colleges has a tech here in Oxford?"

"Yes, sir, I telephoned all of them, but none of them did." He tucked a pillow beneath his chin. "I've posted notices asking that everyone conserve lavatory paper, but it's done no good at all. The Americans are particularly wasteful." He tugged the pillow slip up over the pillow. "I do feel rather sorry for them, though. Helen came down with it last night, you know, and they haven't any alternates."

"Helen?"

"Ms. Piantini. The tenor. She has a fever of 39.7. The Americans won't be able to do their Chicago Surprise."

Which is probably a blessing, Dunworthy thought. "Ask them if they'll continue to keep watch on my telephone, even though they're no longer practicing," he said. "I'm expecting several important calls. Did Andrews ring back?"

"No, sir, not yet. And the visual is off." He plumped the pillow. "It is too bad about the peal. They can do Stedmans, of course, but that's old hat. It does seem a pity there's no alternative solution."

"Did you get the list of techs?"

"Yes, sir," Finch said, struggling with a reluctant cot. He motioned with his head. "It's there by the chalkboard."

Dunworthy picked up the sheets of paper and looked at the one on top. It was filled with columns of numbers, all of them with the digits one through six, in varying order.

"That's not it," Finch said, snatching the papers away. "Those are the changes for the Chicago Surprise." He handed Dunworthy a single sheet. "Here it is. I've listed the techs by college with addresses and telephone numbers."

Colin came in, wearing his wet jacket and carrying a roll of tape and a plastene-covered bundle. "The vicar said I'm to put these up in all the wards," he said, taking out a placard that read, "Feeling Disoriented? Muddled? Mental Confusion Can Be a Warning Sign of the Flu."

He tore off a strip of tape and stuck the placard to the chalkboard. "I was just posting these at the Infirmary, and what do you think the Gallstone was doing?" he said, taking another placard out of the bundle. It read, "Wear Your Face Mask." He taped it to the wall above the cot Finch was making. "Reading the Bible to the patients." He pocketed the tape. "I hope I don't catch it." He tucked the rest of the placards under his arm and started out.

"Wear your face mask," Dunworthy said.

Colin grinned. "That's what the Gallstone said. And she said, the Lord would smite anyone who heeded not the words of the righteous." He pulled the gray plaid muffler out of his pocket. "I wear this instead of a face mask," he said, tying it over his mouth and nose highwayman fashion.

"Cloth cannot keep out microscopic viruses," Dunworthy said.

"I know. It's the color. It frightens them away." He darted out.

Dunworthy rang Mary to tell her the ward was ready but couldn't get through, so he went over to Infirmary. The rain had let up a little, and people, mostly wearing masks, were out again, coming back from the grocer's and queueing in front of the chemist's. But the streets seemed hushed, unnaturally silent.

Someone's turned the carillon off, Dunworthy thought. He almost regretted it.

Mary was in her office, staring at a screen. "The sequencing's arrived," she said before he could tell her about the ward.

"Have you told Gilchrist?" he said eagerly.

"No," she said. "It's not the Uruguay virus. Or the South Carolina."

"What is it?"

"It's an H9N2. Both the South Carolina and the Uruguay were H3's."

"Then where did it come from?"

"The WIC doesn't know. It's not a known virus. It's previously unsequenced." She handed him a printout. "It has a seven point mutation, which explains why it's killing people."

He looked at the printout. It was covered with columns of numbers, like Finch's list of changes, and as unintelligible. "It has to come from somewhere."

"Not necessarily. Approximately every ten years, there's a major antigenic shift with epidemic potential, so it may have originated with Badri." She took the printout back from him. "Does he live around livestock, do you know?"

"Livestock?" he said. "He lives in a flat in Headington."

"Mutant strains are sometimes produced by the intersection of an avian virus with a human strain. The WIC wants us to check possible avian contacts and exposure to radiation. Viral mutations have sometimes been caused by X-rays." She studied the printout as though it made sense. "It's an unusual mutation. There's no recombination of the hemagluttinin genes, only an extremely large point mutation."

No wonder she had not told Gilchrist. He had said he would open the laboratory when the sequencing arrived, but this news would only fuel his ridiculous theories.

"Is there a cure?"

"There will be as soon as an analogue can be manufactured. And a vaccine. They've already begun work on the prototype."

"How long?"

"Three to five days to produce a prototype, then at least another five to manufacture, if they don't run into any difficulty with duplicating the proteins. We should be able to begin inoculating by the tenth."

The tenth. And that was when they could begin giving immunizations. How long would it take to immunize the quarantine area? A week? Two? Before Gilchrist and the idiot protesters considered it safe to open the laboratory?

"That's too long," Dunworthy said.

"I know," Mary said, and sighed. "God knows how many cases we'll have by then. There have been five new ones already this morning."

"Do you think it's a mutant strain?" Dunworthy asked.

She thought about it. "No. I think it's much more likely that Badri caught it from someone at that dance in Headington. There may have been New Hindus there, or Earthers, or someone else who doesn't believe in antivirals or modern medicine. The Canadian goose flu of 2010, if you'll remember, was traced back to a Christian Science commune. There's a source. We'll find it."

"And what about Kivrin in the meantime? What if you don't find the source by the rendezvous? Kivrin's supposed to come back on the sixth of January. Will you have it sourced by then?"

"I don't know," she said wearily. "She may not want to come back to a century that's rapidly becoming a ten. She may want to stay in 1320."

If she's in 1320, he thought, and went up to see Badri. He had not mentioned rats since Christmas night. He was back to the afternoon at Balliol when he had come looking for Dunworthy. "Laboratory?" he murmured when he saw Dunworthy. He tried feebly to hand him a note, and then seemed to sink into sleep, exhausted by the effort.

He stayed only a few minutes and then went to see Gilchrist.

It was raining hard again by the time he reached Brasenose. The gaggle of picketers were huddling underneath their banner, shivering.

The porter was standing at the lodge desk, taking the decorations off the little Christmas tree. He glanced up at Dunworthy and looked suddenly alarmed. Dunworthy walked past him and through the gate.

"You can't go in there, Mr. Dunworthy," the porter called after him. "The college is restricted."

Dunworthy walked into the quad. Gilchrist's rooms were in the building behind the laboratory. He hurried toward them, expecting the porter to catch up to him and try to stop him.

The laboratory had a large yellow sign on it that read "No Admittance Without Authorization," and an electronic alarm attached to the jamb.

"Mr. Dunworthy," Gilchrist said, striding toward him through the rain. The porter must have phoned him. "The laboratory is off-limits."

"I came to see you," Dunworthy said.

The porter came up, trailing a tinsel garland. "Shall I phone for the University police?" he asked.

"That won't be necessary. Come up to my rooms," he said to Dunworthy. "I have something I want you to see."

He led Dunworthy into his office, sat down at his cluttered desk, and put on an elaborate mask with some sort of filters.

"I've just spoken to the WIC," he said. His voice sounded hollow, as if it were coming from a great distance. "The virus is a previously unsequenced virus whose source is unknown."

"It's been sequenced now," Dunowrthy said, "and the analogue and vaccine are due to arrive in a few days. Dr. Ahrens has arranged for Brasenose to be given immunization priority, and I'm attempting to locate a tech who can read the fix as soon as immunization has been completed."

"I'm afraid that's impossible," Gilchrist said hollowly. "I've been conducting research into the incidence of influenza in the 1300's. There are clear indications that a series of influenza epidemics in the first half of the fourteenth century severely weakened the populace, thereby lowering their resistance to the Black Death."

He picked up an ancient-looking book. I have found six separate references to outbreaks between October of 1318 and February of 1321." He held up a book and began to read. "'After the harvest there came upon all of Dorset a fever so fierce as to leave many dead. This fever began with an aching in the head and confusion in all the parts. The doctors bled them, but many died in despite.'"

A fever. In an age of fevers — typhoid and cholera and measles, all of them producing "aching of the head and confusion in all the parts."

"1319. The Bath Assizes for the previous year were cancelled," Gilchrist said, holding up another book. "'A malady of the chest that fell upon the court so that none, nor judge nor jury, were left to hear the cases,'" Gilchrist said. He looked at Dunworthy over the mask. "You stated that the public's fears over the net were hysterical and unfounded. It would seem, however, that they are based in solid historical fact."

Solid historical fact. References to fevers and maladies of the chest that could be anything, blood poisoning or typhus or any of a hundred nameless infections. All of which was beside the point.

"The virus cannot have come through the net," he said. "Drops have been made to the Pandemic, to World War I battles in which mustard gas was used, to Tel Aviv. Twentieth Century sent detection equipment to the site of St. Paul's two days after the pinpoint was dropped. Nothing comes through."

"So you say." He held up a printout. "Probability indicates a .003 per cent possibility of a microorganism being transmitted through the net and a 22.1 per cent chance of a viable myxovirus being within the critical area when the net was opened."

"Where in God's name do you get these figures?" Dunworthy said. "Pull them out of a hat? According to Probability," he said, putting a nasty emphasis on the word, "there was only a .04 per cent chance of anyone's being present when Kivrin went through, a possibility you considered statistically insignificant."

"Viruses are exceptionally sturdy organisms," Gilchrist said. "They have been known to lie dormant for long periods of time, exposed to extremes of temperature and humidity, and still be viable. Under certain conditions they form crystals which retain their structure indefinitely. When put back into solution they become infective again. Viable tobacco mosaic crystals have been found dating from the sixteenth century.

"There is clearly a significant risk of the virus's penetrating the net if opened, and under the circumstances I cannot possibly allow the net to be opened."

"The virus cannot have come through the net," Dunworthy said.

"Then why are you so anxious to have the fix read?"

"Because — " Dunworthy said, and stopped to get control of himself. "Because reading the fix will tell us whether the drop went as planned or whether something went wrong."

"Oh, you'll admit there's a possibility of error then?" Gilchrist said. "Then why not an error that would allow a virus through the net? As long as that possibility exists, the laboratory will remain locked. I'm certain Mr. Basingame will approve of the course of action I've taken."

Basingame, Dunworthy thought, that's what this is all about. It has nothing to do with the virus or the protesters or 'maladies of the chest' in 1318. This is all to justify himself to Basingame.

Gilchrist was Acting Head in Basingame's absence, and he had rushed through the reranking, rushed through a drop, intending no doubt to present Basingame with a brilliant fait accompli. But he hadn't got it. Instead, he'd got an epidemic and a lost historian and people picketing the college, and now all he cared about was vindicating his actions, saving himself even though it meant sacrificing Kivrin.

"What about Kivrin? Does Kivrin approve of your course of action?" he said.

"Ms. Engle was fully aware of the risks when she volunteered to go to 1320," Gilchrist said.

"Was she aware you intended to abandon her?"

"This conversation is over, Mr. Dunworthy." Gilchrist stood up. "I will open the laboratory when the virus has been sourced, and it has been proven to my satisfaction that there is no chance it came through the net."

He showed Dunworthy to the door. The porter was waiting outside.

"I have no intention of allowing you to abandon Kivrin," Dunworthy said.

Gilchrist crimped his lips under the mask. "And I have no intention of allowing you to endanger the health of this community." He turned to the porter. "Escort Mr. Dunworthy to the gate. If he attempts to enter Brasenose again, telephone the police." He slammed the door.

The porter walked Dunworthy across the quad, watching him warily, as if he thought he might turn suddenly dangerous.

I might, Dunworthy thought. "I want to use your telephone," he said when they reached the gate. "University business."

The porter looked nervous, but he set a telephone on the counter and watched while Dunworthy punched Balliol's number. When Finch answered, he said, "We've got to locate Basingame. It's an emergency. Phone the Scottish Fishing License Bureau and compile a list of hotels and inns. And get me Polly Wilson's number."

He wrote down the number, rang off, and started to punch it in and then thought better of it and telephoned Mary.

"I want to help source the virus," he said.

"Gilchrist wouldn't open the net," she said.

"No," he said. "What can I do to help with the sourcing?"

"What you were doing before with the primaries. Trace the contacts, look for the things I told you about, exposure to radiation, proximity to birds or livestock, religious that forbid antivirals. You'll need the contacts charts."

"I'll send Colin for them," he said.

"I'll have someone get them ready. You'd better check Badri's contacts back four to six days, as well, in case the virus did originate with him. The time of incubation from a reservoir can be longer than a person-to-person incubation period."

"I'll put William on it," he said. He pushed the phone back at the porter, who immediately came around the counter and walked him out to the pavement. Dunworthy was surprised he didn't follow him all the way to Balliol.

As soon as he got there, he phoned Polly Wilson. "Is there some way you can get into the net's console without having access to the laboratory?" he asked her. "Can you go in directly through the University's computer?"

"I don't know," she said. "The University's computer is moated. I might be able to rig a bettering ram, or worm in from Balliol's console. I'll have to see what the safeties are. Do you have a tech to read it if I can get it set up?"

"I'm getting one," he said. He rang off.

Colin came in, dripping wet, to get another roll of tape. "Did you know the sequencing came, and the virus is a mutant?"

"Yes," Dunworthy said. "I want you to go to Infirmary and get the contacts charts from your great-aunt."

Colin set down his load of placards. The one on top read, "Do Not Have a Relapse."

"They're saying it's some sort of biological weapon," Colin said. "They're saying it escaped from a laboratory."

Not Gilchrist's, he thought bitterly. "Do you know where William Gaddson is?"

"No." Colin made a face. "He's probably on the staircase kissing someone."

He was in the buttery, embracing one of the detainees. Dunworthy told him to find out Badri's whereabouts for Thursday through Sunday morning and to obtain a copy of Basingame's credit records for December, and went back to his rooms to telephone techs.

One of them was running a net for Nineteenth Century in Moscow, and two of them had gone skiing. The other weren't at home, or perhaps, alerted by Andrews, they weren't answering.

Colin brought the contacts charts. They were a disaster. No attempt had been made to correlate any of the information except possible American connections, and there were too many contacts. Half of the primaries had been at the dance in Headington, two-thirds of them had gone Christmas shopping, all but two of them had ridden the tube. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack.

He spent half the night checking religious affiliations and running cross-matches. Forty-two of them were Church of England, nine Holy Re-Formed, seventeen unaffiliated. Eight were students at Shrewsbury College, eleven had stood in line at Debenham's to see Father Christmas, nine had worked on Montoya's dig, thirty had shopped at Blackwell's.

Twenty-one of them had cross-contacts with at least two other secondaries, and Debenham's Father Christmas had had contact with thirty-two (all but eleven at a pub after his shift), but none of them could be traced to all the primaries except Badri.

Mary brought the overflow cases in the morning. She was wearing SPG's, but no mask. "Are the beds ready?" she said.

"Yes. We've got two wards of ten beds each."

"Good. I'll need all of them."

They helped the patients into the makeshift ward and into bed and left them in the care of William's nurse trainee. "The stretcher cases will be over as soon as we have an ambulance free," Mary said, walking back across the quad with Dunworthy.

The rain had stopped completely, and the sky was lighter, as if it might clear.

"When will the analogue arrive?" he asked.

"It'll be two days at the least," she said.

They reached the gate. She leaned against the stone passageway. "When all this is over, I'm going to go through the net," she said. "To some century where there aren't any epidemics, where there isn't any waiting or worrying or helpless standing by."

She pushed her hand back over her gray hair. "Some country that isn't a ten." She smiled. "Only there isn't one, is there?"

He shook his head.

"Did I ever tell you about the Valley of the Kings?" she said.

"You said you saw it during the Pandemic."

She nodded. "Cairo was quarantined, so we had to fly out of Addis Ababa, and on the way down I bribed the taxi driver to take us to the Valley of the Kings so I could see Tutankhamen's tomb," she said. "It was a foolhardy thing to do. The Pandemic had already reached Luxor, and we just missed being caught in the quarantine. We were shot at twice." She shook her head. "We might have been killed. My sister refused to get out of the car, but I went down the stairs and up to the door of the tomb, and I thought, this is what it was like when Carter found it."

She looked at Dunworthy and through him, remembering it. "When they found the door to the tomb, it was locked, and they were supposed to wait for the proper authorities to open it. Carter drilled a hole in the door, and held a candle up and looked through." Her voice was hushed. "Carnarvon said, 'Can you see anything?' and Carter said, 'Yes. Wonderful things.'"

She closed her eyes. "I've never forgotten that, standing there at that closed door. I can see it clearly even now." She opened her eyes. "Perhaps that's where I'll go when this is over. To the opening of King Tut's tomb."

She leaned out the gate. "Oh, dear, it's started raining again. I must get back. I'll send the stretcher cases as soon as there's an ambulance." She looked sharply at him. "Why aren't you wearing your mask?"

"It causes my spectacles to steam up. Why aren't you wearing yours?"

"We're running out of them. You've had your T-cell enhancement, haven't you?"

He shook his head. "I haven't had any time."

"Make time," she said. "And wear your mask. You'll be of no help to Kivrin if you fall ill."

I'm of no help to Kivrin now, he thought, walking back across to his rooms. I can't get into the laboratory, I can't get a tech to come to Oxford, I can't find Basingame. He tried to think who else he should contact. He'd checked every booking agent and fishing guide and boat rental in Scotland. There was no trace of the man. Perhaps Montoya was right, and he wasn't in Scotland at all, but off in the tropics somewhere with a woman.

Montoya. He'd forgotten completely about her. He hadn't seen her since the Christmas Eve service. She'd been looking for Basingame then so he could sign the authorization for her to go out to the dig, and then she had rung up on Christmas Day to ask whether Basingame was trout or salmon. And rung back with the message, "Never mind." Which might mean she had found out not only whether he was salmon or trout but the man himself.

He looked round for a telephone, remembered the one in the corridor outside the waiting room and went to find it. If Montoya had located Basingame and got her authorization, she would have gone straight out to the dig. She would not have waited to tell anyone. He was not even certain she knew he was looking for Basingame, too.

Basingame would surely have come back as soon as Montoya told him about the quarantine unless he had been stopped by bad weather or impassable roads. Or Montoya might not have told him about the quarantine. Obsessed as she was with the dig, she might merely have told him she needed his signature.

Ms. Taylor, her four healthy bellringers and Finch were in his rooms, standing in a circle and bending their knees. Finch was holding a paper in one hand and counting under his breath. "I was just going over to the ward to assign nurses," he said sheepishly. "Here's William's report." He handed it to Dunworthy and scurried out.

Ms. Taylor and her foursome gathered up their handbell cases. "Mr. Andrews called," Ms. Taylor said. "He said to tell you a battering ram won't work, and you'll have to go in through Brasenose's console."

"Thank you," Dunworthy said.

She went out, her four bellringers in a line behind her.

He rang the dig. No answer. He rang Montoya's flat, her office at Brasenose, the dig again. There was no answer at any of them. He phoned her flat again and let it ring while he looked at William's report. Badri had spent all day Saturday and the morning Sunday working at the dig. William must have been in contact with Montoya to find that out.

He wondered suddenly about the dig itself. It was out in the country from Witney, on a National Trust farm. Perhaps it had ducks, or chickens, or pigs, or all three. And Badri had spent an entire day and a half working there, digging in the mud, a perfect chance to come in contact with a reservoir.

Colin came in, soaked to the skin. "They ran out of placards," he said, rummaging through his duffel. "London's sending some more tomorrow." He unearthed his gobstopper and popped it, lint and all, into his mouth. "Do you know who's standing on your staircase?' he asked. He flung himself onto the window seat and opened his Middle Ages book. "William and some girl. Kissing and talking all lovey-dovey. I could scarcely get past."

Dunworthy opened the door. William disengaged himself reluctantly from a small blonde in a Burberry and came in.

"Do you know where Ms. Montoya is?" Dunworthy asked.

"No. The NHS said she's out at the dig, but she's not answering the phone. She's probably out in the churchyard or somewhere on the farm and can't hear it. I thought of using a screamer, but then I remembered this girl who's reading archaeohistory and…" He nodded toward the small blonde. "She told me she saw the assignment sheets out at the dig, and Badri was signed up for Saturday and Sunday."

"A screamer? What's that?"

"You hook it to the line and it magnifies the ring on the other end. If the person's out in the garden or in the shower or something."

"Can you put one on this phone?"

"They're a bit too complicated for me. I know a student who might be able to rig it, though. I've got her number in my rooms." He left, holding hands with the blonde.

"You know, if Ms. Montoya is at the dig, I could get you through the perimeter," Colin said. He took his gobstopper out and examined it. "It'd be easy. There are lots of places that aren't watched. The guards don't like to stand out in the rain."

"I have no intention of breaking quarantine," he said. "We are trying to stop this epidemic, not spread it."

"That's how the plague was spread during the Black Death," Colin said, taking the gobstopper out and examining it. It was a sickly yellow. "They kept trying to run away from it, but they just took it along with them."

William stuck his head in the door. "She says it'd take two days to set it up, but she's got one on her phone if you want to use that."

Colin grabbed for his jacket. "Can I go?"

"No," Dunworthy said. "And get out of those wet clothes. I don't want you catching the flu." He went down the stairs with William.

"She's a student at Shrewsbury," William said, heading off through the rain.

Colin caught up with them halfway across the quad. "I can't catch it. I had my enhancement," he said. "They didn't have quarantines, so it went everywhere." He pulled his muffler out of his jacket pocket. "Botley Road's a good place to sneak through the perimeter. There's a pub on the corner by the blockade, and the guard nips in now and again for something to keep warm."

"Fasten your jacket," Dunworthy said.

The girl turned out to be Polly Wilson. She told Dunworthy she had been working on an optical traitor that could break into the net's computer, but hadn't managed it yet. Dunworthy phoned the dig, but there was no answer.

"Let it ring," Polly said. "She may have a long trek to get to it. The screamer's got a range of half a kilometer."

He let it ring for ten minutes, put the receiver down, waited five minutes, tried again and let it ring a quarter of an hour before admitting defeat. Polly was looking longingly at William, and Colin was shivering in his wet jacket. Dunworthy took him home and put him to bed.

"Or I could sneak through the perimeter and tell her to phone you," Colin said, putting his gobstopper back in the duffel. "If you're worried about being too old to go. I'm very good at getting through perimeters."

Dunworthy waited till William returned the next morning and then went back to Shrewsbury and tried again, but to no avail. "I'll set it to ring at half-hour intervals," Polly said, walking him to the gate. "You wouldn't know if William has any other girlfriends, would you?"

"No," Dunworthy said.

The sound of bells clanged out suddenly from the direction of Christ Church, pealing loudly through the rain. "Has someone switched that horrid carillon on again?" Polly asked, leaning out to listen.

"No," he said. "It's the Americans." He cocked his head in the direction of the sound, trying to determine whether Ms. Taylor had settled for Stedmans, but he could hear six bells, the ancient bells of Osney: Douce and Gabriel and Marie, one after the other, Clement and Hautclerc and Taylor. "And Finch."

They sounded remarkably good, not at all like the digital carillon, not at all like "O Christ Who Interfaces with the World." They rang out clearly and brightly, and Dunworthy could almost see the bellringers in their circle in the belfry, bending their knees and raising their arms, Finch referring to his list of numbers.

"Every man must stick to his bell without interruption," Ms. Taylor had said. He had had nothing but interruptions, but he felt oddly cheered nonetheless. She had not been able to get her bellringers to Norwich for Christmas Eve, but she had stuck to her bells, and they rang out deafeningly, deliriously overhead, like a celebration, a victory. Like Christmas morning. He would find Montoya. And Basingame. Or a tech who wasn't afraid of the quarantine. He would find Kivrin.

The telephone was ringing when he got back to Balliol. He galloped up the stairs, hoping it was Polly. It was Montoya.

"Dunworthy?" she said. "Hi. It's Lupe Montoya. What's going on?"

"Where are you?" he demanded.

"At the dig," she said, but that was already apparent. She was standing in front of the ruined nave of the church in the half-excavated medieaval churchyard. He could see why she had been so anxious to get back to her dig. There was as much as a foot of water in places. She had draped a motley assortment of tarps and plastene sheets over the excavation, but rain was dripping in at a dozen places, and where the sagging coverings met, spilling down the edges in veritable waterfalls. Everything, the gravestones, the battery lights she had clipped to the tarps, the shovels stacked against the wall, was covered in mud.

Montoya was covered in mud, too. She was wearing her terrorist jacket and thigh-high fisherman's waders like Basingame, wherever he was, might be wearing, and they were wet and filthy. The hand she was holding the telephone with was caked with dried mud.

"I've been ringing you for days," Dunworthy said.

"I can't hear the phone over the pump." She gestured toward something outside the picture, presumably the pump, though he couldn't hear anything save for the thump of rain on the tarps. "It's just broken a belt, and I don't have another one. I heard the bells. Do they mean the quarantine's over?"

"Hardly," he said. "We're in the midst of a full-scale epidemic. Seven hundred and eighty cases and sixteen deaths. Haven't you seen the papers?"

"I haven't seen anything or anybody since I got here. I've spent the last six days trying to keep this damned dig above water, but I can't do it all by myself. And without a pump." She pushed her heavy black hair back from her face with a dirty hand. "What were they ringing the bells for then, if the quarantine's not over?"

"A peal of Chicago Surprise Doubles."

She looked irritated. "If the quarantine's as bad as all that, why aren't they doing something useful?"

They are, he thought. They made you telephone.

"I could certainly put them to work out here." She pushed her hair back again. She looked nearly as tired as Mary. "I was really hoping the quarantine had been lifted, so I could get some people out here to help. How long do you think it will be?"

Too long, he thought, watching the rain cascade in between the tarps. You'll never get the help you need in time.

"I need some information about Basingame and Badri Chaudhuri," he said. "We're attempting to source the virus and we need to know who Badri had contact with. Badri worked at the dig on the eighteenth and the morning of the nineteenth. Who else was there when he was?"

"I was."

"Who else?"

"No one. I've had a terrible time getting help all December. Every one of my archaeohistory students took off the day vac started. I've had to scrounge volunteers wherever I could."

"You're certain you were the only two there?"

"Yes. I remember because we opened the knight's tomb on Saturday and we had so much trouble lifting the lid. Gillian Ledbetter was signed up to work Saturday, but she called at the last minute and said she had a date."

With William, Dunworthy thought. "Was anyone there with him Sunday?"

"He was only here in the morning, and there was no one here then. He had to leave to go to London. Look, I've got to go. If I'm not going to get any help soon, I've got to get back to work." She started to take the receiver away from her ear.

"Wait!" Dunworthy shouted. "Don't hang up."

She put the receiver back to her ear, looking impatient.

"I need to ask you some more questions. It's very important. The sooner we source this virus, the sooner the quarantine will be lifted and you can get assistance at the dig."

She looked unconvinced, but she punched up a code, laid the receiver in its cradle, and said, "You don't mind if I work while we talk?"

"No," Dunworthy said, relieved. "Please do."

She moved abruptly out-of-picture, returned, and punched up something else. "Sorry. It won't reach," she said, and the screen went fuzzy while she, presumably, moved the phone to her new worksite. When the picture reappeared, Montoya was crouched in a mudhole by a stone tomb. Dunworthy supposed it to be the one the lid of which she and Badri had nearly dropped.

The lid, which bore the effigy of a knight in full armor, his arms crossed over his mailed chest so that his hands in their heavy cuirasses lay on his shoulders and his sword at his feet, stood propped at a precarious angle against the side, obscuring the elaborate carved letters. "Requisc — " was all he could see. Requiscat in pace. "Rest in peace," a blessing the knight had obviously not been granted. His sleeping face under the carved helmet looked disapproving.

Montoya had draped a thin sheet of plastene over the open top. It was beaded with water. Dunworthy wondered if the other side of the tomb bore a morbid carving of the horror that lay within, like the ones in Colin's illustration, and if it were as ghastly as the reality. Water spilled steadily into the head of the tomb, dragging the plastic down.

Montoya straightened, bringing up with her a flat box filled with mud. "Well?" she said, laying it across the corner of the tomb. "You said you had some more questions?"

"Yes," he said. "You said there wasn't anyone else at the dig when Badri was there."

"There wasn't," she said, wiping sweat off her forehead. "Whew, it's muggy in here." She took off her terrorist jacket and draped it over the tomb lid.

"What about locals? People not connected with the dig?"

"If there'd been anyone here, I'd have recruited them." She began sorting through the mud in the box, unearthing several brown stones. "The lid weighed a ton, and we'd no sooner gotten it off than it started raining. I would've recruited anybody who happened by, but the dig's too far out for anyone to happen by."

"What about the National Trust staff?"

She held the stones under the water to clean them. "They're only here during the summer."

He had hoped someone at the dig would turn out to be the source, that Badri had come in contact with a local, a National Trust staffer or a wandering duck hunter. But myxoviruses didn't have carriers. The mysterious local would have had to have the disease himself, and Mary had been in touch with every hospital and doctory's surgery in England. There hadn't been any cases outside the perimeter.

Montoya held the stones up one by one to the battery-light clipped to one of the supporting posts, turning them in the light, looking at their still-muddy edges.

"What about birds?"

"Birds?" she said, and he realized it must sound as though he were suggesting she recruit passing sparrows to help raise the lid of the tomb.

"The virus may have been spread by birds. Ducks, geese, chickens," he said, even though he wasn't certain chickens were reservoirs. "Are there any at the dig?"

"Chickens?" she said, holding one of the stones half-raised to the light.

"Viruses are sometimes caused by the intersection of animal and human viruses," he explained. "Fowl are the most common reservoirs, but fish are sometimes responsible. Or pigs. Are there any pigs here at the dig?"

She was still looking at him as though she thought he was daft.

"The dig's on a National Trust Farm, isn't it?"

"Yes, but the actual farm's three kilometers away. We're in the middle of a barley field. There aren't any pigs around, or birds, or fish." She went back to examining the stones.

No birds. No pigs. No locals. The source of the virus wasn't here at the dig either. Possibly it wasn't anywhere, and Badri's influenza had mutated spontaneously, as Mary had said happened occasionally, appearing out of thin air and descending on Oxford the way the plague had descended on the unwitting residents of this churchyard.

Montoya was holding the stones up to the light again, chipping with her fingernails at an occasional clot of mud and then rubbing at the surface, and he realized suddenly that what she was examining were bones. Vertebrae, perhaps, or the knight's toes. Recquiscat in pace.

She found the one she had apparently been looking for, an uneven bone the size of a walnut, with a curved side. She dumped the rest back into the tray, rummaged in the pocket of her terrorist shirt for a short-handled toothbrush, and began scrubbing at the concave edges, frowning.

Gilchrist would never accept spontaneous mutation as a source. He was too in love with the theory that some fourteenth- century virus had come through the net. And too in love with his authority as Acting Head of the History Faculty to give in, even if Dunworthy had found ducks swimming in the churchyard puddles.

"I need to get in touch with Mr. Basingame," he said. "Where is he?"

"Basingame?" she said, still frowning at the bone. "I don't have any idea."

"But — I thought you'd found him. When you phoned Christmas Day you said you had to find him to authorize your NHS dispensation."

"I know. I spent two full days calling every trout and salmon guide in Scotland before I decided I couldn't wait any longer. If you ask me, he's nowhere near Scotland. She pulled a pocketknife out of her jeans and began scraping at the rough edge of the bone. "Speaking of the NHS, would you do something for me? I keep calling their number but it's always busy. Would you run over there and tell them I've got to have some more help? Tell them the dig's of irreplaceable historical value, and it's going to be irretrievably lost if they don't send me at least five people. And a pump." The knife snagged. She frowned and chipped some more.

"How did you get Basingame's authorization if you didn't know where he was? I thought you'd said the form required his signature."

"It did," she said. An edge of bone flew suddenly off and landed on the plastene shroud. She examined the bone and dropped it back in the box, no longer frowning. "I forged it."

She crouched by the tomb again, digging for more bones. She looked as absorbed as Colin examining his gobstopper. He wondered if she even remembered that Kivrin was in the past, or if she had forgotten her as she seemed to have forgotten the epidemic.

He rang off, wondering if Montoya would even notice, and walked back to Infirmary to tell Mary what he had found out and to begin questioning the secondaries again, looking for the source. It was raining very hard, spilling off the downspouts and washing away things of irreplaceable historical value.

The bellringers and Finch were still at it, ringing the changes one after another in their determined order, bending their knees and looking like Montoya, sticking to their bells. The sound pealed out loudly, leadenly, through the rain, like an alarum, like a cry for help.

Christmas Eve 1320 (Old Style.) I don't have as much time as I thought. When I came in from the kitchen just now, Rosemund told me Lady Imeyne wanted me. Imeyne was deep in earnest conversation with the bishop's envoy, and I supposed from her expression that she was cataloguing Father Roche's sins, but as Rosemund and I came up, she pointed to me and said, "This is the woman I spake of."

Woman, not maid, and her tone was critical, almost accusing. I wondered if she'd told the bishop her theory that I was a French spy.

"She says she remembers naught," Lady Imeyne said, "yet she can speak and read." She turned to Rosemund. "Where is your brooch?"

"It is on my cloak," Rosemund said. "I laid it in the loft."

Rosemund went, reluctantly. As soon as she was gone Imeyne said, "Sir Bloet brought a loveknot brooch to my granddaughter with words on it in the Roman tongue." She looked at me triumphantly. "She told their meaning, and at the church this night she spoke the words of the mass ere the priest had said them."

"Who taught you your letters?" the bishop's envoy asked, his voice blurred from the wine.

I thought of saying Sir Bloet had told me what the words meant, but I was afraid he'd already denied it. "I know not," I said. "I have no memory of my life since I was waylaid in the woods, for I was struck upon the head."

"When first she woke she spoke in a tongue none could understand," Imeyne said, as if that were further proof, but I had no idea what she was trying to convict me of or how the bishop's envoy was involved.

"Holy Father, go you to Oxford when you leave us?" she asked him.

"Aye," he said, sounding wary. "We can stay but a few days here."

"I would have you take her with you to the good sisters at Godstow."

"We go not to Godstow," he said, which was clearly an excuse. The nunnery wasn't even five miles from Oxford. "But I will inquire of the bishop for news of the woman on my return and send word to you."

"I wot she is a nun for that she speaks in Latin and knows the passages of the mass," Imeyne said. "I would have you take her to their convent that they may ask among the nunneries who she may be."

The bishop's envoy looked even more nervous, but he agreed. So I have till whenever they leave. A few days, the bishop's envoy said, and with luck that means they won't leave till after the Slaughter of the Innocents. But I plan to put Agnes to bed and talk to Gawyn as soon as possible.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Kivrin didn't get Agnes to bed till nearly dawn. The arrival of the "three kings," as she continued to call them, had woken her completely, and she refused to even consider lying down for fear she might miss something, even though she was obviously exhausted.

She tagged after Kivrin, as she tried to help Eliwys bring in the food for the feast, whining that she was hungry, and then, when the tables were finally set and the feast begun, refused to eat anything.

Kivrin had no time to argue with her. There was course after course to be brought across the courtyard from the kitchen, trenchers of venison and roast pork and an enormous pie Kivrin half-expected blackbirds to fly out of when the crust was cut. According to the priest at Holy Re-formed, fasting was observed between the midnight mass and the high mass Christmas morning, but everyone, including the bishop's envoy, ate heartily of the roast pheasant and goose and stewed rabbit in saffron gravy. And drank. The "three kings" called constantly for more wine.

They had already had more than enough. The monk was leering at Maisry, and the clerk, drunk when he arrived, was nearly under the table. The bishop's envoy was drinking more than either of them, beckoning constantly to Rosemund to bring him the wassail bowl, his gestures growing broader and less clear with every drink.

Good, Kivrin thought. Perhaps he'll get so drunk he'll forget he promised Lady Imeyne he'd take me to the nunnery at Godstow. She took the bowl around to Gawyn, hoping to have an opportunity to ask him where the drop was, but he was laughing with some of Sir Bloet's men, and they called to her for ale and more meat. By the time she got back to Agnes, the little girl was sound asleep, her head nearly in her manchet. Kivrin picked her up carefully and carried her upstairs to Rosemund's bower.

Above them, the door opened. "Lady Katherine," Eliwys said, her arms full of bedding. "I am grateful you are here. I have need of your help."

Agnes stirred.

"Bring the linen sheets from the loft," Eliwys said. "The churchmen will sleep in this bed, and Sir Bloet's sister and her women in the loft."

"Where am I to sleep?" Agnes asked, wriggling out of Kivrin's arms.

"We will sleep in the barn," Eliwys said. "But you must wait till we have made up the beds, Agnes. Go and play."

Agnes didn't have to be encouraged. She hopped off down the stairs, waving her arm to make her bell ring.

Eliwys handed Kivrin the bedding. "Take these to the loft and bring the miniver coverlid from my husband's carven chest."

"How many days do you think the bishop's envoy and his men will stay?" Kivrin asked.

"I know not," Eliwys said, looking worried. "I pray not more than a fortnight or we shall not have meat enough. See you do not forget the good bolsters."

A fortnight was more than enough, well past the rendezvous, and they certainly didn't look like they were going anywhere. When Kivrin climbed down from the loft with the sheets, the bishop's envoy was asleep in the high seat, snoring loudly, and the clerk had his feet on the table. The monk had one of Sir Bloet's waiting women backed into a corner and was playing with her kerchief. Gawyn was nowhere to be seen.

Kivrin took the sheets and coverlid to Eliwys, then offered to take bedding out to the barn. "Agnes is very tired," she said. "I would put her to bed soon."

Eliwys nodded absently, pounding at one of the heavy bolsters, and Kivrin ran downstairs and out into the courtyard. Gawyn was not in the stable nor the brewhouse. She lingered near the privy until two of the redheaded young men emerged, looking at her curiously, and then went on to the barn. Perhaps Gawyn had gone off with Maisry again, or joined the villagers' celebration on the green. She could hear the sound of laughter as she spread straw on the bare wooden floor of the loft.

She laid the furs and quilts on the straw and went down and out through the passageway to see if she could see him. The contemps had built a bonfire in front of the churchyard and were standing around it, warming their hands and drinking out of large horns. She could see the reddened faces of Maisry's father and the reeve in the firelight, but not Gawyn's.

He was not in the courtyard either. Rosemund was standing by the gate, wrapped in her cloak.

"What are you doing out here in the cold?" Kivrin asked.

"I am awaiting my father," Rosemund said. "Gawyn told me he expects him before day."

"Have you seen Gawyn?"

"Aye. He is in the stable."

Kivrin looked anxiously toward the stable. "It's too cold to wait out here. You must go in the house, and I'll tell Gawyn to tell you when your father comes."

"Nay, I will wait here," Rosemund said. "He promised he would come to us for Christmas." Her voice quavered a little.

Kivrin held her lantern up. Rosemund wasn't crying, but her cheeks were red. Kivrin wondered what Sir Bloet had done now that had Rosemund hiding from him. Or perhaps it was the monk who had frightened her, or the drunken clerk.

Kivrin took her arm. "You can wait as well in the kitchen, and it is warm there," she said.

Rosemund nodded. "My father promised he would come without fail."

And do what? Kivrin wondered. Throw out the churchmen? Call off Rosemund's engagement to Sir Bloet? "My father would never allow me to come to harm," she had told Kivrin, but he was scarcely in a position to cancel the betrothal when the marriage settlement had already been signed, to alienate Sir Bloet, who had "many powerful friends."

Kivrin took Rosemund into the kitchen and told Maisry to heat a cup of wine for her. "I'll go tell Gawyn to come get you as soon as your father comes," she said, and went across to the stable, but Gawyn wasn't there, or in the brewhouse.

She went into the house, wondering if Imeyne had sent him on yet another of her errands. But she was sitting beside the obviously unwillingly wakened envoy, talking determinedly to him, and Gawyn was by the fire, surrounded by Sir Bloet's men, including the two who had come out of the privy. Sir Bloet sat on the near side of the hearth with his sister-in-law and Eliwys.

Kivrin sank down on the beggar's bench by the screens. There was no way to even get near him, let alone ask him about the drop.

"Give him to me!" Agnes wailed. She and the rest of the children were over by the stairs to the bower, and the little boys were passing Blackie among them, petting him and playing with his ears. Agnes must have gone out to the stable to fetch the puppy while Kivrin was out in the barn.

"He's my hound!" Agnes said, grabbing for him. The little boy wrenched the puppy away. "Give him to me!"

Kivrin stood up.

"As I was riding through the woods, I came upon a maiden," Gawyn said loudly. "She had been set upon by thieves and was sore wounded, her head cut open and bleeding grievously."

Kivrin hesitated, glancing toward Agnes, who was pounding on the little boy's arm, and then sat down again.

"'Fair maid,' I said. 'Who has done this fell thing?' but she could not speak for her injuries."

Agnes had the puppy back and was clutching it to her. Kivrin should go rescue the poor thing, but she stayed where she was, moving a little so she could see past the sister-in-law's coif. Tell them where you found me, she willed Gawyn. Tell them where in the woods.

"'I am your liegeman and will find these evil knaves,' I said, 'but I fear to leave you in such sad plight,'" he said, looking toward Eliwys, "but she had recovered herself and she begged me to go and find those who had harmed her."

Eliwys stood up and walked to the door. She stood there for a moment, looking anxious, and then came and sat back down.

"No!" Agnes shrieked. One of Sir Bloet's redheaded nephews had Blackie now and was holding him above his head in one hand. If Kivrin didn't rescue it soon, they'd squeeze the poor dog to death, and there was no point in listening to any more of the Rescue of the Maiden in the Wood, which was obviously intended not to tell what had happened but to impress Eliwys. She walked over to the children.

"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?"

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 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 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.

"Tell your husband we are grateful for the loan of your horses, that ours may be rested for the journey to Berncestre," 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 head himself, 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 towards the stable. Eliwys looked after him worriedly.

"Do you want 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 goodbye. 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?"

"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 goodbye," 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 you 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 travelling 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 house 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 house 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 house. 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.

"Lady Yvolde bade asked me to bring her her cloak," Kivrin said.

"Maisry can take it to her," Imeyne said. "Maisry!"

Let her still be hiding, Kivrin prayed.

"Maisry!" Imeyne shouted, and Maisry came slinking out from the brewhouse door, holding her ear. Lady Imeyne snatched the cloak out of Kivrin's arms and dumped it on Maisry's. "Stop snivelling and take this to Lady Yvolde," she snapped.

She grabbed Kivrin by the wrist. "Come," she said, and started toward the bishop's envoy. "Holy Father, you have forgotten Lady Katherine, whom you promised to take with you to Godstow."

"We do not go to Godstow," he said and swung himself into the saddle with an effort. "We journey to Bernecestre."

Gawyn had mounted Gringolet and was walking him toward the gate. He's going with them, she thought. Perhaps on the way to Courcy I can persuade him to take me to the drop. Perhaps I can persuade him to tell me where it is, and I can get away from them and find it myself .

"Can she not ride with you to Berncestre then, and a monk escort her to Godstow? I would have her returned to her nunnery."

"There is no time," he said, picking up the reins.

Imeyne grabbed hold of his scarlet cope. "Why do you leave so suddenly? Has aught offended you?"

He glanced at the friar, who was holding the reins of Kivrin's mare. "Nay." He made a vague sign of the cross over Imeyne. "Dominus vobiscum, et cum spiritu tuo," he murmured, looking pointedly at her hand on his cope.

"What of a new chaplain?" Imeyne insisted.

"I am leaving my clerk behind to serve you as chaplain," he said.

He's lying, Kivrin thought, and glanced up sharply at him. He exchanged another, secretive glance with the monk, and Kivrin wondered if their urgent business was simply getting away from this complaining old woman.

"Your clerk?" Lady Imeyne said, pleased, and let go of the cope.

The bishop's envoy spurred his horse, and galloped across the courtyard, nearly running down Agnes, who scurried out of the way and then ran to Kivrin and buried her head in her skirt. The monk mounted Kivrin's mare and rode after him.

"God go with you, Holy Father," Lady Imeyne called after him, but he was already out the gate.

And then they were all gone, Gawyn riding out last at a flashy gallop to make Eliwys notice him, and they hadn't taken her off to Godstow and out of reach of the drop. Kivrin was so relieved she didn't even worry over Gawyn's having gone with them. It was only a half-day's ride to Courcy. He might even be back by nightfall.

Everyone seemed relieved, or perhaps it was only the letdown of Christmas afternoon and the fact that they had all been up since yesterday morning. No one made any movement to clear the tables, which were still covered with dirty trenchers and half- full serving bowls. Eliwys sank into the high seat, her arms dangling over the side, and looked at the table disinterestedly. After a few minutes she called for Maisry, but when she didn't answer, Eliwys didn't shout for her again. She leaned her head against the carved back and closed her eyes.

Rosemund went up to the loft to lie down, and Agnes sat down next to Kivrin by the hearth and put her head on her lap, playing absently with her bell.

Only Lady Imeyne refused to give in to the letdown and languor of the afternoon. "I would have my new chaplain say vespers," she said, and went up to knock on the bower door.

Eliwys protested lazily, her eyes still closed, that the bishop's envoy had said the clerk should not be disturbed, but Imeyne knocked several times, loudly and without result. She waited a few minutes, knocked again, and then came down the steps and knelt at the foot of them to read her Book of Hours and keep an eye on the door so she could waylay the clerk as soon as he emerged.

Agnes batted at her bell with one finger, yawning broadly.

"Why don't you go up into the loft and lie down with your sister?" Kivrin suggested.

"I'm not tired," Agnes said, sitting up. "Tell me what happened to the naughty girl."

"Only if you lie down," Kivrin said, and began the story. Agnes didn't last two sentences.

In the late afternoon, Kivrin remembered Agnes's puppy. Everyone was asleep by then, even Lady Imeyne, who had given up on the clerk and gone up to the loft to lie down. Maisry had come in at some point and crawled under one of the tables. She was snoring loudly.

Kivrin eased her knees carefully out from under Agnes's head and went out to bury the puppy. There was no one in the courtyard. The remains of a bonfire still smouldered in the center of the green, but there was no one around it. The villagers must be taking a Christmas afternoon nap, too.

Kivrin brought down Blackie's body and went into the stable for a wooden spade. Only Agnes's pony was there, and Kivrin frowned at it, wondering how the clerk was supposed to follow the envoy to Courcy. Perhaps he hadn't been lying, after all, and the clerk was to be the new chaplain whether he liked it or not.

Kivrin carried the spade and Blackie's already stiffening body across to the church and around to the north side. She laid the puppy down and began chipping through the crusted snow.

The ground was literally as hard as stone. The wooden spade didn't even make a dent, even when she stood on it with both feet. She climbed the hill to the beginnings of the wood, dug through the snow at the base of an ash tree, and buried the puppy in the loose leaf-mould.

"Requiscat in pace," she said so she could tell Agnes the puppy had had a Christian burial and went back down the hill.

She wished Gawyn would ride up now. She could ask him to take her to the drop while everyone was still asleep. She walked slowly across the green, listening for the horse. He would probably come by the main road. She propped the spade against the wattle fence of the pigsty and went around the outside of the manor wall to the gate, but she couldn't hear anything.

The afternoon light began to fade. If Gawyn didn't come soon, it would be too dark to ride out to the drop. Father Roche would be ringing vespers in another half hour, and that would wake everyone up. Gawyn would have to tend his horse, though, no matter what time he got back, and she could sneak out to the stable and ask him to take her to the drop in the morning.

Or perhaps he could simply tell her where it was, draw her a map so she could find it herself. That way she wouldn't have to go into the woods alone with him, and if Lady Imeyne had him out on another errand the day of the rendezvous, she could take one of the horses and find it herself.

She stood in by the gate till she got cold and then went back along the wall to the pigsty and into the courtyard. There was still no one in the courtyard, but Rosemund was in the anteroom, with her cloak on.

"Where have you been?" she said. "I've been looking everywhere for you. The clerk — "

Kivrin's heart jerked. "What is it? Is he leaving?" He'd woken from his hangover and was ready to leave. And Lady Imeyne had persuaded him to take her to Godstow.

"Nay," Rosemund said, going into the hall. It was empty. Eliwys and Imeyne must both be in the bower with him. She unfastened Sir Bloet's brooch and took her cloak off. "He is ailing. Father Roche sent me to find you." She started up the stairs.

"Ailing?" Kivrin said.

"Aye. Grandmother sent Maisry to the bower to take him somewhat to eat."

And to put him to work, Kivrin thought, following her up the steps. "And Maisry found him ill?"

"Aye. He has a fever."

He has a hangover, Kivrin thought, frowning. But Roche would surely recognize the effects of drink, even if Lady Imeyne couldn't, or wouldn't.

A terrible thought occurred to her. He's been sleeping in my bed, Kivrin thought, and he's caught my virus.

"What symptoms does he have?" she asked.

Rosemund opened the door.

There was scarcely room for them all in the little room. Father Roche was by the bed, and Eliwys stood a little behind him, her hand on Agnes's head. Maisry cowered by the window. Lady Imeyne knelt at the foot of the bed next to her medicine casket, busy with one of her foul-smelling poultices, and there was another smell in the room, sickish and so strong it overpowered the mustard and leek smell of the poultice.

They all, except Agnes, looked frightened. Agnes looked interested, the way she had with Blackie, and Kivrin thought, he's dead, he's caught what I had, and he's died. But that was ridiculous. She had been here since the middle of December. That would mean an incubation period of nearly two weeks, and no one else had caught it, not even Father Roche, or Eliwys, and they had been with her constantly while she was ill.

She looked at the clerk. He lay uncovered in the bed, wearing a shift and no breeches. The rest of his clothes were draped over the foot of the bed, his purple cloak dragging on the floor. His shift was yellow silk, and the ties had come unfastened so that it was open halfway down his chest, but she wasn't noticing either his hairless skin or the ermine bands on the sleeves of his shift. He was ill. I was never that ill, Kivrin thought, not even when I was dying.

She went up to the bed. Her foot hit a half-empty earthenware wine bottle and sent it rolling under the bed. The clerk flinched. Another bottle, with the seal still on it, stood at the head of the bed.

"He has eaten too much rich food," Lady Imeyne said, mashing something in her stone bowl, but it was clearly not food poisoning. Nor too much alcohol, in spite of the wine bottles. He's ill, Kivrin thought. Terribly ill.

He breathed rapidly in and out through his open mouth, panting like poor Blackie, his tongue sticking out. It was bright red and looked swollen. His face was an even darker red, and his expression was distorted, as if he were terrified.

She wondered if he might have been poisoned. The bishop's envoy had been so anxious to leave he had nearly run Agnes down, and he had told Eliwys not to disturb him. The church had done things like that in the thirteen hundreds, hadn't they? Mysterious deaths in the monastery and the cathedral. Convenient deaths.

But that made no sense. The bishop's envoy and the monk would not have hurried off and given orders not to disturb the victim when the whole point of poison was to make it look like botulism or peritonitis or the dozen other unaccountable things people died of in the Middle Ages. And why would the bishop's envoy poison one of his own underlings when he could demote him, the way Lady Imeyne wanted to demote Father Roche.

"Is it the cholera?" Lady Eliwys said.

No, Kivrin thought, trying to remember its symptoms. Acute diarrhea and vomiting with massive loss of body fluids. Pinched expression, dehydration, cyanosis, raging thirst.

"Are you thirsty?" she asked.

The clerk gave no sign that he had heard. His eyes were half-closed, and they looked swollen, too.

Kivrin laid her hand on his forehead. He flinched a little, his reddened eyes flickering open and then closed.

"He's burning with fever," Kivrin said, thinking, cholera doesn't produce this high a fever. "Fetch me a cloth dipped in water."

"Maisry!" Eliwys snapped, but Rosemund was already at her elbow with the same filthy rag they must have used on her.

At least it was cool. Kivrin folded it into a rectangle, watching the priest's face. He was still panting, and his face contorted when she laid the rag across his forehead, as if he was in pain. He clutched his hand to his belly. Appendicitis? Kivrin thought. No, that usually was accompanied by a low-grade fever. Typhoid fever could produce temps as high as forty degrees, though usually not at the onset. It produced enlargement of the spleen, as well, which frequently resulted in abdominal pain.

"Are you in pain?" she asked. "Where does it hurt?"

His eyes flickered half-open again, and his hands moved restlessly on the coverlet. That was a symptom of typhoid fever, that restless plucking, but only in the last stages, eight or nine days into the progress of the disease. She wondered if the priest had already been ill when he came.

He had stumbled getting off his horse when they arrived, and the monk had had to catch him. But he had eaten and drunk more than a little at the feast, and grabbed at Maisry. He couldn't have been very ill, and typhoid came on gradually, beginning with a headache and an only slightly elevated temperature. It didn't reach thirty-nine degrees until the third week.

Kivrin leaned closer, pulling his untied shift aside to look for typhoid's rose-colored rash. There wasn't any. The side of his neck seemed slightly swollen, but swollen lymph glands went with almost every infection. She pulled his sleeve up. There weren't any rose spots on his arm either, but his fingernails were a bluish-brown color, which meant not enough oxygen. And cyanosis was a symptom of cholera.

"Has he vomited or had loosening of his bowels?" she asked.

"Nay," Lady Imeyne said, smearing a greenish paste on a piece of stiff linen. "He has but eaten too much of sugars and spices, and it has fevered his blood."

It couldn't be cholera without vomiting, and at any rate the fever was too high. Perhaps it was her virus after all, but she hadn't felt any stomach pain, and her tongue hadn't swollen like that.

The clerk raised his hand and pushed the rag off his forehead and onto the pillow, and then let his arm fall back to his side. Kivrin picked the rag up. It was completely dry. And what besides a virus could cause that high a fever? She couldn't think of anything but typhoid.

"Has he bled from the nose?" she asked Roche.

"Nay," Rosemund said, stepping forward and taking the rag from Kivrin. "I have seen no sign of bleeding."

"Wet it with cold water but don't wring it out," Kivrin said. "Father Roche, help me to lift him."

Roche put his hands to the priest's shoulders and raised him up. There was no blood on the linen under his head.

Roche laid him gently back down. "Think you it is the typhoid fever?" he said, and there was something curious, almost hopeful in his tone.

"I know not," Kivrin said.

Rosemund handed Kivrin the rag. She had took Kivrin at her word. It was dripping with icy water.

Kivrin leaned forward and laid it across the clerk's forehead.

His arms came up suddenly, wildly, knocking the cloth backwards out of Kivrin's hand, and then he was sitting up, flailing at her with both his hands, kicking out with his feet. His fist caught her on the side of her leg, buckling her knees so that she almost toppled onto the bed.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Kivrin said, trying to get her balance, trying to clutch at his hands. "I'm sorry."

His bloodshot eyes were wide open now, staring straight ahead. "Gloriam tuam," he bellowed, in a strange high voice that was almost a scream.

"I'm sorry," Kivrin said. She grabbed at his wrist, and his other arm shot out, striking her full in the chest.

"Requiem aeternum dona eis," he roared, rising up on his knees and then his feet to stand in the middle of the bed. "Et lux perpetua luceat eis."

Kivrin realized suddenly that he was trying to sing the mass for the dead.

Father Roche clutched at his shift, and he lashed out, kicking himself free, and then went on kicking, spinning around as if he were dancing.

"Miserere nobis."

He was too near the wall for them to reach him, hitting the timbers with his feet and flailing arms at every turn without even seeming to notice. "When he comes within reach, we must grab his ankles and knock him down," Kivrin said.

Father Roche nodded, out of breath. The others stood transfixed, not even trying to stop him, Imeyne still on her knees. Maisry pushed herself completely into the window, her hands over her ears and her eyes squeezed shut. Rosemund had retrieved the sopping rag and held it in her outstretched hand as if she thought Kivrin might try to lay it on his head again. Agnes was staring open-mouthed at the clerk's half-exposed body.

The clerk spun back toward them, his hands pawing at the ties on the front of his shift, trying to rip them free.

"Now," Kivrin said.

Father Roche and she reached for his ankles. The clerk went down on one knee, and then, flinging his arms out wide, burst free and launched himself off the high bed straight at Rosemund. She put her hands up, still holding the rag, and he hit her full in the chest.

"Miserere nobis," he said, and they went down together.

"Grab his arms before he hurts her," Kivrin said, but the clerk had stopped flailing. He lay atop Rosemund, motionless, his mouth almost touching hers, his arms limply out at his sides.

Father Roche took hold of the clerk's unresisting arm and rolled him off Rosemund. He flopped onto his side, breathing shallowly but no longer panting.

"Is he dead?" Agnes asked, and as if her voice had released the rest of them from a spell, they all moved forward, Lady Imeyne struggling to her feet, gripping the bedpost.

"Blackie died," Agnes said, clutching at her mother's skirts.

"He is not dead," Imeyne said, kneeling beside him, "but the fever in his blood has gone to the brain. It is often thus."

It's never thus, Kivrin thought. This isn't a symptom of any disease I've ever heard of. What could it be? Spinal meningitis? Epilepsy?

She bent down next to Rosemund. The girl lay rigidly on the floor, her eyes squeezed shut, her hands clenched into whitening fists. "Did he hurt you?" Kivrin asked.

Rosemund opened her eyes. "He pushed me down," she said, her voice quavering a little.

"Can you stand?" Kivrin asked.

Rosemund nodded, and Eliwys stepped forward, Agnes still clinging to her skirt. They helped her to her feet.

"My foot hurts," she said, leaning on her mother, but in a minute she was able to stand on it. "He…of a sudden…"

Eliwys supported her to the end of the bed and sat her down on the carved chest. Agnes clambered up next to her. "The bishop's clerk jumped on top of you," she said.

The clerk murmured something, and Rosemund looked fearfully at him. "Will he rise up again?" she asked Eliwys.

"Nay," Eliwys said, but she helped Rosemund up and led her to the door. "Take your sister down to the fire and sit with her," she told Agnes.

Agnes took hold of Rosemund's arm and led her out. "When the clerk dies, we will bury him in the churchyard," Kivrin could hear her say going down the stairs. "Like Blackie."

The clerk looked already dead, his eyes half-open and unseeing. Father Roche knelt next to him and hoisted him easily over his shoulder, the clerk's head and arms hanging limply down, the way Kivrin had carried Agnes home from the midnight mass. Kivrin hastily pulled the coverlet off the featherbed, and Roche eased him down onto the bed.

"We must draw the fever from the brain," Lady Imeyne said, returning to her poultice. "It is the spices that have fevered his brain."

"No," Kivrin whispered, looking at the priest. He lay on his back with his arms out at his sides, the palms up. The thin shift was ripped halfway down the front and had fallen completely off his left shoulder so his outstretched arm was exposed. Under the arm was a red swelling. "No," she breathed.

The swelling was bright red and nearly as large as an egg. High fever, swollen tongue, intoxication of the nervous system, buboes under the arms and in the groin.

Kivrin took a step back from the bed. "It can't be," she said. "It's something else." It had to be something else. A boil. Or an ulcer of some kind. She reached forward to pull the sleeve away from it.

The clerk's hands twitched. Roche stretched to grasp his wrists, pushing them down into the featherbed. The swelling was hard to the touch, and around it the skin was a mottled purplish- black.

"It can't be," she said. "It's only 1320."

"This will draw the fever out," Imeyne said. She stood up stiffly, holding the poultice out in front of her. "Pull his shift away from his body that I may lay on the poultice." She started toward the bed.

"No!" Kivrin said. She put her hands up to stop her. "Stay away! You mustn't touch him!"

"You speak wildly," Imeyne said. She looked at Roche. "It is naught but a stomach fever."

"It isn't a fever!" Kivrin said. She turned to Roche. "Let go of his hands and get away from him. It isn't a fever. It's the plague."

All of them, Roche and Imeyne and Eliwys looked at her as stupidly as Maisry.

They don't even know what it is, she thought desperately, because it doesn't exist yet, there was no such thing as the Black Death yet. It didn't even begin in China until 1333. And it didn't reach England till 1348. "But it is," Kivrin said. "He's got all the symptoms. The bubo and the swollen tongue and the hemorrhaging under the skin."

"It is naught but a stomach fever," Imeyne said and pushed past Kivrin to the bed.

"No — " Kivrin said, but Imeyne had already stopped, the poultice poised above his naked chest.

"Lord have mercy on us," she said, and backed away, still holding the poultice.

"Is it the blue sickness?" Eliwys said frightenedly.

And suddenly Kivrin saw it all. They had not come here because of the trial, because Lord Guillaume was in trouble with the king. He had sent them here because the plague was in Bath.

"Our nurse died," Agnes had said. And Lady Imeyne's chaplain, Brother Hubard. "Rosemund said he died of the blue sickness," Agnes had told her. And Sir Bloet had said that the trial had been delayed because the judge was ill. That was why Eliwys hadn't wanted to send word to Courcy and why she had been so angry when Imeyne sent Gawyn to the bishop. Because the plague was in Bath. But it couldn't be. The Black Death hadn't reached Bath until the fall of 1348.

"What year is it?" Kivrin said.

The women looked at her dumbly, Imeyne still holding the forgotten poultice. Kivrin turned to Roche. "What is the year?"

"Are you ill, Lady Katherine?" he said anxiously, reaching for her wrists as if he was afraid she was going to have one of the clerk's seizures.

She jerked her hands away. "Tell me the year."

"It is the twenty-first year of Edward III's reign," Eliwys said.

Edward III, not the Second. In her panic she could not remember when he had reigned. "Tell me the year," she said.

"Anno domine," the clerk said from the bed. He tried to lick his lips with his swollen tongue. "One thousand three hundred and forty-eight."