time ago,” but it looks nearly new, and therefore very different from the dig’s tomb. It has a number of decorations the dig’s tomb didn’t have, but they might simply have broken or worn off.
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 1500s.
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 on 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.
(Break)
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.
15
Kivrin’s recovery from pneumonia came so suddenly she was convinced that something had happened to finally activate her immune system. The pain in her chest abruptly went away, and the cut on her forehead disappeared as if by magic.
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 Confíteor 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