Doomsday Book (Oxford Time Travel, #1) - Connie Willis Page 0,109

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 went over to the statue.

The candle was set between the statue’s blocklike 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 boxlike 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 backward 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