Doomsday Book (Oxford Time Travel, #1) - Connie Willis Page 0,139

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 well, 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 vivid blue cloak even brighter than Kivrin’s kirtle 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