Doomsday Book (Oxford Time Travel, #1) - Connie Willis Page 0,171

had made too merry himself. He seemed nervous, inattentive, as if he had a splitting headache, 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 toward the stable. Eliwys looked after him worriedly.

“Do you wish 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 good-bye. 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?” the sister-in-law said.

“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 good-bye,” 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 your 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