Doomsday Book (Oxford Time Travel, #1) - Connie Willis Page 0,172
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 traveling 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 hall 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 hall 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 hall. 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 sniveling 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 Bernescestre.”