12

Lady Imeyne did not believe Kivrin’s story about having amnesia. When Agnes brought her hound, which turned out to be a tiny black puppy with huge feet, in to Kivrin, she said, “This is my hound, Lady Kivrin.” She held it out to Kivrin, clutching its fat middle. “You can pet him. Do you remember how?”

“Yes,” Kivrin said, taking the puppy out of Agnes’s too-tight grasp and stroking its baby-soft fur. “Aren’t you supposed to be at your sewing?”

Agnes took the puppy back from her. “Grandmother went to chide with the steward, and Maisry went out to the stable.” She twisted the puppy around to give it a kiss. “So I came to speak to you. Grandmother is very angry. The steward and all his family were living in the hall when we came hence.” She gave the puppy another kiss. “Grandmother says it is his wife who tempts him to sin.”

Grandmother. Agnes had not said anything like “grandmother.” The word hadn’t even existed until the eighteenth century, but the interpreter was taking huge, disconcerting leaps now, though it left Agnes’s mispronunciation of Katherine intact and sometimes left blanks in places where the meaning should have been obvious from context. She hoped her subconscious knew what it was doing.

“Are you a daltriss, Lady Kivrin?” Agnes said.

Her subconscious obviously didn’t know what it was doing. “What?” she asked.

“A daltriss” Agnes said. The puppy was trying desperately to squirm out of Agnes’s grip. “Grandmother says you are one. She says a wife fleeing to her lover would have good cause to remember naught.”

An adultress. Well, at least it was better than a French spy. Or perhaps Lady Imeyne thought she was both.

Agnes kissed the puppy again. “Grandmother said a lady had no good cause to travel through the woods in winter.”

Lady Imeyne was right, Kivrin thought, and so was Mr. Dunworthy. She still had not found out where the drop was, although she had asked to speak with Gawyn when Lady Eliwys came in the morning to bathe her temple.

“He has ridden out to search for the wicked men who robbed you,” Eliwys had said, putting an ointment on Kivrin’s temple that smelled like garlic and stung horribly. “Do you remember aught of them?”

Kivrin had shaken her head, hoping her faked amnesia wouldn’t end in some poor peasant’s being hanged. She could scarcely say, “No, that isn’t the man,” when she supposedly couldn’t remember anything.

Perhaps she shouldn’t have told them she couldn’t remember anything. The probability that they would have known the de Beauvriers was very small, and her lack of an explanation had obviously made Imeyne even more suspicious of her.

Agnes was trying to put her cap on the puppy. “There are wolves in the woods,” she said. “Gawyn slew one with his ax.”

“Agnes, did Gawyn tell you of his finding me?” Kivrin asked.

“Aye. Blackie likes to wear my cap,” she said, tying the strings in a choking knot.

“He doesn’t act like it,” Kivrin said. “Where did Gawyn find me?”

“In the woods,” Agnes said. The puppy twisted out of the cap and nearly fell off the bed. She set it in the middle of the bed and lifted it by its front paws. “Blackie can dance.”

“Here. Let me hold it,” Kivrin said, to rescue the poor thing. She cradled it in her arms. “Where in the woods did Gawyn find me?”

Agnes stood on tiptoe, trying to see the puppy. “Blackie sleeps,” she whispered.

The puppy was asleep, exhausted from Agnes’s attentions. Kivrin laid it beside her on the fur bed covering. “Was the place he found me far from here?”

“Aye,” Agnes said, and Kivrin could tell she had no idea.

This was no use. Agnes obviously didn’t know anything. She would have to talk to Gawyn. “Has Gawyn returned?”

“Aye,” Agnes said, stroking the sleeping puppy. “Would you speak with him?”

“Yes,” Kivrin said.

“Are you a daltriss?”

It was difficult to follow Agnes’s conversational jumps. “No,” she said, and then remembered she was not supposed to be able to remember anything. “I don’t remember anything about who I am.”

Agnes petted Blackie. “Grandmother says only a daltriss would ask so boldly to speak with Gawyn.”

The door opened, and Rosemund came in. “They’re looking for you everywhere, simplehead,” she said, her hands on her hips.

“I was speaking with Lady Kivrin,” Agnes said with an anxious glance at the coverlid where Blackie lay, nearly invisible against the sable fur. Apparently hounds were not allowed inside. Kivrin pulled the rough sheet up over it so Rosemund wouldn’t see.

“Mother said the lady must rest so that her wounds will heal,” Rosemund said sternly. “Come. I must tell Grandmother I found you.” She led the little girl out of the room.

Kivrin watched them leave, hoping fervently that Agnes wouldn’t tell Lady Imeyne Kivrin had asked again to speak to Gawyn. She had thought she had a good excuse to talk to Gawyn, that they would understand that she was anxious to find out about her belongings and her attackers. But it was “unseemly” for unmarried noblewomen in the 1300s to “boldly ask” to speak to young men.

Eliwys could talk to him because she was the head of the house with her husband gone, and his employer, and Lady Imeyne was his lord’s mother, but Kivrin should have waited until Gawyn spoke to her and then answered him “with all modesty as fits a maid.” But I must talk to him, she thought. He’s the only one who knows where the drop is.

Agnes came dashing back in and snatched up the sleeping puppy. “Grandmother was very angry. She thought I had fallen in the well,” Agnes said, and ran back out again.

And no doubt “Grandmother” had boxed Maisry’s ears because of it, Kivrin thought. Maisry had already been in trouble once today for losing Agnes, who had come to show Kivrin Lady Imeyne’s silver chain, which she said was “a rillieclary,” a word that defeated the interpreter. Inside the little box, she told Kivrin, was a piece of the shroud of St. Stephen. Maisry had had her pocked cheek slapped by Imeyne for letting Agnes take the reliquary and for not watching her, though not for letting the little girl in the sickroom.

None of them seemed concerned at all about the little girls getting close to Kivrin or to be aware that they might catch what she had. Neither Eliwys nor Imeyne took any precautions in caring for her.

The contemps hadn’t understood the mechanics of disease transmission, of course—they believed it was a consequence of sin and epidemics were a punishment from God—but they had known about contagion. The motto of the Black Death had been “Depart quickly, go far, tarry long,” and there had been quarantines before that.

Not here, Kivrin thought, and what if the little girls come down with this? Or Father Roche?

He had been near her all through her fever, touching her, asking her name. She frowned, trying to remember that night. She had fallen off the horse, and then there was a fire. No, she had imagined that in her delirium. And the white horse. Gawyn’s horse was black.

They had ridden through a wood and down a hill past a church, and the cutthroat had—It was no use. The night was a shapeless dream of frightening faces and bells and flames. Even the drop was hazy, unclear. There had been an oak tree and willows, and she had sat down against the wagon wheel because she felt so dizzy, and the cutthroat had—No, she had imagined the cutthroat. And the white horse. Perhaps she had imagined the church as well.

She would have to ask Gawyn where the drop was, but not in front of Lady Imeyne, who thought she was a daltriss. She had to get well, to get enough strength to get out of bed and go down to the hall, out to the stable, to find Gawyn to speak to him alone. She had to get better.

She was a little stronger, though she was still too weak to walk to the chamber pot unaided. The dizziness was gone, and the fever, but her shortness of breath persisted. They apparently thought she was improving, too. They had left her alone most of the morning, and Eliwys had only stayed long enough to smear on the foul-smelling ointment. And have me make improper advances toward Gawyn, Kivrin thought.

Kivrin tried not to worry about what Agnes had told her or why the antivirals hadn’t worked or how far the drop was, and to concentrate on getting her strength back. No one came in all afternoon, and she practiced sitting up and putting her feet over the side of the bed. When Maisry came with a rushlight to help her to the chamber pot, she was able to walk back to the bed by herself.

It grew colder in the night, and when Agnes came to see her in the morning, she was wearing a red cloak and hood of very thick wool and white fur mittens. “Do you wish to see my silver buckle? Sir Bloet gave it me. I will bring it on the morrow. I cannot come today, for we go to cut the Yule log.”

“The Yule log?” Kivrin said, alarmed. The ceremonial log had traditionally been cut on the twenty-fourth, and this was only supposed to be the seventeenth. Had she misunderstood Lady Imeyne?

“Aye,” Agnes said. “At home we do not go till Christmas Eve, but it is like to storm, and Grandmother would have us ride out to fetch it while it is yet fine weather.”

Like to storm, Kivrin thought. How would she recognize the drop if it snowed? The wagon and her boxes were still there, but if it snowed more than a few inches she would never recognize the road.

“Does everyone go to fetch the Yule log?” Kivrin asked.

“Nay. Father Roche called Mother to tend a sick cottar.”

That explained why Imeyne was playing the tyrant, bullying Maisry and the steward and accusing Kivrin of adultery. “Does your grandmother go with you?”

“Aye,” she said. “I will ride my pony.”

“Does Rosemund go?”

“Aye.”

“And the steward?”

“Aye,” she said impatiently. “All the village goes.”

“Does Gawyn?”

“Nay,” she said, as if that were self-evident. “I must go out to the stable and bid Blackie farewell.” She ran off.

Lady Imeyne was going, and the steward, and Lady Eliwys was somewhere nursing a peasant who was ill. And Gawyn, for some reason that was obvious to Agnes but not to her, wasn’t. Perhaps he had gone with Eliwys. But if he hadn’t, if he were staying here to guard the manor, she could talk to him alone.

Maisry was obviously going. When she brought Kivrin’s breakfast she was wearing a rough brown poncho and had ragged strips of cloth wrapped around her legs. She helped Kivrin to the chamber pot, carried it out, and brought up a brazier full of hot coals, moving with more speed and initiative than Kivrin had seen before.

Kivrin waited an hour after Maisry left, until she was sure they were all gone, and then got out of bed and walked to the window seat and pulled the linen back. She could not see anything except branches and dark gray sky, but the air was even colder than that in the room. She climbed up on the window seat.

She was above the courtyard. It was empty, and the large wooden gate stood open. The stones of the courtyard and of the low thatched roofs around it looked wet. She stuck her hand out, afraid it had already begun to snow, but she couldn’t feel any moisture. She climbed down, holding on to the ice-cold stones, and huddled by the brazier.

It gave off almost no heat. Kivrin hugged her arms to her chest, shivering in her thin shift. She wondered what they had done with her clothes. Clothes were hung on poles beside the bed in the Middle Ages, but this room had no poles, and no hooks either.

Her clothes were in the chest at the foot of the bed, neatly folded. She took them out, grateful that her boots were still there, and then sat on the closed lid of the chest for a long time, trying to catch her breath.

I have to speak to Gawyn this morning, she thought, willing her body to be strong enough. It’s the only time everyone will be gone. And it’s going to snow.

She dressed, sitting down as much as possible and leaning against the bedposts to pull her hose and boots on, and then went back over to the bed. I’ll rest a little, she thought, just till I’m warmed through, and was immediately asleep.

The bell woke her, the one from the southwest she had heard when she came through. It had rung all yesterday and then stopped, and Eliwys had gone over to the window and stood there for a while, as if trying to see what had happened. The light from the window was dimmer, but it was only that the clouds were thicker, lower. Kivrin put on her cloak and opened the door. The stairs were steep, set into the stone side of the hall, and had no railing. Agnes was lucky she had only skinned her knee. She might have pitched headlong onto the floor below. Kivrin kept her hand on the wall and rested halfway, looking at the hall.

I’m really here, she thought. It really is 1320. The hearth in the middle of the room glowed a dull red with the banked coals, and there was a little light from the smoke hole above it and the high, narrow windows, but most of the hall was in shadow.

She stopped where she was, peering into the smoky gloom, trying to see if anyone was there. The high seat, with its carved back and arms, sat against the end wall with Lady Eliwys’s slightly lower, slightly less ornate one next to it. There were tapestries on the wall behind them and a ladder at the far end of the wall up to what must be a loft. Heavy wooden tables hung along the other walls above the wide benches, and a narrower bench sat next to the wall just below the stairs. The beggar’s bench. And the wall it sat against was the screens.

Kivrin came down the rest of the stairs and tiptoed across to the screens, her feet crunching loudly on the dried rushes scattered on the floor. The screens were really a partition, an inside wall that shut off the draft from the door.

Sometimes the screens formed a separate room, with box beds in either end, but behind these there was only a narrow passage, with the missing hooks for hanging up cloaks. There were no cloaks there now. Good, Kivrin thought, they’re all gone.

The door was open. On the floor next to it was a pair of shaggy boots, a wooden bucket, and Agnes’s cart. Kivrin stopped in the little anteroom to catch her already ragged breath, wishing she could sit down a moment, and then looked carefully out the door and went outside.

There was no one in the enclosed courtyard. It was cobbled with flattish yellow stones, but the center of it, where a water trough hollowed out of a tree stood, was deep in mud. There were trampled hoofprints and footprints all around it, and several puddles of brown water. A thin, mangy-looking chicken was drinking fearlessly from one of the pools. Chickens had only been raised for their eggs. Pigeons and doves had been the chief meat fowls in the 1300s.

And there was the dovecote by the gate, and the thatch-roofed building next to it must be the kitchen, and the other, smaller buildings the storehouses. The stable, with its wide doors, stood along the other side, and then a narrow passage, and then the big stone barn.

She tried the stable first. Agnes’s puppy came bounding out to meet her on its clumsy feet, yipping happily, and she had to hastily push it back inside and shut the heavy wooden door. Gawyn obviously wasn’t in there. He wasn’t in the barn either, or in the kitchen or in the other buildings, the largest of which turned out to be the brewhouse. Agnes had said he wasn’t going with the procession to cut the Yule log as if it were something obvious, and Kivrin had assumed he had to stay here to guard the manor, but now she wondered if he had gone with Eliwys to visit the cottar.

If he has, she thought, I’ll have to go find the drop myself. She started toward the stable again, but halfway there she stopped. She would never be able to get up on a horse by herself, feeling as weak as she did, and if she did somehow manage it, she was too dizzy to stay on. And too dizzy to go looking for the drop. But I have to, she thought. They’re all gone, and it’s going to snow.

She looked toward the gate and then the passage between the barn and the stable, wondering which way to go. They had come down a hill, past a church. She remembered hearing the bell. She didn’t remember the gate or the courtyard, but that was most likely the way they had come.

She walked across the cobbles, sending the chicken clucking frantically over to the shelter of the well, and looked out the gate at the road. It crossed a narrow stream with a log bridge and wound off to the south into the trees. But there wasn’t any hill, and no church, no village, no indication that that was the way to the drop.

There had to be a church. She had heard the bell, lying in bed. She walked back into the courtyard and across to the muddy path. It led past a round wattle pen with two dirty pigs in it, and the privy, unmistakable in its smell, and Kivrin was afraid that the path was only the way to the outhouse, but it wound around behind the privy and opened out onto a green.

And there was the village. And the church, sitting at the far end of the green just the way Kivrin remembered it, and beyond it was the hill they had come down.

The green didn’t look like a green. It was a ragged open space with huts on one side and the willow-edged stream on the other, but there was a cow grazing on what was left of the grass and a goat tethered to a big leafless oak. The huts straggled along the near side between piles of hay and muck heaps, getting smaller and more shapeless the farther they were from the manor house, but even the one closest to the manor house, which should be the steward’s, was nothing but a hovel. It was all smaller and dirtier and more tumbledown than the illustrations in the history vids. Only the church looked the way it was supposed to.

The bell tower stood separate from it, between the churchyard and the green. It had obviously been built later than the church with its Norman round-arched windows and grayed stone. The tower was tall and round, and its stone was yellower, almost golden.

A track, no wider than the road near the drop, led past the churchyard and the tower and up the hill into the woods.

That’s the way we came, Kivrin thought, and started across the green, but as soon as she stepped out of the shelter of the barn, the wind hit her. It went through her cloak as if it were nothing, and seemed to stab into her chest. She pulled the cloak tight around her neck, held it with her flattened hand against her chest, and went on.

The bell in the southwest began again. She wondered what it meant. Eliwys and Imeyne had talked about it, but that was before she could understand what they were saying, and when it began again yesterday, Eliwys hadn’t even acted like she heard it. Perhaps it was something to do with Advent. The bells were supposed to ring at twilight on Christmas Eve and then for an hour before midnight, Kivrin knew. Perhaps they rang at other times during Advent as well.

The track was muddy and rutted. Kivrin’s chest was beginning to hurt. She pressed her hand tighter against it and went on, trying to hurry. She could see movement out beyond the fields. They would be the peasants coming back with the Yule log, or getting in the animals. She couldn’t make them out. It looked as if it were already snowing out there. She must hurry.

The wind whipped her cloak around her and swirled dead leaves past her. The cow moved off the green, its head down, into the shelter of the huts. Which were no shelter at all. They seemed hardly taller than Kivrin and as if they had been bundled together out of sticks and propped in place, and they didn’t stop the wind at all.

The bell continued to ring, a slow, steady tolling, and Kivrin realized she had slowed her tread to match it. She mustn’t do that. She must hurry. It might start snowing any minute. But hurrying made the pain stab so sharply she began to cough. She stopped, bent double with the coughing.

She was not going to make it. Don’t be foolish, she told herself, you have to find the drop. You’re ill. You have to get back home. Go as far as the church and you can rest inside for a minute.

She started on again, willing herself not to cough, but it was no use. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t make it to the church, let alone the drop. You have to make it, she shouted to herself over the pain. You have to will yourself to make it.

She stopped again, bending over against the pain. She had been worried that a peasant would come out of one of the huts, but now she wished someone would so they could help her back to the manor. They wouldn’t. They were all out in this freezing wind, bringing in the Yule log and gathering up the animals. She looked out toward the fields. The distant figures who had been out there were gone.

She was opposite the last hut. Beyond it was a scattering of ramshackle sheds she hoped no one lived in, and surely nobody did. They must be outbuildings—cowbyres and granaries—and beyond them, surely not that far away, the church. Perhaps if I take it slowly, she thought, and started toward the church again. Her whole chest jarred at every step. She stopped, swaying a little, thinking, I mustn’t faint. No one knows where I am.

She turned and looked back at the manor house. She couldn’t even get back to the hall. I have to sit down, she thought, but there was nowhere to sit in the muddy track. Lady Eliwys was tending the cottar, Lady Imeyne and the girls and the entire village were out cutting the Yule log. No one knows where I am.

The wind was picking up, coming now not in gusts but in a straight, determined push across the fields. I must try to get back to the house, Kivrin thought, but she couldn’t do that either. Even standing was too much of an effort. If there were anywhere to sit she would sit down, but the space between the huts, right up to their fences, was all mud. She would have to go into the hut.

It had a rickety wattle fence around it, made by weaving green branches between stakes. The fence was scarcely knee-high and wouldn’t have kept a cat out, let alone the sheep and cows it was intended against. Only the gate had supports even waist-high, and Kivrin leaned gratefully against one of them. “Hello,” she shouted into the wind, “is anyone there?”

The front door of the hut was only a few steps from the gate, and the hut couldn’t be soundproof. It wasn’t even windproof. She could see a hole in the wall where the daubed clay and chopped straw had cracked and fallen away from the matted branches underneath. They could surely hear her. She lifted the loop of leather that held the gate shut, went in, and knocked on the low, planked door.

There was no answer, and Kivrin hadn’t expected any. She shouted again, “Is anyone home?” not even bothering to listen to how the interpreter translated it, and tried to lift the wooden bar that lay across it. It was too heavy. She tried to slide it out of the notches cut in the protruding lintels, but she couldn’t. The hut looked like it could blow away at any minute, and she couldn’t get the door open. She would have to tell Mr. Dunworthy mediaeval huts weren’t as flimsy as they looked. She leaned against the door, holding her chest.

Something made a sound behind her, and she turned, already saying, “I’m sorry I intruded into your garden.” It was the cow, leaning casually over the fence and browsing among the brown leaves, hardly reaching at all.

She would have to go back to the manor. She used the gate for support, making sure she shut it behind her and looped the leather back over the stake, and then the cow’s bony back. The cow followed with her a few steps, as if it thought Kivrin was leading it in to be milked, and then went back to the garden.

The door of one of the sheds that nobody could possibly live in opened, and a barefoot boy came out. He stopped, looking frightened.

Kivrin tried to straighten up. “Please,” she said, breathing hard between the words, “may I rest awhile in your house?”

The boy stared dumbly at her, his mouth hanging open. He was hideously thin, his arms and legs no thicker than the twigs in the hut fences.

“Please, run and tell someone to come. Tell them I’m ill.”

He can no more run than I can, she thought as soon as she said it. The boy’s feet were blue with cold. His mouth looked sore, and his cheeks and upper lip were smeared with dried blood from a nosebleed. He’s got scurvy, Kivrin thought, he’s worse off than I am, but she said again, “Run to the manor and bid them come.”

The boy crossed himself with a chapped, bony hand. “Bighaull emeurdroud ooghattund enblastbardey,” he said, backing into the hut.

Oh, no, Kivrin thought despairingly. He can’t understand me, and I don’t have the strength to try to make him. “Please help me,” she said, and the boy looked almost like he understood that. He took a step toward her and then darted suddenly away in the direction of the church.

“Wait!” Kivrin called.

He darted past the cow and around the fence and disappeared behind the hut. Kivrin looked at the shed. It could scarcely even be called that. It looked more like a haystack—grass and pieces of thatch wadded into the spaces between the poles, but its door was a mat of sticks tied together with blackish rope, the kind of door you could blow down with one good breath, and the boy had left it open. She stepped over the raised doorstep and went into the hut.

It was dark inside and so smoky Kivrin couldn’t see anything. It smelled terrible. Like a stable. Worse than a stable. Mingled with the barnyard smells were smoke and mildew and the nasty odor of rats. Kivrin had had to bend over almost double to get through the door. She straightened, and hit her head on the sticks that served as crossbeams.

There was nowhere to sit in the hut, if that was really what it was. The floor was as covered with sacks and tools as if it was a shed after all, and there was no furniture except an uneven table whose rough legs splayed unevenly from the center. But the table had a wooden bowl and a heel of bread on it, and in the center of the hut, in the only cleared space, a little fire was burning in a shallow, dug-out hole.

It was apparently the source of all the smoke even though there was a hole in the ceiling above it for a draft. It was a little fire, only a few sticks, but the other holes in the unevenly stuffed walls and roof drew the smoke, too, and the wind, coming in from everywhere, gusted it around the cramped hut. Kivrin started to cough, which was a terrible mistake. Her chest felt as if it would break apart with every spasm.

Gritting her teeth to keep from coughing, she eased herself down on a sack of onions, holding on to the spade propped against it and then the fragile-looking wall. She felt immediately better as soon as she was sitting down, even though it was so cold she could see her breath. I wonder how this place smells in the summer, she thought. She wrapped her cloak around her, folding the tails like a blanket across her knees.

There was a cold draft along the floor. She tucked the cloak around her feet and then picked up a bill hook lying next to the sack and poked at the meager fire with it. The fire blazed up halfheartedly, illuminating the hut and making it look more than ever like a shed. A low lean- to had been built on at one side, probably for a stable because it was partitioned off from the rest of the hut by an even lower fence than the cottage had had. The fire wasn’t bright enough for Kivrin to see into the lean- to corner, but a scuffling sound came from it.

A pig, maybe, although the peasants’ pigs were supposed to have been slaughtered by now, or maybe a milchgoat. She poked at the fire again, trying to get a little more light on the corner.

The scuffling sound came from in front of the pathetic fence, from a large dome-shaped cage. It was elaborately out of place in the filthy corner with its smooth curved metal band, its complicated door, its fancy handle. Inside the cage, its eyes glinting in the firelight Kivrin had stirred up, was a rat.

It sat on its haunches, its handlike paws holding the chunk of cheese that had tempted it into imprisonment, watching Kivrin. There were several other crumbled and probably moldy bits of cheese on the floor of the cage. More food than in this entire hut, Kivrin thought, sitting very still on the lumpy sack of onions. One wouldn’t think they had anything worth protecting from a rat.

She had seen a rat before, of course, in History of Psych and when they tested her for phobias during her first year, but not this kind. Nobody had seen this kind, in England at least, in fifty years. It was a very pretty rat, actually, with silky black fur, not much bigger than History of Psych’s white laboratory rats, not nearly as big as the brown rat she’d been tested with.

It looked much cleaner than the brown rat, too. It had looked like it belonged in the sewers and drains and tube tunnels it had no doubt come out of, with its matted dust-brown coat and long, obscenely naked tail. When she had first started studying the Middle Ages, she had been unable to understand how the contemps had tolerated the disgusting things in their barns, let alone their houses. The thought of the one in the wall by her bed had filled her with revulsion. But this rat was actually quite clean-looking, with its black eyes and shiny coat. Certainly cleaner than Maisry, and probably more intelligent. Harmless-looking.

As if to prove her point, the rat took another dainty nibble on the cheese.

“You’re not harmless, though,” Kivrin said. “You’re the scourge of the Middle Ages.”

The rat dropped the chunk of cheese and took a step forward, its whiskers twitching. It took hold of two of the metal bars with its pinkish hands and looked appealingly through them.

“I can’t let you out, you know,” Kivrin said, and its ears pricked up as if it understood her. “You eat precious grain and contaminate food and carry fleas and in another twenty-eight years you and your chums will wipe out half of Europe. You’re what Lady Imeyne should be worrying about instead of French spies and illiterate priests.” The rat looked at her. “I’d like to let you out, but I can’t. The Black Death was bad enough as it was. It killed half of Europe. If I let you out, your descendants might make it even worse.”

The rat let go of the bars and began running around the cage, crashing against the bars, circling in frantic, random movements.

“I’d let you out if I could,” Kivrin said. The fire had nearly gone out. Kivrin stirred it again, but it was all ashes. The door she had left open in the hope that the boy would bring someone back looking for her banged shut, plunging the hut in darkness.

They won’t have any idea where to look for me, Kivrin thought, and knew they weren’t even looking yet. They all thought she was in the upstairs room asleep. Lady Imeyne wouldn’t even check on her until she brought her her supper. They wouldn’t even start to look for her until after vespers, and by then it would be dark.

It was very quiet in the hut. The wind must have died down. She couldn’t hear the rat. A twig on the fire snapped once, and sparks flew onto the dirt floor.

Nobody knows where I am, she thought, and put her hand up to her chest as if she had been stabbed. Nobody knows where I am. Not even Mr. Dunworthy.

But surely that wasn’t true. Lady Eliwys might have come back and gone up to put more ointment on, or Maisry might have been sent home by Imeyne, or the boy might have darted off to fetch the men from the fields, and they would be here any minute, even though the door was shut. And even if they didn’t realize she was gone until after vespers, they had torches and lanterns, and the parents of the boy with scurvy would come back to cook supper and find her and would go and fetch someone from the manor. No matter what happens, she told herself, you’re not completely alone, and that comforted her.

Because she was completely alone. She had tried to convince herself she wasn’t, that some reading on the net’s screens had told Gilchrist and Montoya something had gone wrong, that Mr. Dunworthy had made Badri check and recheck everything, that they knew what had happened somehow and were holding the drop open. But they weren’t. They no more knew where she was than Agnes and Lady Eliwys did. They thought she was safely in Skendgate, studying the Middle Ages, with the drop clearly located and the corder already half full of observations about quaint customs and rotation of crops. They wouldn’t even realize she was gone until they opened the drop in two weeks.

“And by then it will be dark,” Kivrin said.

She sat still, watching the fire. It was nearly out, and there weren’t any more sticks anywhere that she could see. She wondered if the boy had been left at home to gather faggots and what they would do for a fire tonight.

She was all alone, and the fire was going out, and nobody knew where she was except the rat that was going to kill half of Europe. She stood up, cracking her head again, pushed the door of the hut open, and went outside.

There was still no one in sight in the fields. The wind had died down, and she could hear the bell from the southwest tolling clearly. A few flakes of snow drifted out of the gray sky. The little rise the church was on was completely obscurred with snow. Kivrin started toward the church.

Another bell began. It was more to the south and closer, but with the higher, more metallic sound that meant it was a smaller bell. It tolled steadily, too, but a little behind the first bell so that it sounded like an echo.

“Kivrin! Lady Kivrin!” Agnes called. “Where have you been?” She ran up beside Kivrin, her round little face red with exertion or cold. Or excitement. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you.” She darted back in the direction she had come from, shouting, “I found her! I found her!”

“Nay, you did not!” Rosemund said. “We all saw her.” She hurried forward ahead of Lady Imeyne and Maisry, who had her ragged poncho thrown over her shoulders. Her ears were bright red. She looked sullen, which probably meant she had been blamed for Kivrin’s disappearance or thought she was going to be, or maybe she was just cold. Lady Imeyne looked furious.

“You did not know it was Kivrin,” Agnes shouted, running back to Kivrin’s side. “You said you were not certain it was Kivrin. I was the one who found her.”

Rosemund ignored her. She took hold of Kivrin’s arm. “What has happened? Why did you leave your bed?” she asked anxiously. “Gawyn came to speak with you and found that you had gone.”

Gawyn came, Kivrin thought weakly. Gawyn, who could have told me exactly where the drop is, and I wasn’t there.

“Aye, he came to tell you that he had found no trace of your attackers, and that—”

Lady Imeyne came up. “Whither were you bound?” she said, and it sounded like an accusation.

“I could not find my way back,” Kivrin said, trying to think what to say to explain her wandering about the village.

“Went you to meet someone?” Lady Imeyne demanded, and it was definitely an accusation.

“How could she go to meet someone?” Rosemund asked. “She knows no one here and remembers naught of before.”

“I went to look for the place where I was found,” Kivrin said, trying not to lean on Rosemund. “I thought maybe the sight of my belongings might …”

“Help you to remember,” Rosemund said. “But—”

“You need not have risked your health to do so,” Lady Imeyne said. “Gawyn has fetched them here this day.”

“Everything?” Kivrin asked.

“Aye,” Rosemund said, “the wagon and all your boxes.”

The second bell stopped, and the first bell kept on alone, steadily, slowly, and surely it was a funeral. It sounded like the death of hope itself. Gawyn had brought everything to the manor.

“It is not meet to hold Lady Katherine talking in this cold,” Rosemund said, sounding like her mother. “She has been ill. We must needs get her inside ere she catches a chill.”

I have already caught a chill, Kivrin thought. Gawyn had brought everything to the manor, all traces of where the drop had been. Even the wagon.

“You are to blame for this, Maisry,” Lady Imeyne said, pushing Maisry forward to take Kivrin’s arm. “You should not have left her alone.”

Kivrin flinched away from the filthy Maisry.

“Can you walk?” Rosemund asked, already buckling under Kivrin’s weight. “Should we bring the mare?”

“No,” Kivrin said. She somehow couldn’t bear the thought of that, brought back like a captured prisoner on the back of a jangling horse. “No,” she repeated. “I can walk.”

She had to lean heavily on Rosemund’s arm and Maisry’s filthy one, and it was slow going, but she made it. Past the huts and the steward’s house and the interested pigs, and into the courtyard. The stump of a big ash tree lay on the cobbles in front of the barn, its twisted roots catching the flakes of snow.

“She will have caught her death with her behavior,” Lady Imeyne said, gesturing to Maisry to open the heavy wooden door. “She will no doubt have a relapse.”

It began to snow in earnest. Maisry opened the door. It had a latch like the little door on the rat’s cage. I should have let it go, Kivrin thought, scourge or not. I should have let it go.

Lady Imeyne motioned to Maisry, and she came back to take Kivrin’s arm again. “No,” she said, and shrugged off her hand and Rosemund’s and walked alone and without help through the door and into the darkness inside.

TRANSCRIPT FROM THE DOMESDAY BOOK

(005982–013198)

18 December 1320 (Old Style). I think I have pneumonia. I tried to go find the drop, but I didn’t make it, and I’ve had some sort of relapse or something. There’s a stabbing pain under my ribs every time I take a breath, and when I cough, which is constantly, it feels like everything inside is breaking to pieces. I tried to sit up a while ago and was instantly bathed in sweat, and I think my temp is back up. Those are all symptoms Dr. Ahrens told me indicate pneumonia.

Lady Eliwys isn’t back yet. Lady Imeyne put a horrible-smelling poultice on my chest and then sent for the steward’s wife. I thought she wanted to “chide with” her for usurping the manor, but when the steward’s wife came, carrying her six-month-old baby, Imeyne told her, “The wound has fevered her lungs,” and the steward’s wife looked at my temple and then went out and came back without the baby and with a bowl full of a bitter-tasting tea. It must have had willow bark or something in it because my temp came down, and my ribs don’t hurt quite so much.

The steward’s wife is thin and small, with a sharp face and ash-blond hair. I think Lady Imeyne is probably right about her being the one to tempt the steward “into sin.” She came in wearing a fur-trimmed kirtle with sleeves so long they nearly dragged on the floor, and her baby wrapped in a finely woven wool blanket, and she talks in an odd slurred accent that I think is an attempt to mimic Lady Imeyne’s speech.

“The embryonic middle class,” as Mr. Latimer would say, nouveau riche and waiting for its chance, which it will get in thirty years when the Black Death hits and a third of the nobility is wiped out.

“Is this the lady was found in the woods?” she asked Lady Imeyne when she came in, and there wasn’t any “seeming modesty” in her manner. She smiled at Imeyne as if they were old chums and came over to the bed.

“Aye,” Lady Imeyne said, managing to get impatience, disdain, and distaste all in one syllable.

The steward’s wife was oblivious. She came over to the bed and then stepped back, the first person to show any indication they thought I might be contagious. “Has she the (something) fever?” The interpreter didn’t catch the word, and I couldn’t get it either because of her peculiar accent. Flouronen? Florentine?

“She has a wound to the head,” Imeyne said sharply. “It has fevered her lungs.”

The steward’s wife nodded. “Father Roche told us how he and Gawyn found her in the woods.”

Imeyne stiffened at the familiar use of Gawyn’s name, and the steward’s wife did catch that and hurried out to brew up the willow bark. She even ducked a bow to Lady Imeyne when she left the second time.

Rosemund came in to sit with me after Imeyne left—I think they’ve assigned her to keep me from trying to escape again—and I asked her if it was true that Father Roche had been with Gawyn when he found me.

“Nay,” she said. “Gawyn met Father Roche on the road as he brought you here and left you to his care that he might seek your attackers, but he found naught of them, and he and Father Roche brought you here. You need not worry over it. Gawyn has brought your things to the manor.”

I don’t remember Father Roche being there, except in the sickroom, but if it’s true, and Gawyn didn’t meet him too far from the drop, maybe he knows where it is.

(Break)

I have been thinking about what Lady Imeyne said. “The wound to her head has fevered her lungs,” she said. I don’t think anyone here realizes I’m ill. They let the little girls in the sickroom all the time, and none of them seem the least afraid, except the steward’s wife, and as soon as Lady Imeyne told her I had “fevered lungs,” she came up to the bed without any hesitation.

But she was obviously worried about the possibility of my illness’s being contagious, and when I asked Rosemund why she hadn’t gone with her mother to see the cottar, she said, as if it were self-evident, “She forbade me to go. The cottar is ill.”

I don’t think they know I have a disease. I didn’t have any obvious marker symptoms, like pox or a rash, and I think they put my fever and delirium down to my injuries. Wounds often became infected, and there were frequent cases of blood poisoning. There would be no reason to keep the little girls away from an injured person.

And none of them have caught it. It’s been five days, and if it is a virus, the incubation period should only be twelve to forty-eight hours. Dr. Ahrens told me the most contagious period is before there are any symptoms, so maybe I wasn’t contagious by the time the little girls started coming in. Or maybe this is something they’ve all had already, and they’re immune. The steward’s wife asked if I had had the Florentine? Flahntin? fever, and Mr. Gilchrist’s convinced there was an influenza epidemic in 1320. Maybe that’s what I caught.

It’s afternoon. Rosemund is sitting in the window seat, sewing a piece of linen with dark red wool, and Blackie’s asleep beside me. I’ve been thinking about how you were right, Mr. Dunworthy. I wasn’t prepared at all, and everything’s completely different from the way I thought it would be. But you were wrong about it’s not being like a fairy tale.

Everywhere I look I see things from fairy tales: Agnes’s red cape and hood, and the rat’s cage, and bowls of porridge, and the village’s huts of straw and sticks that a wolf could blow down without half trying.

The bell tower looks like the one Rapunzel was imprisoned in, and Rosemund, bending over her embroidery, with her dark hair and white cap and red cheeks, looks for all the world like Snow White.

(Break)

I think my fever is back up. I can smell smoke in the room. Lady Imeyne is praying, kneeling beside the bed with her Book of Hours. Rosemund told me they have sent for the steward’s wife again. Lady Imeyne despises her. I must be truly ill for Imeyne to have sent for her. I wonder if they will send for the priest. If they do, I must ask him if he knows where Gawyn found me. It’s so hot in here. This part is not like a fairy tale at all. They only send for the priest when someone is dying, but Probability says there was a 72 percent chance of dying of pneumonia in the 1300s. I hope he comes soon, to tell me where the drop is and hold my hand.