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“Father Roche!” Agnes shouted. “Father Roche! We have been seeking you!” She had obviously forgotten all about the wicked man. “We looked in the church and we looked in the house, but you were not there!”

She was running full tilt at him. He turned and bent down and scooped Agnes up into his arms all in one motion.

“I sought you in the bell tower, but you were not there,” Agnes said without the slightest trace of fear. “Rosemund said you had gone.”

Kivrin stopped even with the last pillar, trying to get her heart to slow down.

“Were you hiding?” Agnes asked. She put one arm trustingly around his neck. “Once Rosemund hid in the barn and jumped down on me. I cried out in a loud voice.”

“Why did you seek me, Agnes?” he said. “Is someone ill?”

He pronounced Agnes, “Agnus,” and he had nearly the same accent as the boy with the scurvy. The interpreter took a catch step before it translated what he’d said, and Kivrin felt a fleeting surprise that she couldn’t understand him. She had understood everything he said in the sickroom.

He must have been speaking Latin to me, she thought, because there was no mistaking his voice. It was the voice that had said the last rites, the voice that had told her not to be afraid. And she wasn’t afraid. At the sound of his voice, her heart had stopped pounding.

“Nay, none are ill,” Agnes said. “We would go with you to gather ivy and holly for the hall. Lady Kivrin and Rosemund and Saracen and I.”

At the words, “Lady Kivrin,” Roche turned and saw her standing there by the pillar. He set Agnes down.

Kivrin put out her hand to the pillar for support. “I beg your pardon, Holy Father,” she said. “I’m so sorry I screamed and ran from you. It was dark, and I didn’t recognize you—”

The interpreter, still a half-beat behind, translated that as, “I knew you not.”

“She knows naught,” Agnes interrupted. “The wicked man struck her on the head, and she remembers naught save for her name.”

“I had heard this,” he said, still looking at Kivrin. “Is it true you have no memory of why you have come among us?”

She felt the same longing to tell him the truth that she had felt when he’d asked her her name. I’m an historian, she wanted to say. I came here to observe you, and I fell ill, and I don’t know where the drop is.

“She remembers naught of who she is,” Agnes said. “She did not yet remember how to speak. I had to teach her.”

“You remember naught of who you are?” he asked.

“No.”

“And naught of your coming here?” he said.

She could answer that truthfully at least. “No,” she said. “Except that you and Gawyn brought me to the manor.”

Agnes was obviously tired of the conversation. “Might we go with you now to gather holly?”

He didn’t act as if he’d heard her. He extended his hand as if he were going to bless Kivrin, but he touched her temple instead, and she realized that was what he had intended to do before, beside the tomb. “You have no wound,” he said.

“It’s healed,” she said.

“We wish to go now,” Agnes said, tugging on Roche’s arm.

He raised his hand, as if to touch her temple again, and then withdrew it. “You must not fear,” he said. “God has sent you among us for some good purpose.”

No, He hasn’t, Kivrin thought. He hasn’t sent me here at all. Mediaeval sent me. But she felt comforted.

“Thank you,” she said.

“I would go now!” Agnes said, tugging on Kivrin’s arm. “Go fetch your donkey,” she told Father Roche, “and we will fetch Rosemund.”

Agnes started down the nave, and Kivrin had no choice but to go with her to keep her from running. The door banged open just before they reached it, and Rosemund looked in, blinking.

“It is raining. Found you Father Roche?” she demanded.

“Took you Blackie to the stable?” Agnes asked.

“Aye. You were too late, then, and Father Roche had gone?”

“Nay. He is here, and we are to go with him. He was in the church, and Lady Kivrin—”

“He has gone to fetch his donkey,” Kivrin said to keep Agnes from launching into the story of what had happened.

“I was affrighted that time when you jumped from the loft, Rosemund,” Agnes said, but Rosemund had already stomped off to her horse.

It wasn’t raining, but there was a fine mist in the air. Kivrin helped Agnes into her saddle and mounted the sorrel, using the lychgate as a step. Father Roche led the donkey out to them, and they started off on the track past the church and up through the little band of trees behind it, along a little space of snow– covered meadow and on into the woods.

“There are wolves in these woods,” Agnes said. “Gawyn killed one.”

Kivrin scarcely heard her. She was watching Father Roche walking beside his donkey, trying to remember the night he had brought her to the manor. Rosemund had said Gawyn had met him on the road and he had helped Gawyn bring her the rest of the way to the manor, but that couldn’t be right.