“There is nowhere God’s servants may not go,” Roche had said. Except to the drop, she thought. Except home.
She scrubbed viciously with the wet sand at some wax imbedded in the rim of the candlestick, and a piece flew off and hit the candle Roche was scraping. “I’m sorry,” she said, “Lady Imeyne—” and then stopped.
There was no point in telling him she was being sent away. If he tried to intercede for her with Lady Imeyne it would only make it worse, and she didn’t want him shipped off to Osney or worse for trying to help her.
He was waiting for her to finish her sentence. “Lady Imeyne bade me tell you the bishop’s envoy will say the Christmas mass,” she said.
“It will be a blessing to hear such holiness on the birthday of Christ Jesus,” he said, setting down the polished chalice.
The birthday of Christ Jesus. She tried to envision St. Mary the Virgin’s as it would look this morning, the music and the warmth, the laser candles glittering in the stainless steel candlesticks, but it was like something she had only imagined, dim and unreal.
She stood the candlesticks on either side of the altar. They shone dully in the multicolored light of the windows. She set three of Imeyne’s candles in them and moved the left on a little closer to the altar so they were even.
There was nothing she could do about Roche’s robe, which Imeyne knew full well was the only one he had. He had got wet sand on his sleeve, and she wiped it off with her hand.
“I must go wake Agnes and Rosemund for the mass,” she said, brushing at the front of his robe, and then went on almost without meaning to, “Lady Imeyne has asked the bishop’s envoy to take me with them to the nunnery at Godstow.”
“God has sent you to this place to help us,” he said. “He will not let you be taken from it.”
I wish I could believe you, Kivrin thought, going back across the green. There was still no sign of life, though smoke was coming from a couple of the roofs, and the cow had been turned out. It was nibbling the grass near the bonfire where the snow had melted. Perhaps they’re all asleep, and I can wake Gawyn and ask him where the drop is, she thought, and saw Rosemund and Agnes coming toward her. They looked considerably the worse for wear. Rosemund’s leaf-green velvet dress was covered with wisps of straw and hay dust, and Agnes had it in her hair. She broke free of Rosemund as soon as she saw Kivrin and ran up to her.
“You’re supposed to be asleep,’ Kivrin said, brushing straw from her red kirtle.
“Some men came,” Agnes said. “They wakened us.”
Kivrin looked inquiringly at Rosemund. “Has your father come?”
“Nay,” she said. “I know not who they are. I think they must be servants of the bishop’s envoy.”
They were. There were four of them, monks, though not of the class of the Cistercian monk, and two laden donkeys, and they had obviously only now caught up with their master. They unloaded two large chests while Kivrin and the girls watched, several wadmal bags, and an enormous wine cask.
“They must be planning to stay a long while,” Agnes said.
“Yes,” Kivrin said. God has sent you to this place. He will not let you be taken from it. “Come,” she said cheerfully. “I will comb your hair.”
She took Agnes inside and cleaned her up. The short nap hadn’t improved Agnes’s disposition, and she refused to stand still while Kivrin combed her hair. It took her till mass to get all the straw and most of the tangles out, and Agnes continued to whine the whole way to the church.
There had apparently been vestments as well as wine in the envoy’s luggage. The bishop’s envoy wore a black velvet chasuble over his dazzlingly white vestments, and the monk was resplendent in yards of samite and gilt embroidery. The clerk was nowhere to be seen, and neither was Father Roche, probably exiled because of his robe. Kivrin looked toward the back of the church, hoping he’d been allowed to witness all this holiness, but she couldn’t see him among the villagers.
They looked somewhat the worse for wear, too, and some of them were obviously badly hungover. As was the bishop’s envoy. He rattled through the words of the mass tonelessly and in an accent Kivrin could scarcely understand. It bore no resemblance to Father Roche’s Latin. Nor to what Latimer and the priest at Holy Reformed had taught her. The vowels were all wrong and the “c” in
And it was the true Latin, she thought. “I will not leave you,” he said. He said, “Be not afraid.” And I understood him.
As the mass progressed, the envoy chanted faster and faster, as if he was anxious to be done with it. Lady Imeyne didn’t seem to notice. She looked smugly serene in the knowledge of doing good and nodded approvingly at the sermon, which seemed to be about forsaking worldly things.
