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?”
“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 goodbye,” 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 you 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 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 travelling 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 house 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 house 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 house. 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.
