“Maisry,” Eliwys said. “The table looks well enough. Go and fetch the saltcellar and the silver platter from the chest in the loft.”
The woman with the scrofula scars scurried out of the room and even Maisry didn’t dawdle going up the ladder. Kivrin pulled her cloak on and tied it hastily, afraid Lady Imeyne would say something else about her being attacked, but neither of the women said anything. They stood, Imeyne still twisting the rag between her hands, obviously waiting for Kivrin and Rosemund to be gone.
“Does—” Rosemund said, and then ran off after Agnes.
Kivrin hurried after them. Gawyn was gone, but she had permission to go into the woods and transportation. And the priest to go with them. Rosemund had said Gawyn had met him on the road when he was bringing her to the manor. Perhaps Gawyn had taken him to the clearing.
She practically ran across the courtyard to the stable, afraid that at the last minute Eliwys would call across the courtyard to her that she had changed her mind, Kivrin was not well enough, and the woods were too dangerous.
The girls had apparently had the same idea. Agnes was already on her pony, and Rosemund was cinching the girth on her mare’s saddle. The pony wasn’t a pony at all; it was a sturdy sorrel scarcely smaller than Rosemund’s mare and Agnes looked impossibly high up on the high-backed saddle. The boy who had told Eliwys about the mare’s foot was holding the reins.
“Do not stand gawking, Cob!” Rosemund snapped at him. “Saddle the roan for Lady Katherine!”
He obediently let go of the reins. Agnes leaned far forward to grab them.
“
“We will ride to the church, Saracen,” Agnes said, “and tell Father Roche we would go with him, and then we will go riding. Saracen loves to go riding.” She leaned much too far forward to pat the pony’s cropped mane, and Kivrin had to keep herself from grabbing for her.
She was obviously perfectly able to ride—neither Rosemund nor the boy saddling Kivrin’s horse gave her a glance—but she looked so tiny perched up there in the saddle with her soft-soled boot in the jerked-up stirrup, and she was no more capable of riding carefully than she was of walking slowly.
Cob saddled the roan, led it out, and then stood there, waiting.
“Cob!” Rosemund said rudely. He bent down and made a step out of his linked hands. Rosemund stepped up on it and swung into the saddle. “Do not stand there like a witless fool. Help Lady Katherine.”
He hurried awkwardly over to give Kivrin a hand up. She hesitated, wondering what was wrong with Rosemund. She had obviously been upset by the news that Gawyn had gone to Sir Bloet’s. Rosemund hadn’t seemed to know anything about her father’s trial, but perhaps she was aware of more than Kivrin, or her mother and grandmother, thought.
“A man as powerful as Sir Bloet,” Imeyne had said, and “his good will may be sorely needed.” Perhaps Imeyne’s invitation was not as self-serving as it seemed. Perhaps it meant Lord Guillaume was in even more trouble than Eliwys imagined, and Rosemund, sitting quietly at her sewing, had figured that out.
“Cob!” Rosemund snapped, though he was clearly waiting for Kivrin to mount. “Your dawdling will make us miss Father Roche!”
Kivrin smiled reassuringly at Cob, and put her hands on the boy’s shoulder. One of the first things Mr. Dunworthy had insisted on was riding lessons, and she had managed fairly well. The side-saddle hadn’t been introduced until the 1390’s, which was a blessing, and mediaeval saddles had a high saddle-bow and cantle. This saddle was even higher in the back than the one she’d learned on.
But I’ll probably be the one to fall off, not Agnes, she thought, looking at Agnes perched confidently on her pony. She wasn’t even holding on but was twisted around messing with something in the saddlebag behind her.
“Let us be gone!” Rosemund said impatiently.
“Sir Bloet says he will bring me a silver bridle-chain for Saracen,” she said, still fussing with the saddlebag.
“Agnes! Stop dawdling and
“Sir Bloet says he will bring it when he comes at Easter.”
“Agnes!” Rosemund said. “Come! It is like to rain.”
“Nay, it will not,” Agnes said unconcernedly. “Sir Bloet—”
Rosemund turned furiously on her sister. “Oh, and can you now sooth the weather? You are naught but a babe! A mewling babe!”
“Rosemund!” Kivrin said. “Don’t speak that way to your sister.” She stepped up to Rosemund’s mare and took hold of the loosely looped reins. “What’s the matter, Rosemund? Is something troubling you?”
Rosemund pulled the reins sharply taut. “Only that we dawdle here while the
Kivrin let go of the reins, frowning, and let Cob make a step of his laced fingers for her foot so she could mount. She had never seen Rosemund act like this.
