They rode out of the courtyard past the now empty pigpens and out onto the green. It was a leaden day, with a low blanketing layer of heavy clouds and no wind at all. Rosemund was right about it being “like to rain.” There was a damp, misty feeling to the cold air. She kicked her horse into a faster walk.
The village was obviously getting ready for Christmas. Smoke was coming from every hut, and two men were at the far end of the green, chopping wood and throwing it onto an already huge pile. A large, blackened chunk of meat—the goat?—was roasting over a spit beside the steward’s house. The steward’s wife was in front, milking the bony cow Kivrin had leaned against the day she tried to find the drop. She and Mr. Dunworthy had had a fight over whether she needed to learn to milk. She had told him no cows were milked in winter in the 1300’s, that the contemps let them go dry and used goat’s milk for cheese. She had also told him goats were not meat animals.
“Agnes!” Rosemund said furiously.
Kivrin looked up. Agnes had come to a stop and was twisted backwards in her saddle again. She obediently moved forward again, but Rosemund said, “I will wait for you no longer, ninney!” and kicked her horse into a trot, scattering the chickens and practically running down a barefoot little girl with an armload of faggots.
“Rosemund!” Kivrin called, but she was already out of earshot, and Kivrin didn’t want to leave Agnes’s side to go after her.
“Is your sister angry about fetching the holly?” Kivrin asked Agnes, knowing that wasn’t it, but hoping Agnes would volunteer something else.
“She is ever cross-grained,” Agnes said. “Grandmother will be wroth that she rides so childishly.” She trotted her pony decorously across the green, a model of maturity, nodding her head to the villagers.
The little girl Rosemund had almost run down stopped and stared at them, her mouth open. The steward’s wife looked up as they passed and smiled, and then went on milking, but the men who were cutting wood took off their caps and bowed.
They rode past the hut where Kivrin had taken shelter the day she tried to find the drop. The hut she had sat in while Gawyn was bringing her things back to the manor.
“Agnes,” Kivrin said, “did Father Roche go with you when you went after the Yule log?”
“Aye,” Agnes said. “He had to bless it.”
“Oh,” Kivrin said, disappointed. She had hoped perhaps he had gone with Gawyn to fetch her things and knew where the drop was. “Did anyone help Gawyn bring my things to the manor?”
“Nay,” Agnes said, and Kivrin couldn’t tell whether she really knew or not. “Gawyn is very strong. He killed four wolves with his sword.”
That sounded unlikely, but so did his rescuing a maiden in the woods. And it was obvious he would do anything if he thought it would win him Eliwys’s love, even to dragging the wagon home singlehanded.
“Father Roche is strong,” Agnes said.
“Father Roche has
“Have you looked in the church?” Kivrin asked.
“Nay,” Rosemund said sullenly. “But look how cold it grows. Father Roche would have more wit than to wait here till it snows.”
“We will look in the church,” Kivrin said, dismounting and holding her arms to Agnes. “Come on, Agnes.”
“Nay,” Agnes said, sounding almost as stubborn as her sister, “I would wait here with Saracen.” She patted the pony’s mane.
“Saracen will be all right,” Kivrin said. She reached for the little girl and lifted her down. “Come on, we’ll look in the church first.” She took her hand and opened the lychgate to the churchyard.
Agnes didn’t protest, but she kept glancing anxiously over her shoulder at the horses. “Saracen likes not to be left alone.”
Rosemund stopped in the middle of the churchyard and turned around, her hands on her hips. “What are you hiding, you wicked girl? Did you steal apples and put them in your saddlebags?”
“No!” Agnes said, alarmed, but Rosemund was already striding toward the pony. “Stay from there! It is not your pony!” Agnes shouted. “It is mine!”
Well, we won’t have to go find the priest, Kivrin thought. If he’s here, he’ll come out to see what all the noise is.
Rosemund was unbuckling the straps to the saddlebag. “Look!” she said, and held up Agnes’ puppy by the scruff of its neck.
“Oh, Agnes,” Kivrin said.
“You are a wicked girl,” Rosemund said. “I should take it to the river and drown it.” She turned in that direction.
“Nay!” Agnes wailed and ran to the lychgate. Rosemund immediately held the puppy up out of Agnes’s reach.
This has gone absolutely far enough, Kivrin thought. She stepped forward and took the puppy away from Rosemund. “Agnes, stop howling. Your sister won’t hurt your puppy.”
The puppy scrabbled against Kivrin’s shoulder, trying to lick her cheek. “Agnes, hounds can’t ride horses. Blackie wouldn’t be able to breathe in your saddlebag.”
“I could carry him,” Agnes said, but not very hopefully. “He wanted to ride my pony.”
