"He found naught among her belongings that might tell us the lady's origins. Her goods had all been stolen, the chests broken open and emptied of all that might identify her. But he said her wagon was of rich make. Certes, she is of good family."

"And certes, her family searches for her," the old woman said. She had set down the bowl and was tearing cloth with a loud ripping sound. "We must send to Oxenford and tell them she lies safe with us."

"No," Eliwys said, and Kivrin could hear the resistance in her voice. "Not to Oxenford."

"What have you heard?"

"I have heard naught," Eliwys said, "but that my lord bade us keep here. He will be here within the week if all goes well."

"If all had gone well he would have been here now."

"The trial had scarce begun. Mayhap he is on his way home even now."

"Or mayhap…," another one of those untranslatable names, Torquil? "…waits to be hanged, and my son with him. He should not have meddled in such a matter."

"He is a friend, and guiltless of the charges."

"He is a fool, and my son more fool for testifying on his behalf. A friend would have bade him leave Bath." She ground the spoon into the side of the bowl again. "I have need of mustard for this," she said and stepped to the door. "Maisry!" she called, and went back to tearing the cloth. "Found Gawyn aught of the lady's attendants?"

Eliwys sat down on the windowseat. "No, nor of their horses nor hers."

A girl with a pocked face and greasy hair hanging over it came in. Surely this couldn't be Maisry, who dallied with stableboys instead of watching her charges. She bent her knee in a curtsey that was more of a stumble and said, "Wotwardstu, Lawttymayeen?"

Oh, no, Kivrin thought. What's wrong with the interpreter?

"Fetch me the pot of mustard from the kitchen and tarry not," the old woman said, and the girl started for the door. "Where are Agnes and Rosemund? Why are they not with you?"

"Shiyrouthamay," she said sullenly.

Eliwys stood up. "Speak up," she said sharply.

"They hide (something) from me."

It wasn't the interpreter after all. It was simply the difference of the Norman English the nobles spoke and the still Saxon-sounding dialect of the peasants, neither of which sounded anything like the Middle English Mr. Latimer had blithely taught her. It was a wonder the interpreter was picking up anything at all.

"I was seeking them when Lady Imeyne called, good lady," Maisry said, and the interpreter got it all, though it was taking several seconds. It gave an imbecilic slowness to Maisry's speech, which might or might not be appropriate.

"Where did you look for them? In the stable?" Eliwys said, and brought her hands together on either side of Maisry's head like a pair of cymbals. Maisry howled and clapped a dirty hand to her left ear. Kivrin shrank back against the pillows.

"Go and fetch the mustard to Lady Imeyne and find you Agnes."

Maisry nodded, not looking particularly frightened but still holding her ear. She stumbled another curtsey and went out no more quickly than she had come in. She seemed less upset by the sudden violence than Kivrin was, and Kivrin wondered if Lady Imeyne would get her mustard any time soon.

It was the swiftness and the calmness of the violence that had surprised her. Eliwys had not even seemed angry, and as soon as Maisry was gone she went back to the windowseat, sat down, and said quietly, "The lady could not be moved though her family did come. She can bide with us until my husband returns. He will be here by Christmas surely."

There was noise on the stairs. Apparently she had been wrong, Kivrin thought and the ear-boxing had done some good. Agnes rushed in, clutching something to her chest.

"Agnes!" Eliwys said. "What do you here?"

"I brought my…," the interpreter still didn't have it. Charette? "to show the lady."

"You are a wicked child to hide from Maisry and come hence to disturb the lady," Eliwys said. "She suffers greatly from her injuries."

"But she told me she wished to see it." She held it up. It was a toy two-wheeled cart painted red and gilt.

"God punishes those who bear false witness with everlasting torment," Lady Imeyne said, grabbing the little girl roughly. "The lady cannot speak. You know full well."

"She spoke to me," Agnes said sturdily.

Good for you, Kivrin thought. Everlasting torment. What horrible things to threaten a child with. But this was the Middle Ages, when priests talked constantly of the last days and the final judgment, of the pains of hell.

"She told me she wished to see my wagon," Agnes said. "She said she did not have a hound."

"You are making up tales," Eliwys said. "The lady cannot speak," and Kivrin thought, I have to stop this. They'll box her ears, too.

She pushed herself up on her elbows. The effort left her breathless. "I spoke with Agnes," she said, praying the interpreter would do what it was supposed to. If it chose to blink out again at this moment and ended up getting Agnes a beating, that would be the last straw. "I bade her bring her cart to me."

Both women turned and looked at her. Eliwys's eyes widened. The old woman looked astonished and then angry, as if she thought Kivrin had deceived them.

"I told you," Agnes said, and marched over to the bed with the wagon.

Kivrin lay back against the pillows, exhausted. "What is this place?" she asked.

It took Eliwys a moment to recover herself. "You rest safely in the house of my lord and husband…" The interpreter had trouble with the name. It sounded like Guillaume D'Iverie or possibly Devereaux.

Eliwys was looking at her anxiously. "My husband's privé found you in the woods and brought you hence. You had been set upon by robbers and grievously injured. Who attacked you?"

"I know not," Kivrin said.

"I am called Eliwys, and this is the mother of my husband, the Lady Imeyne. What is your name?"

And now was the time to tell them the whole carefully researched story. She had told the priest her name was Katherine, but Lady Imeyne had already made it clear she put no stock in anything he said. She didn't even believe he could speak Latin. Kivrin could say he had misunderstood, that her name was Isabel de Beauvrier. She could tell them she had called out her mother's, her sister's name in her delirium. She could tell them she had been praying to St. Katherine.

"Of what family are you?" Lady Imeyne asked.

It was a very good story. It would establish her identity and position in society and would ensure that they wouldn't try to send for her family. Yorkshire was too far away, and the road north was impassable.

"Whither were you bound?" Eliwys said.

Mediaeval had thoroughly researched the weather and the road conditions. It had rained every day for two weeks in December, and there hadn't been a hard frost to freeze the mired roads till late January. But she had seen the road to Oxford. It had been dry and clear. And Mediaeval had thoroughly researched the color of her dress, and the prevalence of glass windows among the upper classes. They had thoroughly researched the language.

"I remember not," Kivrin said.

"Not?" Eliwys said, and turned to Lady Imeyne. "She remembers not." They think I'm saying "naught," Kivrin thought, that I don't remember anything. The inflection, the pronunciation didn't differentiate between the two words.

"It is her wound," Eliwys said. "It has shaken her memory."

"No…nay…," Kivrin said. She was not supposed to feign amnesia. She was supposed to be Isabel de Beauvrier, from the East Riding. Just because the roads were dry here didn't mean they weren't impassable farther north, and Eliwys would not even let Gawyn ride to Oxford to get news of her or to Bath to fetch her husband. She surely wouldn't send him to the East Riding.