"No, I don't think so," Kivrin said, taking Agnes' hand so she didn't go tearing off through the churchyard again. They started walking back toward the lychgate. "Father Roche does not ring the bell again till vespers."

"He might," Agnes said, cocking her head as if listening for it.

Kivrin listened, too, but there was no sound, and she realized suddenly that the bell in the southwest had stopped. It had rung almost nonstop while she had the pneumonia, and she had heard it when she went out to the stable the second time, looking for Gawyn, but she didn't remember whether it had rung since then or not.

"Heard you that, Lady Kivrin?" Agnes said. She pulled her hand out of Kivrin's grasp and ran off, not toward the bell tower, but around the end of the church to the north side. "See you?" she crowed, pointing at what she'd found, "He has not gone."

It was the priest's gray donkey, placidly pulling at the weeds sticking up through the snow. It had a rope bridle on and several burlap bags over its back, obviously empty, obviously intended for the holly and ivy.

"He is in the bell tower, I trow," Agnes said, and darted back the way she'd come.

Kivrin followed her around the church and into the churchyard, watching Agnes disappear into the tower. She waited, wondering where else they should look. Perhaps he was tending someone ill in one of the huts.

She caught a flicker of movement through the church window. A light. Perhaps while they were looking at the donkey, he had come back. She pushed the priest's door open and looked inside. A candle had been lit in front of St. Catherine's statue. She could see its faint glow at the statue's feet.

"Father Roche?" she called softly. There was no answer. She stepped inside, letting the door shut behind her, and over to the statue.

The candle was set between the statue's block-like feet. St. Catherine's rough face and hair were in shadow, looming protectively over the small adult figure who was supposed to be a little girl. She knelt and picked up the candle. It had just been lit. It hadn't even had time to melt the tallow in the well around the wick.

Kivrin looked down the nave. She couldn't see anything, holding the candle. It lit the floor and St. Catherine's box- like wimple and put the rest of the nave in total darkness.

She took a few steps down the nave, still holding the candle. "Father Roche?"

It was utterly silent in the church, the way it had been in the woods that day when she came through. Too silent, as if someone was there, standing beside the tomb or behind one of the pillars, waiting.

"Father Roche?" she called clearly. "Are you there?"

There was no answer, only that hushed, waiting silence. There wasn't anyone in the woods, she told herself, and took a few more steps forward into the gloom. There was no one beside the tomb. Imeyne's husband lay with his hands folded across his breast and his sword at his side, peaceful and silent. There was no one by the door either. She could see it now, in spite of the candle's blinding light. There was no one there.

She could feel her heart pounding the way it had in the forest, so loud it could be covering up the sound of footsteps, of breathing, of someone standing there waiting. She whirled around, the candle tracing a fiery trail in the air as she turned.

He was right behind her. The candle nearly went out. It bent, flickering, and then steadied, lighting his cutthroat's face from below the way it had with the lantern.

"What do you want?" Kivrin said, so breathlessly almost no sound came out. "How did you get in here?"

The cutthroat didn't answer her. He simply stared at her the way he had in the clearing. I didn't dream him, she thought frightenedly. He was there. He had intended — what? to rob her? to rape her? — and Gawyn had frightened him off.

She took a step backward. "I said, what do you want? Who are you?"

She was speaking English. She could hear it echoing hollowly in the cold stone space. Oh, no, she thought, don't let the interpreter break down now.

"What are you doing here?" she said, forcing herself to speak more slowly and heard her own voice saying, "Whette wolde thou withe me?"

He put his hand out toward her, a huge hand, dirty and reddened, a cutthroat's hand, as if he would touch her cropped hair.

"Go away," she said. She stepped backwards again and came up against the tomb. The candle went out. "I don't know who you are or what you want, but you'd better go away." It was English again, but what difference did it make, he wanted to rob her, to kill her, and where was the priest? "Father Roche!" she cried desperately. "Father Roche!"

There was a sound at the door, a bang and then the scrape of wood on stone, and Agnes pushed the door open. "There you are," she said happily. "I have looked everywhere for you."

The cutthroat glanced at the door.

"Agnes!" Kivrin shouted. "Run!"

The little girl froze, her hand still on the heavy door.

"Get away from here!" Kivrin shouted, and realized with horror that it was still English. What was the word for "run"?

The cutthroat took another step toward Kivrin. She shrank back against the tomb.

"Renne! Flee, Agnes!" she cried, and then the door crashed shut and Kivrin was running across the stone floor and out the door after her, dropping the candle as she ran.

Agnes was almost to the lychgate, but she stopped as soon as Kivrin was out the door and ran back to her.

"No!" Kivrin shouted, waving her on. "Run!"

"Is it a wolf?" Agnes asked, wide-eyed.

There was no time to explain or try to coax her to run. The men who had been cutting wood had disappeared. She scooped Agnes up in her arms and ran toward the horses. "There was a wicked man in the church!" she said, setting Agnes on her pony.

"A wicked man?" Agnes asked, ignoring the reins Kivrin was thrusting at her. "Was it one of those who set upon you in the woods?"

"Yes," Kivrin said, untying the reins. "You must ride as fast as you can to the manor house. Don't stop for anything."

"I didn't see him," Agnes said.

She probably hadn't. Coming in from outside, she wouldn't have been able to see anything in the church's gloom.

"Was he the man who stole your goods and gear and cracked your skull?"

"Yes," Kivrin said. She reached for the reins and started to untie the reins.

"Was the wicked man hiding in the tomb?"

"What?" Kivrin said. She couldn't get the stiff leather untied. She glanced anxiously back at the church door.

"I saw you and Father Roche by the tomb. Was the wicked man hiding in grandfather's grave?"

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Father Roche.

The stiff reins came suddenly loose in Kivrin's hands. "Father Roche?"

"I went in the bell tower, but he was not there. He was in the church," Agnes said. "Why was the wicked man hiding in Grandfather's tomb, Lady Kivrin?"

Father Roche. But it couldn't be. Father Roche had given her the last rites. He had anointed her temples and the palms of her hands.

"Will the wicked man hurt Father Roche?" Agnes asked.

He couldn't be Father Roche. Father Roche had held her hand. He had told her not to be afraid. She tried to call up the face of the priest. He had leaned over her and asked her her name, but she couldn't see his face because of all the smoke.

And while he was giving her the last rites, she had seen the cutthroat, she had been afraid because they had let him in the room, she had tried to get away from him. But it hadn't been a cutthroat at all. It had been Father Roche.

"Is the wicked man coming?" Agnes said, looking anxiously at the church door.

It all made sense. The cutthroat leaning over her in the clearing, putting her on the horse. She had thought it was a vision from her delirium, but it wasn't. It had been Father Roche, come to help Gawyn bring her to the manor.