Dooms Day Book

“Aydreddit ister fayve riblaun,” the young woman said, and in spite of her resolution, Kivrin tried to make it into, “It is time for vespers,” or “There is the vespers bell,” but it wasn’t vespers. The bell went on tolling, and no other bells joined in. She wondered if it was the bell she had heard before, ringing all alone in the late afternoon.

The old woman turned abruptly away from the window. “Nay, Elwiss, itbahn diwolffin.” She picked up the chamberpot from the wooden chest. “Gawynha thesspyd—”

There was a sudden scuffling outside the door, a sound of footsteps running up stairs, and a child’s voice crying, “Modder! Eysmertemay!”

A little girl burst into the room, blonde braids and cap strings flying, nearly colliding with the old woman and the chamberpot. The child’s round face was red and smeared with tears.

“Wol yadothoos forshame ahnyous!

” the old woman growled at her, lifting the treacherous bowl out of reach. “Yowe maun naroonso inhus.”

The little girl paid no attention to her. She ran straight at the young woman, sobbing, “Rawzamun hattmay smerte, Modder!”

Kivrin gasped. Modder. That had to be mother.

The little girl held up her arms, and her mother, oh, yes, definitely mother picked her up. She fastened her arms around her mother’s neck and began to howl.

“Shh, ahnyous, shh,” the mother said. That guttural’s a G, Kivrin thought. A hacking German G. Shh, Agnes.

Still holding her, the mother sat down on the window seat. She wiped at the tears with the tail of her coif. “Spekenaw dothass bifel, Agnes.

”

Yes, definitely Agnes. And speken was tell. Tell me what happened.

“Shayoss mayswerte!” Agnes said, pointing at another child who had just come into the room. The second girl was considerably older, nine or ten at least. She had long brown hair that hung down her back and was held in place by a dark blue kerchief.

“Itgan naso, ahnyous,” she said. “Tha pighte rennin gawn derstayres,” and there was no mistaking that combination of affection and contempt. She didn’t look like the blonde little girl, but Kivrin was willing to bet this dark-haired girl was the little one’s sister. “Shay pighte renninge ahndist eyres, modder.”

Mother again, and shay

was she and pighte must be fell. It sounded French, but the key to this was German. The pronunciations, the constructions were German. Kivrin could almost feel it click into place.

“Na comfitte horr thusselwys,” the older woman said. “She hathnau woundes. Hoor teres been fornaught mais gain thy pitye.”

“Hoor nay ganful bloody,” the woman whose name was Eliwys said, but Kivrin couldn’t hear her. She was hearing instead the interpreter’s translation, still clumsy and obviously more than a beat behind, but a translation:

“Don’t pamper her, Eliwys. She is not injured. Her tears are but to get your attention.”

And the mother, whose name was Eliwys, “Her knee is bleeding.”

“Rossmunt brangund oorwarsted frommecofre,” she said, pointing at the foot of the bed, and the interpreter was right behind her. “Rosemund, fetch me the cloth on the chest.” The ten-year-old moved immediately toward the trunk at the foot of the bed.

The older girl was Rosemund, and the little one was Agnes, and the impossibly young mother in her wimple and coif was Eliwys.

Rosemund held out a frayed cloth that must surely be the one Eliwys had taken off Kivrin’s forehead.

“Touch it not! Touch it not!” Agnes screamed, and Kivrin wouldn’t have even needed the interpreter for that one. It was still far more than a beat behind.

“I would but tie cloth to stop the bleeding,” Eliwys said, taking the rag from Rosemund. Agnes tried to push it away. “The cloth will not—” There was a blank space as if the interpreter didn’t know a word, and then, “—you, Agnes.” The word was obviously hurt or harm, and Kivrin wondered if the interpreter had not had the word in its memory and why it couldn’t have come up with an approximation from context.

“—will penaunce,” Agnes shouted, and the interpreter echoed, “It will—” and then the blank again. The space must be so that she could hear the actual word and make her own guess at its meaning. It wasn’t a bad idea, but the interpreter was so far behind the space that Kivrin couldn’t hear the word she was intended to. If the interpreter did this every time it didn’t recognize a word, she was in serious trouble.