Dooms Day Book

“It is actually a corrupted form of Elizabeth,” Latimer said, as if it were one of his lectures. “Its widespread use in England from the twelfth century is thought to trace its origin to Isavel of Angoulкme, wife of King John.”

“Kivrin told me she’d been given an actual identity, that Isabel de Beauvrier was one of the daughters of a Yorkshire nobleman,” Dunworthy said.

“She was,” Gilchrist said. “Gilbert de Beauvrier had four daughters in the appropriate age range, but their Christian names were not listed in the rolls. That was a common practice. Women were frequently listed only by surname and relationship, even in parish registers and on tombstones.”

Mary put a restraining hand on Dunworthy’s arm. “Why did you choose Yorkshire?” she asked quickly. “Won’t that put her a long way from home?”

She’s seven hundred years from home, Dunworthy thought, in a century that didn’t value women enough to even list their names when they died.

“Ms. Engle was the one who suggested that,” Gilchrist said. “She felt having the estate so distant would ensure that no attempt would be made to contact the family.”

Or to cart her back to them, miles from the drop. Kivrin had suggested it. She had probably suggested the whole thing, searching through exchequer rolls and church registers for a family with a daughter the right age and no court connections, a family far enough up into the East Riding that the snow and the impassable roads would make it impossible for a messenger to ride and tell the family a missing daughter had been found.

“Mediaeval has given the same careful attention to every detail of this drop,” Gilchrist said, “even to the pretext for her journey, her brother’s illness. We were careful to ascertain that there had been an outbreak of influenza in that section of Gloucestershire in 1319, even though illness was abundant during the Middle Ages, and he could just as easily have contracted cholera or blood poisoning.”

“James,” Mary said warningly.

“Ms. Engle’s costume was hand-sewn. The blue cloth for her dress was hand-dyed with woad using a mediaeval recipe. And Ms. Montoya has exhaustively researched the village of Skendgate where Kivrin will spend the two weeks.”

“If she makes it there,” Dunworthy said.

“James,” Mary said.

“What precautions have you taken to ensure that the friendly traveller who happens along every 1.6 hours doesn’t decide to cart her off to the convent at Godstow or a brothel in London or see her come through and decide she’s a witch? What precautions have you taken to ensure that the friendly traveller is in fact friendly and not one of the cutthroats who waylay 42.5 per cent of all passersby?”

“Probability indicated there was no more than a 0.04 per cent chance of someone being at the location at the time of the drop.”

“Oh, look, here’s Badri already,” Mary said, standing up and putting herself between Dunworthy and Gilchrist. “That was quick work, Badri. Did you get the fix all right?”

Badri had come away without his coat. His lab uniform was wet and his face was pinched with cold. “You look half-frozen,” Mary said. “Come and sit down.” She motioned to the empty place on the settle next to Latimer. “I’ll fetch you a brandy.”

“Did you get the fix?” Dunworthy said.

He was not only wet, he was drenched. “Yes,” he said, and his teeth started to chatter.

“Good man,” Gilchrist said, standing up and clapping him on the shoulder. “I thought you said it would take an hour. This calls for a toast. Have you any champagne?” he called out to the barman, clapped Badri on the shoulder again, and went over to the bar.

Badri stood looking after him, rubbing his arms and shivering. He seemed inattentive, almost dazed.

“You definitely got the fix?” Dunworthy asked.

“Yes,” he said, still looking after Gilchrist.

Mary came back to the table, carrying the brandy. “This should warm you up a bit,” she said, handing it to him. “There. Drink it down. Doctor’s orders.”

He frowned at the glass as if he didn’t know what it was. His teeth were still chattering.

“What is it?” Dunworthy said. “Kivrin’s all right, isn’t she?”

“Kivrin,” he said, still staring at the glass, and then seemed suddenly to come to himself. He set the glass down. “I need you to come,” he said, and started to push his way back through the tables to the door.

“What’s happened?” Dunworthy said, standing up. The creche figures fell over, and one of the sheep rolled across the table and fell off.

Badri opened the door on the carillon’s clanging of “Good Christian Men, Rejoice.”

“Badri, wait, we’re to have a toast,” Gilchrist said, coming back to the table with a bottle and a tangle of glasses.

Dunworthy reached for his coat.

“What is it?” Mary said, reaching for her shopping bag. “Didn’t he get the fix?”