said Ceci, tilting her head to one side, "what shall we do today? Quick, think of something wonderful."
"We couldâ"
"Let's go to a tournament. Oh, Heloise, Iâve never seen any real knights!"
"There are no tournaments now. Why not a picnic instead? We could take our dinner and eat along the river."
"Just like pilgrims!" Ceci squealed. "Please, Agnes, can we?"
Heloise broke in. "You won't have to prepare a thing, Agnes. We'll do everything ourselves."
Agnes smiled indulgently. "Very well. But don't leave the kitchen a mess."
They ransacked the pantry for tempting morsels and packed them in a basket: a whole roast chicken, salted herring, ham pasties, gobs of dripping Brie, a long loaf of white bread, a skin of raspberry wine, cups, knives, a rough blue and white cloth with napkins to match.
At the last minute, Heloise tucked in two gaufres from a batch Agnes had baked earlier in the morning.
Petronilla watched their preparations with a sour expression. "Can I come along?" she asked.
"No!" Heloise and Ceci cried in unison, and then Heloise added, "Not todayâsome other time."
"I saw you take those waffles," muttered Petronilla. "Those are for dinner. I'm going to tell Agnes."
"Tell her," said Heloise brightly, "but you still can't come."
"You've taken the last loaf of bread."
"I'll buy more." She went into the hall and shouted up the staircase, "Agnes! There's no more bread. I'll buy some on my way home."
It was glorious out of doors. They took the river road around the southern rim of the island, down along the towpath, and the sun glimmering through the willow branches dappled patterns of lace in the water. Coming to the Street Before the King's Palace, they gawked at the high stone wall separating the Cite Palace from the rest of the island, and, near a gate, they watched fishmongers selling herrings and mackerels.
"Now," said Heloise, 'look carefully. We must find the perfect place for our picnic." After a great deal of debate, they settled in a grassy glade under a willow tree, a spot that looked much the same as any other. Spreading the cloth, they began to lift the food from the basket and positioned the items artistically on the cloth.
Ceci said, "I've never been on a picnic before."
"Nor I." Without bowing her head to pray, Heloise hungrily bit into a ham pasty.
"Do you suppose Lady Alais knows about picnics?" Ceci broke off a chunk of bread and layered it thickly with Brie. Pulling up her skirt over her knees, she lay back and stretched her legs out in the grass. "Wouldn't she die if she could see us now?" The image sent her into a paroxysm of giggles until she began to choke on the bread.
Heloise rolled over onto her stomach and buried her face in a patch of moss. During the last year, she had given little thought to Lady Alais and the others; to be truthful, she had not thought about Argenteuil other than fleetingly until Ceci had appeared at the garden door. And even then her mind had been on Ceci's troubles, rather than on the convent itself. Her memories of it had silted in some remote comer of her mind, memories that she could consider with indifference. Argenteuil had been a way station, an antechamber to her real life, that was all. "How's Madelaine?" she asked.
"Yellow."
"Oh, Ceci."
"Her face. It's turning yellow."
"Is she sick, then?"
Ceci shrugged. "I think so."
Heloise turned toward the girl, sighing slightly. "She's getting old." But Madelaine had always seemed old to her.
"They are all old there," said Ceci, bitterly. "Even the young ones." Awkwardly, she poured wine into a wooden cup, spilling it on the cloth. She passed the cup to Heloise.
Heloise sat up and asked hesitantly, "Why do you hate it so?"
Ceci threw her an indignant glance. She said sharply, "Why did you hate it so?"
Heloise did not answer. While they were finishing the last of the wine, she told Ceci about her cousins at Saint-Gervais, about Mabile and her one-eyed husband, about Jourdain, whose
"We couldâ"
"Let's go to a tournament. Oh, Heloise, Iâve never seen any real knights!"
"There are no tournaments now. Why not a picnic instead? We could take our dinner and eat along the river."
"Just like pilgrims!" Ceci squealed. "Please, Agnes, can we?"
Heloise broke in. "You won't have to prepare a thing, Agnes. We'll do everything ourselves."
Agnes smiled indulgently. "Very well. But don't leave the kitchen a mess."
They ransacked the pantry for tempting morsels and packed them in a basket: a whole roast chicken, salted herring, ham pasties, gobs of dripping Brie, a long loaf of white bread, a skin of raspberry wine, cups, knives, a rough blue and white cloth with napkins to match.
At the last minute, Heloise tucked in two gaufres from a batch Agnes had baked earlier in the morning.
Petronilla watched their preparations with a sour expression. "Can I come along?" she asked.
"No!" Heloise and Ceci cried in unison, and then Heloise added, "Not todayâsome other time."
"I saw you take those waffles," muttered Petronilla. "Those are for dinner. I'm going to tell Agnes."
"Tell her," said Heloise brightly, "but you still can't come."
"You've taken the last loaf of bread."
"I'll buy more." She went into the hall and shouted up the staircase, "Agnes! There's no more bread. I'll buy some on my way home."
It was glorious out of doors. They took the river road around the southern rim of the island, down along the towpath, and the sun glimmering through the willow branches dappled patterns of lace in the water. Coming to the Street Before the King's Palace, they gawked at the high stone wall separating the Cite Palace from the rest of the island, and, near a gate, they watched fishmongers selling herrings and mackerels.
"Now," said Heloise, 'look carefully. We must find the perfect place for our picnic." After a great deal of debate, they settled in a grassy glade under a willow tree, a spot that looked much the same as any other. Spreading the cloth, they began to lift the food from the basket and positioned the items artistically on the cloth.
Ceci said, "I've never been on a picnic before."
"Nor I." Without bowing her head to pray, Heloise hungrily bit into a ham pasty.
"Do you suppose Lady Alais knows about picnics?" Ceci broke off a chunk of bread and layered it thickly with Brie. Pulling up her skirt over her knees, she lay back and stretched her legs out in the grass. "Wouldn't she die if she could see us now?" The image sent her into a paroxysm of giggles until she began to choke on the bread.
Heloise rolled over onto her stomach and buried her face in a patch of moss. During the last year, she had given little thought to Lady Alais and the others; to be truthful, she had not thought about Argenteuil other than fleetingly until Ceci had appeared at the garden door. And even then her mind had been on Ceci's troubles, rather than on the convent itself. Her memories of it had silted in some remote comer of her mind, memories that she could consider with indifference. Argenteuil had been a way station, an antechamber to her real life, that was all. "How's Madelaine?" she asked.
"Yellow."
"Oh, Ceci."
"Her face. It's turning yellow."
"Is she sick, then?"
Ceci shrugged. "I think so."
Heloise turned toward the girl, sighing slightly. "She's getting old." But Madelaine had always seemed old to her.
"They are all old there," said Ceci, bitterly. "Even the young ones." Awkwardly, she poured wine into a wooden cup, spilling it on the cloth. She passed the cup to Heloise.
Heloise sat up and asked hesitantly, "Why do you hate it so?"
Ceci threw her an indignant glance. She said sharply, "Why did you hate it so?"
Heloise did not answer. While they were finishing the last of the wine, she told Ceci about her cousins at Saint-Gervais, about Mabile and her one-eyed husband, about Jourdain, whose
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