Doomsday Book (64 page)

"What
happened
?" she whispered.

It couldn't be the slippage. Mr. Dunworthy had been upset that they hadn't run slippage checks, but even at its worst, the drop would only have been off by weeks, not years. Something must have gone wrong with the net.

Mr. Dunworthy had said Mr. Gilchrist didn't know what he was doing, and something had gone wrong, and she had come through in 1348, but why hadn't they aborted the drop as soon as they knew it was the wrong date? Mr. Gilchrist might not have had the sense to pull her out, but Mr. Dunworthy would have. He hadn't wanted her to come in the first place. Why hadn't he opened the net again?

Because I wasn't there, she thought. It would have taken at least two hours to get the fix. By then she had wandered off into the woods. But he would have held the net open. He wouldn't have closed it again and waited for the rendezvous. He'd hold it open for her.

She half-ran to the door and pushed up on the bar. She must find Gawyn. She must make him tell her where the drop was.

The clerk sat up and flung his bare leg over the bed as if he would go with her. "Help me," he said, and tried to move his other leg.

"I can't help you," she said angrily. "I don't belong here." She shoved the bar up out of its sockets. "I must find Gawyn." But as soon as she said it, she remembered that he wasn't there, that he had gone with the bishop's envoy and Sir Bloet to Courcy. With the bishop's envoy, who had been in such a hurry to leave he had nearly run down Agnes.

She dropped the bar and turned on him. "Did the others have the plague?" she demanded. "Did the bishop's envoy have it?" She remembered his gray face and the way he had shivered and pulled his cloak around him. He would infect all of them: Bloet and his haughty sister and the chattering girls. And Gawyn. "You knew you had it when you came here, didn't you? Didn't you?"

The clerk held his arms out stiffly to her, like a child. "Help me," he said, and fell back, his head and shoulder nearly off the bed.

"You don't deserve to be helped. You brought the plague here."

There was a knock.

"Who is it?" she said angrily.

"Roche," he called through the door, and she felt a wave of relief, of joy that he had come, but she didn't move. She looked down at the clerk, still lying half off the bed. His mouth was open, and his swollen tongue filled his entire mouth.

"Let me in," Roche said. "I must hear his confession."

His confession. "No," Kivrin said.

He knocked again, louder.

"I can't let you in," Kivrin said. "It's contagious. You might catch it."

"He is in peril of death," Roche said. "He must be shriven that he may enter into heaven."

He's not going to heaven, Kivrin thought. He brought the plague here.

The clerk opened his eyes. They were bloodshot and swollen, and there was a faint hum to his breathing. He's dying, she thought.

"Katherine," Roche said.

Dying, and far from home. Like I was. She had brought a disease with her, too, and if no one had succumbed to it, it was not because of anything she had done. They had all helped her, Eliwys and Imeyne and Roche. She might have infected all of them. Roche had given her the last rites, he had held her hand.

Kivrin lifted the clerk's head gently and laid him straight in the bed. Then she went to the door.

"I'll let you give him the last rites," she said, opening it a crack, "but I must speak to you first."

Roche had put on his vestments and taken off his mask. He carried the holy oil and the viaticum in a basket. He set them on the chest at the foot of the bed, looking at the clerk, whose breathing was becoming more labored. "I must hear his confession," he said.

"No!" Kivrin said. "Not until I've told you what I have to." She took a deep breath. "The clerk has the bubonic plague," she said, listening carefully for the translation. "It is a terrible disease. Nearly all who catch it die. It is spread by rats and their fleas and by the breath of those who are ill, and their clothes and belongings." She looked anxiously at him, willing him to understand. He looked anxious, too, and bewildered.

"It's a terrible disease," she said. "It's not like typhoid or cholera. It's already killed hundreds of thousands of people in Italy and France, so many in some places there's no one left to bury the dead."

His expression was unreadable. "You have remembered you who you are and whence you came," he said, and it wasn't a question.

He thinks I was fleeing the plague when Gawyn found me in the woods, she thought. If I say yes, he'll think I'm the one who brought it here. But there was nothing accusing in his look, and she had to make him understand.

"Yes," she said, and waited.

"What must we do?" he said.

"You must keep the others from this room, and you must tell them they must stay in the house and let no one in. You must tell the villagers to stay in their houses, too, and if they see a dead rat not to go near it. There must be no more feasting or dancing on the green. The villagers mustn't come into the manor house or the courtyard or the church. They mustn't gather together anywhere."

"I will bid Lady Eliwys keep Agnes and Rosemund inside," he said, "and tell the villagers to keep to their houses."

The clerk made a strangled sound from the bed, and they both turned and looked at him.

"Is there naught we can do to help those who have caught this plague?" he said, pronouncing the word awkwardly.

She had tried to remember what remedies the contemps had tried while he was gone. They had carried nosegays of flowers and drunk powdered emeralds and applied leeches to the buboes, but all of those were worse than useless, and Dr. Ahrens had said it wouldn't have mattered what they had tried, that nothing except antibiotics like tetracycline and streptomycin would have worked, and they had not been discovered until the twentieth century.

"We must give him liquids and keep him warm," she said.

Roche looked at the clerk. "Surely God will help him," he said.

He won't, she thought. He didn't. Half of Europe. "God cannot help us against the Black Death," she said.

Roche nodded and picked up the holy oil.

"You must put your mask on," Kivrin said, kneeling to pick up the last cloth strip. She tied it over his mouth and nose. "You must always wear it when you tend him," she said, hoping he wouldn't notice she wasn't wearing hers.

"Is it God who has sent this upon us?" Roche said.

"No," Kivrin said. "No."

"Has the Devil sent it then?"

It was tempting to say yes. Most of Europe had believed it was Satan who was responsible for the Black Death. And they had searched for the Devil's agents, tortured Jews and lepers, stoned old women, burned young girls at the stake.

"No one sent it," Kivrin said. "It's a disease. It's no one's fault. God would help us if He could, but He ... " He what? Can't hear us? Has gone away? Doesn't exist?

"He cannot come," she finished lamely.

"And we must act in His stead?" Roche said.

"Yes."

Roche knelt beside the bed. He bent his head over his hands, and then raised it again. "I knew that God had sent you among us for some good cause," he said.

She knelt, too, and folded her hands.

"
Mittere digneris sanctum Angelum
," Roche prayed. "Send us Thy holy angel from heaven to guard and protect all those that are assembled together in this house."

"Don't let Roche catch it," Kivrin said into the corder. "Don't let Rosemund catch it. Let the clerk die before it reaches his lungs."

Roche's voice chanting the rites was the same as it had been when she was ill, and she hoped it comforted the clerk as it had comforted her. She couldn't tell. He was unable to make his confession, and the anointing seemed to hurt him. He winced when the oil touched the palms of his hands, and his breathing seemed to grow louder as Roche prayed. Roche raised his head and looked at him. His arms were breaking out in the tiny purplish-blue bruises that meant the blood vessels under the skin were breaking, one by one.

Roche turned and looked at Kivrin. "Are these the last days," he asked, "the end of the world that God's apostles have foretold?"

Yes, Kivrin thought. "No," she said. "No. It's only a bad time. A terrible time, but not everyone will die. And there will be wonderful times after this. The Renaissance and class reforms and music. Wonderful times. There will be new medicines, and people won't have to die from this or smallpox or pneumonia. And everyone will have enough to eat, and their houses will be warm even in the winter." She thought of Oxford, decorated for Christmas, the streets and shops lit. "There will be lights everywhere, and bells that you don't have to ring."

Their conversation had calmed the clerk. His breathing eased, and he fell into a doze.

"You must come away from him now," Kivrin said and led him over to the window. She brought the bowl to him. "You must wash your hands after you have touched him," she said.

There was scarcely any water in the bowl. "We must wash the bowls and spoons we use to feed him," she said, watching him wash his huge hands, "and we must burn the cloths and bandages. The plague is in them."

He wiped his hands on the tail of his robe and went down to tell Eliwys what she was to do. He brought back a bowl of fresh water, but it did not last long. The clerk had come out of his doze and asked repeatedly for a drink. Kivrin held the cup for him, trying to keep Roche away from him as much as possible.

Roche went to say vespers and ring the bell. Kivrin closed the door after him, listening for sounds from below, but she couldn't hear anything. Perhaps they are asleep, she thought, or ill. She thought of Imeyne bending over the clerk with her poultice, of Agnes standing at the end of the bed, of Rosemund underneath him.

It's too late, she thought, pacing beside the bed, they've all been exposed. How long was the incubation period? Two weeks? No, that was how long the vaccine took to take effect. Four days? Three? She could not remember. And how long had the clerk been contagious? She tried to remember who he had sat next to at the Christmas feast, who he had talked to, but she hadn't been watching him. She'd been watching Gawyn. The only clear memory she had was of the clerk grabbing Maisry's skirt.

She went to the door again and opened it. "Maisry!" she called.

There was no answer, and that didn't mean anything, Maisry was probably asleep or hiding, and the clerk had bubonic, not pneumonic, and it was spread by fleas. The chances were that he had not infected anyone, but as soon as Roche came back, she left him with the clerk and took the brazier downstairs to fetch hot coals. And to reassure herself that they were all right.

Rosemund and Eliwys were sitting by the fire, with sewing on their laps, with Lady Imeyne next to them, reading from her Book of Hours. Agnes was playing with her cart, pushing it back and forth over the stone flags and talking to it. Maisry was asleep on one of the benches near the high table, her face sulky even in sleep.

Agnes ran into Imeyne's foot with the cart, and the old woman looked down at her and said, "I will take your toy from you and you cannot play nicely, Agnes," and the sharpness of her reprimand, Rosemund's hastily supressed smile, the healthy pinkness of their faces in the fire's light, were all inexpressibly reassuring to Kivrin. It could have been any night in the manor.

Eliwys was not sewing. She was cutting linen into long strips with her scissors, and she looked up constantly at the door. Imeyne's voice, reading from her Book of Hours, had an edge of worry, and Rosemund, tearing the linen, looked anxiously at her mother. Eliwys stood up and went out through the screens. Kivrin wondered if she had heard someone coming, but after a minute, she came back to her seat and took up the linen again.

Kivrin came on down the stairs quietly, but not quietly enough. Agnes abandoned her cart and scrambled up. "Kivrin!" she shouted, and launched herself at her.

"Careful!" Kivrin said, warding her off with her free hand. "These are hot coals."

They weren't hot, of course. If they were, she wouldn't have come down to replace them, but Agnes backed away a few steps.

"Why do you wear a mask?" she asked. "Will you tell me a story?"

Eliwys had stood up, too, and Imeyne had turned to look at her. "How does the bishop's clerk?" Eliwys asked.

He is in torment, she wanted to say. She settled for, "His fever is down a little. You must keep well away from me. The infection may be in my clothes."

They all got up, even Imeyne, closing her Book of Hours on her reliquary, and stepped back from the hearth, watching her.

The stump of the Yule log was still on the fire. Kivrin used her skirt to take the lid from the brazier and dumped the gray coals on the edge of the hearth. Ash roiled up, and one of the coals hit the stump and bounced and skittered along the floor.

Agnes laughed, and they all watched its progress across the floor and under a bench except Eliwys, who had turned back to watch the screens.

"Has Gawyn returned with the horses?" Kivrin asked, and then was sorry. She already knew the answer from Eliwys's strained face, and it made Imeyne turn and stare coldly at her.