Connie Willis - Dooms Day Book

The cow had worked over half of its body through the anteroom door and was now hopelessly blocking the way. Kivrin set everything down inside the screens, sweeping a space clear of rushes so she could stand the bottle upright on the stone floor, and pushed her back out, the cow lowing unhappily the whole time.

Once out, the cow promptly tried to come back in to Kivrin. “No,” she said. “There’s no time,” but she went back into the barn and up into the loft and threw down a forkful of hay. Then she scooped up everything and ran back to the church.

Roche had lapsed into unconsciousness. His body had relaxed. His big legs sprawled out in front of him, wide apart, and his hands lay out at his sides, palms up. He looked like a man knocked out by a blow. His breathing was heavy and tremulous, as if he were shivering.

Kivrin covered him with the heavy purple cloak. “I’m back, Roche,” she said, and patted his outflung arm, but he didn’t give any indication that he had heard.

She took the guard off the lantern and used the flame to light all the candles. There were only three of Lady Imeyne’s candles left, all of them over half burned. She lit the rushlights, too, and the fat tallow candle in the niche of the statue of St. Catherine, and moved them closer to Roche’s legs, so she would be able to see.

“I’m going to have to take your hose off,” she said, folding back the coverlet. “I have to lance the bubo.” She untied the ragged points on the hose and he didn’t flinch at her touch, but he moaned a little, and it sounded liquid.

She pulled at the hose, trying to get them down over his hips, and then yanked at the legs, but they were too tight. She would have to cut them off. She should have thought to fetch Rosemund’s scissors, too.

“I’m going to cut your hose off,” she said, crawling back to where she’d left the knife and the bottle of wine. “I’ll try not to cut you.” She dug at the seal and then cut it with the knife. Kivrin sniffed at the bottle and then took a little swig and choked. Good. It was old and full of alcohol. She poured it over the blade of the knife, wiped the edge on her leg, poured some more, careful to leave enough to pour over the wound when she had it opened.

“ Beata ,” Roche murmured. His hand groped for his groin.

“It’s all right,” Kivrin said. She took hold of one of the legs of his hose and slit the wool. “I know it hurts now, but I’m going to lance the bubo.” She pulled the rough fabric apart in both hands and, blessedly, it tore, making a loud, ripping sound. Roche’s knees contracted. “No, no, leave your legs down,” Kivrin said, trying to push on them. “I have to lance the bubo.”

She couldn’t get them down. She left them for the moment and finished tearing the leg of his hose, reaching under his leg to split the rough cloth the rest of the way up, so she could see the bubo. It was twice as big as Rosemund’s and completely black. It should have been lanced hours ago, days ago.

“Roche, please put your legs down,” she said, leaning on them with all her weight. “I have to open the plague boil.”

There was no response. She was not sure he could respond, that his muscles were not somehow contracting on their own, the way the clerk’s had, but she couldn’t wait until the spasm, if that was what it was, had passed. It might rupture at any minute.

She stepped away a minute and then knelt down by his feet, and reached up under his folded legs, gripping the knife. Roche moaned, and she pulled the knife down a little and then moved it forward slowly, carefully, till it touched the bubo.

His kick caught her full in the ribs, sending her sprawling. She let go of the knife, and it skittered loudly across the stone floor. The kick had knocked the wind out of Kivrin, and she lay there, gasping for air, taking long, wheezing breaths. She tried to sit up. Pain stabbed at her right side, and she fell back, clutching at her ribs.

Roche was still screaming, a long, impossible sound like a tortured animal. Kivrin rolled slowly onto her left side, holding her hand tightly against her ribs, so she could see him. He rocked back and forth like a child, screaming all the while, his naked legs drawn up protectively to his chest. She could not see the bubo.

Kivrin tried to raise herself, bracing her hand against the stone floor until she was half-sitting, and then edging it toward her till she could put both hands down and get onto her knees. She cried out, little whimpering screams that were lost in Roche’s. He must have broken some ribs. She spat on her hand, afraid of seeing blood.

When she was finally on her knees, she sat back on her feet a minute, huddling against the pain. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” She half-crawled towards him on her knees, using her right hand as a crutch. The effort made her breathe more deeply, and every breath stabbed into her side. “It’s all right, Roche,” she whispered. “I’m coming. I’m coming.”

He pulled his legs up spasmodically at the sound of her voice, and she moved around to his side, between him and the side wall, well out of his reach. When he kicked her, he had knocked over one of St. Catherine’s candles, and it lay in a yellow puddle beside him, still burning. Kivrin set it upright and laid her hand on his shoulder. “Shh, Roche,” she said. “It’s all right. I’m here now.”

He stopped screaming. “I’m sorry,” she said, leaning over him. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was only trying to lance the bubo.”

His knees pulled up even tighter than before. Kivrin picked up the red candle and held it above his naked backside. She could see the bubo, black and hard in the candle’s light. She had not even pierced it. She raised the candle higher, trying to see where the knife had gone. It had clattered away in the direction of the tomb. She held the candle out in that direction, hoping to catch a glint of metal. She couldn’t see anything.

She started to stand up, moving carefully to guard against the pain, but halfway to her feet it caught at her, and she cried out and bent forward.

“What is it?” Roche said. His eyes were open, and there was a little blood at the corner of his mouth. She wondered if he had bitten through his tongue when he was screaming. “Have I done hurt to you?”

“No,” she said, kneeling back down beside him. “No. You have done no hurt.” She blotted at his mouth with the sleeve of her jerkin.

“You must,” he said, and when he opened his mouth, more blood leaked out. He swallowed. “You must say the prayers for the dying.”

“No,” she said. “You will not die.” She wiped at his mouth again. “But I must lance your bubo before it ruptures.”

“Do not,” he said, and she did not know whether he meant don’t lance the bubo or don’t leave. His teeth were gritted, and blood was leaking between them. She sank into a sitting position, careful not to cry out, and took his head onto her lap.

“ Requiem aeternam dona eis ,” he said and made a gurgling sound, “ et lux perpetua .”

The blood was seeping from the roof of his mouth. She propped his head up higher, wadding the purple coverlet under it, wiping his mouth and chin with her jerkin. It was sodden with blood. She reached off to the side for his alb. “Do not,” he said.

“I won’t,” she said. “I’m right here.”

“Pray for me,” he said and tried to bring his hands together on his chest. “Wreck—” He choked on the word he was trying to say, and it ended in a gurgling sound.

“ Requiem aeternam ,” Kivrin said. She folded her own hands. “ Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine ,” she said.

“ Et lux— ” he said.