Connie Willis - Doomsday Book

The clerk seemed better, too. He dozed again, and then broke out in a hot sweat. Kivrin sponged him off with one of the coarse kitchen cloths, and he sighed as if it felt good, and slept. When he woke again, his fever was down. They pushed the chest over next to the bed and set a tallow lamp on it, and she and Roche took turns sitting beside him, and resting on the windowseat. It was too cold to truly sleep, but Kivrin curled up against the stone sill and napped, and every time she woke he seemed to be improved.

She had read in Fourteenth Century that lancing the buboes sometimes saved a patient. His had stopped draining, and the hum had gone from his chest. Perhaps he wouldn't die after all.

There were some historians who thought the Black Death had not killed as many people as the records indicated. Mr. Gilchrist thought the statistics were grossly exaggerated by fear and lack of education, and even if the statistics were correct, the plague hadn't killed one third of every village. Some places had only had one or two cases. In some villages, no one had died at all.

They had isolated the clerk as soon as they'd realized what it was, and she had managed to keep Roche from getting close most of the time. They had taken every possible precaution. And it hadn't turned into pneumonic. Perhaps that was enough, and they had caught it in time. She must tell Roche they must close the village, keep anyone else from coming in, and perhaps the plague would just pass over them. It had done that. Whole villages had been left untouched, and there were parts of Scotland where the plague had never reached at all.

She must have dozed off. When she woke, it was growing light and Roche was gone. She looked over at the bed. The clerk lay perfectly still, his eyes wide and staring, and she thought, he's died and Roche has gone to dig his grave, but even as the thought formed, she could see the coverings over his chest rise and fall. She felt for his pulse. It was fast and so faint she could scarcely feel it.

The bell began to ring, and she realized Roche must have gone to say matins. She pulled her mask up over her nose and went over to the bed. "Father," she said softly, but he gave no indication at all that he heard her. She put her hand on his forehead. His fever was down again, but his skin didn't feel normal. It was dry, papery, and the hemorrhages on his arms and legs had darkened and spread. His engorged tongue stuck out between his teeth, hideously purple.

He smelled terrible, a sickening odor she could smell through her mask. She climbed up on the windowseat and untied the waxed linen. The fresh air smelled wonderful, cold and sharp, and she leaned out over the ledge and breathed deeply.

There was no one in the courtyard, but as she drank in the clean, cold air, Roche appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, carrying a bowl of something that steamed. He started across the cobbles to the door of the manor house, and as he did, Lady Eliwys appeared. She spoke to Roche, and he started toward her and then stopped short and pulled up his mask before he answered her. He's trying to keep clear of people at any rate, Kivrin thought. He passed on into the manor house, and Eliwys went out to the well.

Kivrin tied the linen to the side of the window and looked around for something to fan the air with. She jumped down, got one of the cloths she had taken from the kitchen, and clambered back up again.

Eliwys was still by the well, drawing up the bucket. She stopped, holding to the rope, and turned to look toward the gate. Gawyn came through it, leading his horse by the bridle.

He stopped when he saw her, and Gringolet stumbled into him and flung his head up, annoyed. The expression on Gawyn's face was the same as it had always been, full of hope and longing, and Kivrin felt a surge of anger that it hadn't changed, even now. He doesn't know, she thought. He's just returned from Courcy. She felt a pang of pity for him, that he had to find out, that Eliwys would have to tell him.

Eliwys hauled the bucket up even with the edge of the well, and Gawyn took one more step toward her, holding onto Gringolet's bridle, and then stopped.

He knows, Kivrin thought. He knows after all. The bishop's envoy has come down with it, she thought, and he's ridden home to warn them. She realized suddenly he hadn't brought the horses back with him. The friar has it, she thought, and the rest of them have fled.

He watched Eliwys heave the heavy bucket up onto the stone edge of the well, not moving. He would do anything for her, Kivrin thought, anything at all, he would rescue her from a hundred cutthroats in the woods, but he can't rescue her from this.

Gringolet, impatient to be in the stable, shook his head. Gawyn put his hand up to his muzzle to steady him, but it was too late. Eliwys had already seen him.

She let go of the bucket. It landed with a splash Kivrin could hear, far above them, and then Eliwys was in his arms. Kivrin put her hand to her mouth.

There was a light knock on the door. Kivrin jumped down to open it. It was Agnes.

"Would you not tell me a story now?" she said. She was very draggled. No one had braided her hair since yesterday. It stuck out under her linen cap at all angles, and she had obviously slept by the hearth. One sleeve was filthy with ashes.

Kivrin resisted the urge to brush them off. "You cannot come in," she said, holding the door nearly shut. "You will catch the sickness."

"There is none to play with me," Agnes said. "Mother has gone and Rosemund still sleeps."

"Your mother has only gone out for water," she said firmly. "Where is your grandmother?"

"Praying." She reached for Kivrin's skirt, and Kivrin jerked back.

"You must not touch me," she said sharply.

Agnes's face puckered into a pout. "Why are you wroth with me?"

"I'm not angry with you," Kivrin said, more gently. "But you can't come in. The clerk is very ill, and all who come close to him may…" there was no hope of explaining contagion to Agnes, "…may fall ill, too."

"Will he die?" Agnes said, trying to see around the door.

"I fear so."

"Will you?"

"No," she said, and realized she was no longer frightened. "Rosemund will waken soon. Ask her to tell you a story."

"Will Father Roche die?"

"No. Go and play with your cart till Rosemund wakes."

"Will you tell me a story after the clerk is dead?"

"Aye. Go downstairs ."

Agnes went reluctantly down three steps, holding onto the wall. "Will we all die?" she asked.

"Nay," Kivrin said. Not if I can help it. She shut the door and leaned against it.

The clerk still lay unseeing and unaware, his whole being turned inward to the struggle with an enemy his immune system had never seen before, had no defenses against.

The knocking came again. "Go downstairs, Agnes," Kivrin said, but it was Roche, carrying the bowl of broth he had brought from the kitchen and a hod of red coals. He dumped them into the brazier and knelt beside it, blowing on them.

He had handed the bowl to Kivrin. It was lukewarm and smelled bitter. She wondered if it had willow bark in it and if that was what had brought the fever down.

Roche stood up and took the bowl, and they tried to spoon the broth into the clerk, but it dribbled off his huge tongue and down the sides of his mouth.

Someone knocked.

"Agnes, I told you, you can't come in here," Kivrin said impatiently, trying to mop up the bedclothes.

"Grandmother sent me to bid you come."

"Is she ill?" Roche said. He started for the door.

"Nay. It is Rosemund."

Kivrin's heart began to pound.

Roche opened the door, but Agnes did not come in. She stood on the landing, staring at his mask.

"Is Rosemund ill?" Roche asked anxiously.

"She fell down."

Kivrin darted past them and down the steps.