Connie Willis - Doomsday Book

She went over to the well and picked up the bucket. There was no more than an inch of water in the bottom, and it had a skim of ice on it. There was not enough to even cover the knife, and it would take forever to start a fire and bring it to a boil. There was no time for that. The bubo might already have ruptured. What she needed was alcohol, but they had used all the wine lancing the buboes and giving sacraments to all the dying. She thought of the bottle the clerk had had in Rosemund's bower.

The cow shoved against her. "No," she said firmly, and pushed open the door of the manor house, carrying the lantern.

It was dark in the anteroom, but the sunlight streamed into the hall through narrow windows, making long, smoky, golden shafts that lit the cold hearth and the high table and the wadmal sack of apples Kivrin had spilled out across it.

The rats didn't run. They looked up at her when she came in, their small black ears twitching, and then went back to the apples. There were nearly a dozen of them on the table, and one sat on Agnes's three-legged stool, his delicate paws up to his face as if he were praying.

She set down the lantern on the floor. "Get out," she said.

The rats on the table didn't even look up. The one who was praying did, across his folded paws, a cold, appraising look, as if she were an intruder.

"Get out of here!" she shouted and ran toward them.

They still didn't run. Two of them moved behind the salt- cellar, and one of them dropped the apple it was holding with a thunk onto the table. It rolled off the edge and onto the rush- strewn floor.

Kivrin raised her knife. "Get." She brought it down on the table, and the rats scattered. "Out." She raised it again. "Of." She swept the apples off the table and onto the floor. They bounced and rolled onto the rushes. In his surprise or fright, the rat that had been on Agnes's stool ran straight toward Kivrin. "Here." She threw the knife at it, and it sprinted back under the stool and disappeared in the rushes.

"Get out of here," Kivrin said and buried her face in her hands.

"Mwaa," the cow said from the anteroom.

"It's a disease," Kivrin whispered shakily, her hands still over her mouth. "It's nobody's fault."

She went and retrieved the knife and the lantern. The cow had wedged itself halfway through the manor door and got stuck. It lowed at her piteously.

She left it there and went up to the solar, ignoring the sounds of skittering above her. The room was icy cold. The linen that Eliwys had fastened over the window had torn loose and was hanging by one corner. The bed hangings were down at one side, too, where the clerk had tried to pull himself up on them, and the flock mattress lay half off the bed. There were small sounds from under the bed, but she didn't try to see where they were coming from. The chest was still open, its carved lid propped against the foot of the bed, and the clerk's heavy purple cloak lay folded in it.

The bottle of wine had rolled under the bed. Kivrin flung herself down on the floor and reached under the bed for it. It rolled away from her touch, and she had to crawl halfway under the bed before she could get hold of it.

The stopper had come out, probably when she had kicked it under the bed. A little wine clung stickily to the mouth.

"No," she said hopelessly, and sat there for a long minute, holding the empty bottle.

There wasn't any wine in the church. Roche had used it all for the last rites.

She suddenly remembered the bottle he had given her to use on Agnes's knee. She wriggled under the bed and swept her arm carefully along the bedboard, afraid of knocking it over. She couldn't remember how much had been in it, but she didn't think she'd used it all.

She nearly knocked it over, in spite of her carefulness, and grabbed for the wide neck as it tilted. She backed out from under the bed and shook it gently. It was nearly half full. She stuck her knife in the waistband of her jerkin, tucked the bottle under her arm, grabbed up the clerk's cloak and went downstairs. The rats were back, working on the apples, but this time they ran when she started down the stone steps, and she did not try to see where they'd gone.

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.