Dooms Day Book

by Connie Willis

  “Shoo!” she said, flapping her hands at it, but it only pulled its head out of the wattle fence and started toward her, lowing.

  “I don’t have time to milk you,” she said, and shoved her hindquarters out of the way and squeezed past.

  Father Roche was halfway across the green before she caught up with him. “What is it? Can’t you tell me?” she asked, but he didn’t stop or even look at her. He turned toward the line of graves on the green, and she thought, feeling suddenly relieved, the steward’s tried to bury his son himself, without a priest.

  The small grave was filled in, the snowy dirt mounded over it, and he had finished Rosemund’s grave and dug another, larger one. The spade was sticking out of it, its handle leaning against the end.

  Roche didn’t go to Lefric’s grave. He stopped at the newest one, and said, in that same stunned voice, “I went to the church to say matins—”, and Kivrin looked into the grave.

  The steward had apparently tried to bury himself with the shovel, but it had proved unwieldy in the narrow space, and he had propped it against the end of the grave and begun pulling the dirt down with his hands. He held a large clod in his frozen hand.

  His legs were nearly covered, and it gave him an indecent look, as if he were lying in his bath. “We must bury him properly,” she said, and reached for the shovel.

  Roche shook his head. “It is holy ground,” he said numbly, and she realized that he thought the steward had killed himself.

  It doesn’t matter, she thought, and realized in spite of everything, horror after horror, Roche still believed in God. He had been going to the church to say matins when he found the steward, and if they all died, he would go on saying them and not find anything incongruous in his prayers.

  “It’s the disease,” Kivrin said, though she had no idea whether it was or not. “The septicemic plague. It infects the blood.”

  Roche looked at her uncomprehendingly.

  “He must have fallen ill while he was digging,” she said. “Septicaemic plague poisons the brain. He was not in his right mind.”

  “Like Lady Imeyne,” he said, sounding almost glad.

  He didn’t want to have to bury him outside the pale, Kivrin thought, in spite of what he believes.

  She helped Roche straighten the steward’s body a little, though he was already stiff. They did not attempt to move him or wrap him in a shroud. Roche laid a black cloth over his face, and they took turns shoveling the dirt in on him. The frozen earth clattered like stones.

  Roche did not go to the church for his vestments or the missal. He stood first beside Lefric’s grave and then the steward’s and said the prayers for the dead. Kivrin, standing beside him, her hands folded, thought, he wasn’t in his right mind. He had buried his wife and seven children, he had buried almost everyone he knew, and even if he hadn’t been feverish, if he had crawled into the grave and waited to freeze to death, the plague had still killed him.

  He did not deserve a suicide’s grave. He doesn’t deserve any grave, Kivrin thought. He was supposed to go to Scotland with us, and was horrified at the sudden shock of delight she felt.

  We can go to Scotland now, she thought, looking at the grave he had dug for Rosemund. Rosemund can ride the donkey, and Roche and I can carry the food and blankets. She opened her eyes and looked at the sky, but now that the sun was up, the clouds looked lighter, as if they might break up by mid-morning. If they left this morning, they could be out of the forest by noon and onto the Oxford-Bath road. By night they could be on the highway to York.

  “Agnus dei, qui tollis peccata mundi,” Roche said, “dona eis requiem.”

  We must take oats for the donkey, she thought, and the ax for cutting firewood. And blankets.

  Roche finished the prayers. “Dominus vobiscum et cum spiritu tuo,” he said. “Requiescat in pace. Amen.” He started off to ring the bell.

  There isn’t time for that, Kivrin thought, and then took off toward the manor. She could be half packed by the time Roche had tolled the death knell, and she could tell him her plan, and he could load the donkey, and they could go. She ran across the courtyard and into the manor. They would have to take coals to start the fire with. They could use Imeyne’s casket.

  She went into the hall. Rosemund was still asleep. That was good. There was no point in waking her until they were ready to leave. She tiptoed past her and got the casket and emptied it out. She laid it next to the fire and started out to the kitchen.

  “I woke and you were not here,” Rosemund said. She sat up on her pallet. “I was afraid you had gone.”

  “We’re all going,” Kivrin said. “We’re going to go to Scotland.” She went over to her. “You must rest for the journey. I will be back in a bit.”

  “Where are you going?” Rosemund said.

  “Only to the kitchen. Are you hungry? I will bring you some porridge. Now lie down and rest.”

  “I do not like to be alone,” Rosemund said. “Can you not stay with me a little?”

  I don’t have time for this, Kivrin thought. “I’m only going to the kitchen. And Father Roche is here. Can’t you hear him? He’s ringing the bell. I’ll only be a few minutes. All right?” She smiled cheerfully at Rosemund, and she nodded reluctantly. “I’ll be back soon.”

  She nearly ran outside. Roche was still ringing the death knell, slowly, steadily. Hurry, she thought, we don’t have much time. She searched the kitchen, setting the food on the table. There was a round of cheese and plently of manchets left—she stacked them like plates in a wadmal sack, put in the cheese, and carried it out to the well.

  Rosemund was standing in the door of the manor, holding onto the jamb. “Can I not sit in the kitchen with you?” she asked. She had put on her kirtle and her shoes, but she was already shivering in the cold air.

  “It is too cold,” Kivrin said, hurrying over to her. “And you must rest.”

  “When you are gone, I fear you will not come back,” she said.

  “I’m right here,” Kivrin said, but she went inside and fetched Rosemund’s cloak and an armload of furs.

  “You can sit here on the doorstep,” she said, “and watch me pack.” She put the cloak over Rosemund’s shoulders and sat her down, piling the furs about her like a nest. “All right?”

  The brooch that Sir Bloet had given Rosemund was still at the neck of the cloak. She fumbled with the fastening, her thin hands trembling a little. “Do we go to Courcy?” she asked.

  “No,” Kivrin said, and pinned the brooch for her. Io suiicien lui dami amo. You are here in place of the friend I love. “We’re going to Scotland. We will be safe from the plague there.”

  “Think you my father died from the plague?”

  Kivrin hesitated.

  “My mother said he was only delayed or unable to come. She said perhaps my brothers were ill, and he would come when they were recovered.”

  “And so he may,” Kivrin said, tucking a fur around Rosemund’s feet. “We’ll leave a letter for him so he’ll know where we went.”

  Rosemund shook her head. “If he lived, he would have come for me.”

  Kivrin wrapped a coverlet around Rosemund’s thin shoulders. “I must fetch food for us to take,” she said gently.

  Rosemund nodded, and Kivrin went across to the kitchen. There was a sack of onions against the wall and another of apples. They were wizened, and most of them had brown spots, but Kivrin lugged the sack outside. They would not need to be cooked and they would all be in need of vitamins before spring.

  “Would you like an apple?” she asked Rosemund.

  “Yes,” Rosemund said, and Kivrin searched through the sack, trying to find one that was still firm and unwrinkled. She unearthed a reddish-green one, polished it on her leather hose, and took it to her, smiling at the memory of how good an apple would have tasted when she was ill. Or a glass of orange juice.

  But after the first bite, Rosemund seemed to lose interest. She leaned back against the doorjamb and looked quietly up at th
e sky, listening to the steady toll of Roche’s bell.

  Kivrin went back to sorting the apples, picking out the ones worth taking, and wondering how much the donkey could carry. They would need to take oats for the donkey. There would be no grass, though when they reached Scotland there might be scrub that it could eat. They shouldn’t have to take water. There were plenty of streams, but they would need to take a pot to boil it in.

  “Your people never came for you,” Rosemund said.

  Kivrin looked up. She was still sitting against the door with the apple.

  They did come, Kivrin thought, but I wasn’t there. “No,” Kivrin said.

  “Think you the plague has killed them?”

  “No,” Kivrin said, and thought, at least I don’t have to think of them dead or helpless somewhere. At least I know they’re all right.

  “When I go to Sir Bloet, I will tell him how you helped us,” Rosemund said. “I will ask that I might keep you and Father Roche by me.” Her head went up proudly. “I am allowed attendants and a chaplain.”

  “Thank you,” Kivrin said solemnly.

  She set the sack of good apples next to the one of cheese and bread. The bell stopped, its overtones still echoing in the cold air. She picked up the bucket and lowered it into the well. She would cook some porridge and chop the bruised apples into it. It would make a filling meal for the trip.

  Rosemund’s apple rolled past her feet to the base of the well and stopped. Kivrin stooped to pick it up. It had only a little bite out of it, white against the shrivelled red. Kivrin wiped it against her jerkin. “You dropped your apple,” she said, and turned to give it back to her.

  Her hand was still open, as if she had leaned forward to catch it when it fell. “Oh, Rosemund,” Kivrin said.

  Transcript from the Doomsday Book

  (079110-079239)

  Father Roche and I are going to Scotland. There really isn’t any point in telling you that, I suppose, since you’ll never hear what’s on this corder, but perhaps someone will stumble across it on a moor someday or Ms. Montoya will do a dig in northern Scotland when she’s finished with Skendgate, and if that happens, I wanted you to know what happened to us.

  I know flight is probably the worst thing to do, but I have to get Father Roche away from here. The whole manor is contaminated with the plague—bedding, clothes, the air—and the rats are everywhere. I saw one in the church when I went to get Roche’s alb and stole for Rosemund’s funeral. And even if he doesn’t catch it from them, the plague is all around us, and I will never be able to convince him to stay here. He will want to go and help.

  We’ll keep off the roads and away from the villages. We’ve got food enough for a week, and then we’ll be far enough north that I should be able to buy food in a town. The clerk had a sack of silver with him. And don’t worry. We’ll be all right. As Mr. Gilchrist would say, “I’ve taken every possible precaution.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Apocalyptic was very likely the correct term for his even thinking he could rescue Kivrin, Dunworthy thought. He was worn out by the time Colin got him back to his room, and his temp was back up. “You rest,” Colin said, helping him into bed. “You can’t have a relapse if you’re going to rescue Kivrin.”

  “I need to see Badri,” he said, “and Finch.”

  “I’ll take care of everything,” he said, and darted out.

  He would need to arrange his and Badri’s discharge and med support for the pickup, in case Kivrin were ill. He would need a plague inoculation. He wondered how long would be required for it to take effect. Mary had said she’d inoculated Kivrin while she was in hospital for her corder implant. That had been two weeks before the drop but perhaps it didn’t take that long to confer immunity.

  The nurse came in to check his temp. “I’m just going off– duty,” she said, reading his patch.

  “How soon can I be discharged?” he asked.

  “Discharged?” she said, sounding surprised, “My, you must be feeling better.”

  “I am,” he said. “How long?”

  She frowned. “There’s a good deal of difference between being ready for a bit of a walk and being ready to go home.” She adjusted the drip. “You don’t want to overdo.”

  She went out, and after a few minutes Colin came in with Finch and the book Dunworthy had given him for Christmas. “I thought perhaps you’d need this for costumes and things.” He dumped it on Dunworthy’s legs. “I’ll just go fetch Badri.” He dashed out.

  “You’re looking a good deal better, sir,” Finch said. “I’m so glad. I’m afraid you’re badly needed at Balliol. It’s Mrs. Gaddson. She’s accused Balliol of undermining William’s health. She says the combined strain of the epidemic and reading Petrarch has broken his health. She’s threatening to go to the Head of the History Faculty with it.”

  “Tell her she’s more than welcome to try. Basingame’s in Scotland somewhere,” Dunworthy said. “I need you to find how long in advance of exposure an inoculation against bubonic plague needs to be given, and I need the laboratory readied for a drop.”

  “We’re using it for storage just now,” Finch said. “We’ve had several shipments of supplies from London, though none of lavatory paper, even though I specifically requested—”

  “Move them into the hall,” Dunworthy said. “I want the net ready as soon as possible.”

  Colin opened the door with his elbow and wheeled Badri in, using his other arm and a knee. “I had to sneak him past the ward sister,” he said breathlessly. He pushed the wheelchair up to the bed.

  “I want—” Dunworthy said, and stopped, looking at Badri. The thing was impossible. Badri was in no condition to run the net. He looked exhausted by the mere effort of having been brought from the ward, and he was fumbling at the pocket of his robe as he had at his sash.

  “We’ll need two RTN’s, a light measure, and a gateway,” Badri said, and his voice sounded exhausted, too, but the despair had gone out of it. “And we’ll need authorizations for both drop and pickup.”

  “What about the protesters who were at Brasenose?” Dunworthy asked. “Will they try to prevent the drop?”

  “No,” Colin said. “They’re over at the National Trust Headquarters. They’re trying to shut down the dig.”

  Good, Dunworthy thought. Montoya will be too occupied with trying to defend her churchyard against picketers to interfere. Too occupied to look for Kivrin’s corder.

  “What else will you need?” he asked Badri.

  “An insular memory and redundant for the backup.” He pulled a sheet of paper from the pocket and looked at it. “And a remote hookup so I can run parameter checks.”

  He handed the list to Dunworthy, who handed it to Finch. “We’ll also need med support for Kivrin,” Dunworthy said, “and I want a telephone installed in this room.”

  Finch was frowning at the list.

  “And don’t tell me we’re out of any of these,” Dunworthy said before he could protest. “Beg, borrow, or steal them.” He turned back to Badri. “Will you need anything else?”

  “To be discharged,” Badri said, “which, I’m afraid will be the greatest obstacle.”

  “He’s right,” Colin said. “Sister will never let him out. I had to sneak him in here.”

  “Who’s your doctor?” Dunworthy asked.

  “Dr. Gates,” Badri said, “but—”

  “Surely we can explain the situation,” Dunworthy inter– rupted, “explain that it’s an emergency.”

  Badri shook his head. “The last thing we can do is tell him the circumstances. I persuaded him to discharge me to open the net while you were ill. He didn’t think I was well enough, but he allowed it, and then when I had the relapse…”

  Dunworthy looked anxiously at him. “Are you certain you’re capable of running the net? Perhaps I can get Andrews now that the epidemic’s under control.”

  “There isn’t time,” Badri said. “And it was my fault. I want to run the net. Perhaps Mr. Finc
h can find another doctor.”

  “Yes,” Dunworthy said. “And tell mine I need to speak with him.” He reached for Colin’s book.

  “I’ll need a costume.” He flipped through the pages, looking for an illustration of mediaeval clothing. “No strips, no zippers, no buttons.” He found a picture of Boccaccio and showed it to Finch. “I doubt we’ll have anything in Twentieth Century. Telephone the Dramatic Society and see if they’ve got something.”

  “I’ll do my best, sir,” Finch said, frowning doubtfully at the illustration.

  The door crashed open, and the sister rattled in, enraged. “Mr. Dunworthy, this is utterly irresponsible,” she said in a tone that had no doubt caused casualties from the Second Falklands War terrors. “If you will not take care of your own health, you might at the least not endanger that of the other patients.” She fixed her gaze on Finch. “Mr. Dunworthy is to have no more visitors.”

  She glared at Colin and then snatched the wheelchair handles from him. “What can you have been thinking of, Mr. Chaudhuri?” she said, whipping the wheelchair round so smartly Badri’s head snapped back. “You have already had one relapse. I have no intention of allowing you to have another.” She pushed him out.

  “I told you we’d never get him out,” Colin said.

  She flung the door open again. “No visitors,” she said to Colin.

  “I’ll be back,” Colin whispered and ducked past her.

  She fixed him with her ancient eye. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

  She apparently had something to say about it. Colin didn’t return till after she’d gone off-duty, and then only to bring the remote hookup to Badri and report to Dunworthy on plague inoculations. Finch had telephoned the NHS. It took two weeks for the inoculation to confer full immunity, and seven days before partial. “And Mr. Finch wants to know if you shouldn’t also be inoculated against cholera and typhoid.”

  “There isn’t time,” he said. There wasn’t time for a plague inoculation either. Kivrin had already been there over three weeks, and every day lowered her chances of survival. And he was no closer to being discharged.