The Doomsday Book

by Connie Willis

  “I need to know the language and the customs,” she said, leaning over Dunworthy’s desk, “and the money and table manners and things. Did you know they didn’t use plates? They used flat loaves of bread called manchets, and when they finished eating their meat, they broke them into pieces and ate them. I need someone to teach me things like that, so I won’t make mistakes.”

  “I’m a twentieth-century historian, not a mediaevalist. I haven’t studied the Middle Ages in forty years.”

  “But you know the sorts of things I need to know. I can look them up and learn them, if you’ll just tell me what they are.”

  “What about Gilchrist?” he said, even though he considered Gilchrist a self-important fool.

  “He’s working on the reranking and hasn’t any time.”

  And what good will the reranking do if he has no historians to send? Dunworthy thought. “What about the visiting American professor, Montoya? She’s working on a mediaeval dig out near Witney, isn’t she? She should know something about the customs.”

  “Ms. Montoya hasn’t any time either; she’s so busy trying to recruit people to work on the Skendgate dig. Don’t you see? They’re all useless. You’re the only one who can help me.”

  He should have said, “Nevertheless, they are members of Brasenose’s faculty, and I am not,” but instead he had been maliciously delighted to hear her tell him what he had thought all along, that Latimer was a doddering old man and Montoya a frustrated archaeologist, that Gilchrist was incapable of training historians. He had been eager to use her to show Mediaeval how it should be done.

  “We’ll have you augmented with an interpreter,” he had said. “And I want you to learn Church Latin, Norman French, and Old German, in addition to Mr. Latimer’s Middle English,” and she had immediately pulled a pencil and an exercise book from her pocket and begun making a list.

  “You’ll need practical experience in farming—milking a cow, gathering eggs, vegetable gardening,” he’d said, ticking them off on his fingers. “Your hair isn’t long enough. You’ll need to take cortixidils. You’ll need to learn to spin, with a spindle, not a spinning wheel. The spinning wheel wasn’t invented yet. And you’ll need to learn to ride a horse.”

  He had stopped, finally coming to his senses. “Do you know what you need to learn?” he had said, watching her, earnestly bent over the list she was scribbling, her braids dangling over her shoulders. “How to treat open sores and infected wounds, how to prepare a child’s body for burial, how to dig a grave. The mortality rate will still be worth a ten, even if Gilchrist somehow succeeds in getting the ranking changed. The average life expectancy in 1300 was thirty-eight. You have no business going there.”

  Kivrin had looked up, her pencil poised above the paper. “Where should I go to look at dead bodies?” she had said earnestly. “The morgue? Or should I ask Dr. Ahrens in Infirmary?”

  “I told her she couldn’t go,” Dunworthy said, still staring unseeing at the glass, “but she wouldn’t listen.”

  “I know,” Mary said. “She wouldn’t listen to me either.”

  Dunworthy sat down stiffly next to her. The rain and all the chasing after Basingame had aggravated his arthritis. He still had his overcoat on. He struggled out of it and unwound the muffler from around his neck.

  “I wanted to cauterize her nose for her,” Mary said. “I told her the smells of the fourteenth century could be completely incapacitating, that we’re simply not used to excrement and bad meat and decomposition in this day and age. I told her nausea would interfere significantly with her ability to function.”

  “But she wouldn’t listen,” Dunworthy said.

  “No.”

  “I tried to explain to her that the Middle Ages were dangerous and Gilchrist wasn’t taking sufficient precautions, and she told me I was worrying over nothing.”

  “Perhaps we are,” Mary said. “After all, it’s Badri who’s running the drop, not Gilchrist, and you said he’d abort if there was any problem.”

  “Yes,” he said, watching Badri through the glass. He was typing again, one key at a time, his eyes on the screens. Badri was not only Balliol’s best tech, but the University’s. And he had run dozens of remotes.

  “And Kivrin’s well prepared,” Mary said. “You’ve tutored her, and I’ve spent the last month in Infirmary getting her physically ready. She’s protected against cholera and typhoid and anything else that was extant in 1320, which, by the way, the plague you are so worried over wasn’t. There were no cases in England until the Black Death reached there in 1348. I’ve removed her appendix and augmented her immune system. I’ve given her full-spectrum antivirals and a short course in mediaeval medicine. And she’s done a good deal of work on her own. She was studying medicinal-herbs while she was in Infirmary.”

  “I know,” Dunworthy said. She had spent the last Christmas vac memorizing masses in Latin and learning to weave and embroider, and he had taught her everything he could think of. But was it enough to protect her from being trampled by a horse, or raped by a drunken knight on his way home from the Crusades? They were still burning people at the stake in 1320. There was no inoculation to protect her from that or from someone seeing her come through and deciding she was a witch.

  He looked back through the thin-glass. Latimer picked the trunk up for the third time and set it back down. Montoya looked at her watch again. The tech punched the keys and frowned.

  “I should have refused to tutor her,” he said. “I only did it to show Gilchrist up for the incompetent he is.”

  “Nonsense,” Mary said. “You did it because she’s Kivrin. She’s you all over again—bright, resourceful, determined.”

  “I was never that foolhardy.”

  “Of course you were. I can remember a time when you couldn’t wait to rush off to the London Blitz and have bombs dropped on your head. And I seem to remember a certain incident involving the old Bodleian—”

  The prep-room door flared open, and Kivrin and Gilchrist came into the room, Kivrin holding her long skirts up as she stepped over the scattered boxes. She was wearing the white rabbit-fur-lined cloak and the bright blue kirtle she had come to show him yesterday. She had told him the cloak was hand-woven. It looked like an old wool blanket someone had draped over her shoulders, and the kirtle’s sleeves were too long. They nearly covered her hands. Her long, fair hair was held back by a fillet and fell loosely onto her shoulders. She still didn’t look old enough to cross the street by herself.

  Dunworthy stood up, ready to pound on the glass again as soon as she looked in his direction, but she stopped midway into the clutter, her face still half-averted from him, looked down at the marks on the floor, stepped forward a little, and arranged her dragging skirts around her.

  Gilchrist went over to Badri, said something to him, and picked up a carryboard that was lying on top of the console. He began checking items off with a brisk poke of the light pen.

  Kivrin said something to him and pointed at the brass-bound casket. Montoya straightened impatiently up from leaning over Badri’s shoulder, and came over to where Kivrin was standing, shaking her head. Kivrin said something else, more firmly, and Montoya knelt down and moved the trunk over next to the wagon.

  Gilchrist checked another item off his list. He said something to Latimer, and Latimer went and got a flat metal box and handed it to Gilchrist. Gilchrist said something to Kivrin, and she brought her flattened hands together in front of her chest. She bent her head over them and began speaking.

  “Is he having her practice praying?” Dunworthy said. “That will be useful, since God’s help may be the only help she gets on this drop.”

  “They’re checking the implant,” Mary said.

  “What implant?”

  “A special chip corder so she can record her field work. Most of the contemps can’t read or write, so I implanted an ear and an A-to-D in one wrist and a memory in the other. She activates it by pressing the pads of her palms together. When she’s speaking int
o it, it looks like she’s praying. The chips have a 2.5-gigabyte capacity, so she’ll be able to record her observations for the full two and a half weeks.”

  “You should have implanted a locator as well so she could call for help.”

  Gilchrist was messing with the flat metal box. He shook his head and then moved Kivrin’s folded hands up a little higher. The too-long sleeve fell back. Her hand was cut. A thin brown line of dried blood ran down the cut.

  “Something’s wrong,” Dunworthy said, turning toward Mary. “She’s hurt.”

  Kivrin was talking into her hands again. Gilchrist nodded. Kivrin looked at him, saw Dunworthy, and flashed him a delighted smile. Her temple was bloody, too. Her hair under the fillet was matted with it. Gilchrist looked up, saw Dunworthy, and hurried toward the thin-glass partition, looking irritated.

  “She hasn’t even gone yet, and they’ve already let her be injured!” Dunworthy pounded on the glass.

  Gilchrist walked over to the wall panel, pressed a key, and then came over and stood in front of Dunworthy. “Mr. Dunworthy,” he said. He nodded at Mary. “Dr. Ahrens. I’m so pleased you decided to come see Kivrin off,” He put the faintest emphasis on the last three words, so that they sounded like a threat.

  “What’s happened to Kivrin?” Dunworthy said.

  “Happened?” Gilchrist said, sounding surprised. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Kivrin had started over to the partition, holding up the skirt of her kirtle with a bloody hand. There was a reddish bruise on her cheek.

  “I want to speak to her,” Dunworthy said.

  “I’m afraid there isn’t time,” Gilchrist said. “We have a schedule to keep to.”

  “I demand to speak to her.”

  Gilchrist pursed his lips and two white lines appeared on either side of his nose. “May I remind you, Mr. Dunworthy,” he said coldly, “that this drop is Brasenose’s, not Balliol’s. I of course appreciate the assistance you have given in loaning us your tech, and I respect your many years of experience as an historian, but I assure you I have everything well in hand.”

  “Then why is your historian injured before she’s even left?”

  “Oh, Mr. Dunworthy, I’m so glad you came,” Kivrin said, coming up to the glass. “I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to say good-bye to you. Isn’t this exciting?”

  Exciting. “You’re bleeding,” Dunworthy said. “What’s gone wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Kivrin said, touching her temple gingerly and then looking at her fingers. “It’s part of the costume.” She looked past him at Mary. “Dr. Ahrens, you came, too. I’m so glad.”

  Mary had stood up, still holding her shopping bag. “I want to see your antiviral inoculation,” she said. “Have you had any other reaction besides the swelling? Any itching?”

  “It’s all right, Dr. Ahrens,” Kivrin said. She held the sleeve back and then let it fall again before Mary could possibly have had a good look at the underside of her arm. There was another reddish bruise on Kivrin’s forearm, already beginning to turn black and blue.

  “It would seem to be more to the point to ask her why she’s bleeding,” Dunworthy said.

  “It’s part of the costume. I told you, I’m Isabel de Beauvrier, and I’m supposed to have been waylaid by robbers while traveling,” Kivrin said. She turned and gestured at the boxes and smashed wagon. “My things were stolen, and I was left for dead. I got the idea from you, Mr. Dunworthy,” she said reproachfully.

  “I certainly never suggested that you start out bloody and beaten,” Dunworthy said.

  “Stage blood was impractical,” Gilchrist said. “Probability couldn’t give us statistically significant odds that no one would tend her wound.”

  “And it never occurred to you to dupe a realistic wound? You knocked her on the head instead?” Dunworthy said angrily.

  “Mr. Dunworthy, may I remind you—”

  “That this is Brasenose’s project, not Balliol’s? You’re bloody right it isn’t. If it were Twentieth Century’s, we’d be trying to protect the historian from injury, not inflicting it on her ourselves. I want to speak to Badri. I want to know if he’s rechecked the apprentice’s calculations.”

  Gilchrist’s lips pursed. “Mr. Dunworthy, Mr. Chaudhuri may be your net technician, but this is my drop. I assure you we have considered every possible contingency—”

  “It’s just a nick,” Kivrin said. “It doesn’t even hurt. I’m all right, really. Please don’t get upset, Mr. Dunworthy. The idea of being injured was mine. I remembered what you said about how a woman in the Middle Ages was so vulnerable, and I thought it would be a good idea if I looked more vulnerable than I was.”

  It would be impossible for you to look more vulnerable than you are, Dunworthy thought.

  “If I pretend to be unconscious, then I can overhear what people are saying about me, and they won’t ask a lot of questions about who I am, because it will be obvious that—”

  “It’s time for you to get into position,” Gilchrist said, moving threateningly over to the wall panel.

  “I’m coming,” Kivrin said, not budging.

  “We’re ready to set the net.”

  “I know,” she said firmly. “I’ll be there as soon as I’ve told Mr. Dunworthy and Dr. Ahrens good-bye.”

  Gilchrist nodded curtly and walked back into the debris. Latimer asked him something, and he snapped an answer.

  “What does getting into position entail?” Dunworthy asked. “Having him take a cosh to you because Probability’s told him there’s a statistical possibility someone won’t believe you’re truly unconscious?”

  “It involves lying down and closing my eyes,” Kivrin said, grinning. “Don’t worry.”

  “There’s no reason you can’t wait until tomorrow and at least give Badri time to run a parameter check,” Dunworthy said.

  “I want to see that inoculation again,” Mary said.

  “Will you two stop fretting?” Kivrin said. “My inoculation doesn’t itch, the cut doesn’t hurt, Badri’s spent all morning running checks. I know you’re worried about me, but please don’t be. The drop’s on the main road from Oxford to Bath only two miles from Skendgate. If no one comes along, I’ll walk into the village and tell them I’ve been attacked by robbers. After I’ve determined my location so I can find the drop again.” She put her hand up to the glass. “I just want to thank you both for everything you’ve done. I’ve wanted to go to the Middle Ages more than anything, and now I’m actually going.”

  “You’re likely to experience headache and fatigue after the drop,” Mary said. “They’re a normal side effect of the time lag.”

  Gilchrist came back over to the thin-glass. “It’s time for you to get into position,” he said.

  “I’ve got to go,” she said, gathering up her heavy skirts. “Thank you both so much. I wouldn’t be going if it weren’t for you two helping me.”

  “Good-bye,” Mary said.

  “Be careful,” Dunworthy said.

  “I will,” Kivrin said, but Gilchrist had already pressed the wall panel, and Dunworthy couldn’t hear her. She smiled, held up her hand in a little wave, and went over to the smashed wagon.

  Mary sat back down and began rummaging through the shopping bag for a handkerchief. Gilchrist was reading off items from the carryboard. Kivrin nodded at each one, and he ticked them off with the light pen.

  “What if she gets blood poisoning from that cut on her temple?” Dunworthy said, still standing at the glass.

  “She won’t get blood poisoning,” Mary said. “I enhanced her immune system.” She blew her nose.

  Kivrin was arguing with Gilchrist about something. The white lines along his nose were sharply defined. She shook her head, and after a minute he checked off the next item with an abrupt, angry motion.

  Gilchrist and the rest of Mediaeval might be incompetent, but Kivrin wasn’t. She had learned Middle English and Church Latin and Anglo-Saxon. She had memorized the Latin masses and taught hers
elf to embroider and milk a cow. She had come up with an identity and a rationale for being alone on the road between Oxford and Bath, and she had the interpreter and augmented stem cells and no appendix.

  “She’ll do swimmingly,” Dunworthy said, “which will only serve to convince Gilchrist Mediaeval’s methods aren’t slipshod and dangerous.”

  Gilchrist walked over to the console and handed the carryboard to Badri. Kivrin folded her hands again, closer to her face this time, her mouth nearly touching them, and began to speak into them.

  Mary came closer and stood beside Dunworthy, clutching her handkerchief. “When I was nineteen—which was, oh, Lord, forty years ago, it doesn’t seem that long—my sister and I traveled all over Egypt,” she said. “It was during the Pandemic. Quarantines were being slapped on all about us, and the Israelis were shooting Americans on sight, but we didn’t care. I don’t think it even occurred to us that we might be in danger, that we might catch it or be mistaken for Americans. We wanted to see the Pyramids.”

  Kivrin had stopped praying. Badri left his console and came over to where she was standing. He spoke to her for several minutes, the frown never leaving his face. She knelt and then lay down on her side next to the wagon, turning so she was on her back with one arm flung over her head and her skirts tangled about her legs. The tech arranged her skirts, pulled out the light measure, and paced around her, walked back to the console, and spoke into the ear. Kivrin lay quite still, the blood on her forehead almost black under the light.

  “Oh, dear, she looks so young,” Mary said.

  Badri spoke into the ear, glared at the results on the screen, went back to Kivrin. He stepped over her, straddling her legs, and bent down to adjust her sleeve. He took a measurement, moved her arm so it was across her face as if warding off a blow from her attackers, measured again.

  “Did you see the Pyramids?” Dunworthy said.