Dooms Day Book

I must find the drop, she thought. But the woods stretched on for miles, with hundreds of oak trees, dozens of clearings. She would never find it. And she couldn’t leave Rosemund.

Perhaps Gawyn would turn back. They had closed the gates of some cities—perhaps he would not be able to get in, or perhaps he would talk to people on the roads and realize Lord Guillaume must be dead. Come back, she willed him, hurry. Come back.

Kivrin went through Imeyne’s bag again, tasting the contents of the pouches. The yellow powder was sulfur. Doctors had used that during epidemics, too, burning it to fumigate the air, and she remembered learning in History of Meds that sulfur killed certain bacteria, though whether that was only in the sulfa compounds she couldn’t remember. It was safer than cutting the bubo open, though.

She sprinkled a little on the fire to test it, and it billowed into a yellow cloud that burned Kivrin’s throat even through her mask. The clerk gasped for breath, and Imeyne, over in her corner, set up a continuous hacking.

Kivrin had expected the smell of bad eggs to disperse in a few minutes, but the yellow smoke hung in the air like a pall, burning their eyes. Maisry ran outside, coughing into her apron, and Eliwys took Imeyne and Agnes up to the loft to escape it.

Kivrin propped the manor door open and fanned the air with one of the kitchen cloths, and after awhile the air cleared a little, though her throat still felt parched. The clerk continued to cough, but Rosemund stopped, and her pulse slowed till Kivrin could scarcely feel it.

“I don’t know what to do,” Kivrin said, holding her hot, dry wrist. “I’ve tried everything.

Roche came in, coughing.

“It is the sulfur,” she said. “Rosemund is worse.”

He looked at her and felt her pulse and then went out again, and Kivrin took that as a good sign. He would not have left if she were truly bad.

He came back in a few minutes, wearing his vestments and carrying the oil and viaticum of the last rites.

“What is it?” Kivrin said. “Has the steward’s wife died then?”

“Nay,” he said, and looked past her at Rosemund.

“No,” Kivrin said. She scrambled to her feet to stand between him and Rosemund. “I won’t let you.”

“She must not die unshriven,” he said, still looking at Rosemund.

“Rosemund isn’t dying,” Kivrin said, and followed his gaze.

She looked already dead, her chapped lips half-open and her eyes blind and unblinking. Her skin had taken on a yellowish cast and was stretched tautly over her narrow face. No, Kivrin thought desperately. I must do something to stop this. She’s twelve years old.

Roche moved forward with the chalice, and Rosemund raised her arm, as if in supplication, and then let it fall.

“We must open the plague-boil,” Kivrin said. “We must let the poison out.”

She thought he was going to refuse, to insist on hearing Rosemund’s confession first, but he did not. He set the chrism and chalice down on the stone floor and went to fetch a knife.

“A sharp one,” Kivrin called after him, “and bring wine.” She set the pot of water on the fire again. When he came back with the knife, she washed it off with water from the bucket, scrubbing the encrusted dirt near the hilt with her fingernails. She held it in the fire, the hilt wrapped in the tail of her surcote, and then poured boiling water over it and then wine and then the water again.

They moved Rosemund closer to the fire, the side with the bubo facing it so they could have as much light as possible, and Roche knelt at Rosemund’s head. Kivrin slipped her arm gently out of her shift and bunched the fabric under her for a pillow. Roche took hold of her arm, turning it so the swelling was exposed.

It was almost the size of an apple, and her whole shoulder joint was inflamed and swollen. The edges of the bubo were soft and almost gelatinous, but the center was still hard.

Kivrin opened the bottle of wine Roche had brought, poured some on a cloth, and swabbed the bubo gently with it. It felt like a rock embedded in the skin. She was not sure the knife would even cut into it.

She picked up the knife and poised it above the swelling, afraid of cutting into an artery, of spreading the infection, of making it worse.

“She is past pain,” Roche said.

Kivrin looked down at her. She hadn’t moved, even when Kivrin pressed on the swelling. She stared past them both at something terrible. I can’t make it worse, Kivrin thought. Even if I kill her, I can’t make it worse.

“Hold her arm,” she said, and Roche pinned her wrist and halfway up the forearm, pressing her arm flat to the floor. Rosemund still didn’t move.

Two quick, clean slices, Kivrin thought. She took a deep breath and touched the knife to the swelling.

Rosemund’s arm spasmed, her shoulder twisting protectively away from the knife, her thin hand clenching into a claw. “What do you do?” she said hoarsely. “I will tell my father!”

Kivrin jerked the knife back. Roche caught at Rosemund’s arm and pushed it back against the floor, and she hit weakly at him with her other hand.