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Eliwys had said she needed to stay with Rosemund, but when Kivrin got back to the manor house, she was nowhere near her. She lay curled up on Agnes’s pallet, wrapped in her cloak, watching the door. “Perhaps his horse was stolen by those that would flee the pestilence,” she said, “and that is why he is so long in coming.”

“Agnes is buried,” Kivrin said coldly, and went to check on Rosemund.

She was awake. She looked up solemnly at Kivrin when she knelt by her and reached for Kivrin’s hand.

“Oh, Rosemund,” Kivrin said, tears stinging her nose and eyes. “Sweetheart, how do you feel?”

“Hungry,” Rosemund said. “Has my father come?”

“Not yet,” Kivrin said, and it even seemed possible that he might. “I will fetch you some broth. You must rest until I come back. You have been very ill.”

Rosemund obediently closed her eyes. They looked less sunken, though they still had dark bruises under them. “Where is Agnes?” she asked.

Kivrin smoothed her dark, tangled hair back from her face. “She is sleeping.”

“Good,” Rosemund said. “I would not have her shouting and playing. She is too noisy.”

“I will fetch you the broth,” Kivrin said. She went over to Eliwys. “Lady Eliwys, I have good news,” she said eagerly. “Rosemund is awake.”

Eliwys raised herself up on one elbow and looked at Rosemund, but distractedly, as if she were thinking of something else, and presently she lay down again.

Kivrin, alarmed, put her hand to Eliwys’s forehead. It seemed warm, but Kivrin’s hands were still cold from outside, and she couldn’t tell for certain. “Are you ill?” she asked.

“No,” Eliwys said, but still as if her mind were on something else. “What shall I tell him?”

“You can tell him that Rosemund is better,” she said, and this time it seemed to get through to her. Eliwys got up and went over to Rosemund and sat down beside her. But by the time Kivrin came back from the kitchen with the broth, she had gone back to Agnes’s pallet and lay curled up under the fur-trimmed cloak.

Rosemund was asleep, but it was not the frightening deathlike sleep of before. Her color was better, though her skin was still drawn tightly over her cheekbones.

Eliwys was asleep, too, or feigning sleep, and it was just as well. While she had been in the kitchen, the clerk had crawled off his pallet and halfway over the barricade, and when Kivrin tried to haul him back, he struck out at her wildly. She had to go fetch Father Roche to help subdue him.

His right eye had ulcerated, the plague eating its way out from inside, and the clerk clawed at it viciously with his hands. “Domine Jesu Christe,” he swore, “fidelium defunctorium de poenis infermis.” Save the souls of the faithful departed from the pains of hell.

Yes, Kivrin prayed, wrestling with his clawed hands, save him now.

She rummaged through Imeyne’s medical kit again, searching for something to kill the pain. There was no opium powder, and was the opium poppy even in England yet in 1348? She found a few papery orange scraps that looked a little like poppy petals and steeped them in hot water, but the clerk couldn’t drink it. His mouth was a horror of open sores, his teeth and tongue caked with dried blood.

He doesn’t deserve this, Kivrin thought. Even if he did bring the plague here. Nobody deserves this. “Please,” she prayed, and wasn’t sure what she asked.

Whatever it was, it was not granted. The clerk began to vomit a dark bile, streaked with blood, and it snowed for two days, and Eliwys grew steadily worse. It did not seem to be the plague. She had no buboes and she didn’t cough or vomit, and Kivrin wondered if it were illness or simply grief or guilt. “What shall I tell him?” Eliwys said over and over again. “He sent us here to keep us safe.”

Kivrin felt her forehead. It was warm. They’re all going to get it, she thought. Lord Guillaume sent them here to keep them safe, but they’re all going to get it, one by one. I have to do something. But she couldn’t think of anything. The only protection from the plague was flight, but they had already fled here, and it had not protected them, and they couldn’t flee with Rosemund and Eliwys ill.

But Rosemund’s getting stronger every day, Kivrin thought, and Eliwys doesn’t have the plague. It’s only a fever. Perhaps they have another estate where we could go. In the north.

The plague was not in Yorkshire yet. She could see to it that they kept away from the other people on the roads, that they weren’t exposed.

She asked Rosemund if they had a manor in Yorkshire. “Nay,” Rosemund said, sitting up against one of the benches. “In Dorset,” but that was of no use. The plague was already there. And Rosemund, though she was better, was still too weak to sit up for more than a few minutes. She could never ride a horse. If we had horses, Kivrin thought.

“My father had a living in Surrey, also,” Rosemund said. “We stayed there when Agnes was born.” She looked at Kivrin. “Did Agnes die?”

“Yes,” Kivrin said.

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Феликс Х. Пальма

Фантастика / Приключения / Научная Фантастика / Социально-психологическая фантастика / Исторические приключения