Dooms Day Book

We can’t go on like this, she thought, watching Father Roche making the sign of the cross over Eliwys. He’ll die of exhaustion. He’ll come down with the plague.

I have to get them away, she thought again. The plague didn’t reach everywhere. There were villages that were completely untouched. It had skipped over Poland and Bohemia, and there were parts of northern Scotland it had never reached.

“Agnus dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis,” Father Roche said, his voice as comforting as it had been when she was dying, and she knew it was hopeless.

He would never leave his parishioners. The history of the Black Death was full of stories of priests who had abandoned their people, who had refused to perform burials, who had locked themselves in their churches and monasteries and run away. She wondered now if those statistics were inaccurate, too.

And even if she found some way to take them all, Eliwys, turning even now as she made her confession to look at the door, would insist on waiting for Gawyn, for her husband, to come, as she was convinced they would now that the snow had stopped.

“Has Father Roche gone to meet him?” she asked Kivrin when Roche left to take the sacraments back to the church. “He will be here soon. He has no doubt gone first to Courcy to warn them of the plague, and it is only half a day’s journey from there.” She insisted that Kivrin move her pallet in front of the door.

While Kivrin was rearranging the barricade to keep the draft from the door off her, the clerk cried out suddenly and went into convulsions. His whole body spasmed, as if he were being shocked, and his face became a terrible rictus, his ulcerated eye staring upward.

“Don’t do this to him,” Kivrin shouted, trying to wedge the spoon from Rosemund’s broth between his teeth. “Hasn’t he been through enough?”

His body jerked. “Stop it!” Kivrin sobbed. “Stop it!”

His body abruptly slackened. She jammed the spoon between his teeth, and a little trickle of black slime came out of the side of his mouth.

He’s dead, she thought, and could not believe it. She looked at him, his ulcerated eye half-open, his face swollen and blackened under the stubble of his beard. His fists were clenched at his sides. He did not look human, lying there, and Kivrin covered his face with a rough blanket, afraid that Rosemund might see him.

“Is he dead?” Rosemund asked, sitting up curiously.

“Yes,” Kivrin said. “Thank God.” She stood up. “I must go tell Father Roche.”

“I would not have you leave me here alone,” Rosemund said.

“Your mother is here,” Kivrin said, “and the steward’s son, and I will only be a few minutes.”

“I am afraid,” Rosemund said.

So am I, Kivrin thought, looking down at the coarse blanket. He was dead, but even that had not relieved his suffering. He looked still in anguish, still in terror, though his face no longer looked even human. The pains of hell.

“Please do not leave me,” Rosemund said.

“I must tell Father Roche,” Kivrin said, but she sat down between the clerk and Rosemund and waited until she was asleep before she went to find him.

He wasn’t in the courtyard or the kitchen. The steward’s cow was in the passage, eating the hay from the bottom of the pig sty, and it ambled after her out onto the green.

The steward was in the churchyard, digging a grave, his chest level with the snowy ground. He already knows, she thought, but that was impossible. Her heart began to pound.

“Where is Father Roche?” she called, but the steward didn’t answer or look up. The cow came up beside her and lowed at her.

“Go away,” she said, and ran across to the steward.

The grave was not in the churchyard. It lay on the green, past the lychgate, and there were two other graves in a line next to it, the iron-hard dirt piled on the snow beside each one.

“What are you doing?” she demanded. “Whose graves are these?”

The steward flung a spadeful of dirt onto the mound. The frozen clods made a clattering sound like stones.

“Why do you dig three graves?” she said. “Who has died?” The cow nudged her shoulder with its horn. She twisted away from it. “Who has died?”

The steward jabbed the spade into the iron-hard ground. “It is the last days, boy,” he said, stepping down hard on the blade, and Kivrin felt a jerk of fear, and then realized he hadn’t recognized her in her boy’s cloths.

“It’s me, Katherine,” she said.

He looked up and nodded. “It is the end of time,” he said. “Those who have not died, will.” He leaned forward putting his whole weight on the spade.

The cow tried to dig its head in under her arm.

“Go away!” she said, and hit it on the nose. It backed away gingerly, skirting the graves, and Kivrin noticed they were not all the same size.

The first was large, but the one next to it was no bigger than Agnes’s had been, and the one he stood in did not look much longer. I told Rosemund he wasn’t digging her grave, she thought, but he was.