Dooms Day Book

“You have no right to do this!” she said. “Your son and Rosemund are getting better. And Lady Eliwys is only tired and ill with grief. They aren’t going to die.”

The steward looked up at her, his face as expressionless as when he had stood at the barricade, measuring Rosemund for her grave. “Father Roche says you were sent to help us, but how can you avail against the end of the world?” He stood down on the spade again. “You will have need of these graves. All, all will die.”

The cow trotted over to the opposite side of the grave, its face on a level with the steward’s, and lowed in his face, but he did not seem to notice it.

“You must not dig any more graves,” she said. “I forbid it.”

He went on digging, as if he had not noticed her either.

“They’re not going to die,” she said. “The Black Death only killed one-third to one-half of the contemps. We’ve already had our quota.”

Eliwys died in the night. The steward had to lengthen Rosemund’s grave for Eliwys, and when they buried her, Kivrin saw he had started another for Rosemund.

I must get them away from here, she thought, looking at the steward. He stood with the spade cradled against his shoulder, and as soon as he had filled in Eliwys’s grave, he started in on Rosemund’s grave again. I must get them away before they catch it.

Because they were going to catch it. It lay in wait for them, in the baccilli on their clothes, on the bedding, in the very air they breathed. And if by some miracle they didn’t catch it from that, the plague would sweep through all of Oxfordshire in the spring, messengers and villagers and bishop’s envoys. They could not stay here.

Scotland, she thought, and started for the manor. I could take them to northern Scotland. The plague didn’t reach that far. The steward’s son could ride the donkey, and they could make a litter for Rosemund.

Rosemund was sitting up on her pallet. “The steward’s son has been crying out for you,” she said as soon as Kivrin came in.

He had vomited a bloody mucus. His pallet was filthy with it, and when Kivrin cleaned him up, he was too weak to raise his head. Even if Rosemund can ride, he can’t, she thought despairingly. We’re not going anywhere.

In the night, she thought of the wagon that had been at the rendezvous. Perhaps the steward could help her repair it, and Rosemund could ride in that. She lit a rushlight from the coals of the fire and crept out to the stable to look at it. Roche’s donkey brayed at her when she opened the door, and there was a rustling sound of sudden scattering as she held the smoky light up.

The smashed boxes lay piled against the wagon like a barricade, and she knew as soon as she pulled them away that it wouldn’t work. It was too big. The donkey could not pull it, and the wooden axle was missing, carried off by some enterprising contemp to mend a hedge with or burn for firewood. Or stave off the plague with, Kivrin thought.

It was pitch black in the courtyard when she came out, and the stars were sharp and bright, as they had been Christmas eve. She thought of Agnes asleep against her shoulder, the bell on her little wrist, and the sound of the bells, tolling the devil’s knell. Prematurely, Kivrin thought. The devil isn’t dead yet. He’s loose on the world.

She lay awake a long time, trying to think of another plan. Perhaps they could make some sort of litter the donkey could drag if the snow wasn’t too deep. Or perhaps they could put both children on the donkey and carry the baggage in packs on their backs.

She fell asleep finally and was awakened again almost immediately, or so it seemed to her. It was still dark, and Roche was bending over her. The dying fire lit his face from below so that he looked as he had in the clearing when she had thought he was a cutthroat, and still partly asleep, she reached out and put her hand gently to his cheek.

“Lady Katherine,” he said, and she came awake.

It’s Rosemund, she thought, and twisted round to look at her, but she was sleeping easily, her thin hand under her cheek.

“What is it?” she said. “Are you ill?”

He shook his head. He opened his mouth and then closed it again.

“Has someone come?” she said, scrambling to her feet.

He shook his head again.

It can’t be someone ill, she thought. There’s no one left. She looked at the pile of blankets by the door where the steward slept, but he wasn’t there. “Is the steward ill?”

“The steward’s son is dead,” he said in an odd, stunned voice, and she saw that he was gone, too. “I went to the church to say matins—” Roche said, and his voice faltered. “You must come with me,” he said and strode out.

Kivrin snatched up her ragged blanket and hurried out into the courtyard after him.

It could not be later than six. The sun was only just above the horizon, staining the overcast sky and the snow with pink. Roche was already disappearing through the narrow passage to the green. Kivrin flung the blanket over her shoulders and ran after him.