Dooms Day Book

“Where are you going?” Rosemund said.

“Only to the kitchen. Are you hungry? I will bring you some porridge. Now lie down and rest.”

“I do not like to be alone,” Rosemund said. “Can you not stay with me a little?”

I don’t have time for this, Kivrin thought. “I’m only going to the kitchen. And Father Roche is here. Can’t you hear him? He’s ringing the bell. I’ll only be a few minutes. All right?” She smiled cheerfully at Rosemund, and she nodded reluctantly. “I’ll be back soon.”

She nearly ran outside. Roche was still ringing the death knell, slowly, steadily. Hurry, she thought, we don’t have much time. She searched the kitchen, setting the food on the table. There was a round of cheese and plently of manchets left—she stacked them like plates in a wadmal sack, put in the cheese, and carried it out to the well.

Rosemund was standing in the door of the manor, holding onto the jamb. “Can I not sit in the kitchen with you?” she asked. She had put on her kirtle and her shoes, but she was already shivering in the cold air.

“It is too cold,” Kivrin said, hurrying over to her. “And you must rest.”

“When you are gone, I fear you will not come back,” she said.

“I’m right here,” Kivrin said, but she went inside and fetched Rosemund’s cloak and an armload of furs.

“You can sit here on the doorstep,” she said, “and watch me pack.” She put the cloak over Rosemund’s shoulders and sat her down, piling the furs about her like a nest. “All right?”

The brooch that Sir Bloet had given Rosemund was still at the neck of the cloak. She fumbled with the fastening, her thin hands trembling a little. “Do we go to Courcy?” she asked.

“No,” Kivrin said, and pinned the brooch for her. Io suiicien lui dami amo. You are here in place of the friend I love. “We’re going to Scotland. We will be safe from the plague there.”

“Think you my father died from the plague?”

Kivrin hesitated.

“My mother said he was only delayed or unable to come. She said perhaps my brothers were ill, and he would come when they were recovered.”

“And so he may,” Kivrin said, tucking a fur around Rosemund’s feet. “We’ll leave a letter for him so he’ll know where we went.”

Rosemund shook her head. “If he lived, he would have come for me.”

Kivrin wrapped a coverlet around Rosemund’s thin shoulders. “I must fetch food for us to take,” she said gently.

Rosemund nodded, and Kivrin went across to the kitchen. There was a sack of onions against the wall and another of apples. They were wizened, and most of them had brown spots, but Kivrin lugged the sack outside. They would not need to be cooked and they would all be in need of vitamins before spring.

“Would you like an apple?” she asked Rosemund.

“Yes,” Rosemund said, and Kivrin searched through the sack, trying to find one that was still firm and unwrinkled. She unearthed a reddish-green one, polished it on her leather hose, and took it to her, smiling at the memory of how good an apple would have tasted when she was ill. Or a glass of orange juice.

But after the first bite, Rosemund seemed to lose interest. She leaned back against the doorjamb and looked quietly up at the sky, listening to the steady toll of Roche’s bell.

Kivrin went back to sorting the apples, picking out the ones worth taking, and wondering how much the donkey could carry. They would need to take oats for the donkey. There would be no grass, though when they reached Scotland there might be scrub that it could eat. They shouldn’t have to take water. There were plenty of streams, but they would need to take a pot to boil it in.

“Your people never came for you,” Rosemund said.

Kivrin looked up. She was still sitting against the door with the apple.

They did come, Kivrin thought, but I wasn’t there. “No,” Kivrin said.

“Think you the plague has killed them?”

“No,” Kivrin said, and thought, at least I don’t have to think of them dead or helpless somewhere. At least I know they’re all right.

“When I go to Sir Bloet, I will tell him how you helped us,” Rosemund said. “I will ask that I might keep you and Father Roche by me.” Her head went up proudly. “I am allowed attendants and a chaplain.”

“Thank you,” Kivrin said solemnly.

She set the sack of good apples next to the one of cheese and bread. The bell stopped, its overtones still echoing in the cold air. She picked up the bucket and lowered it into the well. She would cook some porridge and chop the bruised apples into it. It would make a filling meal for the trip.

Rosemund’s apple rolled past her feet to the base of the well and stopped. Kivrin stooped to pick it up. It had only a little bite out of it, white against the shrivelled red. Kivrin wiped it against her jerkin. “You dropped your apple,” she said, and turned to give it back to her.

Her hand was still open, as if she had leaned forward to catch it when it fell. “Oh, Rosemund,” Kivrin said.

Transcript from the Doomsday Book

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