Dooms Day Book

“No,” she said, pulling the coverlet up over him. “You’re tired, that’s all. Try to sleep.”

He turned on his side, away from her, but in a few minutes he sat up, the murderous expression back, and threw the covers off. “I must ring the vespers bell,” he said accusingly, and it was all Kivrin could to to keep him from standing up. When he dozed again, she tore strips from the frayed bottom of her jerkin and tied his hands to the rood screen.

“Don’t do this to him,” Kivrin murmured over and over without knowing it. “Please! Please! Don’t do this to him.”

He opened his eyes. “Surely God must hear such fervent prayers,” he said, and sank into a deeper, quieter sleep.

Kivrin ran out and unloaded the donkey and untied him, gathered up the sacks of food and the lantern and brought them inside the church. He was still sleeping. She crept out again and ran across to the courtyard and drew a bucket of water from the well.

He still did not appear to have wakened, but when Kivrin wrung out a strip torn from the altar cloth and bathed his forehead with it, he said, without opening his eyes, “I feared that you had gone.”

She wiped the crusted blood by his mouth. “I would not go to Scotland without you.”

“Not Scotland,” he said. “To Heaven.”

She ate a little of the stale manchet and cheese from the food sack and tried to sleep a little, but it was too cold. When Roche turned and sighed in his sleep, she could see his breath.

She built a fire, pulling up the stick fence around one of the huts and piling the sticks in front of the rood screen, but it filled the church with smoke, even with the doors propped open. Roche coughed and vomited again. This time it was nearly all blood. She put the fire out and made two more hurried trips for as many furs and blankets as she could find and made a sort of nest of them.

Roche’s fever went up in the night. He kicked at the covers and raged at Kivrin, mostly in words she couldn’t understand, though once he said, clearly, “Go, curse you!” and over and over, furiously, “It grows dark!”

Kivrin brought the candles from the altar and the top of the rood screen and set them in front of St. Catherine’s statue. When his ravings about the dark got bad, she lit them all and covered him up again, and it seemed to help a little.

His fever rose higher, and his teeth chattered in spite of the rugs heaped over him. It seemed to Kivrin that his skin was already darkening, the blood vessels hemorrhaging under the skin. Don’t do this. Please.

In the morning he was better. His skin had not blackened after all; it was only the uncertain light of the candles that had made it seem mottled. His fever had come down a little and he slept soundly through the morning and most of the afternoon, not vomiting at all. She went out for more water before it got dark.

Some people recovered spontaneously and some were saved by prayers. Not everyone died who was infected. The death rate for pneumonic plague was only ninety per cent.

He was awake when she went in, lying in a shaft of smoky light. She knelt and held a cup of water under his mouth, tilting his head up so he could drink.

“It is the blue sickness,” he said when she let his head back down.

“You’re not going to die,” she said. Ninety per cent. Ninety per cent.

“You must hear my confession.”

No. He could not die. She would be left here all alone. She shook her head, unable to speak.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” he began in Latin.

He hadn’t sinned. He had tended the sick, shriven the dying, buried the dead. It was God who should have to beg forgiveness.

“—in thought, word, deed, and omission. I was angry with Lady Imeyne. I shouted at Maisry.” He swallowed. “I had carnal thoughts of a saint of the Lord.”

Carnal thoughts.

“I humbly ask pardon of God, and absolution of you, Father, if you think me worthy.”

There is nothing to forgive, she wanted to say. Your sins are no sins. Carnal thoughts. We held down Rosemund and barricaded the village against a harmless boy and buried a six– month-old baby. It is the end of the world. Surely you are to be allowed a few carnal thoughts.

She raised her hand helplessly, unable to speak the words of absolution, but he did not seem to notice. “Oh, My God,” he said, “I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee.”

Offended thee. You’re the saint of the Lord, she wanted to tell him, and where the hell is He? Why doesn’t he come and save you?

There was no oil. She dipped her fingers in the bucket and made the sign of the cross over his eyes and ears, his nose and mouth, his hands that had held her hand when she was dying.

“Quid quid deliquiste,” he said, and she dipped her hand in the water again and marked the cross on the soles of his feet.

“Libera nos, quaesumus, Domine,” he prompted.

“Ab omnibus malis,” Kivrin said, “praeteritis, praesentibus, et futuris.” Deliver us, we beseech, Thee, O Lord, from all evils, past, present and to come.