Dooms Day Book

She left it there and went up to the solar, ignoring the sounds of skittering above her. The room was icy cold. The linen that Eliwys had fastened over the window had torn loose and was hanging by one corner. The bed hangings were down at one side, too, where the clerk had tried to pull himself up on them, and the flock mattress lay half off the bed. There were small sounds from under the bed, but she didn’t try to see where they were coming from. The chest was still open, its carved lid propped against the foot of the bed, and the clerk’s heavy purple cloak lay folded in it.

The bottle of wine had rolled under the bed. Kivrin flung herself down on the floor and reached under the bed for it. It rolled away from her touch, and she had to crawl halfway under the bed before she could get hold of it.

The stopper had come out, probably when she had kicked it under the bed. A little wine clung stickily to the mouth.

“No,” she said hopelessly, and sat there for a long minute, holding the empty bottle.

There wasn’t any wine in the church. Roche had used it all for the last rites.

She suddenly remembered the bottle he had given her to use on Agnes’s knee. She wriggled under the bed and swept her arm carefully along the bedboard, afraid of knocking it over. She couldn’t remember how much had been in it, but she didn’t think she’d used it all.

She nearly knocked it over, in spite of her carefulness, and grabbed for the wide neck as it tilted. She backed out from under the bed and shook it gently. It was nearly half full. She stuck her knife in the waistband of her jerkin, tucked the bottle under her arm, grabbed up the clerk’s cloak and went downstairs. The rats were back, working on the apples, but this time they ran when she started down the stone steps, and she did not try to see where they’d gone.

The cow had worked over half of its body through the anteroom door and was now hopelessly blocking the way. Kivrin set everything down inside the screens, sweeping a space clear of rushes so she could stand the bottle upright on the stone floor, and pushed her back out, the cow lowing unhappily the whole time.

Once out, the cow promptly tried to come back in to Kivrin. “No,” she said. “There’s no time,” but she went back into the barn and up into the loft and threw down a forkful of hay. Then she scooped up everything and ran back to the church.

Roche had lapsed into unconsciousness. His body had relaxed. His big legs sprawled out in front of him, wide apart, and his hands lay out at his sides, palms up. He looked like a man knocked out by a blow. His breathing was heavy and tremulous, as if he were shivering.

Kivrin covered him with the heavy purple cloak. “I’m back, Roche,” she said, and patted his outflung arm, but he didn’t give any indication that he had heard.

She took the guard off the lantern and used the flame to light all the candles. There were only three of Lady Imeyne’s candles left, all of them over half burned. She lit the rushlights, too, and the fat tallow candle in the niche of the statue of St. Catherine, and moved them closer to Roche’s legs, so she would be able to see.

“I’m going to have to take your hose off,” she said, folding back the coverlet. “I have to lance the bubo.” She untied the ragged points on the hose and he didn’t flinch at her touch, but he moaned a little, and it sounded liquid.

She pulled at the hose, trying to get them down over his hips, and then yanked at the legs, but they were too tight. She would have to cut them off. She should have thought to fetch Rosemund’s scissors, too.

“I’m going to cut your hose off,” she said, crawling back to where she’d left the knife and the bottle of wine. “I’ll try not to cut you.” She dug at the seal and then cut it with the knife. Kivrin sniffed at the bottle and then took a little swig and choked. Good. It was old and full of alcohol. She poured it over the blade of the knife, wiped the edge on her leg, poured some more, careful to leave enough to pour over the wound when she had it opened.

“Beata,” Roche murmured. His hand groped for his groin.

“It’s all right,” Kivrin said. She took hold of one of the legs of his hose and slit the wool. “I know it hurts now, but I’m going to lance the bubo.” She pulled the rough fabric apart in both hands and, blessedly, it tore, making a loud, ripping sound. Roche’s knees contracted. “No, no, leave your legs down,” Kivrin said, trying to push on them. “I have to lance the bubo.”

She couldn’t get them down. She left them for the moment and finished tearing the leg of his hose, reaching under his leg to split the rough cloth the rest of the way up, so she could see the bubo. It was twice as big as Rosemund’s and completely black. It should have been lanced hours ago, days ago.

“Roche, please put your legs down,” she said, leaning on them with all her weight. “I have to open the plague boil.”