Dooms Day Book

“Mr. Dunworthy will open the net as soon as he realizes something’s wrong,” she had told him. She shouldn’t have told him that. He had thought she was a witch and had brought her here to be burned.

“I’m not a witch,” she said, and immediately a hand came out of nowhere and rested coolly on her forehead.

“Shh,” a voice said.

“I am not a witch,” she said, trying to speak slowly so they would understand her. The cutthroat hadn’t understood her. She had tried to tell him they shouldn’t leave the drop, but he had paid no attention to her. He had put her on his white horse and led it out of the clearing and through the stand of white-trunked birches, into the thickest part of the forest.

She had tried to pay attention to which way they were going so she could find her way back, but the man’s swinging lantern had lit only a few inches of ground at their feet, and the light had hurt her eyes. She had closed them, and that was a mistake because the horse’s awkward gait made her dizzy, and she had fallen off the horse onto the ground.

“I am not a witch,” she said. “I’m an historian.”

“Hawey fond enyowuh thissla dey?” the woman’s voice said, far away. She must have come forward to put a faggot on the fire and then stepped back again, away from the heat.

“Enwodes fillenun gleydund sore destrayste.” a man’s voice said, and the voice sounded like Mr. Dunworthy’s. “Ayeen mynarmehs hoor alle op hider ybar.

”

“Sweltes shay dumorte blauen?” the woman said.

“Mr. Dunworthy,” Kivrin said, holding out her arms to him, “I’ve fallen among cutthroats!” but she couldn’t see him through the smothering smoke.

“Shh,” the woman said, and Kivrin knew that it was later, that she had, impossibly, slept. How long does it take to burn, she wondered. The fire was so hot she should be ashes by now, but when she held her hand up, it looked untouched, though little red flames flickered along the edges of the fingers. The light from the flames hurt her eyes. She closed them.

I hope I don’t fall off the horse again, she thought. She had been clinging to the horse, both arms around its neck, though its uneven walk made her head ache even worse, and she had not let go, but she had fallen off, even though Mr. Dunworthy had insisted she learn how to ride, had arranged for her to have lessons at a riding stable near Woodstock. Mr. Dunworthy had told her this would happen. He had told her they would burn her at the stake.

The woman put a cup to her lips. It must be vinegar in a sponge, Kivrin thought, they gave that to martyrs. But it wasn’t. It was a warm, sour liquid. The woman had to tilt Kivrin’s head forward to drink it, and it came to Kivrin for the first time that she was lying down.

I’ll have to tell Mr. Dunworthy, she thought, they burned people at the stake lying down. She tried to bring her hands up to her lips in the position of prayer to activate the corder, but the weight of the flames dragged them down again.

I’m ill, Kivrin thought, and knew that the warm liquid had been a medicinal potion of some kind, and that it had brought her fever down a little. She was not lying on the ground after all, but in a bed in a dark room, and the woman who had hushed her and given her the liquid was there beside her. She could hear her breathing. Kivrin tried to move her head to see her, but the effort made it hurt again. The woman must be asleep. Her breathing was even and loud, almost like snoring. It hurt Kivrin’s head to listen to it.

I must be in the village, she thought. The redheaded man must have brought me here.

She had fallen off the horse, and the cutthroat had helped her back on, but when she looked into his face, he hadn’t looked like a cutthroat at all. He was young, with red hair and a kind expression, and he had leaned over her where she was sitting against the wagon wheel, kneeling on one knee beside her and said, “Who are you?”

She had understood him perfectly.

“Canstawd ranken derwyn?” the woman said and tilted Kivrin’s head forward for more of the bitter liquid. Kivrin could barely swallow. The fire was inside her throat now. She could feel the little orange flames, though the liquid should have put them out. She wondered if he had taken her to some foreign land, Spain or Greece, where the people spoke a language they hadn’t put into the interpreter.

She had understood the redheaded man perfectly. “Who are you?” he had asked, and she had thought that the other man must be a slave he’d brought back from the Crusades, a slave who spoke Turkish or Arabic, and that was why she couldn’t understand him.

“I’m an historian,” she had said, but when she looked up into his kind face it wasn’t him. It was the cutthroat.

She had looked wildly around for the red-headed man, but he wasn’t there. The cutthroat picked up sticks and laid them on some stones for a fire.