Dooms Day Book

“Nay,” Roche said, his hand on his chest again, and she could see the faint rise and fall. “I must bring the sacraments,” he said through the mask, and his words were almost as blurred as the clerk’s.

No, Kivrin thought, the panic rising again. Don’t go. What if he dies? What if he rises up again?

Roche straightened. “Do not fear,” he said. “I will come again.”

He went out rapidly, without shutting the door, and Kivrin went over to close it. She could hear sounds from below—Eliwys’s and Roche’s voices. She should have told him not to speak to anyone. Agnes said, “I wish to stay with Kivrin,” and began to howl and Rosemund answered her angrily, shouting over the crying.

“I will tell Kivrin,” Agnes said outraged, and Kivrin shoved the door to and barred it.

Agnes must not come in here, nor Rosemund, nor anyone. They must not be exposed. There was no cure for the Black Death. The only way to protect them was to keep them from catching it. She tried frantically to remember what she knew about the plague. She had studied it in Fourteenth Century, and Dr. Ahrens had talked about it when she’d given Kivrin her inoculations.

There were two distinct types, no, three—one went directly into the bloodstream and killed the victim within hours. Bubonic plague was spread by rat fleas, and that was the kind that produced the buboes. The other kind was pneumonic, and it didn’t have buboes. The victim coughed and vomited up blood, and that was spread by droplet infection and was horribly contagious. But the clerk had the bubonic, and that wasn’t as contagious. Simply being near the patient wouldn’t do it—the flea had to jump from one person to another.

She had a sudden vivid image of the clerk falling on Rosemund, bearing her down to the floor. What if she gets it? she thought. She can’t, she can’t get it. There isn’t any cure.

The clerk stirred in the bed, and Kivrin went over to him.

“Thirsty,” he said, licking his lips with his swollen tongue. She brought him a cup of water, and he drank a few gulps greedily and then choked and spewed it over her.

She backed away, yanking off the drenched mask. It’s the bubonic, she told herself, wiping frantically at her chest. This kind isn’t spread by droplet. And you can’t get the plague, you’ve had your inoculation. But she had had her antivirals and her T-cell enhancement, too. She should not have been able to get the virus either. She should not have landed in 1348.

“What happened?” she whispered.

It couldn’t be the slippage. Mr. Dunworthy had been upset that they hadn’t run slippage checks, but even at its worst, the drop would only have been off by weeks, not years. Something must have gone wrong with the net.

Mr. Dunworthy had said Mr. Gilchrist didn’t know what he was doing, and something had gone wrong, and she had come through in 1348, but why hadn’t they aborted the drop as soon as they knew it was the wrong date? Mr. Gilchrist might not have had the sense to pull her out, but Mr. Dunworthy would have. He hadn’t wanted her to come in the first place. Why hadn’t he opened the net again?

Because I wasn’t there, she thought. It would have taken at least two hours to get the fix. By then she had wandered off into the woods. But he would have held the net open. He wouldn’t have closed it again and waited for the rendezvous. He’d hold it open for her.

She half-ran to the door and pushed up on the bar. She must find Gawyn. She must make him tell her where the drop was.

The clerk sat up and flung his bare leg over the bed as if he would go with her. “Help me,” he said, and tried to move his other leg.

“I can’t help you,” she said angrily. “I don’t belong here.” She shoved the bar up out of its sockets. “I must find Gawyn.” But as soon as she said it, she remembered that he wasn’t there, that he had gone with the bishop’s envoy and Sir Bloet to Courcy. With the bishop’s envoy, who had been in such a hurry to leave he had nearly run down Agnes.

She dropped the bar and turned on him. “Did the others have the plague?” she demanded. “Did the bishop’s envoy have it?” She remembered his gray face and the way he had shivered and pulled his cloak around him. He would infect all of them: Bloet and his haughty sister and the chattering girls. And Gawyn. “You knew you had it when you came here, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”

The clerk held his arms out stiffly to her, like a child. “Help me,” he said, and fell back, his head and shoulder nearly off the bed.

“You don’t deserve to be helped. You brought the plague here.”

There was a knock.

“Who is it?” she said angrily.

“Roche,” he called through the door, and she felt a wave of relief, of joy that he had come, but she didn’t move. She looked down at the clerk, still lying half off the bed. His mouth was open, and his swollen tongue filled his entire mouth.

“Let me in,” Roche said. “I must hear his confession.”

His confession. “No,” Kivrin said.

He knocked again, louder.

“I can’t let you in,” Kivrin said. “It’s contagious. You might catch it.”