She laughed, a high-pitched, almost hysterical laugh that would probably frighten Mr. Dunworthy to death. "It's all right," she said, and she could hardly understand her own words. "I know you were worried, but I'll be perfectly all right. I just -- "
He stopped in front of her, the lantern lighting a wobbling circle on the ground in front of her. She could see Dunworthy's feet. He was wearing shapeless leather shoes, the kind that had made the footprint. She tried to say something about the shoes, to ask him whether Mr. Gilchrist had made him put on Authentic Mediaeval Dress just to come and fetch her, but the light's movement was making her dizzy again.
She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, he was kneeling in front of her. He had set the lantern down, and the light lit the hood of his cloak and folded hands.
"It's all right," she said. "I know you were worried, but I'm all right. Truly. I just felt a little ill."
He raised his head. "Certes, it been derlostuh dayes forgott foreto getest hissahntes im aller," he said.
He had a hard, lined face, a cruel face, a cutthroat's face. He had watched her lying there and then he had gone away and waited for it to get dark, and now he had come back.
Kivrin tried to put up a hand to fend him off, but her hands had got tangled somehow in the cloak. "Go away," she said, her teeth chattering so hard she couldn't get the words out. "Go away."
He said something else, with a rising inflection this time, a question. She couldn't understand what he was saying. It's Middle English, she thought. I studied it for three years, and Mr. Latimer taught me everything there is to know about adjectival inflection. I should be able to understand it. It's the fever, she thought. That's why I can't make out what he's saying.
He repeated the question or asked some other question, she couldn't even tell that much.
It's because I'm ill, she thought. I can't understand him because I'm ill. "Kind sir," she began, but she could not remember the rest of the speech. "Help me," she said, and tried to think how to say that in Middle English, but she couldn't remember anything but the Church Latin. "Domine, ad adjuvandum me festina," she said.
He bowed his head over his hands and began to murmur so low she could not hear, and then she must have lost consciousness again because he had picked her up and was carrying her. She could still hear the jangling sound of the bells from the open net, and she tried to tell what direction they were coming from, but her teeth were chattering so hard she couldn't hear.
"I'm ill," she said as he set her on the white horse. She fell forward, clutching at the horse's mane to keep from falling off. He put his hand up to her side and held her there. "I don't know how this happened. I had all my inoculations."
He led the donkey off slowly. The bells on its bridle jingled tinnily.
TRANSCRIPT FROM THE DOOMSDAY BOOK (000740-000751)
Mr. Dunworthy, I think you'd better come and get me.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"I knew it," Mrs. Gaddson said, steaming down the corridor toward them. "He's contracted some horrible disease, hasn't he? It's all that rowing."
Mary stepped forward. "You can't come in here," she said. "This is an isolation area."
Mrs. Gaddson kept coming. The transparent poncho she was wearing over her coat threw off large, spattering drops as she walked toward them, swinging the valise like a weapon. "You can't put me off like that. I'm his mother. I demand to see him."
Mary put up her hand like a policeman. "Stop," she said in her best ward sister voice.
Amazingly, Mrs. Gaddson stopped. "A mother has a right to see her son," she said. Her expression softened. "Is he very ill?"
"If you mean your son William, he's not ill at all," Mary said, "at least so far as I know." She put her hand up again. "Please don't come any closer. Why do you think William's ill?"
"I knew it the minute I heard about the quarantine. A sharp pain went through me when the stationmaster said 'temp quarantine.'" She set down the valise so she could indicate the location of the sharp pain. "It's because he didn't take his vitamins. I asked the college to be sure to give them to him," she said, shooting a glance at Dunworthy that was the rival of any of Gilchrist's, "and they said he was able to take care of himself. Well, obviously, they were wrong."
"William is not the reason the temp quarantine was called. One of the university techs has come down with a viral infection," Mary said.
Dunworthy noticed gratefully that she didn't say "Balliol's tech."
"The tech is the only case, and there is no indication that there will be any others. The quarantine is a purely precautionary measure, I assure you."
Mrs. Gaddson didn't look convinced. "My Willy's always been sickly, and he simply will not take care of himself. He studies far too hard in that drafty room of his," she said with another dark look at Dunworthy. "I'm surprised he hasn't come down with a viral infection before this."
Mary took her hand down and put it in the pocket she carried her bleeper in. I do hope she's calling for help, Dunworthy thought.
"By the end of one term at Balliol, Willy's health was completely broken down, and then his tutor forced him to stay up over Christmas and read Petrarch," Mrs. Gaddson said. That's why I came up. The thought of him all alone in this horrid place for Christmas, eating heaven knows what and doing all sorts of things to endanger his health, was something this mother's heart could simply not bear."
She pointed to the place where the pain had gone through her at the words "temp quarantine." "And it is positively providential that I came when I did. Positively providential. I nearly missed the train, my valise was so cumbersome, and I almost thought, 'Ah, well, there'll be another along,' but I wanted to get to my Willy, so I shouted at them to hold the doors, and I hadn't so much as stepped off at Cornmarket when the stationmaster said, 'Temp quarantine. Train service is temporarily suspended.' Only just think, if I'd missed that train and taken the next one, I would have been stopped by the quarantine."
Only just think. "I'm sure William will be surprised to see you," Dunworthy said, hoping she would go find him.
"Yes," she said grimly. "He's probably sitting there without even his muffler on. He'll get this viral infection, I know it. He gets everything. He used to break out in horrible rashes when he was little. He's bound to come down with it. At least his mother is here to nurse him through it."
The door was flung open and two people wearing masks, gowns, gloves, and some sort of paper covering over their shoes, came racing through it. They slowed to a walk when they saw there was no one collapsed on the floor.
"I need this area cordoned off and an isolation ward sign posted," Mary said. She turned to Mrs. Gaddson. "I'm afraid there's a possibility you've been exposed to the virus. We do not have a positive mode of transmission yet, and we can't rule out the possibility of its being airborne," she said, and for one horrible moment Dunworthy thought she meant to put Mrs. Gaddson in the waiting room with them.
"Would you escort Mrs. Gaddson to an isolation cubicle?" she asked one of the masked-and-gowneds. "We'll need to run blood tests and get a list of your contacts. Mr. Dunworthy, if you'll just come with me," she said and led him into the waiting room and shut the door before Mrs. Gaddson could protest. "They can keep her awhile and give poor Willy a few last hours of freedom."
"That woman would make anyone break out in a rash," he said.
Everyone except the medic had looked up at their entrance. Latimer was sitting patiently by the tray, his sleeve rolled up. Montoya was still using the phone.
"Colin's train was turned back," Mary said. "He's safely at home by now."
"Oh, good," Montoya said and put the phone down. Gilchrist leaped for it.
"Mr. Latimer, I'm sorry to keep you waiting," Mary said. She broke open a pair of imperm gloves, put them on, and began assembling a punch.
"Gilchrist here. I wish to speak with the Senior Tutor," Gilchrist said into the telephone. "Yes. I'm trying to reach Mr. Basingame. Yes, I'll wait."
The Senior Tutor has
no idea where he is, Dunworthy thought, and neither has the bursar. He'd already spoken to them when he was trying to stop the drop. The bursar hadn't even known he was in Scotland.
"I'm glad they found the kid," Montoya said, looking at her digital. "How long do you think they'll keep us here? I've got to get back to my dig before it turns into a swamp. We're excavating Skendgate's churchyard right now. Most of the graves date from the 1400's, but we've got some Black Deaths and a few pre-William the Conquerors. Last week we found a knight's tomb. Beautiful condition. I wonder if Kivrin's there yet?"
Dunworthy assumed she meant at the village and not in one of the graves. "I hope so," he said.
"I told her to start recording her observations of Skendgate immediately, the village and the church. Especially the tomb. The inscription's partly warn off, and some of the carving. The date's readable, though. 1318."
"It's an emergency," Gilchrist said. He fumed through a long pause. "I know he's fishing in Scotland. I want to know where."
Mary put a plaster on Latimer's arm and motioned to Gilchrist. He shook his head at her. She went over to the medic and shook her awake. She followed her over to the tray, blinking sleepily.
"There are so many things only direct observation can tell us," Montoya said. "I told Kivrin to record every detail. I hope there's room on the corder. It's so small." She looked at her watch again. "Of course it had to be. Did you get a chance to see it before they implanted it? It really does look like a bone spur."
"Bone spur?" Dunworthy said, watching the medic's blood spurt into the vial.
"That's so it can't cause an anachronism even if it's discovered. It fits right against the palmar surface of the scaphoid bone." She rubbed the wrist bone above the thumb.
Mary motioned to Dunworthy, and the medic stood up, rolling down her sleeve. Dunworthy took her place in the chair. Mary peeled the back from a monitor, stuck it to the inside of Dunworthy's wrist, and handed him a temp to swallow.
"Have the bursar call me at this number as soon as he returns," Gilchrist said, and hung up.
Montoya snatched up the phone, punched in a number and said, "Hi. Can you tell me the quarantine perimeters? I need to know if Witney's inside it? My dig's there." Whoever she was talking to apparently told her no. "Then who can I talk to about getting the perimeters changed? It's an emergency."
They're worried about their "emergencies," Dunworthy thought, and neither of them's even given a thought to worrying about Kivrin. Well, what was there to worry about? Her corder had been disguised to look like a bone spur so it wouldn't cause an anachronism when the contemps decided to chop off her hands before they burned her at the stake.
Mary took his blood pressure and then jabbed him with the punch. "If the phone ever becomes available," she said, slapping on the plaster and motioning to Gilchrist, who was standing next to Montoya, looking impatient. "You might ring up William Gaddson and warn him that his mother's coming."
Montoya said, "Yes. The number for the National Trust," hung up the phone, and scribbled a number on one of the brochures.
The phone trilled. Gilchrist, halfway to Mary, launched himself at it, grabbing it up before Montoya could reach it. "No," he said and handed it grudgingly over to Dunworthy.
It was Finch. He was in the bursar's office "Have you got Badri's medical records?" Dunworthy said.
"Yes,sir. The police are here, sir. They're looking for places to put all the detainees who don't live in Oxford."
"And they want us to put them up at Balliol," Dunworthy said.
"Yes, sir. How many shall I tell them we can take?"
Mary had stood up, Gilchrist's vial of blood in hand, and was signalling to Dunworthy.
"Wait a moment, please," he said, and punched hold on the mouthpiece.
"Are they asking you to board detainees?" Mary asked.
"Yes," he said.
"Don't commit to filling all your rooms," she said. "We may need infirmary space."
Dunworthy took his hand away and said, "Tell them we can put them in Fisher and whatever rooms are left in Salvin. If you haven't assigned rooms to the bellringers, double them up. Tell the police Infirmary has asked for Bulkeley-Johnson as an emergency ward. Did you say you'd found Badri's medical records?"
"Yes, sir. I had the very devil of a time finding them. The bursar had filed them under Badri comma Chaudhuri, and the Americans -- "
"Did you find his NHS number?"
"Yes, sir."
"I'm putting Dr. Ahrens on," he said before Finch could launch into tales of the bell ringers. He motioned to Mary. "You can give her the information directly."
Mary attached a plaster to Gilchrist's arm and a temp monitor to the back of his hand.
"I got through to Ely, sir," Finch said. "I informed them of the handbell concert cancellation and they were quite pleasant, but the Americans are still very unhappy."
Mary finished entering Latimer's reads, stripped off the gloves and came over to take the phone from Dunworthy.
"Finch? Dr. Ahrens here. Read me Badri's NHS number."
Dunworthy handed her his Secondaries sheet and a pencil, and she wrote it down and then asked for Badri's inoculation records and made a number of notations Dunworthy couldn't decipher.
"Any reactions or allergies?" There was a pause, and then she said, "All right, no. I can get the rest off the computer," she said. "I'll ring you back if I need additional information." She handed the phone back to Dunworthy. "He wants to speak with you again," she said, and left, taking the paper with her.
"They're most unhappy at being kept here," Finch said. "Ms. Taylor is threatening to sue for involuntary breach of contract."
"When was Badri's last course of antivirals?"
Finch took a considerable time looking through the sheaf of printouts, Scriptures and lavatory paper tallies. "Here it is, sir. September fourteenth."
"Did he have the full course?"
"Yes, sir. Receptor analogues, MPA booster, and seasonals."
"Has he ever had a reaction to an antiviral?"
"No, sir. There's nothing under Allergies in the history. I already told Dr. Ahrens that."
Badri had had all his antivirals. He had no history of reactions.
"Have you been to New College yet?" Dunworthy asked.
"No, sir, I'm just on my way. What should I do about supplies, sir? We've adequate stores of soap, but we're very low on lavatory paper."
The door opened, but it wasn't Mary. It was the medic who had been sent to fetch Montoya. He went over to the tea trolley and plugged in the electric kettle.
"Should I ration the toilet paper, do you think, sir," Finch said, "or put up notices asking everyone to conserve?"
"Whatever you think best," Dunworthy said and rang off.
It must still be raining. The medic's uniform was wet, and when the kettle boiled, he put his red hands over the steam, as if trying to warm them.
"Are you quite finished using the telephone?" Gilchrist said.
Dunworthy handed it to him. He wondered what the weather was like where Kivrin was, and whether Gilchrist had had Probability compute the chances of her coming through in the rain. Her cloak had not looked specially waterproof, and that friendly traveller who was supposed to come along within l.6 hours would have holed up in a hostelry or haymow till the roads dried enough to be passable.
Dunworthy had taught Kivrin how to make a fire, but she could hardly do so with wet kindling and numb hands. Winters in the 1300's had been cold. It might even be snowing. The Little Ice Age had just begun in 1320, the weather eventually getting so cold that the Thames froze over. The lower temps and erratic weather had played such havoc with the crops that some historians blamed the Black Death's horrors on the malnourished state of the peasants. The weather had certainly been bad. In the autumn of 1348, it had rained in one part of Oxfordshire every day from Michaelmas to Christmas. Kivrin was probably lying there on the wet road, half-dead from hypothermia.
And broken out
in a rash, he thought, from her over-doting tutor worrying too much about her. Mary was right. He did sound like Mrs. Gaddson. The next thing he knew he'd be plunging off into 1320, forcing the doors of the net open like Mrs. Gaddson on the tube, and Kivrin would be as glad to see him as William was going to be to see his mother. And as in need of help.
Kivrin was the brightest and most resourceful student he had ever had. She surely knew enough to get in out of the rain. For all he knew, she had spent her last vac with the Eskimos, learning to build an igloo.
She had certainly thought of everything else, even down to her fingernails. When she had come in to show him her costume, she had held up her hands. Her nails had been broken off, and there were traces of dirt in the cuticles. "I know I'm supposed to be nobility, but rural nobility, and they did a lot of farm chores in between Bayeaux Tapestries, and East Riding ladies didn't have scissors till the 1600's, so I spent Sunday afternoon in Montoya's dig, grubbing among the dead bodies, to get this effect." There was obviously no reason to worry about a minor detail like snow.
But he couldn't help it. If he could speak to Badri, ask him what he'd meant when he said, "Something wrong," make certain the drop had gone properly and that there hadn't been too much slippage, he might be able to stop worrying. But Mary had not been able even to get Badri's NHS number till Finch phoned with it. He wondered if he were still unconscious. Or worse.
He got up and went over to the tea trolley and made himself a cup of tea. Gilchrist was on the phone again, apparently speaking to the porter. The porter didn't know where Basingame was either. When Dunworthy had talked to him, he had told him he thought Basingame had mentioned Loch Balkillan, a lake that turned out not to exist.
Dunworthy drank his tea. Gilchrist rang up the bursar and the deputy warden, neither of whom knew where Basingame had gone. The nurse who had guarded the door earlier came in and finished the blood tests. The male medic picked up one of the inspirational brochures and began to read it.
Montoya filled out her admissions form and her lists of contacts. "What am I supposed to do?" she asked Dunworthy. "Write down the people I've been in contact with today?"
Willis, Connie - Doomsday Book (v2.1) Page 10
