Willis, Connie - Doomsday Book (v2.1)

by Doomsday Book (lit)

  "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.

  "Mr. Dunworthy!" Kivrin had called out desperately, and the cutthroat had come and knelt in front of her, the light from his lantern flickering on his face.

  "Fear not," he had said. "He will return soon."

  "Mr. Dunworthy!" she had screamed, and the red-headed man had come and knelt beside her again.

  "I shouldn't have left the drop," she had told him, watching his face so he wouldn't turn into the cutthroat. "Something must have gone wrong with the fix. You must take me back there."

  He had unfastened the cloak he was wearing, swinging it easily off his shoulders, and laid it over her, and she knew he understood.

  "I need to go home," she had said to him as he bent over her. He had a lantern with him, and it lit his kind face and flickered on his red hair like flames.

  "Godufadur," he had called out, and she thought, that's the slave's name. Gauddefaudre. He will ask the slave to tell him where he found me, and then he'll take me back to the drop. And Mr. Dunworthy. Mr. Dunworthy would be frantic that she wasn't there when he opened the net. It's all right, Mr. Dunworthy, she had said silently. I'm coming.

  "Dreede nawmaydde," the redheaded man had said and lifted her up in his arms. "Fawrthah Galwinnath coam."

  "I'm ill," Kivrin said to the woman, "so I can't understand you," but this time no one leaned forward out of the darkness to quiet her. Maybe they had tired of watching her burn and had gone away. It was certainly taking a long time, though the fire seemed to be growing hotter now.

  The redheaded man had set her on the white horse before him and ridden into the woods, and she had thought he must be taking her back to the drop. The horse had a saddle now, and bells, and the bells jangled as they rode, playing a tune. It was "O Come, All Ye Faithful," and the bells grew louder and louder with each verse, till they sounded like the bells of St. Mary the Virgin's.

  They rode a long way, and she had thought they must surely be near the drop by now.

  "How far is the drop?" she had asked the redheaded man. "Mr. Dunworthy will be so worried," but he didn't answer her. He rode out of the woods and down a hill. The moon was up, shining palely in the branches of a stand of narrow, leafless trees, and on the church at the bottom of the hill.

  "This isn't the drop," she had said, and tried to pull on the horse's reins to turn it back the way they had come, but she did not dare take her arms from around the redheaded man's neck for fear she might fall. And then they were at a door, and it opened, and opened again, and there was a fire and light and the sound of bells, and she knew they had brought her back to the drop after all.

  "Shay boyen syke nighonn tdeeth," the woman said. Her hands were wrinkled and rough on Kivrin's skin. She pulled the bed coverings up around Kivrin. Fur, Kivrin could feel soft fur against her face, or maybe it was her hair.

  "Where have you brought me to?" Kivrin asked. The woman leaned forward a little, as if she couldn't hear her, and Kivrin realized she must have spoken in English. Her interpreter wasn't working. She was supposed to be able to think her words in English and speak them in Middle English. Perhaps that was why she couldn't understand them, because her interpreter wasn't working.

  She tried to think how to say it in Middle English. "Where hast thou bringen me to?" The construction was wrong. She must ask, "What is this place?" but she could not remember the Middle English for place.

  She could not think. The woman kept piling on blankets, and the more furs she laid over her, the colder Kivrin got, as if the woman were somehow putting out the fire.

  They would not understand what she meant if she asked, "What is this place?" She was in a village. The redheaded man had brought her to a village. They had ridden past a church and up to a large house. She must ask, "What is the name of this village?"

  The word for place was demain, but the construction was still wrong. They would use the French construction, wouldn't they?

  "Quelle demeure avez vous m'apportй?' she said aloud, but the woman had gone away, and that was not right. They had not been French for two hundred years. She must ask the question in English. "Where is the village you have brought me to?" But what was the word for village?

  Mr. Dunworthy had told her she might not be able to depend on the interpreter, that she had to take lessons in Middle English and Norman French and German. He had made her memorize pages and pages of Chaucer. "Soun ye nought but eyr ybroken And every speche that ye spoken." No. No. "Where is this village you have brought me to?" What was the word for village?

  He had brought her to a village and knocked on a door. An old man had come to the door, carrying an ax. To cut the wood for the fire, of course. An old man and then a woman, and they had both spoken words Kivrin couldn't understand, and the door had shut, and they had been outside in the darkness.

  "Mr. Dunworthy! Dr. Ahrens!" she had cried, and her chest hurt too much to get the words out. "You mustn't let them close the drop," she had said to the redheaded man, but he had changed again into a cutthroat, a thief.

  "Nay," he had said. "She is but injured," and then the door had opened again, and he had carried her in to be burnt.

  She was so hot.

  "Thawmot goonawt plersoun roshundt prayenum comth ithre," the woman said, and Kivrin tried to raise her head to drink, but the woman wasn't holding a cup. She was holding a candle close to Kivrin's face. Too close. Her hair would catch fire.

  "Der maydemot nedes dya," the woman said.

  The candle flickered close to her cheek. Her hair was on fire. Orange and red flames burned along the edges of her hair, catching stray wisps and twisting them into ash.

  "Shh," the woman said, and tried to capture Kivrin's hands, but Kivrin struggled against her until her hands were free. She struck at her hair, trying to put the flames out. Her hands caught fire.

  "Shh," the woman said, and held her hands still. It was not the woman. The hands were too strong. Kivrin tossed her head from side to side, trying to escape the flames, but they were holding her head still, too. Her hair blazed up in a cloud of fire.

  * * *

  It was smoky in the room when she woke up. The fire must have gone out while she slept. That had happened to one of the martyrs when they had burned him at the stake. His friends had piled green faggots on the fire so he would die of the smoke before the fire reached him, but it had put the fire nearly out instead, and he had smouldered for hours.

  The woman leaned over her. It was so smoky Kivrin couldn't see whether she was young or old. The redheaded man must have put out the fire. He had spread his cloak over her and then gone over to the fire and put it out, kicking it apart with his boots, and the smoke had come up and blinded her.

  The woman dripped water on her, and the drops sizzled on her skin. "Hauccaym anchi towoem denswile?" the woman said.

  "I am Isabel de Beauvrier," Kivrin said. "My brother lies ill at Evesham." She could not think of any of the words. Quelle demeure. Perced to the rote. "Where am I?" she said in English.

  A face leaned close to hers. "Hau hightes towe?" it said. It was the cutthroat face of the enchanted wood. She pulled back from it, frightened.

  "Go away!" she said. "What do you want?"

  "In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus sancti," he said.

  Latin, she thought thankfully. There must be a priest here. She tried to raise her head to see past the cutthroat to the priest, but she could not. It was too smoky in the room. I can speak Latin, she thought. Mr. Dunworthy made me learn it.

  "You shouldn't have let him in here!" she said in Latin. "He's a cutthroat!" Her throat hurt, and she seemed to have no breath to put behind the words, but from the way the cutthroat drew back in surprise, she knew they had heard her.

  "You must not be afraid,," the priest said,
and she understood him perfectly. "You do but go home again."

  "To the drop?" Kivrin said. "Are you taking me to the drop?"

  "Asperges me, Domine, hyssope et mundabor," the priest said. Thou shalt sprinkle me with hyssop, O Lord, and I shall be cleansed. She could understand him perfectly.

  "Help me," she said in Latin. "I must return to the place from which I came."

  " ... nominus ... ," the priest said, so softly she couldn't hear him. Name. Something about her name. She raised her head. It felt curiously light, as though all her hair had burned away.

  "My name?" she said.

  "Can you tell me your name?" he said in Latin.

  She was supposed to tell them she was Isabel de Beauvrier, daughter of Gilbert de Beauvrier, from the East Riding, but her throat hurt so she didn't think she could get it out.

  "I have to go back," she said. "They won't know where I've gone."

  "Confiteor deo omnipotenti," the priest said from very far away. She couldn't see him. When she tried to look past the cutthroat, all she could see were flames. They must have lit the fire again. "Beatae Mariae semper Virgini ... "

  He's saying the Confiteor Deo, she thought, the prayer of confession. The cutthroat shouldn't be here. There shouldn't be anyone else in the room during a confession.

  It was her turn. She tried to fold her hands in prayer and couldn't, but the priest helped her, and when she couldn't remember the words, he recited them with her. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I confess to almighty God, and to you Father, that I have sinned exceedingly in thought, word, deed and omission, through my fault."

  "Mea culpa," she whispered, "mea culpa, mea maxima culpa." Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault, but that wasn't right, that was only in the Confiteor Deo.

  "How have you sinned?" the priest said.

  "Sinned?" she said blankly.

  "Yes," he said gently, leaning so close he was practically whispering in her ear. "That you may confess your sins and have God's forgiveness, and enter into the kingdom eternal."

  All I wanted to do was go to the Middle Ages, she thought. I worked so hard, learning the languages and the customs and doing everything Mr. Dunworthy told me. All I wanted to do was to be an historian.

  She swallowed, a feeling like flame. "I have not sinned."

  The priest drew back then, and she thought he had gone away angry because she wouldn't confess her sins.

  "I should have listened to Mr. Dunworthy," she said. "I shouldn't have left the drop."

  "In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus sancti. Amen," the priest said. His voice was gentle, comforting. She felt his cool, cool touch on her forehead.

  "Quid quid deliquisti," the priest murmured. "Through this holy unction and His own most tender mercy ... " He touched her eyes, her ears, her nostrils, so lightly she couldn't feel his hand at all, but only the cool touch of the oil.

  That isn't part of the sacrament of penance, Kivrin thought. That's the ritual for extreme unction. He's saying the last rites.

  "Don't -- " Kivrin said.

  "Be not afraid," he said. "May the Lord pardon thee whatever offenses thou hast committed by walking," he said and put out the fire that was burning the soles of her feet.

  "Why are you giving me the last rites?" Kivrin said and then remembered they were burning her at the stake. I'm going to die here, she thought, and Mr. Dunworthy will never know what happened to me.

  "My name is Kivrin," she said. "Tell Mr. Dunworthy -- "

  "May you behold your Redeemer face to face," the priest said, only it was the cutthroat speaking. "And standing before Him may you gaze with blessed eyes on the truth made manifest."

  "I'm dying, aren't I?" she asked the priest.

  "There is naught to fear," he said, and took her hand.

  "Don't leave me," she said, and clutched his hand.

  "I will not," he said, but she couldn't see him for all the smoke. "May Almighty God have mercy upon thee, and forgive thee thy sins, and bring thee unto life everlasting," he said.

  "Please come and get me, Mr. Dunworthy," she said, and the flames roared up between them.

  TRANSCRIPT FROM THE DOOMSDAY BOOK (000806-000882)

  Domine, mittere digneris sanctum Angelum tuum de caelis, qui custodiat, foveat, protegat, visitet, atque defendat omnes habitantes in hoc habitaculo.

  (Break)

  Exaudi orationim meam et clamor meus ad te veniat.(1)

  (1)Translation: O Lord, vouchsafe to send Thy holy angel from heaven, to guard, cherish, protect, visit, and defend all those that are assembled together in this house.

  (Break)

  Hear my prayer, and let my cry come unto Thee.

  CHAPTER NINE

  "What is it, Badri? What's wrong?" Dunworthy asked.

  "Cold," Badri said. Dunworthy leaned across him and pulled the sheet and blanket up over his shoulders. The blanket seemed pitifully inadequate, as thin as the paper gown Badri was wearing. No wonder he was cold.

  "Thank you," Badri murmured. He pulled his hand out from under the bedclothes and took hold of Dunworthy's. He closed his eyes.

  Dunworthy glanced anxiously at the displays, but they were as inscrutable as ever. The temp still read 39.7. Badri's hand felt very hot, even through the imperm glove, and the fingernails looked odd, almost a dark blue. Badri's skin seemed darker, too, and his face looked somehow thinner even than when they had brought him in.

  The ward sister, whose outline under her paper robe looked uncomfortably like Mrs. Gaddson's, came in and said gruffly, "The list of primary contacts is on the chart." No wonder Badri was afraid of her. "CH1," she said, pointing to the keyboard under the first display on the left.

  A chart divided into hour-long blocks came up on the screen. His own name, Mary's, and the ward sister's were at the top of the chart with the letters SPG after them, in parentheses, presumably to indicate that they were wearing protective garments when they came into contact with him.

  "Scroll," Dunworthy said and the chart moved up over the screen through the arrival at the hospital, the ambulance medics, the net, the last two days. Badri had been in London Monday morning setting up an on-site for Jesus College. He had come up to Oxford on the tube at noon.

  He had come to see Dunworthy at half-past two and was there until four. Dunworthy entered the times on the chart. Badri had told him he'd gone to London Sunday, though he couldn't remember what time. He entered, "London -- phone Jesus for time of arrival."

  "He drifts in and out a good bit," the sister said disapprovingly. "It's the fever." She checked the drips, gave a yank to the bedclothes, and went out.

  The door's shutting seemed to wake Badri up. His eyes fluttered open.

  "I need to ask you some questions, Badri," he said. "We need to find out who you've seen and talked to. We don't want them to come down with this, and we need you to tell us who they are."

  "Kivrin," he said. His voice was soft, almost a whisper, but his hand was holding tightly to Dunworthy's. "In the laboratory."

  "This morning?" Dunworthy said. "Did you see Kivrin before this morning? Did you see her yesterday?"

  "No."

  "What did you do yesterday?"

  "I checked the net," he said weakly, and his hand clung to Dunworthy's.

  "Were you there all day?"

  He shook his head, the effort producing a whole series of bleeps and climbs on the displays. "I went to see you."

  Dunworthy nodded. "You left me a note. What did you do after that? Did you see Kivrin?"

  "Kivrin," he said. "I checked Puhalski's coordinates."

  "Were they correct?"

  He frowned. "Yes."

  "Are you certain?"

  "Yes. I verified them twice." He stopped to catch his breath. "I ran an internal check and a comparator."

  Dunworthy felt a rush of relief. There hadn't been a mistake in the coordinates. "What about the slippage? How much slippage was there?"

  "Headache," he murmured.
"This morning. Must have drunk too much at the dance."

  "What dance?"

  "Tired," he murmured.

  "What dance did you go to?" Dunworthy persisted, feeling like an Inquisition torturer. "When was it? Monday?"

  "Tuesday," Badri said. "Drank too much." He turned his head away on the pillow.

  "You rest now," Dunworthy said. He gently disengaged his hand from Badri's. "Try to get some sleep."

  "Glad you came," Badri said, and reached for it again.

  Dunworthy held it, watching Badri and the displays by turns as he slept. It was raining. He could hear the patter of drops behind the closed curtains.

  He had not realized how ill Badri really was. He had been too worried about Kivrin to even think about him. Perhaps he shouldn't be so angry with Montoya and the rest of them. They had their preoccupations, too, and none of them had stopped to think what Badri's illness meant except in terms of the difficulties and inconvenience it caused. Even Mary, talking about needing Bulkeley-Johnson for an infirmary and the possibilities of an epidemic, hadn't brought home the reality of Badri's illness and what it meant. He had had his antivirals, and yet he lay here with a fever of 39.7.

  The evening passed. Dunworthy listened to the rain and the chiming of the quarter hours at St. Hilda's and, more distantly, Christ Church. The ward sister informed Dunworthy grimly that she was going off-duty, and a much smaller and more cheerful blonde nurse, wearing the insignia of a student, came in to check the drips and look at the displays.

  Badri struggled in and out of consciousness with an effort Dunworthy would hardly have described as "drifting." He seemed more and more exhausted each time he fought his way back to consciousness, and less and less able to answer Dunworthy's questions.

  Dunworthy kept at it mercilessly. The Christmas dance had been in Headington. Badri had gone to a pub afterward. He couldn't remember the name of it. Monday night he had worked alone in the laboratory, checking Puhalski's coordinates. He had come up at noon from London. On the tube. It was impossible. Tube passengers and partygoers, and everyone he'd had contact with in London. They would never be able to trace and test all of them, even if Badri knew who they were.