Willis, Connie - Doomsday Book (v2.1)

by Doomsday Book (lit)

  Oh, no, Kivrin thought, don't talk about seeing the devil riding a black horse.

  She glanced at Imeyne. The old woman looked furious. But it wouldn't matter what he'd said, Kivrin thought. She'd been determined to find mistakes and lapses she could tell the bishop about. Lady Yvolde looked mildly irritated, and everyone else had the look of tired patience people always got when listening to a sermon, no matter what the century. Kivrin had seen the same look in St. Mary's last Christmas.

  The sermon at St. Mary's had been on rubbish disposal and the dean of Christ Church had begun it by saying, "Christianity began in a stable. Will it end in a sewer?"

  But it hadn't mattered. It had been midnight, and St. Mary's had had a stone floor and a real altar, and when she'd closed her eyes, she'd been able to shut out the carpeted nave and the umbrellas and the laser candles. She had pushed the plastic kneeling pad out of her way and knelt on the stone floor and imagined what it would be like in the Middle Ages.

  Mr. Dunworthy had told her it wouldn't be like anything she had imagined, and he was right, of course. But not about this mass. She had imagined it just like this, the stone floor and the murmured kyrie, the smells of incense and tallow and cold.

  "The Lord will come with fire and pestilence, and all will perish," Roche said, "but even in the last days, God's mercy will not forsake us. He will send us help and comfort and bring us safely unto heaven."

  Safely unto heaven. She thought of Mr. Dunworthy. "Don't go," he had said. "It won't be anything like you imagine." And he was right. He was always right.

  But even he, with all his imagining of smallpox and cutthroats and witch-burnings, would never have imagined this: that she was lost. That she didn't know where the drop was, and the rendezvous was less than a week away. She looked across the aisle at Gawyn, who was watching Eliwys. She had to talk to him after the mass.

  Father Roche moved to the altar to begin the mass proper. Agnes leaned against Kivrin, and Kivrin put her arm around her. Poor thing, she must be exhausted. Up since before dawn and all that wild running around. She wondered how long the mass would take.

  The service at St. Mary's had taken an hour and a quarter, and halfway through the offertory Dr. Ahrens' bleeper had gone off. "It's a baby," she'd whispered to Kivrin and Dunworthy as she'd hurried out, "How appropriate."

  I wonder if they're in church now, she thought and then remembered it wasn't Christmas there. They had had Christmas three days after she arrived, while she was still sick. It would be, what? The second of January, Christmas vac nearly over and all the decorations taken down.

  It was starting to get hot in the church, and the candles seemed to be taking all the air. She could hear shiftings and shufflings behind her as Father Roche went through the ritualized steps of the mass, and Agnes sank farther and farther against her. She was glad when they reached the Sanctus and she could kneel.

  She tried to imagine Oxford on the second of January, the shops advertising New Year's sales and the Carfax carillon silent. Dr. Ahrens would be at the Infirmary dealing with post- holiday stomach upsets and Mr. Dunworthy would be getting ready for Hilary term. No, he's not, she thought, and saw him standing behind the thin-glass. He's worrying about me.

  Father Roche raised the chalice, knelt, kissed the altar. There was more shuffling, and a whispering on the men's side of the church. She looked across. Gawyn was sitting back on his heels, looking bored. Sir Bloet was asleep.

  So was Agnes. She had collapsed so completely against Kivrin there would be no way she could stand for the paternoster. She didn't even try. When everyone else stood for it, Kivrin took the opportunity to gather Agnes in more closely and shift her head to a better position. Kivrin's knee hurt. She must have knelt in the depression between two stones. She shifted it, raising it slightly and cramming a fold of her cloak under it.

  Father Roche put a piece of bread in the chalice and said the Haec commixtio, and everyone knelt for the Agnus dei. "Agnus dei, qui tollis peccata mundi: miserere nobis," he chanted. "Lamb of God, who takest away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us."

  Agnus dei. Lamb of God. Kivrin smiled down at Agnes. She was sound asleep, her body a dead weight against Kivrin's side and her mouth slackly open, but her fist was still clenched tightly over the little bell. My lamb, Kivrin thought.

  Kneeling on St. Mary's stone floor she had envisioned the candles and the cold, but not Lady Imeyne, waiting for Roche to make a mistake in the mass, not Eliwys or Gawyn or Rosemund. Not Father Roche, with his cutthroat's face and worn-out hose.

  She could never in a hundred years, in seven hundred and thirty-four years, have imagined Agnes, with her puppy and her naughty tantrums, and her infected knee. I'm glad I came, she thought. In spite of everything.

  Father Roche made the sign of the cross with the chalice and drank it. "Dominus vobiscum," he said and there was a general commotion behind Kivrin. The main part of the show was over, and people were leaving now, to avoid the crush. Apparently there was no deference to the lord's family when it came to leaving. Or even in waiting till they were outside to begin talking. She could scarcely hear the dismissal.

  "Ite, Missa est," Father Roche said over the din, and Lady Imeyne was in the aisle before he could even lower his raised hand, looking like she intended to leave for Bath and the bishop immediately.

  "Saw you the tallow candles by the altar?" she said to Lady Yvolde. "I bade him use the beeswax candles that I gave him."

  Lady Yvolde shook her head and looked darkly at Father Roche, and the two of them swept out with Rosemund right at their heels.

  Rosemund obviously had no intention of walking back to the manor with Sir Bloet if she could help it, and this should do it. The villagers had closed in behind the three women, talking and laughing. By the time he huffed and puffed his way to his feet, they would be all the way to the manor.

  Kivrin was having trouble getting up herself. Her foot had gone to sleep, and Agnes was dead to the world. "Agnes," she said. "Wake up. It's time to go home."

  Sir Bloet had gotten to his feet, his face nearly purple with the effort, and had come across to offer Eliwys his arm. "Your daughter has fallen asleep," he said.

  "Aye," Eliwys said, glancing at Agnes.

  She took his arm and they started out.

  "Your husband has not come as he promised."

  "Nay," Kivrin heard Eliwys say. Her grip tightened on his arm.

  Outside, the bells began to ring all at once, and out of time, a wild, irregular chiming. It sounded wonderful. "Agnes," Kivrin said, shaking her, "it's time to ring your bell."

  She didn't even stir. Kivrin tried to get the sleeping child onto her shoulder. Her arms flopped limply over Kivrin's shoulders, and the bell jangled.

  "You waited all night to ring your bell," Kivrin said, getting to one knee. "Wake up, lamb."

  She looked around for someone to help her. There was scarcely anyone left in the church. Cob was making the rounds of the windows, pinching the candle flames out between his chapped fingers. Gawyn and Sir Bloet's nephews were at the back of the nave, buckling on their swords. Father Roche was nowhere to be seen. She wondered if he was the one ringing the bell with such joyous enthusiasm.

  Her numb foot was beginning to tingle. She flexed it in the thin shoe and then put her weight on it. It felt terrible, but she could stand on it. She hoisted Agnes farther over her shoulder and tried to stand up. Her foot caught in the hem of her skirt, and she pitched forward.

  Gawyn caught her. "Good lady Katherine, my lady Eliwys bade me come to help you," he said, steadying her. He lifted Agnes easily out of her arms and onto his shoulder, and strode out of the church, Kivrin hobbling beside him.

  "Thank you," Kivrin said, when they were out of the jammed churchyard. "My arms felt like they were going to fall off."

  "She is a stout lass," he said.

  Agnes's bell slid off her wrist and fell onto the snow, clattering with the other bells as it fell. Kivrin stooped and picked it up. The
knot was almost too small to be seen, and the short ends of ribbon beyond it were frayed into thin threads, but the moment she took hold of it, the knot came undone. She tied it on Agnes's dangling wrist with a little bow.

  "I am glad to assist a lady in distress," he said, but she didn't hear him.

  They were all alone on the green. The rest of the family was nearly to the manor gate. She could see the steward holding the lantern over Lady Imeyne and Lady Yvolde as they started into the passage. There were a lot of people still in the churchyard, and someone had built a bonfire next to the road, and people were standing around it, warming their hands and passing a wooden bowl of something, but here, halfway across the green, they were all alone. The opportunity she had thought would never come was here.

  "I wanted to thank you for trying to find my attackers, and for rescuing me in the woods and bringing me here," she said. "When you found me, how far from here was the place? Could you take me to it?"

  He stopped and looked at her. "Did they not tell you?" he said. "All of your goods and gear that were found I brought to the manor. The thieves had taken your belongings, and though I rode after them, I fear I found naught." He started walking again.

  "I know you brought my boxes here. Thank you. But that wasn't why I wanted to see the place you found me," Kivrin said rapidly, afraid they would catch up with the others before she finished asking him.

  Lady Imeyne had stopped and was looking back their way. She had to get it asked before Imeyne sent the steward back to see what was keeping them.

  "I lost my memory when I was injured in the attack," she said. "I thought if I could see the place where you found me, I might remember something."

  He had stopped again and was looking at the road above the church. There were lights there, bobbing unsteadily and coming rapidly nearer. Latecomers to church?

  "You're the only one who knows where the place is," Kivrin said, "or I wouldn't bother you, but if you could just tell me where it is, I could -- "

  "There is nothing there," he said vaguely, still looking at the lights. "I brought your wagon and your boxes to the manor."

  "I know," Kivrin said, "and I thank you, but -- "

  "They are in the barn," he said. He turned at the sound of horses. The bobbing lights were lanterns carried by men on horseback. They galloped past the church and through the village, at least a half dozen of them, and pulled up short where Lady Eliwys and the others were standing.

  "It's her husband," Kivrin thought, but before she could finish the thought, Gawyn had thrust Agnes into her arms and taken off toward them, pulling his sword as he ran.

  Oh, no, Kivrin thought, and began to run, too, clumsy under Agnes's weight. It wasn't her husband. It was the men who were after them, the reason they were hiding, the reason Eliwys had been so angry at Imeyne for telling Sir Bloet they were here.

  The men with the torches had gotten down off their horses. Eliwys walked forward to one of the three men still on horseback and then fell to her knees as if she had been struck.

  No, oh, no, Kivrin thought, out of breath. Agnes's bell jangled wildly as she ran.

  Gawyn ran up to them, his sword flashing in the lantern light, and then he was on his knees, too. Eliwys stood up, and stepped forward to the men on horseback, her arm out in a gesture of welcome.

  Kivrin stopped, out of breath. Sir Bloet came forward, knelt, stood up. The men on horseback flung back their hoods. They were wearing hats of some kind, or crowns. Gawyn, still on his knees, sheathed his sword. One of the men on horseback raised his hand, and something glittered.

  "What is it?" Agnes said sleepily.

  "I don't know," Kivrin said.

  Agnes twisted around in Kivrin's arms so she could see. "It is the three kings," she said wonderingly.

  TRANSCRIPT FROM THE DOOMSDAY BOOK (064996-065537)

  Christmas Eve 1320 (Old Style.) An envoy from the bishop has arrived, along with two other churchmen. They rode in just after midnight mass. Lady Imeyne is delighted. She's convinced they've come in response to her message demanding a new chaplain, but I'm not convinced of that. They've come without any servants, and there's an air of nervousness about them, as if they were on some secret, hurried mission.

  It has to concern Lord Guillaume, though the Assizes are a secular court, not an ecclesiastical one. Perhaps the bishop is a friend of Lord Guillaume's or of King Edward II's, and they've come to strike some sort of deal with Eliwys for his freedom.

  Whatever their reason for being here, they're here in style. Agnes thought they were the three Magi when she first saw them, and they do look like royalty. The bishop's envoy has a thin, aristocratic face, and they are all dressed like kings. One of them has a purple velvet cloak with the design of a white cross sewn in silk on the back of it.

  Lady Imeyne immediately latched onto him with her sad story of how ignorant, clumsy, generally impossible Father Roche is. "He deserves not a parish," she said.

  Unfortunately (and luckily for Father Roche) he was not the envoy, but only his clerk. The envoy was the one in the red, also very impressive, with gold embroidery and a sable hem.

  The third is a Cistercian monk -- at least he wears the white habit of one, though it's made of even finer wool than my cloak and has a silk cord for a sash, and he wears a ring fit for a king on each of his fat fingers, but he doesn't act like a monk. He and the envoy both demanded wine before they'd even dismounted, and it's obvious the clerk had already drunk a good deal before he got here. He slipped just now getting off his horse and had to be supported into the hall by the fat monk.

  (Break)

  I was apparently wrong about the reason for their coming here. Eliwys and Sir Bloet went off in a corner with the bishop's envoy as soon as they got in the house, but they only talked to him for a few minutes, and I just heard her tell Imeyne, "They have heard naught of Guillaume."

  Imeyne didn't seem surprised or even particularly concerned at this news. It's clear she thinks they're here to bring her a new chaplain, and she is falling all over them, insisting that the Christmas feast be brought in immediately and that the bishop's envoy sit in the high seat. They seem more interested in drinking than in eating. Imeyne fetched them cups of wine herself, and they've already gone through them and called for more. The clerk caught hold of Maisry's skirt as she brought the pitcher, pulled her in hand over hand, and stuck his hand down her shift. She, of course, clapped her hands over her ears.

  The one good thing about them being here is that they add tremendously to the general confusion. I only had a moment to talk to Gawyn, but sometime in the next day or so I'll surely be able to speak to him without anyone noticing -- especially since Imeyne's attention is riveted on the envoy, who just grabbed the pitcher from Maisry and poured his wine himself -- and get him to show me where the drop is. There's plenty of time. I have nearly a week.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Two more people died on the twenty-eighth, both of them secondaries who had been at the dance in Headington, and Latimer had a stroke.

  "He developed myocarditis, which caused a thromboembolism," Mary had said when she phoned. "At this point he's completely unresponsive."

  Over half of Dunworthy's detainees were down with the flu, and there was only room in infirmary for the most severe cases. Dunworthy and Finch, and a detainee William had found who'd had a year of nurse's training, gave temps and dispensed orange juice round the clock.

  And worried. When he had told Mary about Badri's saying, "That can't be right," of his saying, "It was the rats," she had said, "It's the fever, James. It has no connection with reality. I've one patient who keeps talking about the Queen's elephants," but he could not get the idea of Kivrin's being in 1348 out of his mind.

  "What year is it?" Badri had said that first night, and, "That can't be right."

  Dunworthy had telephoned Andrews after his argument with Gilchrist and told him he couldn't get access to Brasenose's net.

  "It doesn't matter," Andrews had said. "Th
e locational coordinates aren't as critical as the temporals. I'll get an L and L on the dig from Jesus. I've already talked to them about doing the parameter checks, and they said it's all right."

  The visuals had been off again, but he had sounded nervous, as if he was afraid Dunworthy would broach the subject again of his coming to Oxford. "I've done some research on slippage," he said. "There are no theoretical limits, but in practice, the minimal slippage is always greater than zero, even in uninhabited areas. Maximal slippage has never gone above five years, and those were all unmanneds. The greatest slippage on a manned drop was a Seventeenth Century remote -- two hundred and twenty-six days."

  "Is there anything else it could be?" Dunworthy had asked, "Anything besides the slippage that could go wrong?"

  "If the coordinates are correct, nothing," Andrews had said and promised to report as soon as he'd done the parameter checks.

  Five years was 1325. The plague had not even begun in China then, and Badri had told Gilchrist there was minimal slippage. And it couldn't be the coordinates. Badri had checked them before he fell ill. But the fear continued to nag at him, and he spent the few free moments he could snatch telephoning techs, trying to find someone willing to come read the fix when the sequencing arrived and Gilchrist opened the laboratory again. It was supposed to have arrived yesterday, but when Mary phoned, she had still been waiting for it.

  She phoned again in the late afternoon. "Can you set up a ward?" she asked. The visual was back on. Her SPG's looked like she'd slept in them, and her mask dangled from her neck by one tie.

  "I've already set up a ward," he said. "It's full of detainees. We've got thirty-one cases as of this afternoon."

  "Do you have space to set up another one? I don't need it yet," she said tiredly, "but at this rate I will. We're nearly at capacity here, and several of the staff are either down with it or are refusing to come in."

  "And the sequencing hasn't come yet?" he asked.

  "No. The WIC just phoned. They got a faulty result the first time through and had to run it again. It's supposed to be here tomorrow. Now they think it's a Uruguayan virus." She smiled wanly. "Badri hasn't been in contact with anyone from Uruguay, has he? How soon can you have the beds ready?"