Kivrin went with Roche to see her. She was nursing the baby, her thin, sharp face even sharper. She was not coughing or vomiting, and Kivrin hoped the buboes had simply not developed yet. "Wear masks," she told the steward. "Give the baby milk from the cow. Keep the children from her," she said hopelessly. Six children in two rooms. Don't let it be pneumonic plague, she prayed. Don't let them all get it.
At least Agnes was safe. She had not come near the barricade since Kivrin shouted at her. She had sat for a bit, glaring at Kivrin with an expression that was so fierce it would have been comical under other circumstances, and then gone up to the loft to fetch her cart. She had set a place for it at the high table, and they were having a feast.
Rosemund was awake. She asked Kivrin for a drink in a hoarse voice, and as soon as Kivrin had given it to her, fell quietly asleep. Even the clerk dozed, the hum of his breathing less loud, and Kivrin sat down gratefully beside Rosemund.
She should go out and help Roche with the steward's children, at least make sure he was wearing his mask and washing his hands, but she felt suddenly too tired to move. If I could just lie down for a minute, she thought, I might be able to think of something.
"I would go see Blackie," Agnes said.
Kivrin jerked her head around, startled out of what had almost been sleep.
Agnes had put on her red cape and hood and was standing as close to the barricade as she dared. "You vowed you would take me to see my hound's grave."
"Hush, you will wake your sister," Kivrin said.
Agnes started to cry, not the loud wail she used when she wanted her own way, but quiet sobs. She's reached her limit, too, Kivrin thought. Left alone all day, Rosemund and Roche and I all off-limits, everyone busy and distracted and frightened. Poor thing.
"You vowed," Agnes said, her lip quivering.
"I cannot take you to see your puppy now," Kivrin said gently, "but I will tell you a story. We must be very quiet, though." She put her finger to her lips. "We must not wake Rosemund or the clerk."
Agnes wiped her runny nose with her hand. "Will you tell me the story of the girl in the woods?" she said in a stage whisper.
"Yes."
"Can Cart listen?"
"Yes," Kivrin whispered, and Agnes tore across the hall to fetch the little wagon, ran back with it and climbed up on the bench, ready to mount the barricade.
"You must sit down on the floor against the table," Kivrin said, "and I will sit here on the other side."
"I will not be able to hear you," Agnes said, her face clouding up again.
"Of course you will, if you are very quiet."
Agnes got down off the bench and sat down, scooting into position against the table. She set Cart on the floor beside her. "You must be very quiet," she said to it.
Kivrin went over and looked quickly at her patients and then sat down against the table and leaned back, feeling exhausted all over again.
"Once in a far land," Agnes prompted.
"Once in a far land, there was a little girl. She lived by a great forest — "
"Her father said, 'Go not into the woods,' but she was naughty and did not listen," Agnes said.
"She was naughty and did not listen," Kivrin said. "She put on her cloak — "
"Her red cloak with a hood," Agnes said. "And she went into the wood, even though her father told her not to."
Even though her father told her not to. "I'll be perfectly all right," she had told Mr. Dunworthy. "I can take care of myself."
"She should not have gone into the woods, should she?" Agnes said.
"She wanted to see what was there. She thought she would go just a little way," Kivrin said.
"She should not have," Agnes said, passing judgment. "I would not. The woods are dark."
"The woods are very dark, and full of frightening noises."
"Wolves," Agnes said, and Kivrin could hear her scooting closer to the table, trying to get as close to Kivrin as she could. Kivrin could imagine her huddled against the wood, her knees up, hugging the little wagon.
"The girl said to herself, 'I don't like it here,' and she tried to go back, but she could not see the path, it was so dark, and suddenly something jumped out at her!"
"A wolf," Agnes breathed.
"No," Kivrin said. "It was a bear. And the bear said, 'What are you doing in my forest?'"
"The girl was frightened," Agnes said in a small, frightened voice.
"Yes. 'Oh, please don't eat me, Bear,' the girl said. 'I am lost and cannot find my way home.' Now the bear was a kindly bear, though he looked cruel, and he said, 'I will help you find your way out of the woods,' and the girl said, 'How? It is so dark.' 'We will ask the owl,' the bear said. 'He can see in the dark.'"
She talked on, making up the tale as she went, oddly comforted by it. Agnes stopped interrupting, and after awhile Kivrin raised herself up, still talking, and looked over the barricade. "'Do you know the way out of the wood?' the bear asked the crow. 'Yes,' the crow said."
Agnes was asleep against the table, the cape spilled out around her and the cart hugged to her chest.
She should be covered up, but Kivrin didn't dare. All the bedclothes were full of plague germs. She looked over at Lady Imeyne, praying in the corner, her face to the wall. "Lady Imeyne," she called softly, but the old lady gave no sign she had heard.
Kivrin put more wood on the fire and sat back down against the table, leaning her head back. "'I know the way out of the woods,' the crow said, 'I will show you,'" Kivrin said softly, "but he flew away over the treetops, so fast they could not follow."
She must have slept, because the fire was down when she opened her eyes and her neck hurt. Rosemund and Agnes still slept, but the clerk was awake. He called to Kivrin, his words unrecognizable. The white fur covered his whole tongue, and his breath was so foul Kivrin had to turn her head away to breathe. His bubo had begun to drain again, a thick, dark liquid that smelled like rotting meat. Kivrin put a new bandage on, clenching her teeth to keep from gagging, and carried the old one to the far corner of the hall, and then went out and washed her hands at the well,puring the icy water from the bucket over one hand and then the other, taking in gulps of the cold air.
Roche came into the courtyard. "Ulric, Hal's son," he said, walking with her into the house, "and one of the steward's sons, the eldest, Walthef." He stumbled the into bench nearest the door.
"You're exhausted," Kivirn said. "You should lie down and rest."
On the other side of the hall, Imeyne stood up, getting awkwardly to her feet, as though her legs had fallen asleep, and started across the hall toward them.
"I cannot stay. I came to fetch a knife to cut the willows," Roche said, but he sat down by the fire and stared blankly into it.
"Rest a minute at least," Kivrin said. "I will fetch you some ale." She pushed the bench to the side and started out.
"You have brought this sickness," Lady Imeyne said.
Kivrin turned. The old lady was standing in the middle of the hall, glaring at Roche. She held her book to her chest with both hands. Her reliquary dangled from them. "It is your sins have brought the sickness here."
She turned to Kivrin. "He said the litany for Martinmas on St. Eusebius' Day. His alb is dirty." She sounded as she had when she was complaining to Sir Bloet's sister, and her hands fumbled with the reliquary, counting off his sins on the links of the chain. "He did not shut the church door after vespers last Wednesday."
Kivrin watched her, thinking, she's trying to justify her own guilt. She wrote the bishop asking for a new chaplain, she told him where they were. She can't bear the knowledge that she helped bring the plague here, Kivrin thought, but she couldn't summon up any pity. You have no right to blame Roche, she thought, he has done everything he can. And you've sat in a corner and prayed.