Doomsday Book (Oxford Time Travel, #1) - Connie Willis Page 0,231

than six. The sun was only just above the horizon, staining the overcast sky and the snow with pink. Roche was already disappearing through the narrow passage to the green. Kivrin flung the blanket over her shoulders and ran after him.

The steward’s cow was standing in the passage, its head through a break in the fence of the pigsty, pulling at the straw. It raised its head and mooed at Kivrin.

“Shoo!” she said, flapping her hands at it, but it only pulled its head out of the wattle fence and started toward her, lowing.

“I don’t have time to milk you,” she said, and shoved its hindquarters out of the way and squeezed past.

Father Roche was halfway across the green before she caught up with him. “What is it? Can’t you tell me?” she asked, but he didn’t stop or even look at her. He turned toward the line of graves on the green, and she thought, feeling suddenly relieved, The steward’s tried to bury his son himself, without a priest.

The small grave was filled in, the snowy dirt mounded over it, and he had finished Rosemund’s grave and dug another, larger one. The spade was sticking out of it, its handle leaning against the end.

Roche didn’t go to Lefric’s grave. He stopped at the newest one, and said, in that same stunned voice, “I went to the church to say matins—” and Kivrin looked into the grave.

The steward had apparently tried to bury himself with the shovel, but it had proved unwieldy in the narrow space, and he had propped it against the end of the grave and begun pulling the dirt down with his hands. He held a large clod in his frozen hand.

His legs were nearly covered, and it gave him an indecent look, as if he were lying in his bath. “We must bury him properly,” she said, and reached for the shovel.

Roche shook his head. “It is holy ground,” he said numbly, and she realized that he thought the steward had killed himself.

It doesn’t matter, she thought, and realized in spite of everything, horror after horror, Roche still believed in God. He had been going to the church to say matins when he found the steward, and if they all died, he would go on saying them and not find anything incongruous in his prayers.

“It’s the disease,” Kivrin said, though she had no idea whether it was or not. “The septicemic plague. It infects the blood.”

Roche looked at her uncomprehendingly.

“He must have fallen ill while he was digging,” she said. “Septicemic plague poisons the brain. He was not in his right mind.”

“Like Lady Imeyne,” he said, sounding almost glad.

He didn’t want to have to bury him outside the pale, Kivrin thought, in spite of what he believes.

She helped Roche straighten the steward’s body a little, though he was already stiff. They did not attempt to move him or wrap him in a shroud. Roche laid a black cloth over his face, and they took turns shoveling the dirt in on him. The frozen earth clattered like stones.

Roche did not go to the church for his vestments or the missal. He stood first beside Lefric’s grave and then the steward’s and said the prayers for the dead. Kivrin, standing beside him, her hands folded, thought, He wasn’t in his right mind. He had buried his wife and six children, he had buried almost everyone he knew, and even if he hadn’t been feverish, if he had crawled into the grave and waited to freeze to death, the plague had still killed him.

He did not deserve a suicide’s grave. He doesn’t deserve any grave, Kivrin thought. He was supposed to go to Scotland with us, and was horrified at the sudden shock of delight she felt.

We can go to Scotland now, she thought, looking at the grave he had dug for Rosemund. Rosemund can ride the donkey, and Roche and I can carry the food and blankets. She opened her eyes and looked at the sky, but now that the sun was up, the clouds looked lighter, as if they might break up by midmorning. If they left this morning, they could be out of the forest by noon and onto the Oxford-Bath road. By night they could be on the highway to York.

“Agnus dei, qui tollis peccata mundi,” Roche said, “dona eis requiem.”

We must take oats for the donkey, she thought, and the ax for cutting firewood. And blankets.

Roche finished the prayers. “Dominus vobiscum et cum spiritu