have to cut them off.
“I’m going to cut your hose off,” she said, crawling back to where she’d left the knife and the bottle of wine. “I’ll try not to cut you.” She sniffed at the bottle and then took a little swig and choked. Good. It was old and full of alcohol. She poured it over the blade of the knife, wiped the edge on her leg, poured some more, careful to leave enough to pour over the wound when she had it opened.
“Beata,” Roche murmured. His hand groped for his groin.
“It’s all right,” Kivrin said. She took hold of one of the legs of his hose and slit the wool. “I know it hurts now, but I’m going to lance the bubo.” She pulled the rough fabric apart in both hands and blessedly it tore, making a loud ripping sound. Roche’s knees contracted. “No, no, leave your legs down,” Kivrin said, trying to push on his knees. “I have to lance the bubo.”
She couldn’t get them down. She left them for the moment and finished tearing the leg of his hose, reaching under his leg to split the rough cloth the rest of the way up, so she could see the bubo. It was twice as big as Rosemund’s and completely black. It should have been lanced hours ago, days ago.
“Roche, please put your legs down,” she said, leaning on them with all her weight. “I have to open the plague boil.”
There was no response. She was not sure he could respond, that his muscles were not somehow contracting on their own, the way the clerk’s had, but she couldn’t wait until the spasm, if that was what it was, had passed. It might rupture at any minute.
She stepped away a minute and then knelt down by his feet, and reached up under his folded legs, gripping the knife. Roche moaned, and she pulled the knife down a little and then moved it forward slowly, carefully, till it touched the bubo.
His kick caught her full in the ribs, sending her sprawling. She let go of the knife, and it skittered loudly across the stone floor. The kick had knocked the wind out of Kivrin, and she lay there, gasping for air, taking long, wheezing breaths. She tried to sit up. Pain stabbed at her right side, and she fell back, clutching at her ribs.
Roche was still screaming, a long, impossible sound like a tortured animal. Kivrin rolled slowly onto her left side, holding her hand tightly against her ribs, so she could see him. He rocked back and forth like a child, screaming all the while, his legs drawn up protectively to his chest. She could not see the bubo.
Kivrin tried to raise herself, bracing her hand against the stone floor until she was half sitting, and then edging her hand toward her till she could put both hands down and get onto her knees. She cried out, little whimpering screams that were lost in Roche’s. He must have broken some ribs. She spat on her hand, afraid of seeing blood.
When she was finally on her knees, she sat back on her feet a minute, huddling against the pain. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” She half crawled toward him on her knees, using her right hand as a crutch. The effort made her breathe more deeply, and every breath stabbed into her side. “It’s all right, Roche,” she whispered. “I’m coming. I’m coming.”
He pulled his legs up spasmodically at the sound of her voice, and she moved around to his side, between him and the side wall, well out of his reach. When he kicked her, he had knocked over one of St. Catherine’s candles, and it lay in a yellow puddle beside him, still burning. Kivrin set it upright and laid her hand on his shoulder. “Shh, Roche,” she said. “It’s all right. I’m here now.”
He stopped screaming. “I’m sorry,” she said, leaning over him. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was only trying to lance the bubo.”
His knees pulled up even tighter than before. Kivrin picked up the red candle and held it above his naked backside. She could see the bubo, black and hard in the candle’s light. She had not even pierced it. She raised the candle higher, trying to see where the knife had gone. It had clattered away in the direction of the tomb. She held the candle out in that direction, hoping to catch a