35

The bell stopped before they even got the stallion saddled. “Hurry!” Dunworthy said, cinching the girth strap.

“It’s all right,” Colin said, looking at the map. “It rang three times. I’ve got a fix on it. It’s due southwest, right? And this is Henefelde, right?” He held the map in front of Dunworthy, pointing to each place in turn. “Then it’s got to be this village here.”

Dunworthy glanced at it and then toward the southwest again, trying to keep the direction of the bell clear in his mind. He was already unsure of it, though he could still feel the throbbing of its tolling. He wished the aspirin would take effect soon.

“Come on, then,” Colin said, pulling the stallion over to the door of the shed. “Get on, and let’s go.”

Dunworthy put his foot in the stirrup and swung the other leg over. He was instantly dizzy. Colin looked speculatively at him, and then said, “I think I’d better drive,” and swung himself up in front of Dunworthy.

Colin’s kick on the stallion’s flanks was too gentle and his yanking on the reins too violent but the stallion, amazingly, moved off docilely across the green and onto the lane.

“We know where the village is,” Colin said confidently. “All we need to find is a road that goes in that direction,” and almost immediately declared that they had found it. It was a fairly wide path, and it led down a slope and into a stand of pines, but only a few yards into the trees it split in two, and Colin looked questioningly back at Dunworthy.

The stallion didn’t hesitate. It started off down the right-hand path. “Look, it knows where it’s going,” Colin said delightedly.

I’m glad one of us does, Dunworthy thought, pressing his eyes shut against the jouncing landscape and the throbbing. The stallion, given its head, was obviously going home, and he knew he should tell Colin that, but the illness was closing in on him again, and he was afraid to let go of Colin’s waist for even a moment, for fear the fever would get away from him. He was so cold. That was the fever, of course, the throbbing, the dizziness, they were all the fever, and a fever was a good sign, the body marshaling its forces to fight off the virus, assembling the troops. The chill was only a side effect of the fever.

“Blood, it’s getting colder,” Colin said, pulling his coat closed with one hand. “I hope it doesn’t snow.” He let go of the reins altogether and pulled his muffler up around his mouth and nose. The stallion didn’t even notice. It plodded steadily ahead through deeper and deeper woods. They came to another fork and then another, and each time Colin consulted the map and the locator, but Dunworthy couldn’t tell which fork he chose or whether the horse had simply kept on in the direction it had set.

It began to snow, or they rode into it. All at once it was snowing, small steady flakes that obscured the path and melted on Dunworthy’s spectacles.

The aspirin began to take effect. Dunworthy sat up straighter and pulled his own cloak about him. He wiped his spectacles on the tail of it. His fingers were numb and bright red. He rubbed his hands together and blew on them. They were still in the woods, and the path was narrower than when they started.

“The map says Skendgate is five kilometers from Henefelde,” Colin said, wiping snow off the locator, “and we’ve come at least four, so we’re nearly there.”

They were not nearly anywhere. They were in the middle of the Wychwood, on a cow path or a deer trail. It would end at a cottar’s hut or a salt lick, or a berry bush the horse had fond memories of.

“See, I told you,” Colin said, and there, past the trees, was the top of a bell tower. The stallion broke into a canter. “Stop,” Colin said to the stallion, pulling on the reins. “Wait a minute.”

Dunworthy took the reins and slowed the horse to a reluctant walk as they came out of the woods, past a snow-covered meadow, and to the top of the hill.

The village lay below them, past a stand of ash trees, obscured by the snow so that they could only make out gray outlines: manor house, huts, church, bell tower. It wasn’t the right village—Skendgate didn’t have a bell tower—but if Colin had noticed, he didn’t say anything. He kicked the stallion ineffectually a few times, and they rode slowly down the hill, Dunworthy still holding on to the reins.

There were no bodies Dunworthy could see, but there were no people either, and no smoke from the huts. The bell tower looked silent and deserted, and there were no footprints around it.

Halfway down the hill, Colin said, “I saw something.” Dunworthy had seen it, too. A flicker of movement that could have been a bird or a moving branch. “Just over there,” Colin said, pointing toward the second hut. A cow wandered out from between the huts, untied, its teats bulging, and Dunworthy was certain of what he’d feared, that the plague had been here, too.

“It’s a cow,” Colin said disgustedly. The cow looked up at the sound of Colin’s voice and began to walk toward them, lowing.

“Where is everybody?” Colin said. “Somebody had to ring the bell.”

They’re all dead, Dunworthy thought, looking toward the churchyard. There were new graves there, the earth mounded up over them, and the snow still not completely covering them. Hopefully, they’re all buried in that churchyard, he thought, and saw the first body. It was a young boy. He was sitting with his back to a tombstone, as if he were resting.

“Look, there’s somebody,” Colin said, yanking back on the reins and pointing at the body. “Hullo there!”

He twisted around to look at Dunworthy. “Will they understand what we say, do you think?”

“He’s—” Dunworthy said.

The boy stood up, hauling himself painfully to his feet, one hand on the tombstone for support, looking around as if for a weapon.

“We won’t hurt you,” Dunworthy called, trying to think what the Middle English would be. He slid down from the stallion, clinging to the back of the saddle at the abrupt dizziness. He straightened and extended his hand, palm outward, toward the boy.

The boy’s face was filthy, streaked and smeared with dirt and blood, and the front of his smock and rolled-up trousers were soaked and stiff with it. He bent down, holding his side as if the movement hurt him, picked up a stick that had been lying covered with snow, and stepped forward, barring his way. “Kepe from haire. Der fevreblau hast bifalien us”

“Kivrin,” Dunworthy said, and started toward her.

“Don’t come any closer,” she said in English, holding the stick out in front of her like a gun. Its end was broken off jaggedly.

“It’s me, Kivrin, Mr. Dunworthy,” he said, still walking toward her.

“No!” she said and backed away, jabbing the broken spade at him. “You don’t understand. It’s the plague.”

“It’s all right, Kivrin. We’ve been inoculated.”

“Inoculated,” she said as if she didn’t know what the word meant. “It was the bishop’s clerk. He had it when they came.”

Colin ran up, and she raised the stick again.

“It’s all right,” Dunworthy said again. “This is Colin. He’s been inoculated as well. We’ve come to take you home.”

She looked at him steadily for a long minute, the snow falling around them. “To take me home,” she said, no expression in her voice, and looked down at the grave at her feet. It was shorter than the others, and narrower, as if it held a child.

After a minute she looked up at Dunworthy, and there was no expression in her face either. I am too late, he thought despairingly, looking at her standing there in her bloody smock, surrounded by graves. They have already crucified her. “Kivrin,” he said.

She let the spade fall. “You must help me,” she said, and turned and walked away from them toward the church.

“Are you sure it’s her?” Colin whispered.

“Yes,” he said.

“What’s the matter with her?”

I’m too late, he thought, and put his hand on Colin’s shoulder for support. She will never forgive me.

“What’s wrong?” Colin asked. “Are you feeling ill again?”

“No,” he said, but he waited a moment before he took his hand away.

Kivrin had stopped at the church door and was holding her side again. A chill went through him. She has it, he thought. She has the plague. “Are you ill?” he asked.

“No,” she said. She took her hand away and looked at it as if she expected it to be covered in blood. “He kicked me.” She tried to push the church door open, winced, and let Colin. “I think he broke some ribs.”

Colin got the heavy wooden door open, and they went inside. Dunworthy blinked against the darkness, willing his eyes to adjust to it. There was no light at all from the narrow windows, though he could tell where they were. He could make out a low, heavy shape ahead on the left—a body?—and the darker masses of the first pillars, but beyond them it was completely dark. Beside him, Colin was fumbling in his baggy pockets.

Far ahead, a flame flickered, illuminating nothing but itself. It went out. Dunworthy started toward it.

“Hold on a minute,” Colin said, and flashed on a pocket torch. It blinded Dunworthy, making everything outside its diffused beam as black as when they first came in. Colin shone it around the church, on the painted walls, the heavy pillars, the uneven floor. The light caught on the shape Dunworthy had thought was a body. It was a stone tomb.

“She’s up there,” Dunworthy said, pointing toward the altar, and Colin obligingly aimed the torch in that direction.

Kivrin was kneeling by someone who lay on the floor in front of the rood screen. It was a man, Dunworthy saw as they came closer. His legs and lower body were covered with a purple blanket, and his large hands were crossed on his chest. Kivrin was trying to light a candle with a coal, but the candle had burned down into a misshapen stub of wax and would not stay lit. She seemed grateful when Colin came up with his torch. He shone it full on them.

“You must help me with Roche,” she said, squinting into the light. She leaned toward the man and reached for his hand.

She thinks he’s still alive, Dunworthy thought, but she said, in that flat, matter-of-fact voice, “He died this morning.”

Colin shone the pocket torch on the body. The crossed hands were nearly as purple as the blanket in the harsh light of the torch, but the man’s face was pale and utterly at peace.

“What was he, a knight?” Colin said wonderingly.

“No,” Kivrin said. “A saint.”

She laid her hand on his stiff one. Her hand was callused and bloody, the fingernails black with dirt. “You must help me,” she said.

“Help you what?” Colin asked.

She wants us to help her bury him, Dunworthy thought, and we can’t. The man she had called Roche was huge. He must have towered over Kivrin when he was alive. Even if they could dig a grave, the three of them together could not carry him, and Kivrin would never let them put a rope around his neck and drag him out to the churchyard.

“Help you what?” Colin said. “We don’t have much time.”

They hadn’t any time. It was already late afternoon, and they would never find their way through the forest after dark, and there was no telling how long Badri could keep the intermittent going. He had said twenty-four hours, but he had not looked strong enough to last two, and it had already been nearly eight. And the ground was frozen, and Kivrin’s ribs were broken, and the effects of the aspirin were wearing off. He was beginning to shiver again here in the cold church.

We can’t bury him, he thought, looking at her kneeling there, and how can I tell her that when I have arrived too late for anything else?

“Kivrin,” he said.

She patted the stiff hand gently. “We won’t be able to bury him,” she said in that calm, expressionless voice. “We had to put Rosemund in his grave, after the steward—” She looked up at Dunworthy. “I tried to dig another one this morning, but the ground’s too hard. I broke the spade.” She looked up at Dunworthy. “I said the mass for the dead for him. And I tried to ring the bell.”

“We heard you,” Colin said. “That’s how we found you.”

“It should have been nine strokes,” she said, “but I had to stop.” She put her hand to her side, as if remembering pain. “You must help me ring the rest.”

“Why?” Colin said. “I don’t think there’s anybody left alive to hear it.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Kivrin said, looking at Dunworthy.

“We haven’t time,” Colin said. “It’ll be dark soon, and the drop is—”

“I’ll ring it,” Dunworthy said. He stood up. “You stay there,” he said, though she had made no move to get up. “I’ll ring the bell.” He started back down the nave.

“It’s getting dark,” Colin said, trotting to catch up with him, the light from his torch dancing crazily over the pillars and the floor as he ran, “and you said you didn’t know how long they could hold the net open. Wait a minute.”

Dunworthy pushed open the door, squinting against the expected glare of the snow, but it had grown darker while they were in the church, the sky heavy and smelling of snow. He walked rapidly across the churchyard to the bell tower. The cow that Colin had seen when they rode in the village ducked through the lychgate and ambled across the graves toward them, its hooves sinking in the snow.

“What’s the use of ringing it when there’s no one to hear it?” Colin said, stopping to switch off his torch and then running to catch up again.

Dunworthy went in the tower. It was as dark and cold as the church and smelled of rats. The cow poked its head in, and Colin squeezed past it and stood against the curving wall.

“You’re the one who keeps saying we have to get back to the drop, that it’s going to close and leave us here,” Colin said. “You’re the one who said we didn’t have time even to find Kivrin.”

Dunworthy stood there a moment, letting his eyes adjust and trying to catch his breath. He had walked too fast, and the tightness in his chest was back. He looked up at the rope. It hung above their heads in the darkness, a greasy-looking knot a foot from the frayed end.

“Can I ring it?” Colin said, staring up at it.

“You’re too small,” Dunworthy said.

“I’m not,” he said and jumped up at the rope. He caught the end, below the knot, and hung on for several moments before dropping, but the rope scarcely moved, and the bell only clanged faintly and out of tune, as if someone had hit the side of it with a rock. “It’s heavy,” he said.

Dunworthy raised his arms and took hold of the rough rope. It was cold and bristly. He yanked sharply down, not sure he could do any better than Colin, and the rope cut into his hands. Bong.

“It’s loud!” Colin said, clapping his hands over his ears and gazing delightedly up at it.

“One,” Dunworthy said. One and up. Remembering the Americans, he bent his knees and pulled straight down on the rope. Two. And up. And three.

He wondered how Kivrin had been able to ring any strokes at all with her hurt ribs. The bell was far heavier, far louder than he had imagined, and it seemed to reverberate in his head, his tightening chest. Bong.

He thought of Ms. Piantini, bending her chubby knees and counting to herself. Five. He had not appreciated what difficult work it was. Each pull seemed to yank the breath out of his lungs. Six.

He wanted to stop and rest, but he didn’t want Kivrin, listening inside the church, to think he had quit, that he had only intended to finish the strokes she had begun. He tightened his grip above the knot and leaned against the stone wall for a moment, trying to ease the tightness in his chest.

“Are you all right, Mr. Dunworthy?” Colin said.

“Yes,” he said, and pulled down so hard it seemed to tear his lungs open. Seven.

He should not have leaned against the wall. The stones were cold as ice. They had set him shivering again. He thought of Ms. Taylor, trying to finish the Chicago Surprise Minor, counting how many strokes were left, trying not to give in to the pounding in her head.

“I can finish it,” Colin said, and Dunworthy could scarcely hear him. “I can go get Kivrin, and we can do the last two strokes. We can both pull on it.”

Dunworthy shook his head. “Every man must stick to his bell,” he said breathlessly and yanked down on the rope. Eight. He must not let go of the rope. Ms. Taylor had fainted and let it go, and the bell had swung right over, the rope whipping like a live thing. It had wrapped itself around Finch’s neck and nearly strangled him. He must hold to it, in spite of everything.

He pulled down on the rope and hung on to it till he was certain he could stand and then let it rise. “Nine,” he said.

Colin was frowning at him. “You’re having a relapse, aren’t you?” he said suspiciously.

“No,” Dunworthy said, and let go of the rope.

The cow had its head in the door. He pushed it roughly aside and walked back to the church and went inside.

Kivrin was still kneeling beside Roche, her hand still holding his stiff one.

He stopped in front of her. “I rang the bell,” he said.

She looked up without nodding.

“Don’t you think we’d better go now?” Colin said. “It’s getting dark.”

“Yes,” Dunworthy said. “I think we’d best—” The dizziness caught him completely unawares, and he staggered and nearly fell into Roche’s body.

Kivrin put out her hand, and Colin dived for him, the torch flashing erratically across the ceiling as he grabbed Dunworthy’s arm. He caught himself on one knee and the flat of his hand and reached out with the other for Kivrin, but she was on her feet and backing away.

“You’re ill!” It was an accusation, an indictment. “You’ve caught the plague, haven’t you?” she said, her voice showing emotion for the first time. “Haven’t you?”

“No,” Dunworthy said, “it’s—”

“He’s having a relapse,” Colin said, sticking the torch in the crook of the statue’s arm so he could help Dunworthy to a sitting position. “He didn’t pay any attention to my placards.”

“It’s a virus,” Dunworthy said, sitting down with his back to the statue. “It’s not the plague. Both of us have had streptomycin and gamma globulin. We can’t get the plague.”

He leaned his head back against the statue. “It’s a virus. I’ll be all right. I only need to rest a moment.”

“I told him he shouldn’t have rung the bell,” Colin said, emptying the burlap sack onto the stone floor. He wrapped the empty sack around Dunworthy’s shoulders.

“Are there any aspirin left?” Dunworthy asked.

“You’re only supposed to take them every three hours,” Colin said, “and you’re not supposed to take them without water.”

“Then fetch me some water,” he snapped.

Colin looked to Kivrin for support, but she was still standing on the other side of Roche’s body, watching Dunworthy warily.

“Now,” Dunworthy said, and Colin ran out, his boots echoing on the stone floor. Dunworthy looked across at Kivrin, and she took a step back.

“It isn’t the plague,” he said. “It’s a virus. We were afraid you had been exposed to it before you came through and had come down with it. Did you?”

“Yes,” she said, and knelt beside Roche. “He saved my life.”

She smoothed the purple blanket, and Dunworthy realized it was a velvet cloak. It had a large silk cross sewn in the center of it.

“He told me not to be afraid,” she said. She pulled the cloak up over his chest, under his crossed hands, but the action left his feet, in thick, incongruous sandals, uncovered. Dunworthy took the burlap bag from around his shoulders and spread it gently over the feet, and then stood up, carefully, holding on to the statue so he wouldn’t fall again.

Kivrin patted Roche’s hands. “He didn’t mean to hurt me,” she said.

Colin came back in with a bucket half-full of water he must have found in a puddle. He was breathing hard. “The cow attacked me!” he said, scooping a filthy dipper out of the bucket. He emptied the aspirin into Dunworthy’s hand. There were five tablets.

Dunworthy took two of them, swallowing as little of the water as he could, and handed the others to Kivrin. She took them from him solemnly, still kneeling on the floor.

“I couldn’t find any horses,” Colin said, handing Kivrin the dipper. “Just a mule.”

“Donkey,” Kivrin said. “Maisry stole Agnes’s pony.” She gave Colin the dipper and took hold of Roche’s hand again. “He rang the bell for everyone, so their souls could go safely to heaven.”

“Don’t you think we’d better be going?” Colin whispered. “It’s almost dark out.”

“Even Rosemund,” Kivrin said as if she hadn’t heard. “He was already ill. I told him there wasn’t time, that we had to leave for Scotland.”

“We must go now,” Dunworthy said, “before the light fails.”

She didn’t move or let go of Roche’s hand. “He held my hand when I was dying.”

“Kivrin,” he said gently.

She laid her hand on Roche’s cheek, looked at him a long moment, and then got to her knees. Dunworthy offered her his hand, but she stood up by herself, her hand pressed to her side, and walked down the nave.

At the door she turned and looked back into the darkness. “He told me where the drop was when he was dying, so I could go back to heaven. He told me he wanted me to leave him there and go, so that when he came I would already be there,” she said, and went out into the snow.