Because they were going to catch it. It lay in wait for them, in the baccilli on their clothes, on the bedding, in the very air they breathed. And if by some miracle they didn't catch it from that, the plague would sweep through all of Oxfordshire in the spring, messengers and villagers and bishop's envoys. They could not stay here.

Scotland, she thought, and started for the manor. I could take them to northern Scotland. The plague didn't reach that far. The steward's son could ride the donkey, and they could make a litter for Rosemund.

Rosemund was sitting up on her pallet. "The steward's son has been crying out for you," she said as soon as Kivrin came in.

He had vomited a bloody mucus. His pallet was filthy with it, and when Kivrin cleaned him up, he was too weak to raise his head. Even if Rosemund can ride, he can't, she thought despairingly. We're not going anywhere.

In the night, she thought of the wagon that had been at the rendezvous. Perhaps the steward could help her repair it, and Rosemund could ride in that. She lit a rushlight from the coals of the fire and crept out to the stable to look at it. Roche's donkey brayed at her when she opened the door, and there was a rustling sound of sudden scattering as she held the smoky light up.

The smashed boxes lay piled against the wagon like a barricade, and she knew as soon as she pulled them away that it wouldn't work. It was too big. The donkey could not pull it, and the wooden axle was missing, carried off by some enterprising contemp to mend a hedge with or burn for firewood. Or stave off the plague with, Kivrin thought.

It was pitch black in the courtyard when she came out, and the stars were sharp and bright, as they had been Christmas eve. She thought of Agnes asleep against her shoulder, the bell on her little wrist, and the sound of the bells, tolling the devil's knell. Prematurely, Kivrin thought. The devil isn't dead yet. He's loose on the world.

She lay awake a long time, trying to think of another plan. Perhaps they could make some sort of litter the donkey could drag if the snow wasn't too deep. Or perhaps they could put both children on the donkey and carry the baggage in packs on their backs.

She fell asleep finally and was awakened again almost immediately, or so it seemed to her. It was still dark, and Roche was bending over her. The dying fire lit his face from below so that he looked as he had in the clearing when she had thought he was a cutthroat, and still partly asleep, she reached out and put her hand gently to his cheek.

"Lady Katherine," he said, and she came awake.

It's Rosemund, she thought, and twisted round to look at her, but she was sleeping easily, her thin hand under her cheek.

"What is it?" she said. "Are you ill?"

He shook his head. He opened his mouth and then closed it again.

"Has someone come?" she said, scrambling to her feet.

He shook his head again.

It can't be someone ill, she thought. There's no one left. She looked at the pile of blankets by the door where the steward slept, but he wasn't there. "Is the steward ill?"

"The steward's son is dead," he said in an odd, stunned voice, and she saw that he was gone, too. "I went to the church to say matins — " Roche said, and his voice faltered. "You must come with me," he said and strode out.

Kivrin snatched up her ragged blanket and hurried out into the courtyard after him.

It could not be later 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, her head through a break in the fence of the pig sty, 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 her 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. "Septicaemic 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 seven 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 mid-morning. 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 tuo," he said. "Requiescat in pace. Amen." He started off to ring the bell.

There isn't time for that, Kivrin thought, and then took off toward the manor. She could be half packed by the time Roche had tolled the death knell, and she could tell him her plan, and he could load the donkey, and they could go. She ran across the courtyard and into the manor. They would have to take coals to start the fire with. They could use Imeyne's casket.