A Stroll Around the Flagellants

By midnight that same night, Agnes was finally at rest, reading by candlelight in her chapel bed. The stone arches and the abandoned angel statue cast looming shadows over the small sister in her little shift and long black hair while she remained lost in the pages of Plague Doctor Lorenzo’s journal.

Inside she found endless notes, paragraphs, citations. Many writings came from medical treatises Lorenzo had read at university.

“University…” Agnes mused. He had never once mentioned this level of schooling.

Agnes wasn’t sure who or even how old he was. By all accounts Cedric seemed to be the oldest of the three. Edgar and Lorenzo seemed to be the same age, with Edgar coming across as slightly younger. At least, of mind.

Lungs.

Liver.

Disorder of the blood.

Contagion.

She read all the rumors circulating in the tavern. Lorenzo had meticulously recorded them on the pages... along with Cedric’s theories and Edgar’s crude descriptions of corpses he’d observed.

Rashes, marks, discolorations, and even the disappointing result of bloodletting.

She learned only Edgar had tried crudely lancing the buboes and had nearly fainted from the stench.

“Ewww…” she flinched at the accurate drawings of the descriptions.

Lorenzo had also made note of hours when symptoms appeared to worsen and the speed of advancement, as well as who died and when. The ages, their sex, and even the direction their homes faced. Entire households and entire names were recorded in this journal. Roughly a third of the village of Eatonbury had been lost. Some would die in weeks, others in two days. Some cases ended in death in less than eight hours.

Yet, in the pages Agnes could also admire meticulously drawn animals. From horses to oxen to rabbits.

Possible connnection?, Lorenzo’s penmanship questioned. Then, more chapters were focused entirely on miasma theory.

But, then, as she turned the pages, Agnes’s eyes lingered over his drawings of her blue vial. What began as initial rough sketches, progressed into colored drawings filled with question marks, until…

There it was. A full-page and rather detailed drawing of what the vial and its contents looked like against burning candlelight behind it. He had managed to capture its resplendent beauty quite well, Anges thought.

The following page listed all of its attributes in detail. Violet flowers were both skillfully rendered by hand and then complemented by dried samples of the flowers themselves, pinned to the pages.

Lorenzo had even drawn the stars and sketched connective lines between constellations.

“An attempt to detect patterns,” Agnes murmured, half in mockery, half in fond admiration. “Melancholy Plague Doctor Lorenzo.”

She closed the book, mused a few seconds more, then blew out the candle before whispering.

”All right, you can come out now.”

✨✨✨

The morning breeze was gentle enough that Cedric, Lorenzo and Edgar had allowed little Agnes to run ahead of them and frolic among the pastures on the way back to the cloister from the apothecary’s shop.

They walked the road that skirted the western edge of Eatonbury, with lush, open fields stretching now before them. Agnes had grown tired of the walk and was now riding piggy back on Cedric while still captivated with the pages of Lorenzo’s journal.

“What is a mesentery?” she asked while nibbling on walnuts.

The two other plague doctors marched ahead but slowed their pace once some troubling sounds reached their company.

The first one; a dull, rhythmic striking of a primitive drum. Then, the relentless whipping of leather on flesh. At last a long, wounded chant in Latin reached them.

Lorenzo stopped first, one hand instinctually moving in front of Cedric and Agnes in a protective stance.

The men were barefoot, about thirty or forty of them in total. They wore few clothes of dirty linen that were stained with mud and dried blood. Their heads stayed covered by tall simple hoods drawn to narrow points, while their hands carried scourges of knotted leather with metal tips.

They walked slowly and swung the lashes until they bit into their own already opened skin, and blood soaked their garments. All this, while they continued to weep and pray in Latin.

“Mea culpa…”

“Mea culpa…”

“Mea maxima culpa…”

A man led the line carrying a tall wooden cross.

Cedric’s hand tightened on his staff. Edgar muttered something under his breath, and Lorenzo observed without moving a muscle, keeping Agnes behind his arm.

“Who…are they?” Agnes asked, peeking from the side of Cedric’s neck.

”You’ve never seen flagellants?" Cedric asked her.

Agnes shook her head, still in awe.

The flagellants did not turn their heads as they passed the odd company of three plague doctors and a child nun. The steady crack of lashes and the loud chant continued until it slowly faded.

“Religious fanatics. They believe their antics will tame God's wrath and rid us of this sickness,” Edgar explained.

The foursome continued to watch as the procession passed and grew distant.

”And do you think it will work?” Agnes asked then.

“Of course not!” Edgar said. “Those fools.”

”Then we should tell them,” Agnes said.

”They believe enough to keep walking,” Lorenzo said darkly. “Leave them be.”

They both turned away to walk in the other direction, when suddenly Agnes pushed away with her feet, until she dismounted Cedric’s back.

"They look like they could use a drink!” she said and gave Lorenzo back his journal.

”Agnes, come back!” Cedric called out while rubbing his back, as she walked past his hand’s reach and Lorenzo, too, failed to catch her.

And just like that, Agnes was off and running to shout behind them.

”Hey! You there!” Agnes shouted. “You look like you need a drink! I know a cozy tavern close to the woods…”

Yet, soon enough, Lorenzo managed to catch up with her and threw her over his shoulder, while she kicked and fought.

“Put me down, you!”

She had no other choice but to settle while Lorenzo carried her.

And together, they walked in the opposite direction.

✨✨✨

Later that same evening, Agnes rushed past Lorenzo’s table, carrying four jugs of ale. On her way back, she stopped, her eyes settling over the pages he was writing.

“You’re adding more notes?”

Lorenzo immediately shut the journal.

”No.”

”You are. You are! I just saw you.”

”You did not.”

”Then you’ll show me. Come… Let me see…it,” Agnes insisted, stretching and climbing, as the much-taller Lorenzo moved the journal accordingly away, until she gave up and leaned her head down sideways on the table in defeat.

“You’re terribly unfair.”

“They’re just my notes,” Lorenzo said. “It’s nothing of importance…”

One careless second was all it took, and Agnes managed to snatch the journal, only to spread it flatly on the table.

“Ha-ha! Don’t look so scared. I’ve read them your scribbles…”

That’s where she saw the drawing. The little face. The too-big habit.

“That’s…” she said then. “Me.”

Lorenzo had no choice but to nod once she contemplated the cute drawing of her in the nun habit, picking flowers.

”That is you,” he said then.

Agnes examined it closely.

”I look deranged,” she said then.

Lorenzo was taken aback.

”That wasn’t the intention at all! You looked peaceful. That day.”

”You draw me, that means I get to draw you,” she said. “It’s only fair.”

Lorenzo’s head dropped. Eventually, he reluctantly handed Agnes the quill. The littlest nun dipped it in the ink and began to sketch.

Lorenzo watched.

And waited.

After a minute of dramatically studying him, drawing, crossing out and starting over, Agnes examined her finished work. She had drawn a looming shadowy figure next to the little nun among the flowers.

”Hm,” Agnes scrutinized it. “Needs to be more…morose.”

Lorenzo sighed and accepted the journal once she chose to return it to him.

“Cedric and Edgar are always talking to other doctors,” Agnes said then. “But you always stay quiet.”

“I prefer to listen,” said Lorenzo. “Wagging tongues can only bring trouble. Especially if word gets around you may hold a cure.”

“You need not be concerned about me. I am safe in this cloister.”

“You’re not in the cloister anymore,” Lorenzo reminded her.

”You’re so fearful. That’s why you eat so little or not at all,” she said. “You’ll be skin and bones soon.”

“As are you. A gentle breeze and you’d fly away,” Lorenzo said.

”But it’s dangerous for a man fighting a deadly disease that wastes away the body.”

”I’m not fearful. I am just…keeping an eye on that knight.”

They both turned to discreetly gaze at the lonesome figure by the corner.

”On Ignatius?” Agnes asked.

“So he has a name,” Lorenzo said.

”The novices were in a frenzy about him a month ago, thinking he was pining after someone inside the convent.”

”He talks to no one. Yet, every evening, here he is.”

”Perhaps, like you, he prefers to listen,” Agnes said.

”That’s what concerns me,” Lorenzo said, darkly.

”I talked to him once. He seems kind.”

“What about? He doesn’t eat. He doesn’t drink.”

”I welcomed him as a guest of The Raven’s Tavern. Like I do with everyone else. He answered politely. I could not look into the man’s eyes, obviously, but that seems to be the norm around here. Just keeps to himself.” Agnes said, then placed a cup of ale in front of him. “Like someone I know.”

Lorenzo stared behind her as she left. But then his eyes turned towards the knight. And he felt the odd feeling that the knight was staring back at him.

Later that night, Agnes stepped quickly out to empty out a basin of rinse water. Laughter and lively conversation from inside still followed her outside, but became muffled once the door closed.

She looked up.

Full moon, with clouds moving fast. An enigmatic wind rustled through the leaves of the trees, loud enough to make her look. The air currents gently cooled the sweat from her forehead.

She briefly closed her eyes and allowed exhaustion to fully wash over her, if only for half a second of ease.

And, that’s when she felt it.

Something.

No.

Someone.

A presence without sound or shape lingered near.

A shadow.

Yet when she turned, she found no one.

Agnes looked at the forest, dense with darkness.

Only the wind.

“Hm.”

She then turned to lift up the emptied bucket then went right back inside, gazing behind her one last time.

Her eyes had a twinkle of suspicion.

And of defiance.

Closing time.

The melted candle burned, but only faintly now.

The last crust of bread had been eaten. The last of the ale had been spilled, or run dry, and late-night darkness had thickened beyond the sign of The Raven’s Tavern. A distant howling from the hilltops could be heard. But the hooting of owls felt ever closer.

Agnes stepped outside once again into the path facing the lane and the forest beyond. This time, to empty the last basin of rinse water.

She had done at least ten trips tonight!

There were no voices coming from inside the tavern now. No laughter. Barely any light coming from the latticed window.

The last customer had paid and left at least an hour ago.

Once emptied, she shook the bucket several times to ascertain every drop had been poured out. This small noisy act cost her dearly, for she did not hear a rustle of movement until it was far too late.

A large, heavy, leather glove had closed over her mouth.

The ominous plague doctor mask filled her vision. Glass eyes blank and merciless, beak sharp against the moonlight.