Lessons Learned

Edgar came down from the upper houses with his satchel already half-empty. A veiled Agnes joined him and then began to walk silently beside him down the lane.

Inside the first house, a man convulsed on the straw, vomiting hard, wet spasms. Edgar moved in quickly, catching the sick in a bowl. At a distance, Agnes recited her prayers in Latin, without skipping a beat, one hand on her crucifix, the other holding a lit candle. Even as the air grew fouler, she never flinched; her litany resembling an exorcism far more than a prayer for the sick.

Once back downstairs, Lorenzo met them at the corner, the reduced stores from the tavern still in his satchel. No greeting. No word. He simply fell in step with Edgar and Agnes, and all three turned toward the next marked door together.

Inside that one, a woman lay with dark and swollen buboes under her arms. Lorenzo and Edgar spoke in a low voice and bent down to work carefully together.

“Drain it, don’t just lance it,” Lorenzo instructed. “Then we cauterize.”

“Bite this,” Agnes said, handing the woman a piece of folded cloth, right before walking out of the room with a load of bed linens and clothing.

The woman’s suppressed screams could not be heard downstairs in the small garden where Agnes used a long wooden shovel to place the heap of bed linens and garments before setting them alight. Neighboring doors opened as curious villagers watched her work.

Agnes observed the flames rise until the cloth blackened. Once fully extinguished, Lorenzo and Edgar came for her, and all three walked onward.

Another doorway,

Agnes crouched with a slate, explaining with clear, careful words.

“One infected to a single room,” she lectured the tenants. “Now, I need to know how many dwell here. And the names of the last people who gathered together.”

The household’s tired mother listed the names of all who lived there and their ages while Agnes took note.

Once they were walking again, Agnes, Edgar and Lorenzo’s path was flanked by bodies laid under rough coverings at the edge of the lanes. Smoke drifted from every direction. They had become used to this.

Back in the tavern, Edgar posted the list on the wall and then began to instruct the plague doctors over supper.

”Clean.. Feed. Give Water. Separate the Sick. Ask about visits and relations.”

The doctor underlined the last phrase and then spoke up:

“And in God’s name, gentlemen, do not starve a fever!”

All the doctors present took notes.

Back in the village, another desperate man called out to the trio.

“Plague Doctor Edgar!”

But that didn’t stop them either.

Instead, Plague Doctor Edgar stood in the middle of the village square, addressing a group who had gathered to listen.

”Take care of whom and what you touch,” he warned. “Burn the bedding!”

The three of them continued to walk along the pyres.

”Please come see my wife, doctor!”

Another voice pleaded.

”Sirs, it’s my brother!”

Ignatius appeared from the side street, using one armored arm to hold the villagers back.

Inside The Raven’s Tavern that evening, Lorenzo stood on a bench and demonstrated the draining method for the doctors from other parishes.

Meanwhile, Edgar was back at the village, fielding desperate pleas.

”Doctor, my father has worsened!”

”Broth,” Edgar explained once in the house. “A little at a time. If he vomits, wait and give it again. If he cannot eat, have him drink.”

Back at the convent, Margaret and Magdalene led the work in the kitchen by candlelight. The menu was already posted under “Patient Rations:”

Chicken or capon broth.

Thin gruel.

Eggs.

Fish (if available)

Water, weak ale or watered wine.

A second kitchen had been established at the Cistercian monastery, where the monks followed and prepared the same menu the following day.

Once the pots were ready, the nuns and monks departed from their respective cloisters. They were dispatched in pairs to set covered baskets at the thresholds of marked houses. They knocked once, and then stepped back into the dark. Doors opened only after they had departed.

Night fell, but Edgar, Lorenzo, and Agnes did not stop walking. Ignatius escorted them with a torch. By the time the last visit was done, the lanes were quieter. Smoke still rose from the fires.

The three of them left the apothecary’s house and waved at the man himself once he waved at them from his upstairs window.

“Thank you for the broth!”

”Rest up, Alaric. We will check on you in the morning!” Agnes called out to him. And with this, the small nun, the two plague doctors and the knight headed to the outer edge of the village, towards The Raven’s Tavern.

By the next day, after early evening rounds, Lorenzo kept walking past Eatonbury’s walls with Agnes right in step. Yet, once beyond the limits, he was forced to stop walking when he realized he was down one traveler.

He looked back.

Agnes stood in the middle of the field. No flowers now, just tall sweeping grass under her boots. The veil covered her face every time the wind stopped for breath.

He took a few steps back to stand in front of her.

“What is the matter?” he asked her.

No answer.

“Agnes?”

He crouched down to her level.

”I’m tired,” she said softly. “I am so tired.”

Lorenzo paused for a second.

”Then we will rest here.”

”We can’t rest here,” she said. “There’s too much to do today.”

“There is,” Lorenzo said. “But we will rest anyway.”

Agnes said nothing, but soon her shoulders trembled, and the first of a few little tears fell from under the veil. Lorenzo lifted it gently.

”Agnes.”

The tears kept coming in silence.

“But we won,” she said then. “We did everything we were supposed to do. Why is it worse now? And now, we don’t even have Cedric.”

Lorenzo let her sniff some more. Then he took her hand.

“Come…”

They walked together about thirty paces toward the bridge, but as they approached the edge of the rushing river, Agnes stopped and refused to walk further.

The water flowed with its gentle music, but Agnes’s eyes seemed frightened.

”No,” she said then. “I’m afraid. Last time…”

“I know,” Lorenzo said. “Come close.”

As they approached, Agnes gazed at the spot; that same spot she had once seen that pretty pale girl submerged. Lorenzo guided her forward because she refused to move her hands away from her eyes.

”Agnes,” Lorenzo said.

He then gently moved her hands away. Her eyes were still tightly shut.

”Open your eyes,” he said.

”No.”

”Agnes.”

”I’m scared she’s still in there. And the horse.”

”Trust me.”

She then opened one eye.

Once she looked around with it, she opened the other.

The dark depths of the river were clear. The water ran clean and crisp, frost silvering the grasses along its banks.

“Clean water,” Lorenzo said.

Agnes gazed upon the river for a moment.

”I see fish!” Agnes pointed.

“See?” Lorenzo said. “We learned our lesson.”

Agnes observed the scenery as late fall gave way to early winter.

”It’s cold now. We are running out of flowers. Nothing will grow. And we don’t have stores. We’ve given everything away,” said Agnes.

”Someone will have stores. We may have to go to other villages, as other villages have come to us.”

”What if they don’t want to share?”

“Someone will.”

Agnes paused and then looked up at him.

”I know I’m little, but you don’t have to say things just to appease me.”

Lorenzo looked at her.

“That’s right. You’re too clever now. You’re growing up,” he said then. “Could have fooled me, since that tooth refuses to come in.”

”It is coming in!” she retorted and opened her mouth to show him.

”Is it?… Let me see… ah, there’s the slightest bit of white poking through. But that’s barely anything,” he teased.

“The other one is loose too,” she said. “Look.”

”Aye. That one’s a goner too. What a sight you will be,” he said and then looked at her. “Do you want that little nap now?”

“No nap,” she said. “But can we stay here a bit longer?”

Lorenzo looked at the peaceful landscape standing between the bellowing smoke of Eatonbury and the convent where another day of relentless work awaited the little nun.

”Yes,” he said. “We can.”