1347, Canterbury England
It started as a normal morning, well
relatively normal for the time. I got up, I ate some bread and old cheese, threw on my coat and painted myself in wax, and headed toward my horse. I looked back at my little house, it wasn't big by any means but better than what many call a home. For a doctor I was fairly well off, my parents left a nice sum of money when they died and I used it to purchase a small house in the outskirts of the city.
I loaded my pack onto my horse Lancelot and saddled up. I had to make a loop of the slums and help the sick. I rode through town like a normal day handing out food and attempting to help as well as I could.
Around the 16th hour I started to feel hungry so I headed toward a small tavern I knew. When I got there I tied up Lancelot and headed in. "Hey! Doctor Warin what can I get you!" Called Alan the barman. I had known Alan for a few years, he was one of the few people I would have considered a friend. " Just a herring and cheese to go ." As Alan prepared my food I tried to make conversation "How's your mother?"I asked. " Dead" Alan replied " passed Tuesday". "I'm sorry to hear that." " Thanks for the condolences and here's your food."
As I left the Tavern I thought of Alan's mother. She had been sick for a few weeks or so and seemed to be recovering. I can't believe she passed. As I rode in solemn silence thinking of those lost , I failed to see a figure in my path, cloaked in shadow by the evening sun.
YOU ARE READING
The Doctor is In
Historical FictionThe story of a Plague doctor in the late 1340s as he navigates his job his family and his love life
