Dirtnap - The Black Death Pt. 07

Lord John Tramwick was not having a good time.

This was usually the case. One could debate whether it was in his genes, his upbringing, or the environment into which he was born, but whatever the cause, Tramwick was one of those people not predisposed to having a good time. And even if he did, he probably wouldn't enjoy it.

Things like happiness and joy were hard to find in Tramwick's emotional wardrobe, and anyway, he found them an uncomfortable fit. On a particularly good day he might wear a sort of deep satisfaction. The sort that came with a smile which made others want to move away from him.

Mostly what he did was dance on the strings of his neuroses. Whereas some people had phobias or prejudices, Tramwick had a deep seated distrust of very nearly everything. Insects, privies, dust, smallfolk in general and children specifically all ranked near the top of the list of things he abhorred. Currently the top of the list belonged to those sick with the Mortality of course. Clovis had once remarked to Lovekyn that if 'that spindly bastard' ever chanced to meet Little Bobby, he'd drop dead of fright.

On their ride out to his estates, Lord Tramwick and his entourage had encountered a wide array of things found on the Lord's list. And now the relative comfort of familiarity was being compromised. The outer gates were besieged by two score peasants or more.

"They started turning up the day before yesterday. Come to complain and beg." Treadman reported impassively.

Treadman was Tramwick's personal bodyguard and advisor. An ex-mercenary, he was built on the same template as the door guard at Rubbery Hall. Stoic and impassive. Tall and dark. With a facial scar and a bearing that meant he very rarely had to tell anyone to get out of his way.

Tramwick brushed dust from his chair with one of the many handkerchiefs he kept about his person. When he was grudgingly satisfied, he dropped the cloth on the floor nearby and sat. Finally looking up, he scowled.

"Complain and beg? Should they not pick one?"

He gave a hiss of distaste.

"Greedy, grasping things." he muttered.

"The Mortality," Tramwick shuddered at Treadman's mention of the plague, "has caused some... unrest."

"They're behaving irregular in London as well. The church fails to keep them in line. And now they gather at my gates. As if I can cure... that. Surely it's God's doing. Why do they not complain to him? Or the king. Don't the rabble say his touch cures something? Scurvy? Or goitre? Some awful thing."

Treadman's expression of attentive disinterest remained utterly unchanged.

"And blindness, and a great many other things, m'lord. But the king remains at war in France."

"All the better. They've ships quarantined, emptied by the sickness. Load up the choosy beggars and ship them out -- with our regards to his majesty. I'm sure he'd appreciate the help."

"There is already trouble collecting taxes and tithes. With less smallfolk to collect it fr-"

"Don't be tiresome, Treadman. It was a facetious suggestion."

Treadman allowed his mask of impassivity to crack for just a moment. His eyes narrowed, his gaze fixing on the skinny lord's throat the way a wolf might regard a wounded elk.

There came a knock at one of the doors. Tramwick twitched.

"What is that?"

Treadman answered the door, then the question.

"The cook, m'lord. He's brought your bread and distilled water."

"But why the infernal knocking?"

"You ordered him not to barge into the hall without warning."

Tramwick twitched again. Possibly in annoyance, or possibly it was just a tic. He twitched quite often these days.

"Couldn't the fool just wait to be summoned?"

Treadman quashed an urge to sigh. He got that urge quite often these days. Before entering Tramwick's employ he never would have imagined he would come to long for his bad old days as a mercenary.

"Half the servants are sick or dead. Two others were injured when the floor of the laundry collapsed last Thursday. M'lord."

Treadman spoke while the cook moved as quickly and quietly as he could manage to place plate and cup before the lord. Tramwick shied away, whipping a fresh handkerchief from a sleeve to clamp over his nose and mouth. He watched without moving as the cook left the room, then regarded his meagre fare. Shifting the small, sliced loaf about, he examined the pewter plate for smudges or grease or anything else his paranoia could latch onto. Finding nothing, he turned his attention to his hands.

Tramwick muttered to himself as he carried out this second examination, but Treadman was fairly certain the man didn't realize he was doing it.

Eventually the lord blinked, wiped his hands and began to eat. He sipped sparingly from the cup. With only half the loaf eaten, he brushed crumbs from his hands and slid the plate away.

"Treadman, you were a soldier. Mercenary. Are there many other men of similar experience about? Men who might be looking for work?"

Treadman settled back on his heels, one hand moving to rest on the pommel of his sword.

"Aye, p'raps a few. Most are off in France. Or dead, or scattered."

"Find them. Put out word. Offer a third what I'm paying you. Half at most. Then..." Tramwick gestured in the general direction of the gates, "Hire on a dozen of the most able bodies you can find. Servant wages and food. I trust they'll be happy with that."

"Yes, m'lord."

Tramwick's dark eyes wandered as he thought.

"And draw some of those from the locals here if possible. The smallfolk are less likely to revolt when their own menfolk guard the gates. And it may be that supplies are soon forthcoming. Possibly tainted, but they needn't know."

"Yes, m'lord."

Tramwick's attention swung around to land piercingly on the bodyguard.

"You're to apply the utmost care in weeding out any body which might be tainted. I needn't remind you, I'm sure. And not only this fresh pestilence. No lepers or pox-ridden either."

"Of course, my lord."

"Very well. Help yourself if you've not eaten yet." he gestured to his plate. "I must lie down now. I'm not to be disturbed until evening prayer."

"M'lord."

Tramwick rose, leaving the most recently used handkerchief on the table for one of the remaining servants to deal with, and left the room.

* * *

Back in London, a light rain was falling. Dick the ratcatcher was making his rounds, none put off by a little weather. His seam-sprung old boots slapped down in shallow puddles. He held his right arm out so that his fingers trailed through the rivulets of rain water running down the inside surface of the city wall. From his left hand hung the bulky metal cage he used for transporting the vermin and things he found in his traps. A few lumps of damp, dark fur huddled within, watching through the slats.

"Rats with cheese and birds with seed... Mice with nuts and bees with mead."

Dick began to murmur one of his innumerable walking songs.

"Oh, flying beasties bring a bat, and bowl of chowder fetch a cat. Nuts for mice, for to catch a stoat, but any old thing will tempt a goat."

Dick paused to peer down at an empty trap, then resumed his ambling and his song.

"Oh, grass and a fence will keep a big cow... But ne'er ye'll cage up th' cutty black sow. No, ne'er ye'll cage up th' cutty black sow."

Dick lapsed into contented silence for a ways, then began another rhyme.

"Well, there's a Highland frog and a L-"

He stopped suddenly, pressing his hand to the wall to regain his balance. A small figure lay in his path, huddled there between him and the next trap.

Setting the cage down on the path, he bent for a closer look. Either they had found an old reed mat somewhere and decided to use it as a blanket, or a freak rain of woven mats had dropped one directly onto the unsuspecting indigent.

Dick glanced up into the intensifying rainfall.

Unlikely. Fish or frogs were far from unheard of. Dick could remember two rains of snails in his time. And the one rain of wet plaster a few years back when the brewery exploded and took the plasterer's storehouse with it. But nothing as practical as woven mats.

A depressing thought came to him. If the matted individual were dead, he really ought to report it to those fellows with the cart. He hunched down and lifted a corner of the mat.

Dick gave a sad little sigh. It was a girl. No more than twelve, at a guess. Big dark eyes. Sickly pallor. So still.

Being confronted by the sight of Dick first thing upon waking was not something a person could really prepare for. Even in her cognitively impaired state, the horror made an impression. For long seconds she lay paralysed by a combination of dread and morbid fascination.

And then she blinked.

Dick flinched, pinwheeled his arms, and landed on his backside in the wet. He opened his eyes in time to watch the dripping girl scramble up and dart away.

She didn't go very far. Spotting a back window left open on the nearest house, she made a bee line, leapt, and clambered through.

"Wait..." Dick called, to no avail.

Picking himself up, he wiped grit from the seat of his trousers and sighed. He glanced around in case there might be anyone else about more qualified to decide on the proper way of dealing with this sort of thing. The rain was coming down harder than ever, and he was still the only soul traipsing around out here near the wall.

Squaring his shoulders, insomuch as this was possible, he trudged toward the dark rectangle of the window frame. Perhaps if he could coax the girl out he could leave her in the care of one of the nice young ladies with the leeches. Or the new doctor. The poor creature had looked as though she might benefit from a physician's attention.

Dick was still a couple of paces away when he remembered one of the new truths of day to day life. A lot of homes were newly emptied.

Feeling conflicted, he turned and trudged around the building to the front. Sure enough, a great chalk X on the door was beginning to blur under the onslaught of the rain. Dick stood, staring miserably at the door and fidgeting with his rope belt.

After a brief muttered debate with himself, he trudged hurriedly back to retrieve his cage before striking out for the market at the heart of the city.

* * *

Doctor Lupino was on his way out. Miraculously, nobody in Rubbery's infirmary had died today. The young woman still teetered between recovering and succumbing to fever.

As he approached, the door guard stepped into his way.

"The runt said you would be wanting this."

The man thrust a hooded oilskin cloak at Felix.

"Ah. How thoughtful. Thank you."

"Return it tomorrow." The guard stepped aside again, receding into that state of blank readiness rarely achieved except by zen masters and veteran watchmen.

"I wonder if I might trouble you for directions?" Felix asked while donning the cloak. "To a doctor or surgeon."

The man took a moment to register the fact he was the one being spoken to. His face remained blank, and his tone, when he replied, was downright arid.

"That a joke, is it?"

"Oh. No. I meant other than myself. I would like to speak with them about their experiences treating the Mortality."

"Huh. It's your time. There's churches and abbeys all over, but they can be stiff in their routines. You'd do well to clear it with the head priest or whoever beforehand. If you're dead set on calling on somebody now, go up to Cheap Side, toward the market. Across from the mercers there's a barber surgeon, Willy Tonsor. He hangs the sign of the saw and crossbones."

Pleasantly surprised by the brief loquaciousness, Felix thanked him before stepping out.

The rain hammered down hard enough to raise a mist of water from the ground up. He would have to thank Rollo. Without the cloak he probably would have put off his walk to the barber-surgeon in favor of hastening through the alleys to the safety of the cottage. As it was he stepped lively, keeping his head tipped down.

When he turned right onto Cheap Side Street he began looking up from time to time until he spotted the sign described by Rubbery's doorman. Below it, a door was painted with the legend 'Tonsor,' and below that 'Coiffeur -- Chirurgeon -- Dentiste.' Felix rapped on the door.

Shortly it was answered by a man with short hair, a well trimmed moustache, and sideburns. He wore round rimmed spectacles, which further accentuated the sharp planes and angles of his face.

"Hell. Come in, quickly." the man spoke over the driving rain, swinging the door wide.

Felix moved into the room and his host slammed the door shut just as a gust of wind tried to send the rain in after him.

Turning, Felix tipped his head back and regarded his bespectacled host. He must be Tonsor. He was certainly the surgeon. And dentist. You could tell by the befouled leather apron.

"Thank you. May I set my bag down?"

Tonsor removed his spectacles, gestured to one side of the door, then wiped droplets from the lenses with his sleeve.

"Aye. And hang your cloak."

Felix saw that on the wall there were mounted several wooden pegs carved to resemble various species of bird. Well, at least it wasn't herring, he thought as he hung the dripping cloak.

Being several inches the shorter, Tonsor re-seated his spectacles and leaned back to peer at Felix.

"Hairs plenty short, unless you're lousy and need shaving. If it's something pressing I can squeeze you in. I was just about to pull a tooth, but I've given Mister Guignol a dab of poppy extract. He won't mind waiting."

Looking around the room Felix noted, along with tables and shelves harboring unpleasantly suggestive tools and mechanisms, a heavy set man reclining in a primitive dentist's chair. He chuckled, then stopped when Tonsor gave him a blank, guileless look.

"Uh, no. Regardless, I'm not here for treatment."

"Just wanted in out of the rain?" Tonsor moved to one of the tables and fiddled with a candle lantern. "You can wait it out here until I finish with the patient and close up. Just remember to come back by when you need a trim or a tooth out."

"Er, yes, but... That's not actually... Perhaps I should introduce myself. My name is Felix Lupino. I'm something of a doctor myself."

"Good. You ought not to be squeamish then. You can hold the light for me. Come stand on the other side." Tonsor stepped up beside the reclining Mr. Guignol.

Giving up on conversation for the moment, Felix did as he was bid. Tonsor handed over the lantern and turned to lift a chisel and mallet from a nearby tray. As Felix angled the lantern to aim it's keyhole aperture into the patient's mouth, the barber surgeon took meticulous care in placing the chisel. Faint high notes sounded amidst the background noises of the wind and rain and the crackling of the fire, as the chisel contacted enamel.

Stopping when he had things placed just so, Tonsor raised the mallet, then paused.

"My name's on the door. Folk mostly call me Willy. I'm obliged for the extra hands."

"Happy to help."

Tonsor returned his focus to his work, began to raise the mallet, then paused again.

"Mind your eyes. Teeth break like stone sometimes. You'd be amazed how the little chips will zip and whistle about."

Felix grunted his acknowledgment. He refrained from mentioning the half dozen or so less destructive techniques he knew for removing stubborn teeth.

Tak.

Tonsor adjusted the chisel.

Tak. Tak. Tak.

He drew the tools out of Mr. Guignol's mouth. Considering the results of his work, he nodded.

"That's given us space." he said in the quiet, business-like manner of one accustomed to talking to himself.

While Tonsor placed the chisel and mallet back on the tray and took up a pair of pliers, Felix spoke up.

"In truth, I came hoping to ask about your experience with The Mortality."

Tonsor stopped and looked at him over his spectacles.

"Treating plague-sick, are you?"

"Trying." Felix agreed.

"Mm." Tonsor turned to his patient, looking for a good grip with the pliers, "The Mortality. It's an apt name. Or have you found different?"

"No," Felix shook his head faintly, "I have not."

"Mm." Tonsor tested his hold, shifted his stance. "Some are lucky. Most are not. Opening the swellings is risky business. If the malignant humours mix into the blood, death comes damnably quick."

Felix nodded again. This was nothing he didn't know.

Tonsor braced the butt of his left hand against his patient's chin and wrenched his other hand forward and back, as if working a great lever. A couple more tries and a hard twist, and the recalcitrant pre-molar came free. A spattering of blood and spit escaped Mr. Guignol's mouth.

"Right." Tonsor caught his breath. He tossed the pliers onto a table, wiped his hand on his dreadful apron.

"Ever think about cleaning that?" Felix asked despite his better judgment.

"I wash all the tools between patients."

"Uh, yes. I was actually referring to your apron."

Tonsor looked down at the gore crusted article in question.

"What, and have everyone thinking I'm an apprentice? It's like how they say never trust a skinny cook, hm? Well and good to put 'surgeon' on the door, but there'd be no confidence in my abilities without this."

Tonsor slapped a hand over the worst of the mess on his apron. Felix winced at the sound when he peeled his hand away again.

Felix sighed. The man was right, regarding his business. Sad as it was to admit, people really did think that way. And trying to introduce revolutionary new ideas like, for instance, not allowing one's apron to become a study in Darwinism, was a slow and uphill battle.

He was thinking of circling back to the topic of The Mortality, but fate intervened in the form of Dick. The door swung open without warning, and the ratcatcher barged in, veritably sloshing wet, like something that had recently risen from a swamp.

"Beggin'... yer pardon, Mister, uh, Doctor Willy-"

"Dick?" Tonsor looked mildly surprised, but not put out, "Finally decide to get that boil-"

Setting his cage down, Dick interrupted in turn.

"And the new doctor too? Thank goodness. Please, you've got to help! It's a little girl. She looked bad off."

And how bad must she look for Dick to be saying so? Felix's mind said before he dismissed the thought.

"I'll go," he volunteered firmly, "I have my bag and nothing to hurry back to. Stay and finish seeing to your patient."

"Oh. Very well. Godspeed." Tonsor was already turning to follow the suggestion, "Do come back if you have need of my services."

"Leave the cage here, pray. We can retrieve it later." Felix instructed Dick while moving to shrug on his borrowed cloak and take up his bag.

And then they were out in the rain, Dick leading the way.

"Is the child bedridden?" Felix shouted to make himself heard.

"Er, not as such." Dick called over a shoulder.

"What?"

"Took her for dead, first sight. But spry... when she moved... like a fox before hounds."

Felix considered this. First she looked bad enough that Dick mistook her for dead, but then she was 'spry?' He hadn't thought until just then to wonder if Dick ever indulged in drink.

"She outran you?"

"Well, not exactly..."

"How's that?"

"Well, that is, she sort of jumped through a window. Into a house, like."

They tramped on.

"And you were afraid to disturb the residents?" Felix asked eventually.

"Er, no. Weren't no residents. It was empty. Plague marked."

"Oh. So you couldn't find her?"

"It's up here -- near the wall. I didn't exactly actually go in." The volume of Dick's voice dropped as he spoke.

Dick slowed and stopped in front of the building in question. Felix looked at the door, then at Dick.

"I hadn't thought you were afraid of the plague."

"'M not." Dick agreed.

"Then why... Dick... didn't you go in after her?"

"Well, them what lived here's died. In there. What if there's spirits hangin' about?"