The Black Death

March 20, 1350 Encircling me were the dead, ghostly bodies of my friends; my subjects. From my castle tower the living were smaller than a wine glass, running as far away from the death as they could, with no luck. Many were buffeting the gates and doors of my castle, trying to seek protection from the merciless black plague. That curse was everywhere, no one, not even I, the king, could escape it. It came after you like a vicious wolf. The people would not get in. The fear, the terrorit all came crashing down on us that fateful day. Just yesterday I found out that the black plague has curious origins. The Mongols were running about in what was left of their empire, when many began to die of Tumors and Boils. They attempted to get rid of the sickness. They sent over devastation rats and deadly animals to infect us! Now the dead are spread across all of Europe. It has just reached my once beautiful home, London. Just over a month ago the condemned plague reached my kingdom through traded items, specifically fish. The fish were given to the markets, who unknowingly sold it to the peasants. Within days, hundreds of them were dead, boils and tumors overtaken their bodies. Without the peasants the kingdom began to break down. Nobles began to die, Priests gone into hiding, leaving me, their ruler, alone in my castle with my loyal slaves and remorseless knights. Even now, the plague is sitting on the doorstep of the castle. Soon, I must flee the death and run away to my country estate, a risky 5-day commute. Anytime during the trip I could become infected, anytime I could die with thousands of other humans, condemned to this terrible, unconquerable death.

March 23, 1350 Today I have decided to run away. To run away without my family, to a country estate in Scotland. The thought of leaving my little son and loving wife behind is devastating enough. As I ride out, this journal and a few possessions accompany me. Hopefully, the estate will have no contact with the vicious plague. Hopefully I will return to my kingdom to see my family. Now I must go. March 25, 1350 My fears have been granted. As we reached the border of Scotland my slaves all contracted fever and boils. They were coughing up seemingly endless bloodit never ran out. Their clothes were so damp that they could have just walked out of a lake. As soon as I saw them, I saddled up my horse and rode as far away as I could. The last I ever heard of them was a plea for help. I met some Flagellants. They were running all over Europe, re-creating Christs crucifixion. Where they went death and torture came. Their movement started in 1348, became huge in 1349, and then died down about 4 months ago. Only 4 to 5 groups still roam about. Without my soldiers they would currently be destroying what was left of Europe. They began to chase me, throwing whips with Iron spikes at me. Eventually I killed about three of them. My spear killed one, one fell of the cliff after a push, and the other was just trampled. They ran away in fear. Has this world gone mad? March 26, 1350 This very well may be my last entry. As I neared the estate some robbers came and wounded me, killed my horse and left me stark naked, and this journal is damaged. Even now, as I sit under a tree I near death, for I have contracted

the fever. When I drift to sleep I dream of death and skeletons wielding scythes, killing the people they took the life out of my helpless baby son. Each time I wake up, I get worse and worse. March 27, 1350 In my last minutes of life I write these words, a boil covers my neck and shoulder, my stomach is covered by blood, blood that was coughed up. I can hardly breathe, and robbers have left me. The clock of my life is slowing, slowing and stopping