I shall do my best to tell the story of Giradin the Crow, and his part in the events surrounding the plague doctors and their efforts to stop the Black Death. Most of the information I've gathered comes from Giradin himself, but some I received from other witnesses of those days.

No child, when contemplating the vast possibilities his future holds, says, "I want to be a plague doctor when I grow up!"

Giradin was no exception.

He'd been apprenticed to the local cobbler in a town far from his home. It was not a glorious profession, but it was one that would ensure a peaceful life with food on the table and a roof over his head. Growing up, there had been many nights he'd gone to bed hungry, and the thatch-roof of his home had almost always had holes in it, through which the rain would leak. How many nights had he awoken to cold water spilling into his snoring mouth?

Giradin was never late. His mother used to joke that ever since he was born two weeks early, he had made it a permanent habit to arrive thirty minutes before he was expected every where he went.

Thus when Oweyn, the cobbler to whom he'd been apprenticed, answered the door rubbing his eyes and still clad in his night-shirt, Giradin was hardly surprised. Oweyn yawned, his mouth stretched so wide Giradin expected his jaw to pop, and said, "Last week you came half an hour early, so I says, 'Hey, let's go ahead and move our start time half an hour earlier.' Then, yesterday, you came earlier still, so I made 'justments again." Oweyn pointed to the golden glow peeking over the horizon, where the sun still hid beyond the distant mountains. "Now you're 'ere affore the sun comes up! I know you're eager, Gir, but, so help me, if you show up at my house any earlier I'll club you on the head, I will!"

Giradin lowered his head. "Sorry, Messere Oweyn. I guess... I just don't want to be late..."

"Being too early's just as rude as being late!" Oweyn grunted and gestured for Giradin to enter his home. Giradin walked in and started toward the tools on Oweyn's table, eager to get to work.

Oweyn reached out his hand to Giradin's chest to stop him before he got to the tools. "No no no. Not yet. You wait 'ere 'til I've changed into me work clothes. Then we'll get to it." Oweyn walked off to his bedroom in the back, grumbling to himself and rubbing his eyes.

After Oweyn had changed and returned, Giradin spent the next several hours repairing shoes under Oweyn's direction (and occasional scolding). In later journals, Giradin would write that his last truly happy memory was Oweyn looking over a completed shoe and saying, "Good job, lad. Now, do the rest this good."

Giradin and Oweyn started at the sound of screaming outside Oweyn's shop. Both men opened the windows and peered outside.

"Crows!" one of the villagers shouted, and Giradin's blood ran cold.

Villagers ran and hid inside their huts as ten figures approached on horseback. The men were clad in black coats with wide-brimmed hats and masks with long beaks and dark lenses. Were he a child, Giradin might have thought them monsters rather than men. Giradin had heard the stories, but he'd never actually seen plague doctors in person. He'd long prayed he would never have to see them.

The ten men rode into the village square and dismounted. Nine of them drew long-swords and held them tight in both hands. The one at the front strutted forward, leaning on his cane with every third step.

"We have heard reports--" the leader bellowed, his muffled voice surprisingly loud in spite of his mask, "that one among you has the plague and has been hiding his symptoms." He reached into his coat and produced a vial with a green liquid from his pocket. "We will give you one chance to come forward, whoever you are. If you are honest, then you may take this poison. It will give you a quick and painless death, no worse than falling asleep. However, if you fail to cooperate with us we will drag you out of your home and execute you."

The last of the villagers in the streets retreated into their homes to hide from the plague doctors. Oweyn tore himself away from the window and fled to his bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

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"You have until the count of ten!" the Crow shouted. After a brief pause, he began his count, each number yelled as loud as he could. At three his voice sounded disappointed, but at seven he started to sound angry. Finally, he reached, "TEN!" his tone full of rage. "Everyone! The infected person is a traitor, one who would condemn all of you, and your children too, to horrible death rather than give himself over to inspection!"

Silence met the Crow's words. The rest of the plague doctors exchanged looks with one another. Their leader peered around the village, his eyes hidden behind those dark lenses.

Giradin's heart leapt into his throat when the leader of the Crows snapped his face in his direction and pointed both beak and cane right at him. "You!" the Crow shouted. Giradin wanted to protest, tell the Crow he must have been mistaken, but the words never got past the lump in his throat. "Come here!" the Crow demanded.

Trembling, Giradin exited the front door of Oweyn's shop and stood before the plague doctors.

The leader of the doctors tilted his head to one side, those dark lenses staring at Giradin. "In which house does Berengier live?" he asked.

Giradin hadn't meant to betray Berengier the fletcher, but the moment he heard the Crow's question his eyes peered over to Berengier's house.

The Crow leader pointed his cane at the house and four plague doctors approached and surrounded it while five others walked around town gathering sticks and straw and throwing them into a heap on the cobblestone path in the village square. The Crows at Berengier's door kicked it down and stormed inside. Giradin heard Berengier scream and fight back for a moment, until the two Crows came back out, dragging along the scrawny, middle-aged fletcher.

The Crows pushed him down onto the kindling, on his knees, and all pointed their swords at him.

Berengier peered up at the leader of the Crows, tears in his eyes and mucus dripping down from his nose. "Please! Please, don't do this! I want to live!"

The leader poked Berengier in the chest with his cane. "Remove your tunic. Now!"

"Please, have mercy!" Berengier cried again.

Smack!

At first, Giradin hadn't seen what had happened. But when he saw the leader holding his cane out to his right and Berengier holding his red cheek and whimpering, he knew the leader had struck Berengier's cheek with the cane.

"NOW!" the Crow repeated.

Berengier scrambled to get his tunic off. The Crow leader pushed on his shoulder with the cane, forcing him to show his chest. Black sores dotted Berengier's bare torso, and the Crow shook his head. "When you saw this, you should have turned yourself over to us immediately. By staying here, you endangered everyone in this village." He turned to the villagers, hiding in their hovels. "All of you, stay in your homes. We will be by to inspect each and every one of you soon. First, we have to deal with the traitor. Father Hewlett, if you would."

One of the other Crows, one who wore rosary beads around his wrist and a crucifix around his neck, drew near and knelt before Berengier. From within his coat he produced a small vial with a dark red liquid inside and a wafer. He uncorked the vial and held it out to Berengier, "Take this and drink from it: this is the cup of His blood, the blood of the new and everlasting covenant. It was shed for you and for all men so that sins may be forgiven. Do this in memory of Him."

Berengier's hands shook as he took the vial and held it to his lips. He pressed his eyelids together and tilted his head back, downing the sacramental wine. He gulped hard and wiped the tears from his cheeks.

Father Hewlett held out the wafer to him next, "Take this and eat it: this is His body which has been given up for you."

Berengier reached out, took the wafer, and brought it to his mouth. He nibbled on it, taking his time and peering around at the crows all around him.

Father Hewlett stared at Berengier through his dark lenses, unreadable under that mask. "May God forgive you of your sins."

Berengier ate slower and slower the closer he got to the end of his wafer. The leader of the Crows gently tapped his shoulder with his cane. "Hurry it up, or we'll execute you before you've finished."

Obviously fearing Hell if he died unsanctified, Berengier finished off the rest of his wafer and swallowed it. The moment the lump traveled down his throat, one of the Crows thrust his sword through his back. Villagers screamed. Giradin stood paralyzed with terror. The Crow stepped his boot down on Berengier's back and forced him face-down onto the kindling as he withdrew his sword.

Another of the Crows approached the pile of kindling, knelt beside it, and struck flint and steel together until the straw caught aflame. All the plague doctors stepped back as the fire grew and consumed Berengier's body.

The leader of the Crows turned to Giradin. "You've proven yourself useful, lad," he said. "My name is Triston. Submit yourself to one of my fellows for inspection. If you are clean, then you will join us."

"I don't want to be a plague doctor!" Giradin protested.

Triston stared at Giradin in silence for a moment. A deep sense of dread gripped Giradin's heart as he gazed at Triston's unfeeling mask. "I didn't ask you that," Triston said at last. "The king and the Pope have granted me the authority to conscript anyone I choose to join our ranks, so long as they are not a nobleman's heir. Are you a nobleman's heir, lad?"

Giradin knew Triston did not expect him to answer the question, so he kept his mouth shut.

Triston nodded. "Very well, then. Submit yourself for inspection, and your career as a Crow will begin."