The city had it's high points. It is generally agreed that containing a lot of people is a hallmark of a city, and London still boasted somewhere in the neighborhood of 65,000 souls, give or take. In 1349 this certainly qualified. Although it must be said that mere months ago the number had been closer to 70,000.

The Renaissance would wait for the plague to mostly burn itself out before turning up. It would be rather a good deal later than that when indoor plumbing would catch on. It is possible that of all the contemporary cities of the world, London was top of the heap in terms of something positive. In 1349, however, with people emptying their chamber pots into the streets and alleys, it was a definite contender for the title of city most likely to be compared to an open latrine.

There were those in the city who were more thoroughly inured to those unfortunate circumstances than others. Butchers, gong fermors, and barber-surgeons, for instance. But no other soul could boast the same impenetrable indifference to the foul and fetid features of the city as the unforgettable, but hopefully avoidable personage of Dick the rat catcher.

Dick was a walking encyclopedia of ailments. His nose ran constantly when it wasn't congested or scabbed over. His eyes sometimes ran when they weren't swollen shut. His ears probably should have run, but owing to some evil confluence of conditions, they instead harbored plugs of wax which were doubtless culturing like fine blue cheese.

Hair grew all over him, but everywhere it grew in irregular patches, through hardscrabble dandruff. He suffered arthritis in his ankles, water in his knees, grinding shoulder, and pre-tennis elbows. Paint would bubble and peel in close proximity to his feet – even through his boots.

Dick's mouth was, thankfully, a small orifice, and mostly obscured by his wirebrush mustaches. When he would pause to cough and hawk, which was often enough, bets would be taken on what color the spit would be.

It was generally agreed that the most amazing thing about Dick was that he was, in fact, walking at all. As such, it was accepted that he was able to pass closely amongst the human and animal denizens of the festering city without contracting the plague. He was simply too crowded and inhospitable for even the Great Mortality to squeeze aboard.

Dick passed the new plague doctor on his way back from the city wall on Broad Street, heading across Threadneedle on his way to Bridge Street. One plague doctor more or less meant little to Dick. He knew his place, and it was in the muck. Anyone with Doctor in their title moved in strata far above. Most people with or without a title, for that matter. But he did make a mental note to find out where the new arrival would be boarding so that he could make a respectful inquiry.

Some of these doctors used all manner of oddities in their medical practices. If you were willing to use the term medical very loosely. He could, and had, made an extra penny procuring said oddities, provided he always kept a couple of arm's length distance and stood downwind. Mostly he'd arranged to leave the goods in question outside a door, and knock – whereupon the agreed to sum would be slid out under, or tossed out through a cracked door.

The normal order of things having deteriorated of late, there was little business to be had as a rat catcher. Not that there were not so many rats – but paying a professional to deal with them was no longer anywhere on anyone's list of priorities. And there were rumors that giving charity to able-bodied beggars might soon be officially outlawed. Despite all evidence to the contrary, Dick had a suspicion that he would be categorized as able-bodied in the event he resorted to begging.

Perhaps he could take up a social service endeavor. Something like what old Harry the Leper had done before the wild dogs got him. Dick remembered it fondly. Harry used to sit in the market with a sign, charging a groat to remove his mask. Then he had charged a ha'penny to put it back on.

* * *

While John Postlethwait legged it off the road somewhere North of the city walls, the man who now wore his mask and coats was finally obtaining directions to a likely landlord.

The information came from a tall, spindly woman on the other side of middle-aged. Times being what they were, this meant somewhere around 40. She wore her grey hair pulled so tightly into a bun that it did unusual and vaguely disturbing things to the wrinkles which made up most of her face. Initially she greeted him with the critical look which certain women reserve for everything that fails to have whiskers, claws, and approximately nine lives.

“To whom might one speak about lodgings here in the city?” he asked.

“You might speak to anyone as cares to listen – if you don't care what comes of it.” she replied sharply.

They stood there in silence for a few breaths.

Finally the man spoke again.

“Forgive me. I am called Felix. I come from Northern Hereford to help treat the afflicted.”

“More fool you,” the woman glowered, “But as long as you're here, you might visit the Bridge and speak to the mayor or one of his minions. Contrarywise, you might visit the parish clerks. If you've silver to hand, you might just pick an emptied house and move in. A landlord will find you sooner or later, I shouldn't doubt. That's assuming you're not afeared of filling rooms the plague has emptied.”

“I see,” Felix acknowledged, “Thank you-”

“Or...” she interrupted slowly, “if you're truly for helping the afflicted, you might go over to Cordwainer Street and call at Rubbery Hall.”

“Rubbery...?”

“Lord Rubbery.” the woman grated, for all the world as if it should mean something.

Felix tipped his head on one side in an unwittingly corvine movement.

“Lord Ash Rubbery. He lives over to Cordwainer. Queer sort. They say he's turned half the Hall into an infirmary.”

“And he lives there?” Felix posed with some incredulity.

“Queer sort. I said. Go look for yourself. Can't miss the place. There's a great shining herring over the door.”

Felix forbore asking about the last bit, lest he find that that way lay madness.

“I have eggs need coddling,” the woman turned toward a nearby doorstep, “go away now.”

Nodding, Felix twitched the lead, and with Caesar in tow he plodded down Threadneedle Street. Despite his already bleak expectations, the state of the city still managed to impress.

The man leading the mule wore a name taken off a dead man, the boots off another, and the mask from a third, merely bruised and concussed, man. In his time he had enjoyed, or at least survived, more than his fair share of travel. Hailing from somewhere East of Constantinople, he had come West in a meandering course which turned sometimes North and sometimes South, but always West. And from a Northward jaunt to Norway, finally West by merchant ship, stocked with fish and blubber, to the rainy isle of England.

In the course of these travels he had passed muddy, failing hamlets. He had camped outside squalid villages, rather than pressing in amongst the fleas, lice, flies, and worst of all, the humans hosting them. There had even been a few cities wherein the stables or stockyards were preferable to the local room and board purportedly intended for humans.

But none of them was a match in his mind for the corpulent titan of wretchedness that was London. He passed peasants on his way, still going about their business with a quiet dread, in their eyes. None strayed very close to him, but he nonetheless learned something about their reactions to the threat posed by the plague. He learned it despite the herbs stuffed in the beak of his mask.

On the one hand were the folk who had taken to washing themselves assiduously, some adorning themselves with herbs, flowers, or perfumes. The vendors of garlic, ginger, pepper, or moderately affordable scents would still be enjoying steady business.

On the other hand were those poor, well-meaning souls who had taken the concept of defensive odors and run – veritably sprinted – with it. Only they had gone in the other direction. In most cases this meant a weapons-grade body odor. After encountering it, Felix supposed it might well work, if only because even rats and fleas might be lain low by the sinus scouring fumes before reaching their prospective victims.

And yet, this was not the worst.

As he came to the intersection of Walbrook, he misjudged the birth he should have given a huddled mass of rags and hair. Saved a bit by his mask, he sympathized when Caesar suffered a sneezing fit before braying and pulling hard on his lead. At the sound, the offending refuse shook itself and rose into the form of Little Bobby Riggs Junior. And the smell somehow became worse.

It was as if the contents of every vat at the tanneries had, by some unspeakable magic, conceived offspring, dressed it in fetid rags, and loosed it on a city which had foolishly assumed it knew what foulness was. Unbeknownst to Felix or Caesar, Little Bobby had put no little effort into cultivating what he referred to as 'Tha' rug croppy smeel.' He would regale anyone nose-dead enough to remain within earshot with all the repugnant details, though they would be unlikely to understand more than one word in five. Bobby's mouth was a microcosm of the rest of him. Plus he had never been particularly intelligent... or sane.

“Hee-butsuh fartin', Corby-man. Ee-gits back dune.”

To Felix's dismay, the figure seemed to be directing this gibberish at him. Delving into a belt pouch he came up with a few coins. At a glance through the lenses in his mask, he thought they were probably half pennies. He might have some farthings in there somewhere, but this was a time sensitive situation. On the basis that it was probably a worthy investment, he tossed the coins in Bobby's general direction and quickened his pace. As it was, Caesar, usually as slow as he was allowed to be, was threatening to pull Felix off his feet and drag him down the road.

Behind them, Little Bobby pinched the coins from the dirt and squinted at each in turn. He bit each one as well before hiding them away somewhere on his person. This wasn't to test the metal content, but a habit he had developed in order to prove to himself that things were real. By his count he now carried one penny, three half pennies and two farthings that were real, and one jeweled crown which was almost certainly not.

“Tessa port Corby, spooky wagons. Nay mer pucky w'er fer Li'l Bobby. Pucky ale nar, HEH!”

* * *

A short while later, Felix came to Rubbery Hall. The woman had been right. You couldn't miss it. A tall stone plinth stood near the entrance with 'Rubbery' chiseled down each of it's four sides. The long, street-facing facade was broken by a few high windows and a set of very serious looking oaken double doors. They had the appropriate black wrought iron bands and handles. And hung above the doors was a gleaming bronze herring, several times life size.

After staring at the fixture for some time, he used one of the heavy iron door knockers. Cleaving to the theory that coincidences must seem unlikely or else nobody would notice them, the door was opened just as Felix was again reaching for the knocker. As the door swung open, he found himself facing... nobody.

“Down 'ere.”

Felix lowered his gaze. He lowered it more.

“Oh. A dwarf.”

The upturned, and if it came to that, rather handsome, face lit up in mock wonder.

“No, m'lord. You must be a giant!”

Felix allowed himself a smile behind the mask.

“Well played, my arse-high friend. If you'll accept free advice, take care upon whom you sharpen that wit. Some are less appreciative of a good jest.”

“Too true. Well, come in. The Lord will be wanting to speak with you.”

“I have a pack animal.”

“Horse?” Rollo asked.

“No.”

“Camel?”

“It's a mule.”

“Oh,” he seemed disappointed, “Just bring 'im along. We'll put 'im in the courtyard for now. I'll have someone feed and water 'im while you're with Lord Rubbery.”

Felix stepped inside, then watched as the little fellow worked a pair of levers connected to what looked like a mass of small windlasses and cogs. From this mass rose ropes which fed through pulleys anchored in the ceiling. There was a whirring and a creaking from the mechanism. Momentarily a plank was lowered into brackets via ropes, thereby barring the doors. Apparently sensing interest, his host tapped a knuckle on the wall beside the mechanism.

“Ropes go up inside the wall, too. Got what the Lord calls counter-weights. Long pig-iron rods. Very keen on contraptions, is Lord Rubbery.” the dwarf explained with a hint of approval.

“And herring.” Felix replied absently, still mentally cataloging the engineering involved.

“Ah, that. We-ell... the cleverest minds is often touched with the odd... oddness.”

“Mm.”

“Oi, come along. The Lord'll be in the dining hall. By the way, name's Rollo. Just in case you want to win an award for originality by not calling me Dwarf, Runt, Sawed-off, or Stumpy.” Rollo led the way down the hall.

“How does 'my arse-high friend' rank?”

“Huh. Better than Runt, not as good as Rollo. Although... if you really want my attention, use my full name.”

After a few strides, they bore left into another hall.

“Alright. What's your full name?” Felix asked.

“Rollo Here's-sixpence-go-get-us-some-ale-and-keep-the-change.”

“Rollo Here's-sixpence for short?” Felix quipped.

“Hah! That'll do well enough, aye.”

“You can call me Felix. It occurs to me that I have not informed you as to the reason for my visit.” Felix noted aloud.

Rollo spared a glance back.

“Doctor, ain'tcha? Treat folks with the black bumps?”

“Are all doctors expected to visit... Lord Rubbery?”

Rollo slowed to a stop alongside a doorway. He turned about and gave Felix a hard look.

“Well, Felix, 'e's got half this place dressed up as a sickhouse. Takes in as many ill as can fit. You didn't know that though, did you?”

“No.”

“So what in Hell are you doin' here?”

“I asked a local woman to point me to a likely landlord.” Felix admitted.

“Ah. And she knew the Lord welcomes anyone that might help treat the sick. Just as well. You'll have room and board here, for a fortnight at least. If you're brave enough.”

With that, Rollo turned and moved through the doorway, gesturing for Felix to follow.

The courtyard was open to the sky, though clusters of barrels and stone benches were shaded by canvas awnings. More interesting was the multitude of plants. Herbs and flowering plants grew in clay pots and woven baskets which line the walls and hung from iron hooks. These were interspersed with shrubs and small, wizened trees of a species Felix had never encountered before.

Perhaps most novel was the fact that most of the courtyard had been sodded. Without prompting, Caesar ambled over and solemnly regarded the unusual indoor occurrence of grass before lowering his head to graze.

“Just tie the lead to that little statue there, m’lord. Your things will be safe here. I’ll ‘ave someone feed and water him shortly.”

Felix hadn’t stopped to examine the waist-high statue until that moment. It turned out to be a mermaid of well developed female endowments, the curve of it’s tail resting on a broad round base. In it’s hands it held, yes, a herring. Touch of oddness indeed. Ah, well. He tied the lead around the stone tail and turned to follow Rollo back out into the hall.

A short walk further on brought them to the dining hall, which was more or less what one would expect, but with better lighting and less soot from candle or torch. A look to the ceiling revealed large skylights, the shutters for which were slid aside in iron guides and brackets. Anchored in the shutters at either end were ropes which trailed through hooks and pulleys and down one wall, by means of which the shutters might be shifted in and out of place. More clever mechanisms.

Felix lingered at the threshold while Rollo marched on toward the far end of the long central table. A white haired man sat there, bent over a sheaf of parchment. Rollo pulled out a chair to one side of the man and climbed up to stand in it. He regarded the white haired fellow for a long moment. He cleared his throat theatrically and waited.

“Right.”

Leaning forward, Mr. Sixpence slapped one hand down hard on the tabletop. The man’s head snapped up.

“Burn then all!” he shouted before looking around in bewilderment.

Rollo flinched.

Felix arched an eyebrow behind his mask.

“Er, burn what, m’lord?” Rollo asked.

Lord Rubbery looked sheepish for just a moment. Then the moment passed, and the look melted away and it was as if it had never been there. He was controlled and self assured, though not, Felix thought, in the same unthinking way as so many who inherited wealth and power. More like a military leader who had actually worked his way up via mud, blood, and hard-won wisdom.

“The blankets. From the infirmary. I’ve sent Aedelburt round to buy more. Please do inform the nurses.”

“Ah.” Rollo nodded.

“And this...?”

The Lord’s gaze fell on Felix. He seemed almost disinterested. Unless you knew what you were looking at. With keen instincts backed by extensive practice reading body language, Felix knew that the Lord would be trying to read him the same way. It probably didn’t bear wondering whether or not Rubbery had even truly been asleep when they entered. He doubted the man was quite that good an actor.

“Yes. Right. Ash, this is Master... Felix. A new sawbones.” Rollo filled in.

Rubbery spared the little man a dull look.

“Has he no surname?”

“Begging your pardon, Lord,” Felix spoke up in a tone which decidedly did not suggest begging, “It’s Lupino.”

“Hm.”

Lord Rubbery stared for some time before smiling. It was the fact that it was genuine that surprised Felix.

Rollo, on the other hand, took this all in stride.

“He came with an ass.”

“Royalty or nobility?” Rubbery asked, lowering his eyes – apparently to scan the parchment before him.

Rollo snorted.

“I meant a mule.”

“Of course you did, Rollo.”

“I put it in the courtyard for now.” Rollo added.

“Mm. You might prefer to go see it is fed and watered before you speak to the nurses.” His eyes tracked slowly up to regard the little man.

Rollo blinked.

“The nurses?”

“Regarding the blankets.”

“Oh.” Rollo glowered. “Right.”

Dismounting the chair, he favored Felix with a measure of glower as well.

“Remember my name, Sawbones. I’ll see you around.” he flicked a vague salute, turned, and shuffled off.

When the door had quietly closed behind him, something superficially resembling a smile returned to the Lord’s face.

“What did he tell you his name is? Usually it’s something about silver or ale, but I suspect he uses a different nom d’lecher with the nurses.”

“We whittled it down to ‘Rollo-here’s-sixpence’.”

Rubbery nodded.

“Do you wear your mask all of the time?” he posed, abruptly switching tack.

“Mostly. One never knows where the plague is hiding.” Felix reached for the straps holding the mask in place.

“No. Leave it for now. We may as well see if you’re worth keeping around.” The Lord stood and stepped around his chair. “Come. I’ll show you the infirmary, and you can tell me about your theories and methods.”

Following the Lord through the halls, Felix reflected that the man was unusual. Not that he had bothered to form much in the way of expectations. The apparent fancy for herring could give a person certain ideas about a man’s mental state, of course. It put many people in mind of other things – like wearing pajamas at all hours, fits of maniacal laughter, or tinkering in the attic during electrical storms. And then there was his keenness for gadgets. The church, at least, was known to take an oppositional, if not to say violent, stance when it came to any technology more complex than the rack. The man, in person, seemed completely at odds with such assumptions.

The infirmary was a suite of rooms on a long hallway running the length of the rear of Rubbery Hall. It was dubiously sealed off by means of a canvas sheet nailed up across the hall. As they approached, a young woman wearing only a shift emerged. She paused and bobbed a desultory curtsy to the Lord, then turned to a wrought iron font which Felix had previously taken for an unlit brazier. From the liquid in the font she drew a small hard-bristled brush and began scrubbing her hands.

“Holy water?” Felix asked, working to keep his tone neutral.

“Is that what you would advise?”

“If you’re afraid of demons, or thirsty, perhaps. With any due respect to the church, I would humbly advise strong spirits. Or if none are to hand, soap and scalding water. Holy or otherwise.”

The young woman looked up from her scrubbing to give Felix a speculative look.

“Hard to trust anything what looks so dreadfully like a crow. Still... mayhap this one’s diff’rent, m’lord.”

“Myra, this is... what do you style yourself? Physician? Surgeon?” Rubbery asked.

“Or doctor. Or sawbones, if you prefer. My name is Felix Lupino. A pleasure to meet you, Miss Myra.”

Myra shook droplets from her hands, blew a stray lock of straw-colored hair that had fallen across her face, and arched an eyebrow.

“I’ll bide judgment on that, Master Lupino. And mind you don’t take up any misimpressions on account of my unseemly dress. More of his lordship’s precautions, that. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Of course.” Felix stepped to one side.

The two men stood listening until her footfalls faded.

“You’ll have to excuse the girl. And Rollo, I suppose. Honorifics and ritual are tiresome. Here in my own home, I find I prefer less... formality.” Rubbery explained.

“Welcome news.” Felix acknowledged.

“And the bowl is indeed filled with spirits strong enough to burn. I’ve made arrangements with the fellows at the brewery. As the girl said, I’ve given orders that outer garments worn within shall not be brought out. Not until they’ve been well boiled.”

“No holy water, then?” Felix smirked.

“Huh,” Rubbery scoffed, “We’ll try it again if the spirits stop working. Until then... only if we’re thirsty.”

Felix nodded appreciatively. This Lord was more disdainful of dogma and superstition than he had guessed. Meeting him so soon after entering the city may have been a great stroke of luck. Hopefully his practicality and forward thinking extended to the treatment of patients.

“Come,” Lord Rubbery drew the canvas to one side, “Let us see what you make of our makeshift hospital. Mind those tedious formalities for a bit. The poor souls expect such things.”