By 1346, Audloed had begun to carve a small reputation within the religious communities of Lunden. Unlike most, he was sought out individually rather than recommended by church officials—an unusual distinction for a man of humble Irish origins. What set him apart was simple: results. Where others relied solely on accepted remedies, Audloed drew upon his unique training in herbs and botany, blending ancient folk knowledge with formal medical instruction. He had even constructed one of the first greenhouses in England, a place where he could nurture rare plants for study and medicine, losing himself for hours among leaves and blossoms.
Clerics curious about the natural world often worked alongside him, recording his botanical experiments in their journals, sometimes intertwining sacred text with sketches of plants and remedies. Within the church, Audloed observed a subtle truth: many scholars hid their unconventional studies behind a veneer of piety. In time, his skill earned him missions beyond Lunden itself, treating illnesses that stretched beyond the city’s walls. His travel was compensated, and though his formal education classified the fevers and chills he encountered as minor, he always credited God’s providence in the healing he achieved.
By the summer of 1348, however, a darkness unlike any he had faced swept across the land. The bubonic plague—The Black Death, as it would later be called—had arrived in England. Its origins were a mystery, whispered about in hushed councils. But its spread was undeniable: cases doubled from two to four, four to sixteen, and soon the city of Lunden trembled under its shadow. A private meeting convened with the clergy from Lunden and surrounding towns. The fear was palpable. Some believed it to be divine wrath for sin, others blamed pagan foreigners poisoning wells, while a few whispered of miasma and planetary alignments. Even high-ranking clergymen found themselves shut out of certain deliberations, their faith shaken. Cities followed church orders with fervor, erecting protocols and creating the new role of the “plague doctor”—physicians devoted to the care of infected souls, poor and rich alike, under the guise of God’s mercy.
Audloed was selected as one of only two doctors from St. Etheldreda, chosen not for ambition or wealth but for his unique knowledge and his ability to connect with the people. While many “plague doctors” were essentially empirics—men who claimed empirical knowledge yet used their position to extract wealth for the church—Audloed’s purpose was different. From his earliest days at St. Etheldreda, he had never believed that humans were born sinful. Newborns, to him, were pure. The church’s moral structures often confused him, but he never questioned the pursuit of medicine itself. Father Byrne’s wisdom guided him still:
“Wise men speak because they have something to say. Fools speak because they have to say something.”
Knowledge, Audloed had learned, was something no one could take from you. After losing Fiadh, he clung to it as tightly as he had ever clung to her memory. His doctoral studies became his sanctuary, a mental freedom even within the confines of a rigid church. The Great Pestilence may have been God’s wrath in the eyes of many, but Audloed knew better: it was illness, not punishment, and it could be met with skill, not fear.
As the plague spread through southern England, towns contracted doctors under the church’s authority. Most physicians were tasked with extracting fees from the poor while compiling public records of the dead. Audloed’s assignment was unusual: he was sent to southeastern England, paired with another doctor whose motivations leaned toward wealth rather than healing. The church trusted Audloed to remain focused on medicine rather than profit.
A trusted friend of Audloed’s, a botanist with knowledge of the stars, gave him a journal—a forbidden object, as personal writing was considered a conduit for sinful thoughts. Audloed argued it was necessary: to record treatments, patients, and remedies, ensuring proper care without redundancy. When he presented a list of twenty families he had already treated, the clergy accepted it, recognizing that in the pursuit of healing, some discretion and scientific practice were necessary—even if wealth and recordkeeping were meant to take precedence.
And so Audloed walked his path: tending the sick, observing the plague, documenting the dead, and blending science and prayer in equal measure. Where others sought profit or superstition, he sought only the knowledge that could preserve life.
By the turn of 1348 into 1349, winter pressed its bitter hand across England, and the plague crept northward, reaching as far as Grimsby and York. Audloed knew, with a tightening in his chest, that it would soon touch Ireland as well. Thankfully, his family dwelled far from the main roads, and Fiadh was gone. Were she still alive, he feared he might have feigned his own death and fled home, abandoning duty and responsibility for the sake of one cherished soul.
While his counterpart remained in the crowded streets of Colchester, Audloed chose a different path. He ventured into the smallest, most forgotten settlements—villages marked by poverty and neglect—where sickness and hunger walked hand in hand. Here, among simple folk, he recorded his remedies with painstaking care in his journal, knowing that with the return of spring and green growth, he could finally craft true medicines from plants the earth now yielded. Around him, the world of plague doctors was chaotic. Many of his colleagues clung to superstition or greed: bloodletting, leeches, and frogs were applied with ritual precision, but with little hope of healing. Reports of their successes traveled in the doctoral network, yet Audloed knew the truth: death moved faster than dogma.
Many doctors abandoned their posts entirely, fleeing to their homes and dying unnoticed, ironically claiming wealth while perishing in the plague they were sent to treat. Others were summoned to courts and cities across Europe—Paris, Barcelona, Genoa, even the Papal States—where the wealthiest of doctors served kings and popes alike. Plague had become both profession and theater, and those who traveled far often sought profit more than life-saving skill.
By 1349, the devastation reached its zenith. England teetered near societal collapse. Even in Scotland, reports from Edinburgh foretold disaster. Everywhere, from Florence to Rome, Paris to London, the pestilence ravaged rich and poor alike. And yet, for Audloed, spring brought the faintest solace: a fragile bloom of herbs, leaves, and roots he could use for medicine. Though he could not recreate his greenhouse from St. Etheldreda, he worked tirelessly with what nature offered. Still, reputation worked against him. To some, the very sight of Audloed in his plague doctor’s mask was a warning: death lingered nearby. Yet among small towns and families, his hands were remembered. One such memory remained vivid: a healed boy named Baird, whose sister had been cured of fever, gifted him a crow’s tail feather in gratitude. Though the boy’s accent was thick in Scots-Gaelic, his mother translated his words: “Thankful for the raven man.” Audloed kept the feather close, a reminder of Fiadh, of innocence, and of the fragile lives he was meant to protect.
Summons from Norfolk, from the network of plague doctors, came and went, and Audloed ignored most. The calls were veiled forms of collection—money under the guise of service. His reason for continuing his work was different; the memory of Baird, of the lives he could touch, held him steadier than fear or command. Even as he walked through death, the weight of his work pressed upon him. For the first time, he fell ill, a week of fever and weakness that mimicked the plague itself. He tended to himself with his own remedies, surviving the ordeal—but the fear, the isolation, and the longing for Fiadh’s guidance weighed heavier than ever.
When he prepared to journey north into Scotland, he encountered one of his last remaining friends from St. Etheldreda, a botanist who had survived the plague while others had perished. From him came new orders: Audloed was to travel farther still, to the Kingdoms of Denmark and Norway, ministering to plague victims in lands untouched by his colleagues. His lack of greed had made him indispensable; his skill had spared him dismissal.
Audloed remembered Ireland, remembered Byrne’s teachings, remembered the home he had lost. He remembered Fiadh. And he carried with him the words that had always guided him:
“Travel not to find yourself, but to remember who you’ve been all along.”
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