The black death is spreading to my manor! People are getting buboes on their lymph nodes and dying everywhere! I've kept myself locked in the keep until this awful plague ends.
The Mongols, during the Siege of Caffa, spread the black death through warfare. Some victims escaped and docked in Sicily, which quickly spread here. It must've seemed like a good weapon at the time, but now it's causing too much destruction. Some fleas on rats with this disease are scampering about Europe. The thought of rats scare most of the people on the manor.
A messenger told me that the king's manor caught the black death. If he dies, the system could collapse. Even if he survives, we don't have enough peasants to farm on the manor. The nobles and knights aren't holding up well either. Come to think of it, neither is the church. They can't help the victims of God's torture. Some flagellants ran around town whipping themselves begging for forgiveness. Some are mad at God for spreading this. Some even blame me, the lord of the manor.
Some are scared of death like I am. Others choose to run away from their manor, but that just spreads the plague. Others choose to live life with limited chance of survival, doing the most fun (but risky) things. This ethic is changing the artwork to something new called death macabre, showing that everyone dies and we're all equal.
If I catch this agonizing plague, this will almost surely be my last journal entry. In that case, I plan for my son or grandson to take over.
Sire Bartholomew Umfrey of Grantstown