Page 108 of Malady

28

OPHELIA

By the time we reach the top of the ridge, the wind has found its way beneath my newly acquired cloak and is doing its utmost to blow the thing clean off my shoulders. I catch the collar before it can strangle me and urge my mare up the last few yards of frozen track, where Iscairn has already halted his horse.

And there, spread across the valley beneath us, is York.

The city seems to go on forever, its narrow streets disappearing between hundreds upon hundreds of buildings, their black timber frames leaning so close together that I can barely tell where one ends and another begins. Slate roofs rise at every angle, interrupted by church towers and the occasional spire, whilst a great stone wall winds around the whole sprawling mess.

A thick blanket of smoke hangs above the rooftops, darkening the afternoon sky, and beneath it the river has disappeared into a bank of yellowish fog that creeps between the houses. Even from up here, I can smell it. Coal smoke, mostly, with the damp, sour stink of the river beneath it, and something else that I suspect has rather a lot to do with how many people are emptying their chamber pots into the same few streets.

I pull my cloak tighter and look at Iscairn. “Well,” I say. “That's certainly more people than I'm accustomed to.”

Before he can answer, a bell tolls from down below, its first great chime carrying across the valley with such force that a blistering pain shoots through my skull. I flinch in the saddle, startling my mare into a sideways step, and barely manage to steady her before another bell joins the first. The ringing swells into a deafening metallic clamour, each strike sending fresh pain through my head until my teeth ache and my brain feels like soup.

“Christ Almighty!” I hiss. “Do they have to be so bloody loud?”

“The bells?” Iscairn asks, turning his mask towards me.

“No, the birds! Yes, the bloody bells, Iscairn! What else would I be talking about?” I snap, tugging so sharply on the reins that my mare sidesteps beneath me. “Must you ask such stupid questions when my skull feels like it's being crushed from the inside out? Or is sitting there being a calm, unbothered prick your favourite pastime?”

Iscairn doesn't even flinch. He merely inclines his head, which only irritates me further, but before I can say anything else, another great peal rolls across the valley. The pain is so fierce that I fold forwards in the saddle, pressing both palms against my temples as the ringing tears through my skull. My teeth ache, my eyes water, and all I can do is sit there with my head bowed, wishing somebody would climb into those towers and cut the ropes.

“For pox’s sake,” I groan, rubbing hard at my forehead.

The pain gradually eases enough for me to straighten in the saddle, where I find Iscairn still waiting beside me. And now I feel like a complete arse. He's spent the whole morning making sure I've had enough to eat, listening to me whinge about everything from the weather to the state of my own bloody body, and what have I done in return? Snapped at him for asking whether I needed to rest, tutted every time he suggested we stop, and now I've practically taken his head off for asking a question.

The poor man can't even open his mouth without me finding something to complain about.

“I'm sorry,” I mutter. “That was horrible of me. You've done nothing wrong, and I'm taking it out on you. I just want them to stop.”

“I know,” he says gently. “And I know you would not speak to me that way if you were not suffering.”

I'd almost rather he gave me a bollocking.

The hunger has been creeping back since we left Addingham, and it's nothing like the belly-wark. There's no grumbling stomach to settle with a bit of bread, just an awful emptiness beneath my ribs that's gradually worked its way into my bones, leaving me with precious little patience for anything. Even the wind tugging at my cloak is enough to make me want to scream, and my eyesight's been playing up, too. Every few blinks, the whole world flickers blue before settling back into place, as though something inside me is struggling to keep up.

The soulglimmer he gave me in Addingham has evidently run its course.

Iscairn turns his horse towards the road, and I follow him down the ridge as the bells gradually taper off. The track is steep and badly churned by passing carts, and after my mare slips for the third time, I've had quite enough.

“I'm getting off,” I announce, pulling her towards the verge. “I'd rather walk than end up at the bottom of this hill on my backside.”

Iscairn dismounts and comes to help me, catching me around the waist as I swing my leg over the saddle. He lowers me onto the road, takes the reins from my hand, and we continue towards York on foot.

The road grows busier as we approach the walls, with travellers squeezing between wagons and merchants shouting themselves hoarse to get through. A fellow carrying a great sack over his shoulder barges past a woman with a basket of eggs, nearly sending the lot into the mud, and the argument that follows is still going strong when we reach the gatehouse.

I have to turn sideways to squeeze between two waiting carts, catching hold of Iscairn's cloak before the crowd can carry me off in the wrong direction. There must be more people trying to get through that great stone arch than lived in Beswick before the pestilence, and judging by the way they're all shouting at one another, not a single one of them knows how to wait their turn.

A cart driver behind us starts bellowing for everybody to move, and the man ahead turns to give him a piece of his mind, only to catch sight of Iscairn standing behind him. His face drains of colour, and he shoves his companion so hard that they nearly send a woman and her basket of turnips sprawling into the mud.

Within moments, a narrow path opens before us, with people stepping aside as Iscairn leads the horses beneath the archway. A few make the sign of the cross, and I quickly tuck my blackened fingers beneath my cloak, having no desire to give anybody another reason to start praying.

A beggar sitting against the gatehouse wall scrambles to pull his bowl out of our way, spilling several coins across the stones in his haste. I bend to retrieve one that's rolled towards my boot, but the poor fellow recoils when I offer it back.

I set the coin beside his bowl and hurry after Iscairn, keeping my hands safely hidden as we pass into the city.

The houses rise on either side of us, their upper storeys jutting so far over the road that there's barely a strip of sky left between them. I have to duck beneath a length of washing hanging from an upstairs window, only to jump back when somebody empties a bucket into the gutter, sending a splash of filthy water across my boots.