Page 132 of Malady

He groans at that, drawing me a little closer against his side, and I'm still grinning when a familiar mop of mucky hair catches my eye across the square. I lose sight of him almost immediately amongst the passing merchants, but as a cart rattles past, he steps out from behind it, giving me a much clearer view of his face.

I stop dead in my tracks. “Thomas?”

What the bloody hell is he doing in York?

Surely not…

“Ophelia?” Iscairn stops beside me, his hand still holding mine as he follows my gaze to the far side of the square. “What is it?”

Before I can answer, a great clamour rises from the narrow street beyond the market, cutting through the bustle of merchants shouting prices and carts rattling across the cobbles.

“God preserve us from the Devil! God deliver us from the witch!”

Oh, bollocks.

Beyond the market stalls, a flicker of orange rises above the crowd, followed by another, and another, until half a dozen burning torches are moving towards the square. Their flames gutter in the morning breeze, sending dark ribbons of smoke curling between the overhanging houses, and as the chanting grows louder, people press to the edges of the street to let the procession through.

“Iscairn,” I say quietly, my eyes flitting to Thomas. “I think we need to leave.”

He's standing beside a cart on the far side of the square, looking about him, and for one blessed moment I think we might slip away unnoticed. But then his head turns, and his eyes meet mine across the crowd.

Oh, no. Don't. Thomas, please, don't.

His mouth opens, and I shake my head desperately, silently begging him to keep his bloody mouth shut.

“She's here, Brother Gideon!” Thomas shouts, raising his arm to point straight at us. “We found them!”

An alley runs just behind the cooper's shop. We could be through it and halfway back to the Cock and Magpie before anybody thought to follow us, and Iscairn seems to have reached the same conclusion, for his fingers tighten around mine as he tries to draw me away from the square. But the sight of Thomas hurrying towards the approaching procession keeps me rooted to the spot, and before I can decide whether standing here is an act of courage or complete bloody stupidity, the chanting grows loud enough to drown out the market.

“Ophelia?” Iscairn looks down at me. “We ought to go.”

The first of the men come pushing through the crowd with their torches held aloft, sending people stumbling out of their path. They’re a filthy-looking lot, their clothes stained with mud and their faces hollow beneath tangled hair, and several have strips of bloodied linen tied about their arms. One man’s tunic hangs open across his back, exposing long, angry welts that disappear beneath the collar, while another has blood dried all down the front of his clothing.

The crowd draws back as the brethren force their way between the market stalls, their torches sending smoke curling into the morning air. Someone shouts as a flame passes dangerously close to an awning, but the chanting continues, and through the shifting bodies, I finally see him.

Gideon.

He walks at the head of the procession, with Brother Matthias beside him and Brother Leon following amongst the twenty or so men crowding into the square. Thomas has joined them, speaking anxiously to Matthias as he gestures in our direction, but I can hardly take my eyes off my brother.

His left arm is gone below the elbow, the same one Iscairn shattered against the stone in the crypt. The bone must have splintered beyond setting, and when the wound began to fester, somebody must have decided that cutting it off was the only way to save him. Judging by the filthy bandages, I dread to think how they went about it, and the yellowish discharge seeping through the linen tells me it hasn't worked. His skin has taken on that awful waxy colour I've seen too often in the dying, and I know the corruption has spread into his blood.

For a few seconds, I forget all about the torches and the men calling for our deaths. That's my big brother standing there, dying from a wound Iscairn inflicted trying to protect me, and all I want to do is march over and see whether there's anything left I can do for him.

Then Thomas points towards us again, and Gideon turns to follow his gaze, his mouth falling open.

Iscairn moves a little closer. “Ophelia,” he says quietly, “stay beside me.”

Gideon straightens and thrusts the cross above his head with his remaining arm. “There she stands! The whore of Satan!”

Every head turns in our direction, and the pleasant morning chatter dies away as Gideon pushes through the men gathered before him.

“Behold the witch who has given herself to the Devil! My own sister, who has forsaken the Lord and taken the evil pestilence into her very soul!” He staggers forward, sweat streaming down his face as he thrusts his rotting, bandaged stump at Iscairn. “And there! The demon who corrupted her! Look what the beast did to a man of God! The Devil walks amongst you, good people of York, wearing the guise of a physician!”

His accusation rips across the square, bringing the last of the market chatter to a halt. Behind us, a horse snorts and stamps impatiently against the cobbles as its driver struggles to guide it through the crowd, but nobody moves aside, their attention fixed upon my brother.

“Seize them!” Gideon roars, his voice cracking with the effort. “Seize the witch and her demon, that their filth may be cleansed from this city! Let them be purified in fire!”

For several dreadful seconds, I wait for somebody to obey him, but the people around us remain where they are. Then, from the butcher's doorway, a voice rises above the crowd.