I led the way forward cautiously, glad of the darkness. When I reached the back of the crowd, I realized that it wasn’t as densely packed as it had first seemed. Inside the hall the air was tainted with a sweet, sickly scent. It was just one big room with a flagged floor, across which sawdust was scattered unevenly. I couldn’t see properly over the backs of the crowd because most of the people were taller than me, but there seemed to be a big space ahead that nobody wanted to move forward into. I grabbed Alice’s hand and eased my way into the throng of people, tugging her along behind me.

It was dark towards the back of the hall but the front was lit by two huge torches at each corner of a wooden platform. The Quisitor was standing at the front of it, looking down. He was saying something but his voice sounded muffled.

I looked at those about me and saw the range of expressions on their faces: anger, sadness, bitterness and resignation. Some looked openly hostile. This crowd was probably mainly composed of those who opposed the work of the Quisitor. Some of them might even be relatives and friends of the accused. For a moment that thought gave me hope that some sort of rescue might be attempted.

But then my hopes were dashed: I saw why nobody had moved forward. Below the platform were five long benches of priests with their backs to us, but behind them and facing towards us was a double line of grim-faced armed men. Some had their arms folded; others had hands on the hilts of their swords as if they couldn’t wait to draw them from their scabbards. Nobody wanted to get too close to them.

I glanced up towards the ceiling and saw that a high balcony ran along the sides of the hall; faces were peering down, pale white ovals that all looked the same from the ground. That would be the safest place to be and it would provide a much better view. There were steps to the left and I tugged Alice towards them. Moments later we were moving along the wide balcony.

It wasn’t full and we soon found ourselves a place against the rail about halfway between the doors and the platform. There was still the same sweet stench in the air, much stronger now than it had been when we were standing on the flags below. I suddenly realized what it was. The hall was almost certainly used as a meat market. It was the smell of blood.

The Quisitor wasn’t the only person on the platform.

Right at the back, in the shadows, a huddle of guards surrounded the prisoners awaiting trial, but immediately behind the Quisitor were two guards gripping a weeping prisoner by the arms. It was a tall girl with long dark hair. She was wearing a tattered dress and had no shoes.

‘That’s Maggie!’ Alice hissed into my ear. ‘The one they kept sticking pins into. Poor Maggie, it ain’t fair. Thought she’d got away…’

Up here the sound was much better and I could hear every word the Quisitor spoke. ‘By her own lips this woman is condemned!’ he called out, his voice loud and arrogant. ‘She has confessed all and the Devil’s mark was found upon her flesh. I sentence her to be bound to the stake and burned alive. And may God have mercy upon her soul.’

Maggie began to sob even louder, but one of her captors seized her by the hair and she was dragged away towards a doorway at the back of the platform. No sooner had she disappeared through it than another prisoner wearing a black cassock and with his hands bound behind his back was pulled forward into the torchlight. For a moment I thought I was mistaken but there was no doubt.

It was Brother Peter. I knew him by the thin collar of white hair that fringed his bald head and by the curve of his back and shoulders. But his face was so badly beaten and streaked with blood that I hardly recognized it. His nose was broken, squashed back against his face, and one eye was closed to a swollen red slit.

Seeing him in that condition made me feel terrible. It was all because of me. To begin with he’d allowed me to escape; later he’d told me how I could get to the cell to rescue the Spook and Alice. Under torture, he must have told them everything. It was all my fault and I was racked with guilt.

‘Once this was a brother, a faithful servant of the Church!’ cried the Quisitor. ‘But look at him now! Look at this traitor! One who has helped our enemies and allied himself with the forces of darkness. We have his confession, written with his own hand. Here it is!’ he shouted, holding up a piece of paper high for all to see.

Nobody got a chance to read it – it could have said anything at all. Even if it was a confession, one look at poor Brother Peter’s face told me that it had been beaten out of him. It wasn’t fair. There was no justice here. This wasn’t a trial at all. The Spook had once told me that when people were tried in the castle at Caster, at least they got a hearing – a judge, a prosecutor and someone to defend them. But here the Quisitor was doing it all himself!

‘He is guilty. Guilty beyond all doubt,’ he continued. ‘I therefore sentence him to be taken down to the catacombs and left there. And may God have mercy on his soul!’

There was a sudden gasp of horror from the crowd but it was loudest of all from the priests seated at the front. They knew exactly what Brother Peter’s fate would be. He would be pressed to death by the Bane.

Brother Peter tried to speak, but his lips were too swollen. One of the guards cuffed him about the head while the Quisitor gave a cruel smile. They pulled him away towards the door at the rear of the platform, and no sooner had he been led out of the building than another prisoner was brought forward from the gloom. My heart sank into my boots. It was the Spook.

At first glance, apart from a few bruises on his face, the Spook didn’t seem to have had as hard a time as Brother Peter. But then I noticed something more chilling. He was squinting into the torchlight and looked bewildered, with a vacant expression in his green eyes. He seemed lost. It was as if his memory had gone and he didn’t even know who he was. I began to wonder just how badly he’d been beaten.

‘Before you is John Gregory!’ cried the Quisitor, his voice echoing from wall to wall. ‘A disciple of the Devil, no less, who for many years has plied his evil trade in this county, taking money from poor gullible folk. But does this man recant? Does he accept his sins and beg forgiveness? No, he is stubborn and will not confess. Now only through fire may he be purged and given hope of salvation. But furthermore, not content with the evil he can do, he has trained others and still continues to do so. Father Cairns, I ask you to stand and give testimony!’

From the front row of benches a priest stepped forward into the torchlight closer to the platform. He had his back to me so I couldn’t see his face, but I spotted his bandaged hand and when he spoke it was the same voice that I’d listened to in the confessional box.

‘Lord Quisitor, John Gregory brought an apprentice with him on his visit to this town, one whom he has already corrupted. His name is Thomas Ward.’

I heard Alice let out a low gasp and my own knees began to tremble. I was suddenly sharply aware of how dangerous it was to be here in the hall, so close to the Quisitor and his armed men.

‘By the grace of God the boy fell into my hands,’ Father Cairns continued, ‘and, but for the intervention of Brother Peter, who allowed him to escape justice, I would have delivered him to you for questioning. But I did question him myself, lord, and found him to be hardened beyond his years and far beyond persuasion by mere words. Despite my best efforts, he failed to see the error of his ways and for that we must blame John Gregory, a man not content with practising his vile trade, one who actively corrupts the young. To nay knowledge over a score of apprentices have passed through his hands and some, in turn, now follow that same trade and have taken on apprentices of their own. By such means does evil spread like a plague through the County.’