The Spook had given it to me when I went to Horshaw to deal with the ripper. It had been made by his other brother, Andrew the locksmith, and it opened most locks as long as they weren’t too complex. I should have given it back but I knew the Spook had more than one, and as he hadn’t asked, I’d kept it. It was very useful to have, just like the small tinderbox my dad gave me when I started my apprenticeship. I always kept that in my pocket too. It had belonged to his dad and was a family heirloom but a very useful one for someone who followed the Spook’s trade.

Before long I was climbing the hill, with the steeple to my left. It was a wet morning, a heavy drizzle falling straight into my face, and I’d been right about the steeple. At least the top third of it was hidden by the dark grey clouds that were racing in from the south-west. There was a bad smell of sewers in the air too, and every house had a smoking chimney, most of the smoke finding its way down to street level.

A lot of people seemed to be rushing up the hill. One woman went by almost running, dragging two children faster than their little legs could manage. ‘Come on! Hurry up!’ she scolded. ‘We’re going to miss it.’

For a moment I wondered if they were going to the funeral too but it seemed unlikely because their faces were filled with excitement. Right at the top the hill flattened out and I turned left towards the cathedral. Here an excited crowd was eagerly lining both sides of the road, as if waiting for something. They were blocking the pavement and I tried to ease my way through as carefully as possible. I kept apologizing, desperate to avoid stepping on anyone’s toes, but eventually the people became so thickly packed that I had to come to a halt and wait with them.

I didn’t wait long. Sounds of applause and cheers had suddenly erupted to my right. Above them I heard the clip-clop of approaching hooves. A large procession was moving towards the cathedral, the first two riders dressed in black hats and cloaks and wearing swords at their hips. Behind them came more riders, these armed with daggers and huge cudgels, ten, twenty, fifty, until eventually one man appeared riding alone on a gigantic white stallion.

He wore a black cloak, but underneath it expensive chain mail was visible at neck and wrists and the sword at his hip had a hilt encrusted with rubies. His boots were of the very finest leather and probably worth more than a farm labourer earned in a year.

The rider’s clothes and bearing marked him out as a leader, but even if he’d been dressed in rags, there would have been no doubt about it. He had very blond hair, tumbling from beneath a wide-brimmed red hat, and eyes so blue they put a summer’s sky to shame. I was fascinated by his face. It was almost too handsome to be a man’s, but it was strong at the same time, with a jutting chin and a determined forehead. Then I looked again at the blue eyes and saw the cruelty glaring from them.

He reminded me of a knight I’d once seen ride past our farm, when I was a young lad. He hadn’t so much as glanced our way. To him we didn’t exist. Well, that’s what my dad said anyway. Dad also said that the man was noble, that he could tell by looking at him that he came from a family that could trace its ancestors back for generations, all of them rich and powerful.

At the word ‘noble’ my dad spat into the mud and told me that I was lucky to be a farmer’s lad with an honest day’s work in front of me.

This man riding through Priestown was also clearly noble and had arrogance and authority written all over his face. To my shock and dismay I realized that I must be looking at the Quisitor, for behind him was a big open cart pulled by two shire horses and there were people standing in the back bound together with chains.

Mostly they were women but there were a couple of men too. The majority of them looked as if they hadn’t eaten properly for a long time. They wore filthy clothes and many had clearly been beaten. All were covered in bruises and one woman had a left eye that looked like a rotten tomato. Some of the women were wailing hopelessly, tears running down their cheeks. One screeched again and again at the top of her voice that she was innocent. But to no avail. They were all captives, soon to be tried and burned.

A young woman suddenly darted towards the cart, reaching up towards one of the male prisoners and trying desperately to pass him an apple. Perhaps she was a relative of the prisoner – maybe a daughter.

To my horror, the Quisitor simply turned his horse and rode her down. One moment she was holding out the apple; the next she was on her side on the cobbles howling in pain. I saw the cruel expression on his face. He’d enjoyed hurting her. As the cart trundled past, followed by an escort of even more armed riders, the crowd’s cheers turned to howls of abuse and cries of ‘Burn them all!’

It was then that I saw the girl chained amongst the other prisoners. She was no older than me and her eyes were wide and frightened. Her black hair was streaked across her forehead with the rain, which was dribbling from her nose and the end of her chin like tears. I looked at the black dress she was wearing, then glanced down at her pointy shoes, hardly able to believe what I was seeing.

It was Alice. And she was a prisoner of the Quisitor.

The Funeral My head was whirling with what I’d witnessed. It was several months since I’d last seen Alice. Her aunt, Bony Lizzie, was a witch the Spook and I had dealt with, but Alice, unlike the rest of her family, wasn’t really bad. In fact she was probably the closest I’d ever come to having a friend, and it was thanks to her that a few months back I’d managed to destroy Mother Malkin – the most evil witch in the County.

No, Alice had just been brought up in bad company. I couldn’t let her be burned as a witch. Somehow I had to find a way to rescue her, but at that moment I didn’t have the slightest clue how it could be done. I decided that as soon as the funeral was over, I’d have to try and persuade the Spook to help.

And then there was the Quisitor. What terrible timing that our visit to Priestown should coincide with his arrival. The Spook and I were in grave danger. Surely now my master wouldn’t stay here after the funeral. A huge part of me hoped he’d want to leave right away and not face the Bane. But I couldn’t leave Alice behind to die.

When the cart had gone by, the crowd surged forward and began to follow the Quisitor’s procession. Jammed in shoulder to shoulder, I’d little choice but to move with them. The cart continued past the cathedral and halted outside a big three-storey house with mullioned windows. I assumed that it was the presbytery – the priests’ house – and that the prisoners were about to be tried there. They were taken down from the cart and dragged inside but I was too far away to see Alice properly. There was nothing I could do but I’d have to think of something quickly before the burning, which was bound to take place soon.

Sadly, I turned away and pushed through the crowd until I reached the cathedral and Father Gregory’s funeral. The building had big buttresses and tall, pointy stained-glass windows. Then, remembering what the Spook had told me, I glanced upwards at the large stone gargoyle above the main door.

This was a representation of the original form of the Bane, the shape it was slowly trying to return to as it grew stronger down there in the catacombs. The body, covered in scales, was crouching with tense, knotted muscles, long sharp talons gripping the stone lintel. It looked ready to leap down.

I’ve seen some terrifying things in my time but I’d never seen anything uglier than that huge head. It had an elongated chin that curved upwards almost as far as its long nose, and wicked eyes that seemed to follow me as I walked towards it. Its ears were strange too, and wouldn’t have been out of place on a big dog or even a wolf. Not something to face in the darkness of the catacombs!