Forged in the Fire by Ann Turnbull

married before he joined the Friends of Truth. The two of them spoke together in low voices, the woman tearful and accusing, John trying to calm her. And although I could see that they were at odds with each other, yet I envied them their intimacy and wished I could have been married by now, as I’d intended, with a wife who cared enough to be angry with me.
    When his wife had gone, John wrapped a blanket awkwardly around me to stave off the night chill, and asked me if there was anything else he could do to ease my pain. But there was nothing. The ache spread to my lower back and hips and I longed to fall to the floor and lie among the lice and cockroaches. John and Francis wrapped themselves in their blankets and lay down near me, but they were restless and I knew they slept little. When it grew late most of the candles were extinguished, but a few remained, casting shadows onto the faces of those who played dice, or drank, or talked the night away. One man, who seemed to be an idiot, sang and raved continually. Several fights broke out over sleeping places, and in the dead of night someone attacked Francis and tried to steal his blanket from under him; only the peaceful intervention of John, who had a strong, quiet presence, prevented it.
    It was then, when the noise of that scuffle had died down, that I first heard screams and howling from somewhere within the building. The sounds were scarcely human. They made me shiver with fear.
    Slowly a grey morning light showed in the barred openings near the ceiling. My mind was now exhausted, my eyes constantly closing and then jerking open again as the drop into sleep caused even more pain in my arms and shoulders. It became so unbearable that I groaned aloud and begged for someone to help me.
    At last came the sound of keys; the jailer entered, and unlocked my manacles. I fell to the floor and crouched there, curled like a child and rubbing my bruise-blackened wrists, while tears trickled from under my closed eyelids. The numbness cleared and my blood began to flow again, but I trembled for hours. My friends comforted me and we kneeled among the lice and bugs and prayed together.
    â€œHoly Joes!” we heard; then jeering laughter and, “You won’t find God down here!”
    â€œWe’re all going to the Devil – try praying to
him
!”
    I shut my eyes and ignored them.
    A commotion and sudden outburst of shouting startled me. At first I thought it was more mockery; then I heard a scream: “Plague! Plague!”
    My eyes flew open in terror. A man had collapsed. He was sweating and groaning. A clear circle grew around him as everyone drew back.
    â€œHe has the signs!” Someone pointed. “See! In his neck!”
    I saw a purplish swelling there.
    People began yelling for the jailers. Two turnkeys came in, looked at the prostrate man, then seized him by the arms and feet and began to carry him away.
    â€œHis blanket!” a prisoner shouted.
    No one wanted to touch the thing. It was kicked into a corner.
    The weasel-faced man told me, “They have a room they take them to – the ones that get the plague.”
    I remembered the screaming I had heard in the night, and now realized, with horror, its significance.
    â€œDoes anyone attend to them?” I asked.
    He shrugged. “No physician or apothecary would come in here.”
    I thought of those cries. I knew the sickness caused headaches so severe and prolonged that people would beat their heads against the walls. The buboes – black swellings in the neck, armpit and groin – caused still more pain. Death, when it came, must be a mercy.
    When Sadler appeared in the afternoon I tried to shrink back into the crowd; I feared I would be returned to the manacles. But instead we three and several other prisoners were taken out and marched to the courthouse next door, where the mayor was to hear our cases.
    I was first. The charges against me were that I had congregated