Wickedness by Deborah White Page A

the rope. Then, turning one last somersault, he made a deep bow, saying, “Merci mes amis,” and we all began to shout and clap and the spell was broken.
    But just as the rope-walker made to swing down, a man ran up crying, “The plague is upon us. Three are dead in Southwark.”

    I knew at once what would happen, for I had seen it all before. An Italian blamed for a fire in Leadenhall Street was beaten about the head with an iron bar until the blood made a great pool about his feet. A Dutch sailor accused of being a spy was lynched by the mob. Now a Frenchman, a rope-walker, was to be blamed and set upon for bringing the plague into London.
    I was right, for a great wave of people swept in on the rope-walker. He was pushed to the ground and kicked about the head and body mercilessly. He cried out. A woman screamed, “Dirty Frenchman. Kill him!” But just as the tide always turns, the crowd grew tired of their sport. For the rope-walker would not fight back and lay, curled up like a hedge-pig.
    One by one the people slipped away, the street fell empty and silent and I slowly came out from the shadows where I had been hiding. I crept up to look at the rope-walker’s body, lying where it had been kicked into the gutter and as I got closer, I drew in my breath sharp. Not at the sight of the blood, of which there was much, but at the rope-walker’s age. For he looked just a little older than me and I knew him. He was the rope-walker I had watched at the Frost Fair and outside the Head and Combe.
    I reached out my hand and touched his shoulder gently. Then I brushed his hair, fine as red silk, out of his eyes which were swollen and closed tight shut. He made no move, but his lips parted and I heard a long drawing in of breath, like the wind off the river, stirring the willow leaves.
    I knelt down beside him in the dirt, hoping the Doctor was right and the ring would keep me safe from the plague. I felt for it, turning it round and round on its braid, thinking of Sekhmet and praying also to God to keep me safe from harm. Then I took the corner of my apron, spat on it and began to wipe his face clean. I tried to be as gentle as I could. But he cried out and his hands came up to shield his face, causing me to sit back on my heels, transfixed. For on the third finger of his right hand he wore a ring. A gold ring, fashioned the same as mine and with the same blue stone and hieroglyphics. How had he come by it? How was it that he wore it openly on his finger and lived, when the Doctor had told me that to wear it so would prove fatal. Who was he?

    But I had no time now to think on it, for life was returning to the street and the bells of nearby St Giles had started to ring. Ten o’clock! I knew that I must hurry home, but I did not know what to do with the rope-walker . Perhaps I should have given him a few of my pennies and left him there. The streets always swarmed with vagabonds, gypsies and beggars. Men, women and children often died, uncared for in the gutter. One more would make no difference. If I had been more my mother’s child, I would have left him and kept my money. But I knew my father would want me to help him so I decided to take the rope-walker back home with me.
    At first he would not come. Eyes still shut, he pushed my hand away, saying, “Non. Laissez-moi.”
    And though his lip was cut and English not his native tongue, I understood his words clearly.
    A crowd of people had started to gather again. I could hear muttering. “The French dog still lies in the gutter,” said one.
    “Call the raker and have him taken away,” said another.
    Then a loud, red-faced woman stepped up and said, “Let us cut off his head and ask the hangman to boil it with herbs so that we might eat it.” And all about her roared with laughter.
    “You must come,” I whispered urgently, tugging at his hand. “Or you will be killed and I would be sorry for it.” I reached for the ring on its braid. I had taken to using it as a