The iron bit into Thomas's wrists before the sun had cleared the Yorkshire moors.
He did not resist when the constables seized him. He did not protest when the village elder, a man whose own children had died of the fever, pointed a shaking finger and called him poisoner. He stood in the muddy square of Whitby with his hands bound and watched the chains being brought out on a cart wheel. The blacksmith's son fitted the first shackle with surprising gentleness. Thomas felt...
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