‘What’s the signal?’ someone asked, and Nottingham gave a shrill, two-note whistle.
‘Any questions?’
‘Do we get extra pay for this?’ another man yelled from the back, accompanied by laughter that grew louder when the Constable answered.
‘We’ll pay for your funeral if they kill you. How about that?’
They marched down Briggate and turned on to the Calls, a loose, ragtag group of men, looking dangerous enough for folk to keep out of their way. A couple of the men laughed and joked, but Nottingham remained quiet and alert. He was certain that Hughes would have someone looking out for them, giving him warning.
Why had they broken the man out of jail? It was a reckless, pointless thing to do. They’d invited this. The Constable rarely picked a fight, only when there was no other way, but when he did, it was always to win.
Sedgwick took five of the men and vanished into one of the courts. He’d need a few minutes to find the house and set everyone in position. Nottingham looked around his men, all of them silent and tense now. Lister rubbed nervously at his chin with the back of his hand.
Nottingham felt the dampness of sweat under his arms and down his spine. The knife was in one hand, the pistol in the other. Finally he raised a hand and nodded. The men gathered around the front of the house, clustered behind him. He gave the whistle and his boot crashed hard against the door. The wood splintered but the lock just held.
The Constable quickly brought his foot quickly down a second time, then a third, and the door finally gave, flying back against the wall in the hallway.
‘In there,’ he yelled, gesturing at the parlour. ‘Rob, with me.’ He started to climb the stairs, glancing upwards. Hughes would be there, he thought, where he’d be safer.
The man guarding the door at the top had no chance. Nottingham pulled the trigger, the sound of the gun deafening with the walls so close, the smoke dense and choking. The body fell with a short cry.
Nottingham kicked the door open, held back for a moment, then dashed in. There was one room, with a pallet in the corner. Hughes and two of his men stood together in the middle of the room, all of them with swords drawn.
He heard Rob behind him, the sliding metallic scrape as he drew his weapon.
‘Think you can take me?’ Hughes asked. The Constable said nothing, his gaze flickering between three sets of eyes, trying to anticipate how they might move. ‘Think you’re better than me?’
Lister circled to his left, alert, watching. The man closest to him made a feint and he drew back slightly. The other guard slashed at Nottingham. The Constable moved aside, slicing his blade down swiftly on the back of the man’s hand, cutting deep across the skin. He dropped the sword with a scream. Nottingham moved in quickly, his boot connecting with the man’s balls, already looking at Hughes as the bodyguard fell.
Lister and the other man were exchanging blows, the sound ringing through the room. The lad seemed to be holding his own, from what the Constable could judge. In front of him, Hughes held his blade in both hands like an amateur. His eyes were manic, a wide rictus grin on his face.
Somewhere in his head Nottingham heard footsteps running up the stairs. Then there was the violent thump of a pistol and Hughes crumpled to the floor, his gaze blank now, red spreading across his colourful waistcoat. The deputy loomed in the doorway, smiling.
‘Give it up,’ Nottingham ordered the last man, his voice hoarse, holding his breath until he dropped his sword and raised his arms, a cut above his wrist dripping blood. ‘Take him downstairs,’ he said. He’d done almost nothing, but he was panting hard, his throat dry, the fury surging through him. ‘Did we lose anyone?’ he asked.
Sedgwick shook his head. ‘A couple of them cut, nothing serious. Three of theirs dead, two more to go off and hang. Not even a good fight in them.’ He spat.
The Constable nodded. It was better than he’d hoped. He realized he was still holding the pistol and knife and put them away. He left, easing his way around the body on the stairs.
How long had it taken? Two minutes? Three? No longer than that, he was certain. The men had gathered outside, forming a tight ring around their prisoners. The two in the middle lowered their heads, knowing they’d be doing the hangman’s dance up on Chapeltown Moor soon enough.
‘Good job, lads,’ he told them. ‘There’s a mug of ale for each of you at the Ship.’ He waited until the last of the defeated had been brought down and thrown in with his companions. ‘Take them to the jail,’ he ordered.
Lister was standing, still looking dazed, the dull sword hanging by his side, his fist clenched so tight on the hilt that the colour had left his knuckles.
‘You can put it away now, lad,’ Sedgwick said with a grin, tousling his hair. Blushing, suddenly aware, Rob sheathed the weapon.
‘You did a good job there, you even wounded him,’ Nottingham praised him. ‘Was that the one who held you earlier?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’d say the fencing master was worth his money, then. I’ve seen that one before. He’s a nasty piece of work.’
‘Honestly, boss?’
Nottingham nodded, and it was no less than the truth. The man had been around the city for a year or more, working for whoever offered enough. He was one of the hard men, good with his fists, good with a blade, fearless if the price was right. Leeds would be better with him on the gallows.
He glanced up at the sky, scarcely believing it was still only afternoon. Between this and the encounter in Roundhay the day seemed to have lasted a lifetime.
‘What about Worthy?’ the deputy asked, and Nottingham sighed wearily.
‘Tomorrow, John,’ he said. ‘He’ll keep until then. Let him feel that the competition’s gone before I bring him crashing down. All I want now is a drink and to go home.’
He led them to the White Swan and settled a pitcher of the landlord’s best brew on the table with three mugs.
‘To Rob,’ he said, offering a toast. ‘You’re a real Constable’s man now. You’ve drawn first blood.’
They drank deep, throats parched from the brief fight. Lister was smiling as broadly as a lunatic and Nottingham understood exactly how he felt. He remembered the first time the old Constable had taken him out and bought him a drink. It was as if he’d grown up, blossomed into a man after so long as a child.
Part of him could happily have stayed here drinking until the late evening, enjoying the company and the banter. But the tiredness was catching him up. He felt it deep in his bones as the thrill and shock of the violence drained out of his body.
He stood up, arching his back to stretch it, and wished them good night. Let the young stay carousing, he’d done it often enough himself when he was their age. Outside the air was still. As he walked past the Parish Church the shadows loomed longer in the shank of the evening. A few birds still sang and the smell of flowers from the woods by the beck was strong.
He stopped and inhaled deeply, hearing the languid burble of the water and feeling the quiet settle around him. He rested a few minutes, drinking in the air as he’d drunk in the ale and letting it fill his soul. Then, smiling, he strolled on home.
Emily was waiting, sitting upright and alert, her face eager, unable to hide the joy in her eyes.
‘It must have gone well,’ he said to her. Had it really just been that morning that he’d seen her off for her first day of teaching?
‘Oh, papa,’ she replied contentedly, ‘it was perfect. This is what I should always have been doing.’
He hugged her close before holding her at arm’s length. ‘I’m glad.’
Mary was in the kitchen and he went through. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pushing his face against her hair.
‘She sounds happy.’
‘She is. I think she must have relived every minute a hundred times since she came back.’
‘Let’s hope it stays this way.’
She turned and nuzzled against him. ‘I think it might. That business in Head
ingley affected her more than she’s said, you know, especially coming after Rose’s death. She needs something like this, something safe.’
He closed his eyes, relishing the familiar scent of his wife, feeling as if he could stay this way forever until she tapped him playfully on the arm.
‘You’re falling asleep on your feet, Richard. Go to bed.’
She was right, and he knew it; she was always right. He was as drained as an empty barrel, hollow and useless. Rest was the best thing for him now. He kissed Mary tenderly, hugged Emily and started up the stairs.
‘Papa?’ his daughter asked quietly.
‘What is it, love?’
‘That young man at the jail this morning? Who was he?’
Nottingham had to force himself to think back. It seemed too far in the past.
‘You mean the one with the bandage on his head?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s just started working for me.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘He was cracked on the head when he tried to break up a fight,’ he explained, then added darkly, ‘but he had his revenge for it this afternoon.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Rob Lister.’
She nodded and he was laughing silently to himself as he entered the bedroom. So she had eyes for Rob, did she? Well, he thought, if she did the poor lad wouldn’t stand a chance. And she could do a lot worse. He stripped, folding his clothes, and finally settled himself, the sheet thrown loosely over his body.
But for all his exhaustion, he couldn’t fall asleep. His mind was like a spring pushed too tight, unable to wind down, and he knew he’d have to suffer it, forced to let the thoughts run and run through his head until they were finally ready to fade away.
Mary came to bed, and he heard her breathing change as she quickly fell asleep. Finally, perhaps an hour later, he started to doze.
Twenty-Three
He woke as usual before first light. A thin band of pale blue just touched the eastern horizon, and there was a hint of dawn through the open window. He splashed water on his face to rouse himself, dressed and let himself out as quietly as possible.
In front of him the city was still asleep. It would stir soon enough, with the bustle of kitchens and laundry, the carters on their early deliveries, then the weavers arriving for the Tuesday market.
At the jail he checked the cells. Hughes’s men had been moved to the Moot Hall prison to await their trials and death sentences. Everything was quiet as he sat and began to write his report for the mayor. He recounted the swift attack on the jail and his reprisal, trimming carefully to make each statement as bald and matter of fact as possible.
He accounted for the deaths and wounds, taking time to praise his own men, Sedgwick and Lister in particular. That was only fair; they’d been fearless.
By the time he’d finished, the sun was well up. He sealed the paper, then walked down Briggate, stopping at the Old King’s Arms for the Brig-End shot breakfast they served on market days. The beef was dry, but it made no never mind, he was hungry. The pottage was fresh for once, and the ale tasty, ample to renew him for the day. It was always tuppence well spent, the same price it had been as far back as he could recall.
The trestles were set up, just one row on each side today; most of the weavers already stood behind them, displaying the lengths of cloth they’d brought in to sell. In the middle of the street the merchants chatted quietly, waiting for the chimes of the Parish Church to call seven so trading could begin.
The Constable exchanged brief greetings and nuggets of gossip until the first peal of the bell took the men’s attention, then he strode off down the middle of the road, leaving them to make their deals in the whispers that had always been part of the cloth business.
He turned on to Swinegate, sliding between the men and women barking wares from their shop fronts, around maids exchanging their tittle-tattle in moments of freedom from the houses, and avoided the piles and puddles emptied earlier from upstairs windows.
He walked through the door where the paint had peeled and the wood faded, footsteps firm on the flagstones in the hallway. The parlour door was closed tight, a key in the lock, but the entry to the kitchen was open as ever, no towering guard in front of it this time.
Worthy was standing by the table, a full mug of ale in front of him. He faced the window, luxuriating like a cat in the patch of sun. Without turning, he said, ‘You must think this is your home away from home, laddie.’
‘Why’s that, Amos?’ Nottingham leant against the table and poured himself a drink from the jug.
‘You seem to come in here anytime you please without a by your leave. You’d ask any honest man for permission to enter.’
The Constable drank slowly. ‘If you were an honest man I’d treat you honestly, Amos.’
The pimp turned to face him. He’d seemed thinner since the winter, but now, with dust motes in the air and the bright morning light harsh on his face, Nottingham felt he could have been seeing a different person. Worthy’s skin had taken on the hard, polished texture of vellum, and his ancient clothes no longer bulged against his flesh. He looked old.
‘I heard what happened yesterday.’
‘All of it?’
‘Aye,’ Worthy nodded. ‘That Hughes is no loss. If that boy of yours hadn’t stopped me I’d have saved the trouble.’
‘And then you’d have been the one in jail.’
‘Not me, laddie,’ he answered with an enigmatic grin.
‘You’ve been there before.’
‘Only for an hour or two. And I won’t be there again.’
‘Don’t tempt fate.’
Worthy stared hard at the Constable. ‘Nowt like that,’ he said firmly. ‘Look at me. Go on, take a long look.’
Nottingham did as he was bid, fixing the picture in his mind.
‘Now, tell me what you see.’
‘Someone who’s starting to show his years.’
The pimp chuckled softly. ‘At least your mam brought you up to be polite. But save it for the Corporation. You don’t beat around the bush with me.’ He waited. ‘Well? What do you see?’
‘You look old, Amos,’ Nottingham told him.
‘I’m dying, laddie.’ It was a simple statement and the Constable didn’t know how to respond. He watched the other man’s eyes and saw it was the truth; the time for dissembling and deception had passed.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said finally, and meant it.
‘Don’t be. You’re not immortal yourself. It catches us all in the end.’ His voice was matter-of-fact, as if he was talking about someone else. ‘It’s cancer, that’s what they say. Been growing inside me for a while now, and there’s bugger all anyone can do about it.’
‘Who knows?’
‘Just the doctor in York who told me. And you.’ He raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘You didn’t think I’d be stupid enough to tell anyone in Leeds, did you?’
‘You’ve told me.’
Worthy shrugged. ‘That’s different. I know you, you’ll keep it to yourself. You won’t even tell that tall drink of water who works for you.’ He grinned, and for a passing moment the ghost of a younger man sparked in his face. ‘And telling you keeps you off my back.’
‘You think I won’t arrest you?’ Nottingham asked.
‘I know you won’t, laddie. What’s the worst you can charge me with? Fighting in the street?’ He turned his head and spat on the floor. ‘Not worth your time, not for the ten minutes I’d be there.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ the Constable conceded.
‘If you really believed you could have had me for something, you’d have had me in a cell. We both know it.’
‘I would,’ Nottingham agreed. ‘Did the doctor say how long you’d live?’
‘Why, want to be rid of me? Aye, I suppose you do, really.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know, laddie, I’ll go when I go.’ He lifted an arm to show a wrist, the skin loose on the bone. ‘Probably not lon
g, by the look of it.’
‘Do you have much pain?’
‘Sometimes,’ he admitted. ‘That doctor sold me summat, but I can’t be doing with it, all it does is make me fall asleep. That’s just what I want, isn’t it, to sleep my way into death.’
‘So what do you do?’
‘Bear it, of course,’ he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. ‘What else are you going to do? A few drinks help. So does a girl here and there, or breaking a few heads.’ He paused. ‘Anyway, my problems will be over soon enough. Yours are going to start after I’ve gone.’
That was true, Nottingham realized. Worthy had controlled most of the prostitution and much of the other crime in Leeds for years. He was a known quantity, smart in his own twisted way, with the Corporation neatly folded and tucked into his pocket.
With his death there’d be a space, and a hundred men all eager to battle each other to assume his crown. All the skirmish with Hughes had done was give them a very small taste of the future.
‘You see it now?’
‘I do.’
‘You’re going to be a busy man, Constable.’
Nottingham nodded sadly.
‘Happen you’ll end up thinking I was the lesser of two evils.’ He started to laugh, which turned into a wet cough, stopping only when he drew in a deep breath and spat again. ‘Better,’ he said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve then taking a deep drink.
‘How long have you known, Amos?’
‘Since the start of spring. And for God’s sake, get rid of that long face. I’m only telling you because you need to know. I don’t want sympathy. If you start acting like a lass I’ll knock you into next week.’
‘I should be happy. God knows I’ve wished you dead often enough.’
‘So now your prayers have been answered.’
‘Are you ready for it?’
‘What, shriven and penitent, you mean?’ He snorted in annoyance. ‘What sort of bloody stupid question is that, laddie? You die, it’s all over. It happens when it happens.’
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