Chris Nickson - Constant Lovers

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 Headingley 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.

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.