Even in the soft illuminations offered by the gentleman’s lantern, Harriet could see the look of utter disgust and humiliation in his eyes, as he ran a gloved hand down his coat, casting the flung effluence to the floor.
Another woman heaved forward and threw the contents of her pail onto one of the constables, repeating the mantra, ‘We don’t recognise your authority!’
More and more women hurried towards the constables, who were now beginning to back their horses away, and hurled their buckets over them, shouting as they did so.
Sensing a flash of uncertainty and fear in the eyes of the constables, the women pushed forward with greater force and confidence, banging their empty pails, heckling and taunting the men.
Gaps began to appear in Harriet’s protective circle, as the men thronged together with the women, filling a growing chasm that had opened up between the gentleman and his constables.
‘How dare you!’ the gentleman from the corporation yelled. ‘Constables, make your arrests!’ He turned to see his men peeling away from the crowd, one by one galloping off over the Priory Bridge. ‘Come back, cowards!’
The men and women of the Priory Ground swelled onwards over the bridge, continuing to gibe at the fleeing constables.
Lost under the women’s din and clamour and the echo of retreating horses’ hooves on the stone bridge behind him, the gentleman’s horse let out a loud snort and held his head high as his body tensed. Only his rider knew what was about to happen next and he was entirely powerless to stop it. With a loud squeal and a desire to rejoin his herd, the horse reared up onto its hind legs, violently tossing the gentleman down onto the ground below. His black clerical hat tumbled away, as his head struck a piece of sandstone and his lantern smashed beside him, the light immediately extinguished.
Harriet watched, slightly stunned as the gentleman’s horse bolted, disappearing into the gloom of the Priory Ground. Judging by the jubilant crowds cheering on the other side of the bridge, only she seemed to be aware that the dark shape lying motionless on the ground in front of her was the man from the corporation, deserted by his horse and his men, humiliated and stinking of sewerage.
Cautiously, she stepped forward towards him and crouched down at his side.
He appeared to be entirely dead.
She placed a hand lightly on his chest and was relieved to feel it rising and falling softly; despite all that had occurred, she was strangely thankful that he had held onto his life.
Harriet glanced up and went to call out to her mother or father, who were lost somewhere among the triumphant crowd. I’ll fetch them in a moment, she thought, finding a surprising pleasure in her closeness to the gentleman. Her hand moved up his chest and she gently cupped the side of his cheek. It was warm and startlingly smooth—a stark contrast to her father’s scratchy whiskers. As she began to caress his face from temple to chin, she touched on something unexpected. Straining her eyes to see, she discovered a ribbon of hot sticky blood running from scalp to chin. Her forefinger traced the trickle to a gash on the back of his head. She quickly removed her shawl and pressed it tightly to his wound.
‘Hattie! Hattie! Where do you be?’ her mother called from the distance.
Harriet looked up and saw the group of marauding silhouettes heading back across the bridge towards the Priory Ground. She lifted her hand and hastily slapped the gentleman’s face. He instantly awoke with a gasp, as if thrown from a nightmare.
‘Constables…’ he began to croak feebly, but Harriet stifled his words with her hand.
There was something about him that drew her in, that wanted him to survive. ‘You be listening here, Mister. If you want to be living past this night, then you need to be a-leaving right now—without thems seeing you,’ she whispered, nodding her head in the direction of the nearing crowd.
‘Hattie?’ her father called.
‘If me Pa be a-catching you, you be a dead man,’ Harriet said, sincerely. ‘I can be helping you escape if you be wanting to.’
The gentleman nodded.
‘Come with me,’ Harriet said, picking up his hat then tucking her hand under his elbow, encouraging him up.
The man flinched, holding Harriet’s shawl to the back of his head as he stumbled to his feet. ‘Where are we going?’ he whispered.
‘You have to be a-hiding in Mister Breeds’s rope yard until every pair of eyes on the Priory Ground be shut tight for the night,’ Harriet replied, leading him down the hill as quickly as she could.
After a short distance, he stopped and faced her. ‘How do I know I can trust you? This rope yard might be a lion’s den for all I know—a cage for you to trap me.’
Harriet shrugged. ‘That be up to you what you believe and what you don’t.’ She continued to walk down the hill.
The gentleman exhaled, said nothing and caught up with her. They continued walking in silence until they reached a pair of tall wooden gates set into a long brick wall.
‘This is the Breeds’s yard,’ Harriet said. She turned the iron latch and the right-hand gate swung open with a low groan. ‘Find some place to be hiding under them there sacks and don’t be a-coming out until you hear not a thing at all.’
The man paused for a moment then reached out for her hand. ‘Thank you.’
Harriet smiled, a tingling sensation filtering from the hand held within his, warming her whole body. ‘What be your name, sir?’
‘Richard.’
‘Farewell, Richard,’ she said, closing the gate and
