Within ten minutes more than half the boards were empty, the material moved away to be carried to warehouses later. Then the clothiers would lead their packhorses back out to the villages across the West Riding, coins jangling in their pockets, ready to start weaving all over again.
He stopped on the bridge, arms resting on the wide stone parapet. The river was sluggish, as lazy as the weather, bubbles showing where fish rose to snap at flies. He listened to its soft burblings for a few minutes, watching the water as it meandered.
Finally he pushed himself away and back into the tumult of Leeds. There was still plenty of work to be done. He strode back up Briggate, the noise from the inns loud and merry now most of the business had finished.
The merchants were smiling, money spent carefully and much more to be made later. Nottingham had barely turned the corner on to Kirkgate when a shout and running footsteps made him turn.
The man was panting, ancient boots dusty and a sheen of sweat on his face. ‘Are you the Constable?’ he asked breathlessly.
‘I am.’
‘You’d better come quick, then. There’s a dead lass.’
Two
‘Where?’ Nottingham asked urgently. The man was bent over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.
‘Out at Kirkstall Abbey,’ he answered, pushing the words out.
‘That’s not Leeds,’ the Constable told him.
‘Aye, master,’ the man protested, wiping his face dry with large hands, hair plastered against his scalp, ‘but they don’t know what to do. So they told me to fetch you.’
Nottingham considered. Leeds was the largest town in the area. Sometimes they sent for him from the neighbouring villages if a crime was too great for them.
‘Come down to the jail,’ he said finally.
He sat the man down, poured him a mug of small beer and watched as he gulped it down quickly, followed by another.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Luke, sir. Luke Edgehill.’
‘You ran all the way in?’
‘Aye.’ He grinned with pride. ‘That’s why they wanted me; I can run.’
He was a young man, maybe eighteen, long, dirty blond hair damp and stringy, skin coloured by the sun and the wind. Tall and wiry, with guileless blue eyes, he looked directly at the Constable.
‘What else do you know about all this, Luke?’
‘Not much, sir.’ He scratched at his scalp. ‘One of the farmers found her by the old abbey this morning when he went to look after his sheep. She’d been stabbed, they told me.’
That certainly sounded like murder, Nottingham thought with a sigh; no wonder they wanted him there. But the abbey was a good three miles away; walking there and back would take too long.
‘I’ll ride out there,’ he offered.
‘Thank you, sir.’ Edgehill stood. ‘I’ll go back and tell them you’re coming.’
Through the window Nottingham watched him lope easily up Kirkgate then disappear into the crowds.
At the ostler’s he selected his usual horse, a placid animal that he’d come to trust over the years. He never felt comfortable so far off the ground, but at least this beast didn’t leave him fearful. Slowly he headed out along the road from Leeds, past the end of Boar Lane, where the houses gave way to fields and cottages that hugged the river.
Sheep grazed on the higher ground, and further down the crops were growing fast, ripening into rich colours. The heady scent of flowers, lavender and honeysuckle and others he couldn’t name, clung in the air as he passed, clear and pure after the reek of the city.
By the time he reached the abbey sweat had soaked his shirt, making it stick against his skin. The old buildings, now just suggestions of what they’d once been, lay on a broad strip of ground between road and river. Only the church still had a sense of majesty, the nave a triumph of arches, the crumbling tower clawing towards heaven.
The abbey had once been important and wealthy; it had owned most of the lands around Leeds and beyond until King Henry took everything. That was what Ralph Thoresby had told him long ago, and Thoresby had known all about the history of Leeds. To Nottingham it was nothing more than an attractive ruin. He’d walked out here a few times on Sundays with Mary back in the distant days when they were courting.
In the bright light it looked like a painting sprung gently to life. Trees gave shade, the river flowed gently a few yards away. But close by one of the ruins, now little more than a few heaps of weathered, shapeless stone, a small group of men had gathered. He dismounted, feeling the tight ache in his thighs, and walked the horse over, pulling off the tricorn hat to wipe at his forehead.
‘I’m Richard Nottingham, the Constable from Leeds,’ he announced. ‘One of you sent for me?’
‘That were me.’ A thickset man moved forward, his bearded face set in a dark frown. He was in an old shirt and breeches, sleeves rolled up over weatherbeaten, hairy forearms. ‘Didn’t know who to get.’ He gestured at a grand house partway up the hill. ‘Master’s gone for a week, so I sent the lad who works here to fetch you.’
‘He said you’d found a girl dead.’
‘Aye. She’s back there, other side of the refectory.’ There was a restlessness about the man, shifting uneasily from foot to foot as he talked, his gaze moving around. Shock, the Constable guessed, and fear. Seeing a body often left folk that way.
‘Why don’t you show me where she is?’ he suggested.
The man walked away without a word. A black and white dog that had been lying in the shadow of a tree rose and followed him.
‘What’s your name?’ Nottingham asked him as he tried to keep up. It was simple, human talk, trying to put the man at his ease.
‘Tobias Johnson.’ The man offered a broad hand for the Constable to shake. ‘I look after the land for the master. We graze the sheep out here.’
‘When did you find the girl?’
Johnson stopped to calculate.
‘Mebbe two hours ago. Bit longer, perhaps. I’d been working a few fields away and came back through here. The dog smelt summat, started whining.’ He reached down and patted the animal. ‘He dun’t do that usually, so I thought I’d better look. She were just over here.’
They rounded a corner, the fragment of wall that stood thick and taller than a man. The girl lay on the ground, curled close to the stone, almost touching it. Against the lush, even colour of the grass her skin seemed eerily pale, the deep blue of her dress glistening. A knife handle protruded from her back, blade buried all the way to the hilt.
Nottingham squatted by the body, turning her slightly to look for any other wounds. She’d been a pretty girl, with long, pale hair. The dress was made of high quality material with a pattern woven in; there was nothing cheap about the fabric or the stitching. He glanced at the weapon: polished rosewood, the fittings shining brass. It was all money.
A few hours ago, a day, maybe a little more, whoever she was, this girl had still been alive. Slowly, tenderly, he laid her back down and rose to his feet, knees cracking.
‘When were you last by here?’ he asked Johnson.
The farmer looked off into the distance, picturing his movements.
‘Late yesterday afternoon,’ he answered finally. ‘I’d been down to Kirkstall Forge with a couple of scythes for mending. I came back up the bank. I’d have seen her if she’d been here then.’
Nottingham thought. It was a long stretch of time, but this was open land, not like the city where people were always around.
