We’ll be sitting over here.’
‘And don’t get into any trouble,’ Lizzie warned.
‘I won’t, mam,’ he said, and he ran off to climb the old staircases and delve into the cellars.
‘Mam,’ the deputy said with a grin.
‘The best word in the world.’
They sat on the remains of a low wall, watching the river swirl lazily by. After a while Lizzie stretched then lay down on the grass.
‘I’m just going to doze for a little while,’ she said. ‘Do you mind?’
‘Of course not.’
He took off his coat, folding it to give her a pillow. As he knelt she reached out and took his hand. In a soft, contented voice she said, ‘Why are you so nice to me, John Sedgwick?’
‘Because I love you, you daft thing,’ he told her. ‘Why do you think?’
As she drifted away, her face caught in the sunlight, he sat, watching over her, giving out a low whistle every few minutes to summon James. The lad was relishing the freedom to run and play unchallenged, his face and hands already mucky, his smile a mile wide. It looked as if he’d found some older boys to follow, and he was determined to show he wasn’t any kind of baby, fearlessly jumping off arches taller than himself and clambering along treacherous pieces of masonry.
Sedgwick saw himself at that age, full of the same indestructible spirit. He’d broken a few bones and knocked out one or two teeth, but it had never stopped him. It was better than caution; there was far too much of that around. Boys needed a bit of adventure. Soon enough they’d be grown and the world would close in around them.
But not for him. Sometimes he thought he had the best of everything. There was his family, and the job gave him enough rough and tumble, too much of it at times. He’d been beaten, he had scars, but it hadn’t put him off. The money kept them fed and paid for their room. Lizzie was right, though; with another bairn on the way they needed something a little larger. He’d talk to the boss on Monday. He was a good man, he’d understand.
They stayed out at the abbey until the shadows were lengthening. After the other boys had wandered off, Sedgwick and Lizzie entertained James, running hither and yon with him until he was exhausted.
They followed the road back to the city, stopping at an alehouse close to the Kirkstall Forge, an old, small cottage made over with benches and old, dry rushes on the earth floor. The ale was good, quenching the thirst that he’d built up during the long afternoon.
‘You look like you enjoyed that,’ Lizzie said wryly as he drained the mug in one long swallow. ‘The way that went down anyone would think you’d got no clack.’
‘I needed it,’ he told her, and started to signal for another.
‘We’d better get home,’ she told him, tilting her head towards James, his eyelids sagging. ‘He’s dead on his feet, poor lad. We’ve worn him out.’
‘I’ll carry him, don’t worry.’
The boy stayed nestled in his arms, soft sleeping breath on his neck as they neared Leeds, the air ripening with the smells of the city.
‘I might be called out tonight,’ the deputy told her.
‘It’s Saturday, you usually are.’
‘This is something different,’ he explained. ‘There’s someone thinks he can put Amos Worthy out of business.’
She sneered in disbelief. ‘What’s his name, Death?’
‘Just someone new who runs a few girls and has big ideas.’
‘Same as the rest, then. You think he’ll succeed?’ Lizzie asked.
Sedgwick shook his head. ‘Not a chance. He doesn’t have a clue what he’s going up against. I can’t stand that bastard Worthy, but at least he can use his brain.’
‘So why hasn’t Mr Nottingham put you in charge if there’s going to be trouble?’
‘He’s letting the new man handle it.’
‘Do you think he’s up to it?’
‘Only one way to find out. He’ll come if he needs me. He’s been good so far, though, I’ll give him that. I wasn’t sure about him, but I’m starting to think he’ll work out very well.’
Rob Lister had been waiting at the jail for half an hour before the night men arrived, loud and rowdy. He’d tried to rest during the afternoon but had spent the time shifting around in his bed, a mix of excitement and nerves coursing through him and chasing sleep away.
He’d dressed in his oldest suit, threadbare at the elbows, the knees worn, the seams resewn several times, and an old shirt that should probably have been torn for rags. At least if there was a fight, nothing good would end up ruined. Compared to the night men, though, he was wearing royal robes. Some had clothes held together with little more than faith, and the best of them wore ripped shirts and patched breeches.
They knew the routine, and he was happy to simply follow them. They split into three pairs, patrolling the streets and glancing in on the alehouses and inns. The noise in each place dropped whenever they walked in, rose again as the door closed behind them.
For two hours he moved between the groups. When working none of them spoke much, and a couple cast him resentful looks, this youthful outsider the Constable had put over them. He was very aware that he’d yet to prove himself. The brief scuffle the other day had been nothing, he’d barely landed a blow before it was over.
The cudgel was in his pocket, close to hand if he needed it, but so far there’d been no sign of trouble. That would arrive later, when people had drunk down the week to forget about how little they had. Saturday night was their opportunity to find oblivion on gin or ale, the chance to laugh and love, to argue and fight.
The whores worked their corners on the street, flirting with old paper fans, exchanging banter with the men as they passed. One of the girls whispered in his ear, offering herself for a penny, but he smiled with a blush and turned away. The others laughed at his embarrassment, the girl loudest of them all.
‘Never mind, love,’ she told him in a warm voice, husky from cheap drams, ‘you can come back when those two aren’t around.’
The men were friendlier after that; he’d become one of them. By eleven they were breaking up brawls as grudges that had been held for days began to boil over. Everything was dealt with quickly and efficiently, the offenders dragged off to the jail to sleep it off.
With midnight the worst of it was over. A few drunks still staggered around, some had passed out on the street, curled in nooks or around corners like babies.
‘Quiet night,’ one of the men told Rob as they walked down Briggate. ‘Often gets bad on a Saturday.’
‘When do we work until?’ he asked.
‘While four.’ The man coughed, hawked and spat on the street. ‘Often it’s Mr Sedgwick out with us, but happen he deserves a night off with that girl of his. You have a lass, do you?’
‘No.’
‘Should have gone with Essie, then,’ the man winked. ‘She’d have seen you right. Lower rates for a Constable’s man, too.’
‘I’ll remember that when I get paid,’ Rob answered with a smile. ‘She wasn’t bad looking.’
‘Clean, too. That’s the important part,’ the man advised sagely. ‘Allus remember that.’
One o’clock came, then two, rung out by the bells of the Parish Church. Everything was quiet; the people were in their beds. Once they ran after a shadow that scurried down the street, but lost him in the tangle of courts off Briggate. They’d resumed their walking when one of the men stopped.
‘Wait,’ he said, listening intently. ‘I can hear summat, sounds like it’s down by the bridge.’
Lister and the two men set off at a run. He slipped the thong of the cudgel over his wrist. As they pounded down Briggate he began to make out voices yelling, and felt the fear rise in his belly.
There were about ten of them in a melee. The night men forced their way into the throng, cudgels flying. Lister hesitated only a second before joining them, his blood rushing.
He saw Hughes, a knife in his hand, going after another man. Rob tried to fight his way through to them, pushing hard, bringing the wood heavily down on arms and heads.
A fist caught him in the face and rocked him. He shook his head to clear it, tasting blood in his mouth. Hughes was still there, his eyes wild, the blade of his knife red. Rob lowered his shoulder and charged through the
