Cold Cruel Winter (22 page)

By the time he reached Timble Bridge the fear was pushing him faster, trying to outrun the darkness at the back of his mind. Home was close enough to see now, and he breathed deeply to try to quell the panic.

Along Marsh Lane trees lined the road, winter-bare and stark. Nottingham started to run harder. The slush was thick, the layer of ice slick underneath. His left foot slipped and he began to fall, hands flailing at the air as his body arced forward.

He was still in the air as something struck his shoulder, the pain sharp enough for him to cry out even before his body hit the ground. Without thinking, he rolled to the side, sliding unsteadily on to his feet, trying to keep his balance.

The man was facing him, legs apart, a heavy, shiny cudgel swinging in his hand.

So this was Wyatt. Under an old tricorn hat, he wore a rich brown, full-bottomed periwig – probably taken from Graves, the Constable thought. A scarf covered the lower part of his face, leaving only his eyes showing, calculating and pale in skin the colour of old wood. Nottingham could see the edge of a branding, T for thief, on the man's cheek. His hands were large, their backs covered with dozens of tiny scars.

The Constable had knives in his pockets. He just needed to reach them. Reach one, anyway. His left arm was useless, numb from the blow. He began to edge backwards, feet testing the ground at each step. Wyatt said nothing, standing still, his intent gaze never leaving Nottingham's face. He was smaller than the Constable, but a full decade younger, hardened and muscled by years of labour.

Nottingham tried to move his left arm. Harsh pain sprang through him, so sharp he had to compress his lips to stop crying out. Wyatt had been clever; he'd played on his fear, played on his love for his family. Worry had made him stupid. He hadn't even taken any precautions for his own protection. He'd thought about death so much in the last few weeks and now he was looking directly at it.

For once, though, the long, cruel winter had been on his side. If he hadn't slipped the cudgel would have cracked his head, and Wyatt would have taken him silently. Now he had a chance. Home was just a hundred yards away, down an empty road, with no one in sight.

If he tried to turn and run, Wyatt would be on him. He could shout, but who would hear with doors and windows shut tight?

Nottingham took another step backwards, his boot heel coming down softly, shifting the weight to his left leg. A droplet of sweat ran down his spine. He hardly dared to breathe, his eyes fixed on Wyatt.

Beyond the two of them, the world ceased to exist. Wyatt kept swinging the cudgel gently to and fro.

Wyatt would know exactly where he lived, Nottingham thought, how far he had to go to safety. He'd play with him, let him feel hopeful, and then pounce. The cat with the mouse.

The Constable knew that his only chance was to end this. Throw himself at Wyatt, knock him from his feet, then run. If he allowed Wyatt to keep control, he was lost. Those eyes were imprinted on his memory now; they'd visit him in his dreams, leave him awake in his bed.

He'd have to make his move soon, but he couldn't offer any warning of it. To fool Wyatt, it had to be a complete surprise.

‘Papa!'

Nottingham tensed at the sound of Emily's voice behind him. She must have come out from the house and seen him.

‘Papa!'

The Constable didn't turn. His gaze remained firmly on Wyatt. The murderer's eyes shifted to Emily, then back to Nottingham. He began to raise the cudgel and Nottingham drew in his breath. Then silently Wyatt turned and slipped into the woods.

With a long sigh Nottingham sat on the ground, the icy wetness of the slush soaking through his breeches. He moaned and reached across to touch his shoulder. As his fingers pressed lightly on his coat, pain raced down his arm.

‘Papa!'

He heard Emily running down the road, but he was too fatigued to turn and look at her. His right hand was shaking.

‘Papa, what's wrong? Who was that man?' Emily knelt by him, her gaze dark and fearful.

‘He's someone who wants to kill me,' he answered her softly. He felt as if his mind was floating, that none of the last few minutes had been real, as if he'd conjured them from his imagination. ‘Thank you,' he told her.

‘Why?'

‘If you hadn't shouted, I might be dead.'

Her face turned pale. He reached out and stroked her arm.

‘It's fine now, love. He's gone.' He held out his right hand. ‘Come on, help me up.'

He leaned heavily against her. It was just a short distance home, but by the time they reached the door he felt as if he'd marched too many miles. His body was weary, the pain in his shoulder intense and sharp.

Inside, he stumbled to his chair and slumped as Mary came out from the kitchen. She knelt by him, running her hand over his face, and he tried to smile for her.

‘Richard . . .' Her voice was fearful, suddenly husky.

‘Don't worry,' he told her. ‘I don't think anything's broken.' He smiled gently at her. How many times had she seen this before? All too often over the years he'd returned with his wounds, scaring her, bringing the tears rolling down her cheeks. The words had become a litany between them.

She took his hand, parting the fingers and sliding her hand between them.

‘Can you send next door's lad to the jail?' he asked. ‘Get John to come here and bring the apothecary.' Mary nodded, slipping out quietly.

Emily reappeared with a mug of the good ale, walking carefully, supporting it with both hands so not a drop spilled. He drank deep, suddenly realizing how dry his throat was, just how much this had taken from him.

‘Why does he want to kill you?' she asked. Her face was fretful, and her voice had the edge of anxiety. He'd always attempted to keep his work apart from his family, and far from his girls. Now it had fallen on her like a weight.

He considered the answer and decided to be honest. She deserved that.

‘I was there when the old Constable arrested him a long time ago. He was transported to the Indies. He's come back and wants to kill all those he thinks are responsible for what happened to him. Since the old Constable is dead, he's after me.'

She furrowed her brow. ‘What had he done?'

‘He stole from his employer. He was guilty.' He paused and shook his head. ‘Don't try to understand it, love. There's no sense to it. Whatever happened, it's turned his brain.'

‘How do you feel, Papa?'

‘Not so well,' he admitted, then smiled to try to reassure her. ‘But I'll be fine.'

The edge had gone from the pain, dulled by the ale running through his blood. He'd survive, although these days it took him longer each time to recover.

Mary returned, ready to minister to him like a mother to a child. She made him stand, steadying him as she carefully pulled off his coat, then the waistcoat and shirt to expose his flesh.

The wound was swollen, the skin flaming, with small spots of blood starting to dry on the point of the shoulder where Wyatt's cudgel had broken the skin. She washed it clean, the dampness of the cloth bringing a curious mix of relief and pain.

Slowly Nottingham tried to flex the muscle, shifting his arm very carefully. The numbness was beginning to fade, ebbing like a tide. If he moved slowly, with effort he could open and close his fingers.

He drained the ale and settled back on the chair. The fear and the thrill of the encounter had vanished, leaving him empty and exhausted. He closed his eyes, needing to rest for a moment.

When he reopened them, Sedgwick was standing there, watching with concern. The apothecary, old and huffing from the walk out of the city, stood at his side, peering at the wound through a pair of battered spectacles.

‘John.' His voice sounded thick and he cleared his throat.

‘What happened, boss?' The deputy was confused, glancing between Nottingham and Mary. ‘I mean . . .'

‘It was Wyatt,' he explained. He took his time, trying to be clear. He didn't have the energy to repeat himself. ‘He was the one who sent the message. He knew I'd run home, that I wouldn't be thinking of anything else. I was lucky, I slipped on the ice just as he tried to hit me. If I'd been upright, I'd never have stood a chance.'

The apothecary was touching his arm, making him wince as he probed with bony, sweating fingers.

‘Did you see him?'

Nottingham blinked at Sedgwick. ‘Not all his face, but enough. And I won't be forgetting him in a hurry, I'll tell you that.'

The deputy waited, then said, with a tinge of embarrassment, ‘Tell me what he looked like. While it's still fresh in your mind.'

Nottingham smiled. He'd said those words so often himself, and now he was a victim he was forgetting the obvious. Before he could open his mouth, though, the apothecary pronounced, ‘You'll be fine. There's nothing broken. It's going to hurt for a few days. Just keep it well bandaged and try not to use the arm for a while.' He gave a short, sharp bow and let himself out. Nottingham rolled his eyes and grinned.

‘Well, the City's just paid to learn something we already knew.'

‘Better safe than sorry. You know that, boss.'

The Constable nodded, then focused his mind on the image of Wyatt.

‘He was a little shorter than me, but heavier. Hard to tell, but a lot of it seemed like muscle. And he had a lot of scars on the back of his hands.'

‘What about his skin, boss? Was it dark?'

‘Darker,' Nottingham said thoughtfully. He shifted on the seat, careful to keep the pressure away from his shoulder. ‘More like the coffee you see in Garroway's after you've added milk. He wasn't burnt. There's a brand on his cheek, a T. That must have been done before he was transported.'

‘No one could miss that.'

‘No,' Nottingham agreed and attempted a smile. ‘So you were right. There must be someone aiding him.'

‘Anything else?'

The Constable closed his eyes to picture the man.

‘He had a piercing stare. He was holding a cudgel, swinging it gently, and he was just staring at me.' He stopped, looked up and shook his head.

‘How did you get away?'

‘I didn't,' Nottingham admitted. ‘If I'd tried to reach for my knife he'd have had me.' He tried to shrug, but stopped as pain bit into his shoulder. ‘Emily came out, saw me and shouted. He just trotted off, calm as you please.'

‘At least we've got a good description now.'

‘It's not worth anything unless someone sees him.'

‘Aye.'

‘He's going to go for the judge now. He's got to. Keep the men close by him. He won't try for me again for a while.'

Sedgwick nodded.

‘Lizzie sent word just before I left. Josh's lass is a bit worse.'

‘Have you told him?'

The deputy shook his head.

‘Send him to her, John. God knows, it might be the last time he has with her. We can make do for a little while. I'll be in soon.'

‘No, you won't,' Mary ordered firmly. ‘You're resting until tomorrow.'

Nottingham looked at the deputy and raised his eyebrows. ‘Looks like you're in charge until the morning then, John.'

The door closed with a deep, solid finality.

‘Go to bed, Richard,' Mary said.

‘I'll be fine.'

She smiled indulgently. ‘You're not twenty any more.' She took his hand gently. ‘Neither of us is. The apothecary left something for you to drink. And you need to sleep.'

He surrendered without another word. She was right, and he knew it. His joints were stiff as he stood, aches and pains beginning to set in to his bones. He climbed the stairs slowly, feeling the years far beyond his age.

If ever he became old, it would be like this. His body would be frail. Walking into town would become an effort, a journey to plan. The thought didn't cheer him as he settled into the bed. The softness cushioned him and he breathed out softly, relaxing.

‘Drink this,' Mary said quietly. Even sweetened with wine, the liquid tasted foul, but he thirstily drained the cup in two swallows. She stroked his forehead, kissing him with loving tenderness, then left him to drift along in the dark country of dreams.

Twenty-Six

At the jail, Sedgwick organized more men to watch the judge, to keep a presence close by both day and night. It would leave them stretched, but he knew the boss was right. Now Wyatt had failed to take the Constable, he'd be searching for some opportunity to grab Dobbs. They couldn't afford to leave the slightest chance.

He understood how lucky the boss had been. One step another way and he'd have been gone. No one would even have known until night, and then they'd have been scrambling, lost.

He shook his head. If he'd been a praying man, he'd have given his thanks to God. For once things hadn't gone Wyatt's way. Maybe the tide was starting to shift, and they could gain a little headway.

Now they needed to find him. He wasn't infallible. It seemed as if they'd searched everywhere, but Wyatt was hiding in some corner. All they had to do was discover it.

He was still thinking when Josh arrived. As always, he was out of breath from running along the streets, his shoes soaked, old stockings discoloured by damp. He shook his head, with nothing new to tell.

‘That message from the boss's wife, it was a trick.'

‘What?' Josh stood stock still, his mouth open wide.

‘It was really from Wyatt. He tried to grab the boss on his way home.'

‘The boss?'

‘It's all right, lad, he didn't get him. The boss is a little hurt, but nothing bad.' He ruffled the boy's hair.