At the Dying of the Year by Chris Nickson Page B

through the mist, swinging their cudgels ready for a fight. Now the odds had changed the swagger vanished from the small group, like air going out of a bladder.
    â€˜Take this one to the jail,’ the Constable ordered. He looked around. ‘Any of you still here when I count to three will go with him.’
    â€˜You can’t do that,’ the fat man protested.
    Nottingham turned to him. ‘I just did it. You’re going to be charged with assault.’ He put his face close to the man. ‘This isn’t a city where you can take the law into your own hands. You’re going to learn that.’
    His men took the fat man’s arms. Everyone else had vanished.
    Carefully, he knelt by the merchant. The man was conscious. His nose had been broken and there was blood all around his face.
    â€˜Can you stand?’
    â€˜I think so,’ Sorensen answered, his voice so thick with pain and fear the Constable could barely make out the words. He hawked, spitting out some blood and two teeth, moving himself gingerly on to his hands and knees and staying there as he gathered his strength.
    The Constable held him by the arm to steady him, giving Sorensen something to grab as he raised himself with a long groan. Nottingham bent and picked up the man’s wig and hat.
    â€˜Why?’ The merchant moved his head slowly to clear it. ‘Why they do that?’
    â€˜They thought you were Gabriel. The child killer.’
    â€˜Me?’ Sorensen’s eyes widened in disbelief. ‘But why?’
    â€˜Because you’re wearing grey. Because you sound different. Because they all want the reward.’
    â€˜So.’ He nodded and began to dust himself down.’
    â€˜Do you want me to fetch the apothecary?’
    â€˜No,’ Sorensen answered. ‘But help me home if you will, Mr Nottingham.’ He spoke in a curious accent, the native singsong of his words overlaid with the stony roughness of Leeds. He limped a few steps, grimacing, then set his mouth and tried to walk normally, still favouring his left leg.
    â€˜I know Leeds,’ Sorensen said thoughtfully. ‘I been here ten years. I know people not so stupid always.’
    â€˜Not always,’ the Constable agreed. ‘But twenty pounds is a fortune to many of them. And some of them don’t trust outsiders.’
    The merchant shook his head sadly. They walked slowly up Briggate towards Sorensen’s new house at Town End, just beyond the Head Row. ‘Idiots,’ he muttered quietly.
    â€˜You’re right,’ Nottingham agreed. ‘But remember they’re poor, they don’t know much.’ He gave a sad smile. ‘It’s not an excuse.’
    â€˜Mr Fenton asked me to contribute to the reward. I said no.’ He turned to the Constable and raised an eyebrow. ‘Maybe this is what I get instead,’ he said wryly.
    â€˜Tell the mayor. He might listen to you.’
    They parted at the merchant’s door. The man had a large home with a clean, spare front.
    â€˜Thank you for coming when you did,’ Sorensen told him.
    â€˜Send for the apothecary,’ Nottingham advised. ‘He can give you something so you won’t hurt so much later.’
    â€˜You know?’ The man rubbed his jaw. Bruises were beginning to bloom on his face.
    â€˜I do.’ He had too much experience of all that. He hesitated, then added, ‘It might be best if you didn’t wear anything grey or a wig. At least for now.’
    The attack hadn’t surprised him. It was bound to happen sooner or later, for exactly the reasons he’d given Sorensen. It probably wouldn’t be the only one, either. All it needed was a single spark and there’d be other blazes like this, with no one around to stamp them out.
    The mayor had offered the reward and he wouldn’t withdraw it now. Even an attack on a merchant like the Swede wouldn’t make him change his mind. Fenton wasn’t the