Constant Lovers by Chris Nickson

houses, the smoke from their chimneys hazing in the clear sky. Closer, in a meadow, a group of men were beating a fleece pulled over some wood, the rhythmic sound of their work the only noise on the air.
    He could easily pick out the landmarks – St Peter’s, the New Church, the spire of St John’s, the bright brick of the Red Hall. Across the valley on the far hills lay Armley and Farnley Wood, with Holbeck nestling south of the Aire.
    Every year the city was growing, pushing out in every direction. The merchants were building their grand houses past Town End, and on the other side of the river dwellings were crowding into the secret places where he’d played as a young boy.
    But it was all Leeds and he loved every inch of it. For his first eight years he’d lived a privileged life here, the child of a rich man, until his father had discovered his wife had a lover and thrown her and his son from the house. After that he’d grown up quickly, surviving, stealing, learning to live from one day to the next, his mother whoring and starving until there was nothing left of her.
    Then the old Constable had taken him on. He’d seen something different, something good, in the feral boy that Nottingham had been then. And now he was the Constable of the city himself. He’d never lived anywhere else and never would.
    Slowly he settled next to Mary. ‘We used to come up here when we were courting,’ she recalled. ‘Do you remember that?’
    â€˜We did a lot of things when we were courting.’ He grinned, eyes flashing, and she tapped him playfully on the arm.
    â€˜Sunday afternoons,’ she continued. ‘You’d call for me and if the weather was good we’d go for a walk.’
    â€˜Once your father trusted us to be alone together,’ he reminded her.
    â€˜Well, he was right about that.’ She blushed. ‘He’d have beaten us both if he knew what we got up to. Sometimes I think it was a miracle that Rose wasn’t conceived before we were wed.’
    At the mention of the name the spell broke. Rose, whose death was still a large shadow on the horizon. He squeezed her hand lightly and she gave a brief, tight smile in return.
    Names, he thought. What a strange, awful power they had. The nerve was still raw and painful to the touch.
    They lingered for another half-hour, conversation muted and neutral, then ambled home. The sun was lower, still pleasantly warm on his face. The workmen had gone and the fields were quiet save for an occasional bleat. As they emerged on to the road he glanced ahead.
    â€˜Isn’t that someone at our door?’ he wondered.
    â€˜Emily,’ Mary shouted. She gathered up her skirts and began to run.

Nine
    By the time he reached them Mary had folded her daughter into a tight embrace. Emily was sobbing on to her mother’s shoulders, the tears pouring. Her bag, bulging with all she owned, sat on the ground outside the house.
    With a tiny shake of her head Mary indicated he should leave them. He unlocked the door, took in the bag and poured himself a mug of ale in the kitchen. Whatever had happened, it couldn’t be good, that much was obvious. And just the day before the girl had seemed so happy  . . .
    His attention shifted as Mary led Emily in and sat her in the chair.
    â€˜Richard, can you bring her something to drink?’
    He poured another mug of ale and took it in. Emily reached for it, her hand shaking slightly, eyes red and cheeks blotched as she looked up.
    â€˜Here you go, love.’ He forced a smile. ‘Long walk on a hot day.’
    She drained the cup quickly and he took it from her. There was dust from the roads all over her dress, and hair spilled untidily from the bonnet. Mary knelt by her, a gentle hand on her shoulder, and asked, ‘Now, what’s this all about?’
    Emily glanced from one parent to another, looking desperate and hunted.
    â€˜Mr Hartington’s