Convalescence by Chris Nickson

“A beautiful day, friend.”
         Standing on Timble Bridge, idly staring down at the water, Richard Nottingham turned to see a small, ragged man, no more than twenty years old, a wide grin on his mouth, his accent the deep sing-song of the border country. His clothes were old and travel-stained, boots worn and weary. The lad took off his tricorn hat and wiped his forehead.
         “Grand,” Nottingham agreed. And it was. In the shade of a tall willow, he felt pleasantly cool in the July heat.
         “Do you know a good place to stay in Leeds?” The man hoisted a pack higher on his back. “I’ve walked here from Durham and I could use a bed, like.”
         “Try Mrs. Lumley on Call Lane. She runs a clean house and fair prices. Anyone will be able to direct you.”
         The man gave a small nod of thanks. “Champion,” he said, pulled a flask from a threadbare coat and took a swallow. “You know Leeds well, then?”
         Nottingham smiled. “I should. I’ve lived here all my life.”
         “Happen you’d know which folk buy things?”
         “Things?” He raised an eyebrow.
         “Aye.” The man winked. “Things. You know.”
         “Try the Talbot,” he suggested with a smile. “It’s on Briggate, you can’t miss it. I daresay you’ll find what you need there.”
         The man grinned again, showing a mouth of missing teeth. “I’ll be sure and do that.”
         “Are you staying here long?”
         “Depends.” He shrugged. “I’ve never been one for staying anywhere too long. Keep moving, keep alive. That’s the best way, like.” He tipped his hat. “I’ll wish you a good day, friend.”
         Nottingham nodded. “And to you,” he said, then added, “What’s your name?”
         “Will Langton. If you’re looking for something, I’ll have it. And if I don’t, I can get it for you. At a price, of course.” He winked and extended his hand. “And I don’t know you, friend.”
         “Richard Nottingham.” They shook briefly and the man strode off towards the Parish Church and Kirkgate. For a long time Richard Nottingham, Constable of Leeds, stood on the bridge, watching people pass and relishing the light breeze against his face. Finally he began to walk home, a slow shuffle, leaning heavily on the stick as he moved. The pistol in his coat pocket hit against his hip, but it was better to have the habit of carrying it. Each step jarred, leaving him sweating and aching by the time he’d covered the two hundred yards to his door and pushed it open.
     
         He’d started out early in the afternoon, stopping often to catch his breath, taking in the perfumes of all the wildflowers at the roadside and the warm summer scent as men scythed grass over in the fields. Dust rose from the wheels as a cart passed slowly, the driver nodding at him.
         Nottingham had smiled as he gazed around. There’d been times since the wounding that he doubted that he’d ever see this again, times he doubted he’d live. He barely remembered much of the spring, days and nights passing in and out of consciousness, seeing faces at the bedside, the living and the dead, all looking at him with their tender, sad eyes. But now, in the shank of July 1733, he was here on Marsh Lane, determined to walk to Timble Bridge and back. He knew he moved like an old man, a few, slow paces then the need to rest. It didn’t matter; even if the small journey took him all afternoon, he had time. All the time in the world. And after so long in the house, even straying these few hundred yards from home felt like victory.
         With God’s good grace the constable would return to work. But it would take weeks, likely months before he was ready. When something as simple as a stroll down the road needed all his effort and will, there was still a long way to go.
                 
    Sitting on the chair in front of the empty fireplace, he