The shatter of glass made him sit up. His mind snapped awake, already working. Christ, what was it? Simon felt Rosie beginning to stir.
‘Stay here,’ he hissed as he scrambled into his trousers, took hold of his knife and dashed downstairs.
In the parlour, one of the shutters was hanging loose, a hole through the centre of the wood. A few shards of glass from the window lay on the floor. What was it? A stone? A brick?
No. He felt certain he’d heard something else. The noise that had shocked him from sleep. Simon tried to think back. Was there some sort of explosion? Or had he dreamed it?
The candle didn’t offer more than a circle of light. He held it close to the longclock to read the time. Just after half past three. No more sleep tonight.
His heart was still beating like a military drum. Who’d broken the window? It had to be the cavalrymen. Others hated him, but not enough to do something like this. How, though? How could they have done it? They’d been taken from the gaol to the barracks and confined there until the court-martial. Had they escaped? He moved very carefully across the floor. The pane of glass wasn’t shattered, just cracked; the hole in it was small and round. But there’d been enough force to break the shutter. He crossed the room and examined the wall. There, right there. Something buried in the plaster and lath. He dug it out with his knife, rested the lead ball in the palm of his hand.
Thank God the boys were away; the parlour was where they had their lessons.
‘What happened?’ Rosie came up behind him and rested her chin on his shoulder.
‘We got a present through the window. A gift from the cavalrymen.’
He could hear voices on the street. Two men holding up oil lamps stared at the damage.
‘We’ve sent for the watch,’ one said. Mr Garland. He knew exactly what Simon did for a living and looked down his nose at it. ‘I’m surprised it hasn’t happened before.’
‘It’s done now. You can go back inside. You’re all safe.’
‘How can we be safe when something like this goes on?’ another man asked. ‘This used to be a respectable street.’
He didn’t bother answering. They were scared, and who could blame them? Violence had arrived where they lived. That was enough to terrify anyone. They blamed him for bringing it here. And they were right.
Inside, Rosie lit the lamps and swept up the glittering fragments.
‘It’s not perfect,’ she said as she rubbed her hands together, ‘but it’ll do until the morning.’
‘I’ll send for the glazier once it’s light.’
And day was close. Already he could see the first streaks of light on the horizon.
Rosie stared at the hole in the wall. Simon could see the fear in her eyes, all the things she was imagining. But she wasn’t going to show it to anyone but him.
‘How?’ she asked.
A simple question. But he had no answer.
‘I wish I knew.’
She narrowed her eyes and bit her lip. ‘They’re not allowed out, are they?’
‘No, of course not.’ But the ball had come from a military rifle, not some old fowling piece. This was their work; it was their message. If it wasn’t them, a friend of theirs had done it.
‘Was this a warning, or the start of a war?’ Rosie stared at the hole in the wall. ‘What do you think?’
‘It might be both,’ Simon replied.
She gave him a hopeful smile. ‘Then we’d better stop them.’
He squeezed her hand. ‘We will.’
Before nine there was a new pane of glass fixed in the wood, so clear it put the rest of the window to shame. The carpenter was mending the shutter, muttering to himself as he worked. The parlour had the linseed smell of putty.
Simon opened his watch. A little after the hour. He watched as the man swung the shutter, barred it and opened it once more, then nodded to himself.
A few coins and he packed away his tools and left. Rosie was out at the market. Simon wasn’t going to achieve anything in the house.
The day was definitely warmer. Spring was teasing them. He walked with his coat unbuttoned, hands in his pockets holding knives. Ready.
Behind the Green Dragon, Simon squeezed through the gap in the wall. The cottage was starting to show its early green, shoots breaking through in the old barrels and tubs. He tapped on the door and waited until Mrs Shields let him in.
‘She won’t settle and give herself chance to heal.’ Her voice was a worried whisper, and his eyes strayed to a closed door. ‘I’ve given her something to make her sleep.’
‘That’s probably best.’ He knew Jane well enough to understand that she wouldn’t accept illness or injury. She’d keep going. The girl was too determined, too eager. Forcing her to rest was the only way.
‘She’ll need to recover,’ the old woman said. ‘Do you know how many scars she has on her body?’
‘No.’
‘Eight. I looked while I was cleaning her wound.’ She shook her head as she gazed up at him. ‘That’s too many for a child her age. Then there are the ones on her arm where she used to cut herself.’
What could he say? Jane had lived on the streets. The miracle was that she’d managed to stay alive, and then flourish.
‘How long until she can move properly again?’
‘I told you: as long as it takes, Simon. The more she tries things like this, the longer it will be.’
‘Will you tell her that Rosie found Martha? We have the jug and some of the money.’
‘I will.’ She gave him a suspicious look. ‘Was anyone hurt?’
‘No,’ he answered. When she kept staring, he added, ‘Honestly, no one.’
‘Good.’
‘Is there anything she needs?’
‘Just time and care. I can give her both of those.’
Jane could hear the murmur of voices. Catherine’s, Simon’s. She strained, but she couldn’t pick out the words. They were talking about her, she knew that. Why else would he be here? Her leg throbbed; it had become a dull pain that seemed to penetrate all the way to her marrow. She shifted a little in the bed and it eased. The sound was like water, lapping at the edge of her hearing. She drifted away again.
‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Simon?’ Mudie asked.
‘I hope so.’
‘A ball shot through your window by a rifle in the middle of the night isn’t subtle.’
‘I noticed that. I need you to do something for me.’
‘I guessed – you have the look in your eye.’ He sighed. ‘What is it?’
‘They know you at the barracks. I’d be grateful if you could go up there and see if Murdoch and Johnson are still behind bars.’
‘They must be. They’re going to be court-martialled.’
‘I need to know. Can you ask?’
Mudie nodded. ‘Seems simple enough. And if they are? That means they have friends who want you gone. That might be even more dangerous.’
‘I want to know what I’m facing. And friends who were away from the barracks in the middle of the night? There can’t be too many of those.’ He grinned. ‘You’re a journalist. You know how to ask questions.’
‘If I have the chance. I’ll send word this afternoon. Try to stay in one piece until then.’
Rosie was sitting at the kitchen table, slowly turning the pages in the Book of Hours. Simon watched as she ran her fingertips over the illustrations.
‘I hope no one ever says this has been stolen,’ she said.
He traced his hand across the leather of the cover. ‘They will; they’re bound to. It’s too valuable.’
‘I know, but … wouldn’t you like to have it here, so we could look at it whenever we wanted?’
‘We’d need to keep it hidden,’ he told her. ‘We wouldn’t be able to tell anyone about it in case someone tried to steal it.’
‘Yes.’ She closed the book. ‘I know, but … we can dream, can’t we?’
‘As long as you remember it’s only a dream. The Atkinsons will be back from their travels soon. They’ll be placing an advertisement for the book and the jug and whatever else Poole took.’
‘Poor Laurence,’ Rosie said. ‘We haven’t been able to give him any real justice, have we?’
‘Having them arrested for stealing the spoons is something.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s the best I can do. Better than nothing, at least.’
The note was brief: Your cavalrymen are officers, so they have the freedom of the barracks by giving their word of honour not to leave.
Simon tore the paper into little pieces.
Honour. Neither Murdoch nor Johnson possessed a scrap of that. Still, it gave him the answer. Now he knew with certainty they’d been the ones who’d fired through his window.
They could attack him, vanish back to the barracks, and claim on their word as gentlemen that they’d never left. Short of damning evidence, any jury would believe them.
Richard and Amos might have been in the house.
They’d brought the fight to his home. He couldn’t allow that to happen. He needed to keep his family safe.
He needed to be away from here.
‘I’m going to the Yorkshire Hussar,’ he said. Darkness had arrived an hour before and all the doors and windows were bolted.
‘Simon …’ Rosie began, but he shook his head as she started to speak.
‘I have to be seen. I need to draw them out. Make them come to me.’
‘It’s too dangerous.’
‘What else do you suggest?’ He checked the pistol, making sure the load was tight in the barrel, then primed it and put it in his coat pocket.
‘Let me come with you.’
‘But …’ Simon began. No women would ever be allowed in the Hussar. The look on her face stopped him.
‘I’ll keep watch while you’re inside. Nothing will happen until you come out. They wouldn’t dare stride in when they’re confined to barracks. This way it’ll be the two of us against them.’
He nodded and squeezed her hand. She was right. Murdoch and Johnson couldn’t show their faces in a public house. But they might be searching for him, waiting.
‘Together,’ he agreed.
He hung back until she was hidden in the shadows on the other side of Nelson Street, took a deep breath and pushed open the door.
The place was loud. For a second, the noise overwhelmed him. He had to stand still while it washed over his body. A coin on the counter and Billy Crawford poured him a glass of brandy.
No sign of any military men at all. At the card table Simon sat facing the entrance. Coat unbuttoned, pistol and knives close to hand. Rosie was right; nothing would happen in here. For a moment or two the thought made him feel safer.
He played a few hands but couldn’t keep his attention on the game. His eyes kept drifting to the door. Whenever someone came in, he tensed. Half an hour passed, then an hour and he threw down his cards.
‘Enough for me, gentlemen.’ He rose and put on his hat. Standing by the window, he eased the knife from his belt and gripped it. The other hand was in his pocket, cradling the pistol.
The night held a heavy, damp edge. The pavements were wet; a shower had passed over Leeds. Simon didn’t try to pick out Rosie. Instead he walked up towards Briggate, trying to watch everything, ears pricked for the smallest noise.
By the time he reached the market cross, there was still nothing. Just the sounds that filled every evening in town. He turned, walking slowly, eyes scanning the entrances to all the courts. Most of the whores had already gone to their rooms for the night. Business was slow.
He was ready. On Swinegate Simon stared into the shadows across from his house. A single, blank blackness.
The door swung open as he turned the key. No Rosie yet. She’d be home soon, trailing behind. Simon cracked open the shutter and watched the street. There she came, confident, head held high.
‘Nobody was watching,’ she told him as she removed her hat and patted her hair back into shape. ‘Not a soul following. Town was very quiet.’
Later, lying in bed, Simon felt her turn towards him and the warmth of her breath on his neck.
‘What if they shoot at the house again?’
‘They won’t. They’ve made their point,’ he said. ‘They wouldn’t be stupid enough to try.’
‘They’re soldiers. They know war.’
‘They’re not fools.’ He put his arms around her and drew her close. ‘Believe me, they won’t do that.’
Still, he woke with every creak and sigh of the house, lying there and listening. But by morning there had been no broken glass. A perfectly safe night.
Or so it seemed. But no night was going to feel quite safe until he’d taken care of the cavalrymen. How, though? How?
‘Did they say when the court-martial would take place?’ Simon asked.
‘They’re still gathering evidence.’ Mudie raised his head from the printing press. ‘That’s what they told me.’ He fitted another part back into place and screwed it down.
‘How long?’
‘Someone said towards the end of next week.’ He shrugged and annoyance crept into his voice. ‘I don’t know, Simon. I have no idea how army law works.’
‘I need to stop those two.’ They were out there. They’d already shown him that the barracks walls weren’t a barrier. They would come for their revenge. And they’d do it before the trial.
‘Do you have anything in mind?’
‘Not yet,’ he admitted.
‘Then you’d best come up with a plan. From the sound of it, you’re going to need it.’
‘I will, don’t worry.’
But by afternoon he’d managed nothing at all. A few ideas, but he soon picked them apart. Simon sat in the coffee house – the only customer left in the shank of the day. Finally, he gave up and left.
Nothing worthwhile. Nothing at all.
She heard the mutter of voices through the closed door. Simon and Mrs Shields, talking about her again. Jane had tried twice to ease herself out of bed and put her weight on the leg. The first time she couldn’t stand. The second she managed a single step before the pain screamed through her.
It was her own fault. She’d been too slow. She’d allowed herself to be cut and now she was no use at all. She’d failed.
Jane took the knife from its sheath and held it against her arm ready to cut. She thought she’d passed all that. That the happiness of living here was enough for her.
She had to pay. But she found she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t slide that edge over her own flesh. It wasn’t what she needed any more.