Page 14 of The Armor of Light

She reminded herself that there was nothing to be gained by abusing those in power. They could sometimes be persuaded, or cajoled, or even shamed into doing the right thing, but they could not be browbeaten. Any attempt to force the issue only made them obstinate.

‘What do you want?’ Will said rudely.

‘I need to know what you’re going to do for me...’ She added: ‘Sir,’ a bit too late.

He reloaded his gun. ‘Why should I do anything for you?’

‘Because Harry was working under you. Because you overloaded the cart. Because you didn’t listen to Uncle Ike’s warning. Because you killed my husband.’

Will reddened. ‘It was entirely his own fault.’

She forced herself to adopt a mild, reasonable tone of voice. ‘Some people may believe what you’ve told them, but you know the truth. You were there. And so was I.’

He stood casually, holding the gun loosely, but letting it point at her. She had no doubt that the threat was intentional, but she did not believe he would pull the trigger. It would be hard to pretend it was an accident only two days after he had killed her husband.

He said: ‘I suppose you want a handout.’

‘I want what you’ve taken from me – my husband’s wage, eight shillings a week.’

He pretended to be amused. ‘You can’t force me to pay you eight shillings a week. Why don’t you find another husband?’ He looked her up and down, scorning her drab dress and home-made shoes. ‘There must be someone that would have you.’

She was not insulted. She knew she was attractive to men. Will himself had gazed at her lasciviously, more than once. However, she could not imagine marrying again.

But that was not the argument to use now. Instead she said: ‘If that happens, you can stop paying me.’

‘I’m not going to start.’

There was a clapping of wings as the birds rose again, and he swung around and shot. Another two partridges fell to earth. The dog brought one and went to fetch the other.

Will picked up the bird by its feet. ‘Here you are,’ he said to Sal. ‘Have a partridge.’

There was blood on its light-grey breast, but it was still alive. Sal was tempted to take it. She could make a fine dinner for Kit and herself with a partridge.

Will said: ‘As compensation for your husband, it’s about the right level.’

She gasped as if he had punched her. She could not catch her breath to speak. How dare he say her husband was worth a partridge. Strangled with rage, she turned and strode away, leaving him holding the bird.

She was seething, and if she had stayed longer she would have said something foolish.

She stomped across the field, heading for home, then changed her mind and decided to go to the squire. He was no Prince Charming but he was not as bad as Will. And something had to be done for her.

The front door of the manor house was forbidden to villagers. She was tempted to break the rule, but hesitated. She did not want to use the back door and meet the staff, for they would insist she waitwhile they asked the squire if he would see her, and the answer might be no. But there was a side door used by villagers when they came to pay their rents. She knew that it led via a short corridor to the main hall and the squire’s study.

She went around the house to the side and tried the door. It was not locked.

She went in.

The study door was open and there was a smell of tobacco fumes. She looked in and saw the squire at his desk, smoking a pipe while writing in a ledger. She tapped the door and said: ‘Begging your pardon, Squire.’

He looked up and took the pipe out of his mouth. ‘What are you doing here?’ he said with irritation. ‘It’s not rent day.’

‘The side entrance was unlocked and I need to speak to you urgently.’ She stepped in and closed the study door behind her.

‘You should have used the servants’ entrance. Who do you think you are?’

‘Sir, I have to know what you will do for me now that I’ve lost my husband. I have a child to feed and clothe.’

He hesitated. Sal thought that Squire Riddick might slide out of his responsibility if he could. But she guessed he had a guilty conscience. Publicly, he would probably deny that Will was to blame for Harry’s death. But he was not as evil as his son. She saw indecision and shame cross his ruddy face. Then he seemed to harden his heart, and said: ‘That’s why we have poor relief.’