Page 146 of The Armor of Light

That annoyed Jarge. ‘Don’t you cheek me, you little turd,’ he said, slurring his words. ‘I’m the master of this house, and don’t you forget it.’ And with that he smacked the side of Kit’s head so hard that the boy fell off his chair onto the floor.

That broke Sal’s self-control. A memory came back to her, as vivid as if it had been yesterday, of six-year-old Kit lying in bed at Badford manor house with a bandage around his head, after Will Riddick’s horse had cracked his skull; and rage boiled up volcanically inside her. She stepped towards Jarge, mad with fury. He saw her expression and quickly stood up, shock and fear on his face; then she was on him. She kicked him in the balls, and she heard Sue scream but took no notice. When Jarge’s hand covered his groin she punched his face twice, three times, four. She had big hands and strong arms. He backed away, yelling: ‘Get away from me, you mad cow!’

She heard Kit yelling: ‘Stop, stop!’

She punched Jarge again, high on his cheekbone. He grabbed her arms, but he was drunk and she was strong, and he could not hold her. She punched his stomach and he bent over in pain. She kicked his legs from under him, and he went down like a felled tree.

She snatched up the bread knife from the table and knelt on his chest. Holding the blade to his face, she said: ‘If you ever touch that boy again, I swear I’ll cut your throat in the middle of the night, so help me God.’

She heard Kit say: ‘Ma, get off him.’

She stood up, breathing hard, and put the knife in a drawer. The children were halfway up the stairs, open-mouthed, staring at her in awe and fear. She looked at Kit’s face. The left side was red and beginning to swell. She said: ‘Does your head hurt?’

‘No, it’s my cheek,’ he said.

The two children stepped cautiously down the stairs.

Sal hugged Kit, feeling relieved: she was always fearful of him hurting his head.

Her knuckles were bruised and the ring finger of her left hand felt sprained. She rubbed her hands together, easing the pain.

Jarge clambered slowly to his feet. Sal glared at him, daring him to attack her. His face was all cuts and bruises but he showed no sign of fight. His body was slumped and his head bowed. He sat down, folding his arms on the table, and lowered his face to his forearms. He trembled, and she realized he was weeping. After a while he lifted his head a little and said: ‘I’m sorry, Sal. I don’t know what came over me. I never meant to hurt the poor boy. I don’t deserve you, Sal. I’m not good enough. You’re a good woman, I know it.’

She stood with her arms folded, looking at him. ‘Don’t ask me to forgive you.’

‘I won’t.’

She could not help feeling a twinge of pity. He was abject, and he had done Kit no real harm. But she felt the need to draw a line. Otherwise Jarge might think he could hit Kit again, and apologize again. She said: ‘I need to know this will never happen again.’

‘It won’t, I swear.’ He wiped his face with his sleeve, and looked at her. ‘Don’t leave me, Sal.’

She regarded him for a long moment, then made up her mind. ‘You’d better have a lie down and sleep off all that ale.’ She took hold of his upper arm and encouraged him to stand. ‘Come on, upstairs with you.’ She took him into the bedroom they shared and sat him on the edge of the bed. She knelt and pulled off his boots.

He swung his legs onto the bed and lay back. ‘Stay with me a minute, Sal.’

She hesitated, then lay down beside him. She slid her arm under his head and pillowed his face on her bosom. He fell asleep in seconds, and his whole body went limp.

She kissed his battered face. ‘I love you,’ she said. ‘But I won’t forgive you a second time.’

*

Saturday was a fine day, and the sun was still shining at half past five when Hornbeam took the air in the garden of his house. He had had a good week. All his mills were working with Irish labour, and some of the newcomers were being trained on the steam looms. He had eaten a good dinner and now he was smoking a pipe.

But his tranquillity was disturbed by a message from his son-in-law, Will Riddick. The messenger was a young militiaman in uniform, perspiring and breathless. He stood at attention and said: ‘Alderman Hornbeam, sir, begging your pardon, Major Riddick presents his compliments, and begs you to meet him outside the Slaughterhouse Inn as soon as possible.’

Hornbeam said: ‘Has something happened?’

‘I don’t know, sir, I was just told the message.’

‘All right. Follow me.’

‘Very good, sir.’

Hornbeam went into his house and spoke to the footman, Simpson. ‘Tell Mrs Hornbeam that I’ve been called away on business.’Then he put on his wig, looking in the hall mirror to adjust it, and stepped outside.

It took him and the messenger only a few minutes to walk briskly down Main Street to the Lower Town. Before they reached the Slaughterhouse, Hornbeam saw why Riddick had summoned him.

The Irish were coming to town.