Page 279 of The Armor of Light

He thought about Jarge Box. He had always judged Box worthless, or worse. Box caused trouble, he got into fights, he went on strike, he smashed machines. And yet, in the end, he had given Hornbeam a gift more precious than anything: the life of Joe.

Box had been subjected to the ultimate test. He had been asked to save a comrade at the risk of his own life. It had been a double challenge: his courage had passed the test, and so had his selflessness.

Today was Monday. Yesterday’s sermon had been on the verse: ‘Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.’ The bishop had spoken of all those who had given their lives at Waterloo, but Hornbeam had thought only of Box. He had asked: what is my life compared to his? Jesus had given the answer: no man had greater love than that which Jarge Box had shown.

Hornbeam’s life now seemed valueless. As a boy he had lived by violence and theft. As a man he had done the same things less openly: he had paid bribes to win business, and he had sentenced people to flogging and hard labour, or sent them to the assizes to be condemned to death.

His excuse had always been the cruel death of his mother. But many children suffered cruelty and lived good adult lives; Kit Clitheroe was an example.

His reverie was interrupted by loud chatter and laughter: at the other end of the cathedral, the bell-ringers were coming in for their rehearsal. Hornbeam really could not spend his time in melancholic reflection. He retraced his steps.

When he came to the crossing he noticed a small door in the corner of the north transept. It was open. He recollected that therehad been workmen on the roof today, probably repairing the lead. They must have left without locking up. On impulse he went through the door and climbed the spiral stairs.

He had to stop several times on the way because of the pain in his chest, but he just rested a while then carried on to the roof.

It was a clear night with a moon. He walked along a narrow footway and found himself near the top of the bell tower. Looking up at the spire, he could see the statue of the angel that was said to represent Caris, the nun who had built the hospital during the terrible plague of the Black Death. She was another person who had done something good with her life.

Hornbeam was on the north side of the roof, and when he looked down he could see the graveyard in the moonlight. The people lying there had peace of mind.

He knew there was a solution to his problem, a cure for his illness. It was mentioned regularly in every Christian church in the world: confession and repentance. A man could be forgiven for doing wrong. But the price was humiliating. When Hornbeam imagined himself admitting that he had done wrong – to his family, to his customers, to other clothiers, to the aldermen – he shuddered with horror. Repentance? What did that mean? Should he apologize to those he had wronged? He had not apologized for anything in the last half-century. Could he give back the money he had made from corrupt army contracts? He would be prosecuted. He might go to jail. What would happen to his family?

But he could not live like this. He slept so little at night because of his tormented thoughts. He knew he was not running the business as he should. He hardly spoke to anyone. He smoked all the time. And his chest pain was getting worse.

He went to the very edge of the roof and looked down at the tombstones. The ringers began their practice, and right next to him the booming notes of the huge bells began to sound, a noise that heseemed to feel in his very bones, possessing him. His whole being vibrated. Peace of mind, he thought; peace of mind.

He stepped over the edge.

As soon as he had done it he felt terrified. He wanted to change his mind, to turn back. He heard himself scream like a tortured animal. His eyes were open and he could see the ground racing up at him. Fear possessed him and grew and grew, but he could not scream any louder. Then the worst happened, and the ground hit him with a mighty blow that filled his whole body with excruciating, unbearable agony.

And then nothing.

45

ARABELLA LOOKED UPfrom the newspaper and said: ‘Parliament has been dissolved.’

Her son, Abe, who was eighteen, swallowed his bacon and said: ‘What does that mean?’ Abe’s knowledge of life was patchy. In some areas he was well informed; in others ignorant. Perhaps that was normal at his age. Spade tried to remember whether he had been the same, but he could not be sure. Anyway, Abe would go to Edinburgh University in the autumn, and from then on his understanding would grow fast.

Arabella answered his question. ‘It means there will be a general election.’

Spade said: ‘And a chance to get rid of Humphrey Frogmore.’ That was an attractive prospect. Humphrey Frogmore had won the by-election held after the death of Hornbeam. He had been a lazy and ineffective MP.

‘How come?’ said Abe.

Arabella said: ‘Mr Frogmore will have to stand for re-election if he wants to continue as our member of Parliament.’

Spade said: ‘What’s the timetable?’

Arabella looked down at the paper again, then said: ‘The new parliament will be summoned on the fourth of August.’

‘That gives us almost two months,’ Spade said, calculating. It was now mid-June 1818. ‘We must get someone to stand against Frogmore.’

Abe said: ‘Why?’

‘Mr Frogmore supports the Combination Act,’ Spade explained. There was a movement to repeal that hated law, but Frogmore wanted it to remain. It was the only issue about which he had spoken in Parliament. He represented the hardliners in Kingsbridge who had formerly been led by Hornbeam.

Arabella said: ‘One way or another, we need a new candidate. I think it should be our son-in-law.’

Spade nodded agreement. ‘Amos is popular.’ Amos Barrowfield had been elected mayor after Hornbeam died. Spade looked at his pocket watch. ‘I might go and talk to him now. I could catch him before he leaves for the mill.’