Page 58 of The Armor of Light

‘Getting involved in this society.’

‘Yes, I can hardly wait.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I work and sleep and take care of my child and I don’t want that to be the whole of my life.’ She thought again of her Aunt Sarah, talking about what she read in the newspapers.

‘But you’ll get into trouble.’

‘Not for learning about science.’

‘But it’s not going to be just about science. They all want to talk about freedom and democracy and the rights of man. You know that.’

‘Well, Englishmen are supposed to have a right to their opinions.’

‘When they say that, they’re talking about the gentry. They don’t believe people like us should have opinions.’

‘But those men in London were found not guilty.’

‘All the same, Sime is right – you can’t be sure a Kingsbridge jury will do the same.’

Sal began to think Joanie might be right.

Joanie went on: ‘If mill hands start talking about politics, the aldermen and the justices are going to get scared – and their first instinct will be to punish a few people and frighten the rest. It’s all right for Jarge and Spade – they’ve got no children. If they get transported to Australia, or even hanged, no one suffers but them. But you’ve got Kit, and I’ve got Sue, and who’s to take care of them if we’re not here?’

‘Oh, Jesus, you’re right.’ Sal had been so enchanted by the idea of the Socratic Society that she had not paid enough attention to the risks. ‘But I’ve said I’ll speak to Roger Riddick. I can’t let the others down now.’

‘Be careful, then. Be very careful.’

‘I will,’ said Sal. ‘I swear it.’

12

IN A SIDE CHAPELof Kingsbridge Cathedral was a wall painting of Saint Monica, the patron saint of mothers. The painting was medieval and had been whitewashed over in the Reformation, but the whitewash had thinned over two hundred and fifty years, and the face of the saint was now visible. Her skin was pale, which puzzled Spade because she had been African.

Spade lit a candle there on the first day of August, exactly twelve years since his wife, Betsy, had died. Outside was a sky of hurrying clouds, and when the sun broke through it lit the arches of the nave, briefly turning grey stones to swoops of bright silver.

Spade stood looking into the candle flame and remembering Betsy. He thought of how exciting it had been for the two of them, both nineteen years old, to set up home together in a little cottage on the outskirts of Kingsbridge. They had felt like children playing at marriage. His loom and her spinning wheel had filled one of the two small rooms, and they had cooked and slept in the kitchen. As he worked, he could always glance up and see her dark head bent over the spindle, and he was never unhappy. They had been even more excited when she became pregnant, and they had talked endlessly about what their child might be like: beautiful, intelligent, tall, mischievous? But Betsy had died giving birth, and their child had never entered the world.

Time passed unnoticed while he remembered, until he became aware of someone standing nearby. He turned to see Arabella Latimerwatching him. Without speaking, she held out a red rose – from her garden, he assumed. Guessing her intention, he took the rose from her hand and gently placed it in the centre of the altar.

The blossom gleamed like a fresh bloodstain on the pale marble.

Arabella walked silently away.

Spade remained a few moments, thinking. A red rose was for love. She had intended it for Betsy. But she had given it to Spade.

He stepped out of the chapel. She was waiting for him in the nave. ‘You understand,’ he said.

‘Of course. You come to the same chapel on the first of August every year.’

‘You noticed.’

‘You’ve been doing it for a long time.’

‘Twelve years.’

‘Methodists don’t usually pray to saints.’