Page 18 of The Armor of Light
Sal lowered her voice. ‘He’s only just lost his father, and now he feels he’s losing his mother.’
‘Well, he’s not, and he’ll find that out next Sunday, when he comes to see you.’
That shocked Sal. ‘You want to take him today?’
‘There’s no point in waiting. The sooner he starts, the sooner he’ll get used to it. But if your need isn’t as urgent as you pretend...’
‘Very well.’
‘So I’ll take him now.’
Kit spoke in a high-pitched, defiant voice. ‘I’ll run away!’
The rector shrugged. ‘Then you’ll be chased and brought back and flogged.’
‘I’ll run away again!’
‘If you do, you’ll be brought back again; but I think the first flogging will be enough.’
Sal said: ‘Now, Kit, stop crying.’ She spoke firmly, but she herself was close to tears. ‘Your father’s gone and you must be a man sooner than expected. If you behave you will have dinner and supper and nice clothes.’
The rector said: ‘The squire will deduct three pence a week from his wages for food and drink, and six pence a week for the first forty weeks for his clothes.’
‘But that means he’ll only get three pence a week!’
‘And that’s all he’ll be worth, at the start.’
‘And how much will you give me out of the poor relief?’
The rector pretended to be indignant. ‘Nothing, of course.’
‘But how shall I live?’
‘You can spin every day, now that you don’t have a husband and son to care for. I should think you could double your earnings. You’ll have six shillings a week and only yourself to spend it on.’
Sal knew she would have to spin twelve hours a day, six days a week to achieve that. Her vegetable garden would be weed-grown, her clothes would become threadbare, she would live on bread and cheese, but she would survive. And so would Kit.
The rector stood up. ‘Come with me, lad.’
Sal said: ‘I’ll see you on Sunday, Kit, and you can tell me all about it. Give me a goodbye kiss.’
He did not stop crying, but he hugged her and she kissed him, then she detached herself from his embrace and said: ‘Say your prayers, and Jesus will take care of you.’
The rector took Kit’s hand firmly and they walked out of the house.
‘Mind you be good, Kit!’ she called.
Then she sat down and cried.
*
Rector Riddick held Kit’s hand as they walked through the village. It was not a friendly, reassuring grasp, but much stronger than that, tight enough to stop Kit running away. But he had no intention of running away. The rector’s talk of flogging had scared him out of that.
He was scared of everything right now: scared because he had no father, scared because he had left his mother, scared of the rector and of the spiteful Will and of the all-powerful squire.
As he hurried along at the rector’s side, running every now and again to keep up, villagers gazed at him in curiosity, especially his friends and their parents; but no one said anything or dared to question the rector.
He was scared all over again as they approached the manor. It was the biggest building in the village, bigger than the church, and made of the same yellowish stone. He knew its exterior well, but now he looked at it with fresh eyes. The front had a door in the middle with steps up and a porch, and he counted eleven windows, two either side of the door, five upstairs, and two more in the roof. As he got closer he saw that there was a basement, too.
