Page 88 of The Armor of Light
Elsie kept her face rigid, to avoid smiling triumphantly. ‘Yes, Father,’ she said.
16
WHENSAL FIRST FLOATEDthe idea of the Socratic Society she had not imagined that it would become such a big thing. She remembered how casually she had said,We ought to be doing that – studying and learning. What’s this Corresponding thing you said?She had pictured a dozen or so people in a room over a tavern. The success of the Roger Riddick lecture had changed her view. More than a hundred people had attended, and the event had been written up in theKingsbridge Gazette.And the triumph was her triumph. Jarge and Spade had been encouraging and helpful, but she had been the driving force. She was proud of what she had done.
But now she felt the society was only a first step. It was part of a movement taking place in the whole country, working people educating themselves, reading books and attending lectures. And there was a purpose behind the movement. They wanted to have a say in the way their country was governed. When there was war, they had to fight, and when the price of bread shot up they went hungry. We suffer, she reasoned, so we should decide.
What a long way I’ve come from Badford, she thought.
A month later, the second meeting of the society seemed even more important. Kingsbridge workers were angry about rising prices, especially for food. In some towns there had been bread riots, often led by women desperate to feed their families.
The meeting was scheduled for a Saturday, when people finished work a couple of hours early. A few minutes before it started, Saland Jarge went to Pastor Charles Midwinter’s home to meet the visiting speaker, the Rev. Bartholomew Small.
Pastor Midwinter had moved out of the canon’s house, a mansion that was almost a palace. His new home, conveniently near the Methodist Hall, was not much bigger than a worker’s cottage. It must have felt like a comedown, Sal thought, especially for Jane, who yearned for the good things in life.
In the sitting room Midwinter offered them sherry. Sal was not comfortable and Jarge was worse. They had dressed as well as they could but their shoes were patched and their clothes were faded. However, the pastor gave them a big build-up: ‘Reverend Small, these two people are the intellectual leaders of the Kingsbridge labouring folk.’
Small said: ‘I’m honoured to meet you both.’ He was a slim man with a soft voice, and looked just as Sal had always pictured a professor: grey-haired, wearing spectacles, with a stoop from years of poring over books.
Jarge said: ‘Truth be told, Reverend, Sal here is our intellectual.’
The praise embarrassed Sal. I’m no intellectual, she thought. But never mind, I’m learning.
Small said: ‘Tell me, how many people do you expect in the audience tonight?’
Sal said: ‘A couple of hundred, give or take.’
‘So many! I’m used to a dozen or so students.’
He was slightly nervous, which surprised Sal, and at the same time made her more confident.
Pastor Midwinter drained his sherry glass and stood up. ‘We mustn’t be late,’ he said.
They walked up Main Street, where street lamps made the falling rain gleam. As they approached the Assembly Rooms, Sal was shocked to see a dozen or so men of the Shiring Militia outside the building, wet but smart in their uniforms, armed with muskets.Spade’s brother-in-law, Freddie Caines, was among them. Why were they here?
She was horrified to see Will Riddick with them, wearing a sword, evidently in charge.
She stood in front of him with her hands on her hips. ‘What’s this?’ she said. ‘We don’t need you and your soldiers.’
He stared back at her. His expression mingled contempt with a hint of fear. ‘As a justice of the peace, I have brought the militia here to deal with any trouble,’ he said smugly.
‘Trouble?’ she said. ‘This is a discussion group. There will be no trouble.’
‘We’ll see about that.’
A question occurred to her, and she frowned. ‘Why isn’t Viscount Henry Northwood here?’
‘Colonel Northwood is out of town today.’
That was a shame. Northwood would never have done something as provocative as this. Will was malicious as well as stupid. And he hated Sal personally.
But there was nothing she could do.
Walking into the building, she saw Sheriff Doye and Constable Davidson standing just inside the entrance, trying to look as if they did not know how unpopular they were.
The seats were in rows facing a lectern. There was a big turnout, Sal saw, more than had come to the first meeting. A lot of artisans – weavers and dyers, glovers and shoemakers – were mixed in with the mill hands. Spade was sitting at the back with the bell-ringers.
The printer Jeremiah Hiscock was there, though clearly he had not recovered fully from the flogging: he was pale and seemed nervous, and the bulky look of his coat suggested heavy bandages still on his back. His wife, Susan, sat beside him with a defiant air, as if daring anyone to call her husband a criminal.
