As if to reassure people that the baby really was the son of Henry Northwood, Amos thought sourly.
After the service the congregation walked to the Assembly Rooms, where the earl was giving a reception. A thousand guests had beeninvited, and for everyone else free beer was poured at trestle tables set up in the road outside. Baby Henry lay in a crib in the ballroom, and Amos was able to get a good look at him for the first time.
The look told him only that the baby had blue eyes, pink skin and a round face, like every other newborn he had ever seen. Little Henry wore a knitted cap, so Amos could not even tell the colour of his hair, if he had any. He did not resemble Henry Northwood or Amos Barrowfield or anyone else. In twenty years’ time he might have curly hair and a big nose, like Northwood, or a long face and a long chin, like Amos; but it was equally likely that he would look like Jane’s father, the handsome Charles Midwinter, and then no one would ever be able to tell who was the boy’s sire.
While Amos thought all that, something else was going on underneath. He felt a powerful urge to take care of this helpless baby. He wanted to soothe him and feed him and keep him warm – even though the child clearly was sleeping contentedly, had plenty of food, and was probably too warm in his cashmere blanket. There was nothing rational about Amos’s emotion, but it was no less strong for that.
The baby opened his eyes and let out a cry of mild discontent, and Jane appeared immediately and picked him up. She murmured soothing baby talk into his ear, and he relapsed into serenity.
She caught Amos’s eye and said: ‘Isn’t he beautiful?’
‘Amazingly beautiful,’ said Amos politely but dishonestly.
‘I’m going to call him Hal,’ she said. ‘I can’t have two Henrys – it’s too confusing for them both.’
For a moment there was no one nearby. Lowering his voice, Amos said: ‘Thinking back to January, I can’t help but wonder—’
She interrupted him, her voice almost a whisper, but very intense just the same. ‘Don’t ask me,’ she said.
‘But surely—’
‘Never ask me that question,’ she said fiercely. ‘Never, ever.’
Then she turned to an approaching guest, smiled broadly, and said: ‘Lady Combe, how very kind of you to come – and such a long way!’
Amos left the building and went home.
*
King George refused to pardon Tommy Pidgeon.
This was a shock to everyone. A pardon had been expected because the perpetrator was so young and the theft was relatively trivial.
Hornbeam should have been pleased, but he was not. A year ago he had been determined that the little thief should die for his crime, but now he was not so sure. Things had changed in the meantime. Opinion in Kingsbridge had turned against Hornbeam. He did not really care whether people liked him or not, but if he continued to be seen as some kind of ogre, it might affect his ambitions. It was good for people to be afraid of him, but he wanted one day to be mayor of Kingsbridge, or perhaps its member of Parliament, and for that he would need votes.
An additional irritation was that his wife, Linnie, felt sorry for him. She showed it by ordering his favourite foods for family meals, patting him affectionately at random moments, and telling little Joe to play quietly. He hated to be pitied. He became curt with her, but that only made her more sympathetic.
If the king had pardoned Tommy, most of the emotion would have drained out of the drama, and people would have forgotten it. But now it would have to reach its grisly denouement.
Hornbeam still felt he had been right to push for execution. Once you started forgiving thieves because they were hungry, you were on a slippery slope that led to anarchy. But he saw now that he had been too aggressive about it. He should have pretended to feel compassion for Tommy, and to have committed him to the assizes with apparent reluctance. He would try that approach in future. Isympathize with your plight, but I can’t change the laws of the country. I’m really sorry. Really.
He was not good at playacting, but he would try.
He put on a black coat and a black neckcloth, signs of respect. He went out before breakfast. There was some danger of trouble from the crowd, so he had told Sheriff Doye to arrange the execution at an early hour, before the worst of the town’s ruffians got out of bed.
The scaffold was already in the market square, its rope dangling, the noose tied, a stark outline against the cold stone backdrop of the cathedral. The platform on which the condemned boy would stand was hinged, and propped up by a stout length of oak. Beside the scaffold stood Morgan Ivinson, a sledgehammer in his hand. He would use the sledgehammer to knock aside the prop, and Tommy Pidgeon would die.
A crowd had gathered already. Hornbeam did not mingle with them, but stood some distance away. After a minute Doye approached him. Hornbeam said: ‘As soon as you like.’
‘Very good, Alderman,’ said Doye. ‘I’ll fetch him from the jail right away.’
More people entered the square, as if told by invisible heralds that the killing was about to happen, or summoned by funeral bells that only they could hear. In a few minutes Doye returned, accompanied by Gil Gilmore, the jailer. The two men held between them the slight form of Tommy Pidgeon, his hands tied behind his back. He was crying.
Hornbeam looked around the square for Jenn, the thief’s mother, but did not see her. A good thing, too: she would have made a fuss.
They guided Tommy to the steps. Going up he stumbled, and they lifted him by his arms and carried him to the platform. They held him firmly while Ivinson put the noose over his head and tightened it with careful professionalism. Then all three men went back down the steps.
A clergyman climbed the steps, and Hornbeam recognized Titus Poole, the vicar of St John’s, who had tried to convince him to give Jenn Pidgeon poor relief. Poole spoke clearly, so that his voice carried across the square. ‘I’ve come to help you say your prayers, Tommy.’
