Hornbeam did not want to hear it. He found it too painful to think that his only grandchild had nearly died. But he could not refuse. ‘All right.’
‘It was the end of the afternoon, and what turned out to be the last phase of the battle. The 107th Foot were on the far western end of Wellington’s front line, waiting for orders. Major Denison had been killed and I was the most senior officer left standing, so I took command.’
Hornbeam could not help thinking that this was just the spirit he wanted in the man who would one day take over his business.
‘Bonaparte sent in the Imperial Guard, his best troops, presumably hoping they would finish off our army. I ordered a charge and we – and others – attacked the Guards from the side, going for the soft underbelly. In the middle of the melee my horse was shot from under me and I fell on my back. I looked up to see a Guard with his sword raised high ready to dispatch me. I was quite sure it was the end for me.’
Heaven forbid, Hornbeam thought. He could hardly bear to think about this. But he had to let Joe carry on.
‘One of my men stepped forward with his bayonet thrust out. The Guard saw it coming, pivoted, and swung the sword at my man. Sword and bayonet struck at the same time. The Guard was disembowelled, and my man’s neck was sliced halfway through. And I got up, completely unharmed, and fought on.’
‘Thank God.’
‘That man saved my life by giving his own.’
‘Who was he? I don’t think you said.’
‘I believe you knew him. His name was Jarge Box.’
Hornbeam was floored. ‘Knew him?’ He could not think what to say. ‘I certainly knew him. And his wife.’
‘Sal. She was at Waterloo too. A camp follower. One of the good ones. As useful as a man.’
Hornbeam searched for words to express his feelings. ‘For years past they’ve been the worst troublemakers in Kingsbridge!’
‘And yet he saved me.’
Hornbeam was bewildered. He did not know what to feel. How could he be grateful to a man who had been his enemy for decades? On the other hand, how could he hate the man who had saved the life of his grandson?
‘So,’ Joe said, ‘I hope you can understand why I don’t accept that Margie Reeve isn’t good enough for me. I hope I might be good enough for her.’
Hornbeam was silenced.
After a minute Joe stood up. ‘I’ll go and see if supper’s ready.’
‘Very well,’ said Hornbeam.
*
Kit still did not like horses. He would never take pleasure in them, never admire their strength and beauty, never enjoy the challenge of a spirited mount. But nowadays he rode as thoughtlessly as he walked.
He rode to Badford side by side with Roger. Kit had not been back to Badford since the day he left, twenty-two years ago. The village might be different from how he remembered it. Would he feel affection for the place of his birth? Or would he hate it for throwing him and his mother out?
Roger had gone back many times over the years, and now Kit asked him: ‘How do you feel about Badford these days?’
‘A tedious backwater,’ said Roger. ‘The people are ignorant, uneducated farmers. They’re ruled badly by my brother Will, but they’re too stupid to resent it. I’ve hated Badford ever since I left and went to Oxford and realized there was a better world.’
‘Oh, dear,’ said Kit. ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t go back after all.’
‘But we have to.’
They were restarting their old business. They had given up their Kingsbridge house when they joined the army, and all their tools had been taken by Sal and Jarge to Roger’s old workshop in Badford. They planned to work there and live at the manor house rent free.
Kit was nervous about this, though Roger said it would be all right. Will had hated Kit and his mother. Would he remember that and feel the same now? Kit was afraid he might.
The problem was that they had very little money. Some men had come back from the war with their purses full, mostly from stealing the possessions of dead soldiers. Kit had never been very good at that. Roger was better, but he always lost the money gambling. Roger still had the debts that had forced him to flee – although creditors would hesitate to dun a man who had fought at Waterloo. The upshot was that they lacked ready cash to buy materials.
Amos had rescued them. He had ordered another Jacquard loom and paid half the price in advance. Kit had been grateful, but Amos would accept no thanks. ‘When I was up against the wall people helped me,’ he had said. ‘Now I do the same.’ So they were able to buy timber and iron, nails and glue, but they had nothing to spare.
