He addressed Sal. ‘What happened?’
Her face was twisted in a grimace of bitterness and loss. ‘Will Riddick overloaded a cart and it ran away. The men tried to stop it and it crushed Harry’s leg.’
‘What did Alec Pollock say?’
‘He wanted to saw Harry’s leg off, but I made him try boiling oil.’ She looked at the unconscious man on the bed and said sadly: ‘I don’t really think he could be helped by either treatment.’
‘Poor Harry,’ said Amos.
‘I think he may be getting ready to cross that River Jordan.’ Her voice cracked then, and she began to sob.
Amos heard a child’s voice and recognized Kit, who said in a panicky voice: ‘Don’t cry, Ma!’
Sal’s sobs died away and she put her hand on the boy’s shoulder and squeezed. ‘All right, Kit, I won’t cry.’
Amos did not know what to say. His imagination was defeated by this scene of terrible domestic grief in a poor family’s dismal house.
Instead he said something mundane. ‘I won’t trouble you to spin yarn this week.’
‘Oh, please do,’ she said. ‘I want the work now more than ever. With Harry out of action, I’ll really need the money from spinning.’
One of the men spoke, and Amos recognized Ike Clitheroe. ‘The squire should take care of you.’
Jimmy Mann said: ‘He should. But that doesn’t mean he will.’
Many squires felt responsible for widows and orphans, but there was no guarantee, and Squire Riddick was mean.
Sal pointed to the stack of bobbins beside her spinning wheel. ‘I’ve nearly finished last week’s. I expect you’re staying in Badford tonight?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll do the rest overnight and get everything to you before you leave.’
Amos knew she would work all night if she needed to. ‘If you’re sure.’
‘As the gospel.’
‘All right.’ Amos stepped outside and untied a sack from the back of the lead horse. A spinner could process a pound of wool a day, in theory, but few of them spent all day at the wheel: most were like Sal, combining spinning with other duties.
He carried the sack into the house and put it on the floor beside the wheel. Then he took another look at Harry. The injured man had not moved. He looked like death, but Amos had never seen a man die, so he did not really know. He told himself not to be fanciful.
He took his leave.
He went to a building not far from Sal’s house, a stable that had been repurposed as a workshop by Roger Riddick, the third and youngest son of the squire. Amos and Roger were the same age, nineteen, and had been pupils together at Kingsbridge Grammar School. Roger was a keen student, uninterested in sports or drinking or girls, and he had been bullied until Amos had stepped in to defend him; after which they had become friends.
Amos tapped on the door and went in. Roger had improved the building with large windows; a workbench stood against one of themfor light. Tools hung on wall hooks and there were boxes and pots containing coiled wire, small ingots of different metals, nails and screws and glue. Roger loved to make ingenious toys: a mouse that squeaked and waved its tail, a coffin whose lid opened as the corpse sat upright. He had also invented a machine that would unclog pipes when the blockage was yards away and even around bends.
Roger greeted Amos with a broad smile and put down the chisel he was using. ‘Good timing!’ he said. ‘I was about to go home for dinner. I trust you’ll join us?’
‘I was hoping you’d say that. Thank you.’
Roger had fair hair and pink skin, unlike his black-haired father and brothers, and Amos guessed he must take after his late mother, who had died some years ago.
They left the workshop and Roger locked the door. Walking to the manor house, Amos leading his string of horses, they talked about Harry Clitheroe. ‘My brother Will’s pig-headedness caused that accident,’ Roger said frankly.
Roger was now at Kingsbridge College, which had been founded at Oxford by the monks of Kingsbridge in the Middle Ages. He had started a few weeks ago and this was his first return home. Amos would have loved to go to university, but his father had insisted he work in the business. Perhaps things will change with the generations, he thought; I might have a son who goes to Oxford. ‘What’s it like at university?’ he asked.
‘Great fun,’ Roger said. ‘Tremendous larks. I’ve lost a bit of money at cards, unfortunately.’
