For a moment George looked baffled.
Brian said: ‘You didn’t summon us to pray for Harry, who stands now, as we speak, on the bank of that great dark river, waiting to know whether it is God’s will that he should cross tonight into the divine presence. If you had called us, Rector, we would gladly have come to St Matthew’s Church to pray with you. But you didn’t, so here we are.’
‘You’re ignorant villagers,’ George raved. ‘That’s why God sets a clergyman over you.’
‘Ignorant?’ It was a woman’s voice, and Amos identified Annie Mann, one of his spinners. ‘We’re not so ignorant as to overload a turnip cart,’ she said.
There were cries of agreement and even a scatter of laughter.
George said: ‘God has made you subordinate to those who know better, and it’s your duty to obey authority, not defy it.’
There was a brief silence, then everyone heard a loud, agonized groan from inside the house.
Amos moved to the door and stepped inside.
Sal and Kit were kneeling on the far side of the bed, their hands folded in prayer. The surgeon, Alec Pollock, stood at the head of the bed, holding Harry’s wrist.
Harry groaned again, and Alec said: ‘He’s going, Sal. He’s leaving us.’
‘Oh, God,’ Sal moaned, and Kit cried.
Amos stood silent and still at the door, watching.
After a minute, Alec said: ‘He’s gone, Sal.’
Sal put her arm around Kit, and they cried together.
Alec said: ‘His suffering is over, at last. He’s with the Lord Jesus now.’
Amos said: ‘Amen.’
3
IN THE GROUNDS OFthe bishop’s palace, where once – according to Kingsbridge legend – the monks had cultivated their beans and cabbages, Arabella Latimer had created a rose garden.
Her family had been surprised. She had never shown any interest in cultivating anything. Her duties were all geared towards her husband, the bishop: managing his household, giving dinners for senior clergy and other county bigwigs, and appearing at his side in costly but respectable clothing. Then one day she had announced that she was going to grow roses.
It was a new idea that had caught the imagination of a few fashionable ladies. It was not exactly a craze, but it had become a fad, and Arabella had read about it inThe Lady’s Magazineand had been taken with the notion.
Her only child, Elsie, had not expected the enthusiasm to last. She had anticipated that her mother would quickly grow tired of the bending and the hoeing, the watering and the manuring, and the way the earth got under the fingernails and could never be completely cleaned out.
The bishop, Stephen Latimer, had grunted: ‘Nine days’ wonder, you mark my words,’ and gone back to reading theCritical Review.
They had both been wrong.
When Elsie went out at half past eight in the morning, looking for her mother, she found her in the garden with a groundsman at her side, piling muck from the stable around the bases of the plantsas a fall of wet sleet came down on their heads. Catching sight of Elsie, Arabella said over her shoulder: ‘I’m protecting them from frost,’ and continued her work.
Elsie was amused. She wondered whether her mother had ever held a shovel before today.
She looked around. The rose plants were all bare sticks now, in winter, but the shape of the garden was visible. It was entered through a basketwork arch that supported a riot of climbing rose bushes in summer. That led to a square of low rose trees that would burst into flaming colour. Beyond that, a trellis fixed to a stretch of ruined wall – built by those monks to shelter the kitchen garden, perhaps – gave support to climbing plants that grew like weeds in hot weather and bloomed with bright splashes, as if the angels above had been careless with their paints.
Elsie had long felt that her mother’s life was dismally empty, but would have wished her a pursuit more meaningful than gardening. However, Elsie was an idealist and an intellectual, whereas Arabella was neither. To every thing there is a season, Father would say, quoting Ecclesiastes, and a time to every purpose under heaven. The roses brought joy into Arabella’s life.
It was cold, and Elsie had something important to say. ‘Will you be long?’ she said.
‘Nearly finished.’
Arabella was thirty-eight, much younger than her husband, and still glamorous. She was tall and shapely, with a head of light-brown hair that had a touch of auburn. Her nose was freckled, which people considered a blemish, though somehow it looked charming on her. Elsie was different from her mother in looks as well as character – with dark hair and hazel eyes – but people said she had a lovely smile.
