The Armor of Light, page 1
The Kingsbridge novels
(in historical order)
The Evening and the Morning
The Pillars of the Earth
World Without End
A Column of Fire
The Century Trilogy
(in historical order)
Fall of Giants
Winter of the World
Edge of Eternity
World War II thrillers
Eye of the Needle
The Key to Rebecca
Night over Water
Jackdaws
Hornet Flight
Other novels
Never
Triple
The Man from St. Petersburg
Lie Down with Lions
A Dangerous Fortune
A Place Called Freedom
The Third Twin
The Hammer of Eden
Code to Zero
Whiteout
Early novels
The Modigliani Scandal
Paper Money
Nonfiction
On Wings of Eagles
Notre-Dame
VIKING
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
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Simultaneously published in Great Britain by Macmillan, an imprint of Pan Macmillan, London, in 2023
First United States edition published by Viking, 2023
Copyright © 2023 by Ken Follett
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
Map by Daren Cook
library of congress cataloging-in-publication data
Names: Follett, Ken, author.
Title: The armor of light / Ken Follett.
Description: First edition. | [New York] : Viking, [2023] | Series:
Kingsbridge ; book 5
Identifiers: LCCN 2023005900 (print) | LCCN 2023005901 (ebook) | ISBN 9780525954996 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593655320 (ebook)
Subjects: LCGFT: Historical fiction. | Novels.
Classification: LCC PR6056.O45 A76 2023 (print) | LCC PR6056.O45 (ebook) | DDC 823/.914—dc23/eng/20230223
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023005900
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023005901
Cover design by Daren Cook and Tal Goretsky
designed by meighan cavanaugh, adapted for ebook by Cora Wigen
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
pid_prh_6.1_144937132_c0_r0
Contents
Cover
Also by Ken Follett
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Map of Europe in 1815
Part I: The Spinning Engine (1792–1793)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Part II: The Revolt of the Housewives (1795)
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Part III: The Combination Act (1799)
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Part IV: The Press Gang (1804–1805)
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Part V: The World War (1812–1815)
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Part VI: The Battle of Waterloo (June 16–18, 1815)
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Part VII: The Peace (1815–1824)
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Acknowledgments
About the Author
_144937132_
This book is dedicated to the historians.
There are many thousands of them all over the world. Some sit in libraries, hunched over ancient manuscripts, trying to understand dead languages in mysterious hieroglyphs. Others kneel on the ground sifting earth on the sites of ruined buildings, seeking fragments from lost civilizations. Yet more read through interminably dull government papers dealing with long-forgotten political crises. They are relentless in their search for the truth.
Without them we would not understand where we come from. And that would make it even more difficult to figure out where we’re going.
Cast off the works of darkness, and let us put on the armor of light.
Romans 13:12
Part I
The Spinning Engine
1792–1793
Chapter 1
Until that day, Sal Clitheroe had never heard her husband scream. After that day she never heard it again, except in dreams.
It was noon when she got to Brook Field. She knew the time by the quality of the light gleaming weakly through the pearl-gray cloud that sheeted the sky. The field was four flat acres of mud with a quick stream along one side and a low hill at the south end. The day was cold and dry, but it had rained for a week and, as she splashed through the puddles, the sticky sludge tried to pull off her homemade shoes. It was hard going but she was a big, strong woman, and she did not tire easily.
Four men were harvesting a winter crop of turnips, bending and lifting and stacking the knobbly brown roots on broad shallow baskets called corves. When a corf was loaded the men would carry it to the foot of the hill and tumble the turnips into a stout oak four-wheeled cart. Their task was almost done, Sal saw, for this end of the field was bare of turnips and the men were working close to the hill.
They were all dressed alike. They wore collarless shirts and homespun knee-breeches made by their wives, and waistcoats bought secondhand or discarded by rich men. Waistcoats never wore out. Sal’s father had had a fancy one, double-breasted with red and brown stripes and braided hems, cast off by some city dandy. She had never seen him in anything else, and he had been buried in it.
On their feet the laborers had hand-me-down boots, endlessly repaired. Each man had a hat and all were different: a cap of rabbit fur, a straw cartwheel with a wide brim, a tall felt hat, and a tricorne that might have belonged to a naval officer.
Sal recognized the fur cap. It belonged to her husband, Harry. She had made it herself, after she had caught the rabbit and killed it with a stone and skinned it and cooked it in a pot with an onion. But she would have known Harry without the hat, even at a distance, by his ginger beard.
Harry’s figure was slender but wiry, and he was deceptively strong: he loaded his corf with just as many turnips as the bigger men. Just looking at that lean, hard body at the far end of a muddy field gave Sal a little glow of desire inside, half pleasure and half anticipation, like coming in from the cold to the warm smell of a wood fire.
As she crossed the field she began to hear their voices. Every few minutes one would call to another, and there would be a short exchange ending in laughter. She could not make out the words but she could guess what they were saying. It would be the mock-aggressive banter of workingmen, jovial insults and cheerful vulgarity, pleasantries that relieved the monotony of repetitive hard work.
A fifth man was watching them, standing by the cart, holding a short horsewhip. He was better dressed, with a blue tailcoat and polished black knee boots. His name was Will Riddick, he was thirty years old, and he was the eldest son of the squire of Badford. The field was his father’s, as were the horse and cart. Will had thick black hair cut to chin length, and he looked discontented. She could guess why. Supervising the turnip harvest was not his job, and he felt it was beneath him; but the squire’s factor had fallen ill, and Sal guessed that Will had been drafted in to replace him, unwillingly.
At Sal’s side her child stumbled barefoot across the boggy ground, struggling to keep pace with her, until she turned and stooped and picked him up effortlessly, then walked on with him in one arm, his head on her shoulder. She held his thin, warm body a little tighter than she needed to, just because she loved him so much .
She would have welcomed more children, but she had suffered two miscarriages and a stillbirth. She had stopped hoping and had begun to tell herself that, poor as they were, one child was enough. She was devoted to her child, probably too much so, for children were often taken away by illness or accident, and she knew that that would break her heart.
She had named him Christopher, but when he was learning to talk he had mangled his name to Kit, and that was what he was called now. He was six years old, and small for his age. Sal hoped that he would grow up to be like Harry, slim but strong. He had certainly inherited his father’s red hair.
It was time for the midday meal, and Sal was carrying a basket with cheese, bread, and three wrinkled apples. Some way behind her was another village wife, Annie Mann, a vigorous woman the same age as Sal; two more on the same errand were approaching from the opposite direction, down the hill, baskets on their arms, children in tow. The men stopped work gratefully, wiping their muddy hands on their breeches and moving toward the stream, where they could sit on a bed of grass.
Sal reached the path and let Kit down gently.
Will Riddick took a watch on a chain from his waistcoat pocket and consulted it with a scowl. “It’s not noon yet,” he called out. He was lying, Sal felt sure, but no one else had a watch. “Keep working, you men,” he ordered. Sal was not surprised. Will had a mean streak. His father, the squire, could be hard-hearted, but Will was worse. “Finish the job, then have your dinners,” he said. There was a note of disdain in the way he said your dinners, as if there was something contemptible about laborers’ meals. Will himself would be going back to the manor house for roast beef and potatoes, she thought, and probably a jug of strong beer to go with it.
Three of the men bent to their work again, but the fourth did not. He was Ike Clitheroe, Harry’s uncle, a gray-bearded man of about fifty. In a mild tone he said: “Better not overload the cart, Mr. Riddick.”
“You leave it to me to be the judge of that.”
“Begging your pardon,” Ike persisted, “but that brake is about worn through.”
“There’s nothing wrong with the damned cart,” Will said. “You just want to stop work early. You always do.”
Sal’s husband spoke up. Harry was never slow to join in an argument. “You should listen to Uncle Ike,” he said to Will. “Otherwise you could lose your cart and your horse and all your bloody turnips, too.”
The other men laughed. But it was never wise to have a joke at the expense of the gentry, and Will frowned blackly and said: “You shut your insolent mouth, Harry Clitheroe.”
Sal felt Kit’s little hand creep into her own. His father was getting into a conflict, and young Kit sensed the danger.
Insolence was Harry’s weakness. He was an honest man and a hard worker, but he did not believe the gentry were better than him. Sal loved him for his pride and his independent thinking, but the masters resented it, and he was often in trouble for insubordination. However, he had made his point now, and he said no more, but went back to work.
The women put down their baskets on the bank of the stream. Sal and Annie went to help their men gather turnips, while the other two wives, who were older, sat with the dinners.
The work was finished quickly.
At that point it became obvious that Will had made a mistake in leaving the cart at the foot of the hill. He should have stationed it fifty yards farther down the track, to give the horse room to pick up speed before tackling the slope. He thought for a moment, then said: “You men, push the back of the cart, to give the horse a start.” Then he jumped up on the seat, deployed the whip, and said: “Hup!” The gray mare took the strain.
The four laborers got behind the cart and pushed. Their feet slipped on the wet path. The muscles of Harry’s shoulders rippled. Sal, who was as strong as any of them, joined in. So did little Kit, which made the men smile.
The wheels shifted, the mare lowered her head and leaned into the traces, the whip cracked, and the cart moved. The helpers fell back and watched as it headed up the slope. But the mare slowed, and Will yelled back: “Keep pushing!”
They all ran forward, put their hands on the tail end of the cart, and resumed. Once again the cart picked up speed. For a few yards the mare ran well, powerful shoulders straining against the leather harness, but she could not keep up the pace. She slowed, then stumbled in the slippery mud. She seemed to regain her footing, but she had lost momentum, and the cart jerked to a halt. Will lashed the beast, and Sal and the men heaved with all their might, but they could not hold the cart, and the high wooden wheels began to turn slowly backward.
Will hauled on the brake handle, then they all heard a loud crack, and Sal saw the two halves of a snapped wooden brake pad fly off the left rear wheel. She heard Ike say: “I told the bugger, I told him.”
They pushed as hard as they could, but they were forced backward, and Sal had a sick feeling of imminent danger. The cart picked up speed in reverse. Will yelled: “Push, you lazy dogs!”
Ike lifted his hands from the tail and said: “It won’t hold!” The horse slipped again, and this time she fell. Parts of the leather harness broke, and the beast hit the ground and was dragged along.
Will jumped down from the seat. The cart, out of control now, started to roll faster. Without even thinking, Sal picked up Kit with one arm and jumped aside, out of the path of the wheels. Ike shouted: “Everyone out of the way!”
The men scattered just as the cart swerved, then turned over sideways. Sal saw Harry crash into Ike and they both fell. Ike tumbled to the side of the track, but Harry fell in the path of the cart, and it landed on him with the edge of the heavy oak flatbed on his leg.
That was when he screamed.
Sal froze, cold fear gripping her heart. He was hurt, badly hurt. A moment went by when everyone stared, horrified. The turnips from the cart rolled across the ground, and some of them splashed into the stream. Harry cried hoarsely: “Sal! Sal!”
She shouted: “Get the cart off him, come on!”
They all got their hands to the cart. They lifted it off Harry’s leg, but its rise was made difficult by the big wheels, and she realized they had to raise it onto the wheel rims before they could roll it upright. “Let’s get our shoulders under it!” she yelled, and they all saw the sense of that. But the wood was heavy, and they were pushing against the upward slope of the hill. There was a terrible moment when she thought they were in danger of dropping the cart, and it would fall back down and crush Harry a second time. “Come on, heave!” she shouted. “All together!” and they all said: “Heave,” and suddenly the cart tipped over and came upright, its far wheels landing with a crash.
Then Sal saw Harry’s leg, and she gasped in horror. It was flattened from thigh to shin. Fragments of bone stuck out of his skin, and his breeches were soaked with blood. His eyes were closed and a terrible moaning sound came from his half-opened lips. She heard Uncle Ike say: “Oh, dear God, spare him.”
Kit began to cry.
Sal wanted to cry, too, but she controlled herself: she had to get help. Who could run fast? She looked around the group and her eye lit on Annie. “Go to the village, Annie, as fast as you can, and fetch Alec.” Alec Pollock was the barber-surgeon. “Tell him to meet us at my house. Alec will know what to do.”
“Keep an eye on my children,” said Annie, and she set off at a run.
Sal knelt at Harry’s side, her knees in the mud. He opened his eyes. “Help me, Sal,” he said. “Help me.”
“I’m going to carry you home, my dear love,” she said. She got her hands under him, but when she tried to take the weight and lift his body, he screamed again. Sal pulled back her hands, saying: “Jesus, help me.”
She heard Will say: “You men, start putting the turnips back in this cart. Come on, look lively.”
She said quietly: “Someone shut his mouth before I shut it for him.”
Ike said: “What about your horse, Mr. Riddick? Can she get up?” He went around the cart to look at the mare, distracting Will’s attention from Harry. Sal thought: Thank you, clever Uncle Ike.
