Death of a Radical Read Free

her
books.”
Arethusa drew out the last word with a humorous emphasis to underline the strangeness of such a preoccupation.
    â€œShe’s put up with Ben Tully for more than a twelve-month. Why choose this day to turn him out? Eeah! That’s a mystery. Mayhap her boo-ooks carry the answer!”
    â€œI have a taste for books myself,” said Jonas. The cheese had a soft tang about it that was not entirely unpleasant. He cut a thicker slice.
    â€œYou canna read!”
    â€œI can.”
    â€œWell now!” exclaimed Arethusa, rolling her shoulders to giggle coquettishly over her plumped-up breasts. “I’d never take you for a reading lad. So you’s looking to settle, then?” Jonas took note of the softening look in the cook’s eye. He pushed back his empty plate.
    â€œLooking for work. So these fairs—it’s not just wool then?”
    â€œNay. Leather and sheep and horned cattle too. They come from all over. Second day, mistress gives us the day off. So will you be staying?”
    Jonas stood up. “That was grand. Thanking you, cook. Now, if you’ll point me to this barn your mistress spoke of, I’ll turn in.”
    Arethusa led him to the barn. She was inclined to linger until a girl came with a message that the mistress was waiting on her and Jonas was finally left in peace.
    The lantern Arethusa had provided burned with a steady light. Outside the wind buffeted the stone walls of the barn. It had been near a year since he had completed his apprenticeship and left his grandfather’s house in Leeds. It was the only home he could remember with any clarity. He had been nothing but a youngster at the time of his father’s death, when his mother had returned to her kin. In his mind’s eye he could see his grandfather—neatly dressed and strong-looking for all he was over sixty—sitting in his ladder-backed chair reading in the firelight. His calm eyes were looking at him, magnified by the round glass of his wire-rimmed spectacles.
    â€œAll men are equal when they can read, Jonas lad. In books a man may find the wisdom of the best of his fellows—living and dead. A reading man’s never alone for he has the company of philosophers, poets and other great men.”
    Smiling, Jonas rolled himself in his blanket, pulled a leather-bound book from his pack and, stretching out by the lantern, began to read.
    The barn door dragged on the floor and a gust of icy air invaded his sanctuary. Miss Lippett entered, wind-tossed and holding up a lantern.
    â€œDid I not tell you no fires, sirrah!” Jonas scrambled to his feet.
    â€œBeg pardon mistress but the lantern’s safe. See. I’ve cleared a space—and there’s water should there be some accident.”
    Miss Lippett strode up. In the pool of light that illuminated the floor Jonas noticed that she was wearing a man’s riding boots. Her fierce gaze swept his corner. Every wisp of hay had been cleared from a neat circle about the lantern and a bucket of water stood within arm’s reach. She saw the crumpled blanket and the book.
    â€œDo you read, journeyman? Far be it from me to stop a man reading his Bible.”
    Jonas bent down to pick up the precious book. “In honesty mistress, this is not the Holy Book.”
    â€œIt is not? What does a shoe-maker read, then?” Her thin hand snatched the book from him. “Mr. Gibbon’s
Decline and Fall
!” She stared at him round-eyed. “What matter can a journeyman take from the history of the Roman Empire?”
    â€œThe same matter that any man may, mistress.”
    She half smiled, then suspicion flooded up.
    â€œDid you steal this? Do you mean to sell it me? You have heard I am a scholar no doubt.”
    â€œNo ma’am!” He saw her draw herself up. “I mean, no, I did not steal the book, mistress—your cook’s told me you’re a learned lady. The book’s mine—it