Sundays were a day of rest for these villagers, at least to the extent that they did not work in the fields. But the livestock had still to be cared for, and with so many other tasks waiting to be done, the pastor had accepted the impracticality of forbidding everything that might be construed as labour. So it was that when Axl emerged into the spring sunshine that particular Sunday after a morning of mending boots, the sight that greeted him was of his neighbours spread all around the terrain in front of the warren, some sitting in the patchy grass, others on small stools or logs, talking, laughing and working. Children were playing everywhere, and one group had gathered around two men constructing on the grass the wheel for a wagon. It was the first Sunday of the year the weather had permitted such outdoor activity, and there was an almost festive atmosphere. Nevertheless, as he stood there at the warren entrance and gazed beyond the villagers to where the land sloped down towards the marshes, Axl could see the mist rising again, and supposed that by the afternoon they would be submerged once more in grey drizzle.
He had been standing there a while when he became aware of a commotion going on over down by the fencing to the grazing fields. It did not greatly interest him at first, but then something in the breeze caught his ear and made him straighten. For though his eyesight had grown annoyingly blurred with the years, Axl’s hearing had remained reliable, and he had discerned, in the muddle of shouting emerging from the crowd by the fence, Beatrice’s voice raised in distress.
Others too were stopping what they were doing to turn and stare. But now Axl hurried through their midst, narrowly avoiding wandering children and objects left on the grass. Before he could reach the small jostling knot of people, however, it suddenly dispersed, and Beatrice emerged from its centre, clutching something with both hands to her breast. The faces around her mostly showed amusement, but the woman who quickly appeared at his wife’s shoulder — the widow of a blacksmith who had died of fever the previous year — had features twisted with fury. Beatrice shook off her tormentor, her own face all the time a stern, near-blank mask, but when she saw Axl coming towards her, it broke into emotion.
Thinking about this now, it seemed to Axl the look on his wife’s face then had been, more than anything else, one of overwhelming relief. It was not that Beatrice had believed all would be well once he had arrived; but his presence had made all the difference to her. She had gazed at him not just with relief, but also something like pleading, and held out to him the object she had been jealously guarding.
“This is ours, Axl! We’ll not sit in darkness any longer. Take it quickly, husband, it’s ours!”
She was holding towards him a squat, somewhat misshapen candle. The blacksmith’s widow tried again to snatch it from her, but Beatrice struck away the invading hand.
“Take it, husband! That child there, little Nora, she brought it to me this morning after making it with her own hands, thinking we’d grown tired of spending our nights as we do.”
This set off another round of shouting and also some laughter. But Beatrice went on gazing at Axl, her expression full of trust and entreaty, and it was a picture of her face at that moment which had first come back to him this morning on the bench outside the warren as he had sat waiting for the dawn to break. How was it he had forgotten this episode when it could have occurred no more than three weeks ago? How could it be he had not thought about it again until today?
Although he had stretched out his arm, he had not been able to take the candle — the crowd had kept him just out of reach — and he had said, loudly and with some conviction: “Don’t worry, princess. Don’t you worry.” He was conscious of the emptiness of what he was saying even as he spoke, so he was surprised when the crowd quietened, and even the blacksmith’s widow took a step back. Only then did he realise the reaction had not been to his words, but to the approach behind him of the pastor.
“What manners are these for the Lord’s day?” The pastor strode past Axl and glared at the now silent gathering. “Well?”
“It’s Mistress Beatrice, sir,” the blacksmith’s widow said. “She’s got herself a candle.”
Beatrice’s face was a tight mask again, but she did not avoid the pastor’s gaze when it settled on her.
“I can see for myself it’s true, Mistress Beatrice,” the pastor said. “Now you’ll not have forgotten the council’s edict that you and your husband will not be permitted candles in your chamber.”
“We’ve neither of us ever tumbled a candle in our lives, sir. We will not sit night after night in darkness.”
“The decision has been made and you’re to abide by it until the council decides otherwise.”
Axl saw the anger blaze in her eyes. “It’s nothing but unkindness. That’s all it is.” She said this quietly, almost under her breath, but looking straight at the pastor.
“Remove the candle from her,” the pastor said. “Do as I say. Take it from her.”
As several hands reached towards her, it seemed to Axl she had not fully understood what the pastor had said. For she stood in the middle of the jostling with a puzzled look, continuing to grip the candle as if only by some forgotten instinct. Then panic seemed to seize her and she held the candle out towards Axl again, even as she was knocked off balance. She did not fall on account of those pressing in on her, and recovering, held out the candle for him yet again. He tried to take it, but another hand snatched it away, and then the pastor’s voice boomed out:
“Enough! Leave Mistress Beatrice in peace and none of you speak unkindly to her. She’s an old woman who doesn’t understand all she does. Enough I say! This is no fit behaviour for the Lord’s day.”
Axl, finally reaching her, took her in his arms, and the crowd melted away. When he recalled this moment, it seemed to him they stayed like that for a long time, standing close together, she with her head resting on his chest, just the way she had done the day of the strange woman’s visit, as though she were merely weary and wishing to catch her breath. He continued to hold her as the pastor called again for the people to disperse. When finally they separated and looked around themselves, they found they were alone beside the cow field and its barred wooden gate.
“What does it matter, princess?” he said. “What do we need with a candle? We’re well used to moving around our room without one. And don’t we keep ourselves entertained well enough with our talk, candle or no candle?”
He observed her carefully. She appeared dreamy, and not particularly upset.
“I’m sorry, Axl,” she said. “The candle’s gone. I should have kept it a secret for the two of us. But I was overjoyed when the young girl brought it to me and she’d crafted it herself just for us. Now it’s gone. No matter.”
“No matter at all, princess.”
“They think us a foolish pair, Axl.”
She took a step forward and placed her head on his chest again. And it was then that she said, her voice muffled so he at first thought he had misheard:
“Our son, Axl. Do you remember our son? When they were pushing me just now, it was our son I remembered. A fine, strong, upright man. Why must we stay in this place? Let’s go to our son’s village. He’ll protect us and see no one treats us ill. Will your heart not change on it, Axl, and all these years now passed? Do you still say we can’t go to him?”
As she said this, softly into his chest, many fragments of memory tugged at Axl’s mind, so much so that he felt almost faint. He loosened his hold on her and stepped back, fearing he might sway and cause her to lose her own balance.
“What’s this you’re saying, princess? Was I ever the one to stop us journeying to our son’s village?”