Epic Historial Collection (43 page)

He said: “Some of the monks are uneasy about having a woman live within the precincts of the priory.” The look that came over Tom's face was more intense than anxiety: he seemed scared, even panicked. He really loves her, Philip thought. He went on hastily: “But I don't want you to have to live in the village and share a hovel with another family. To avoid trouble, it would be wise for your wife to be circumspect. Tell her to stay away from the monks as much as possible, especially the young ones. She should keep her face covered if she has to walk about the priory. Most of all, she mustn't do anything which could incur the suspicion of witchcraft.”

“It shall be done,” said Tom. There was a note of determination in his voice, and he looked a little daunted. Philip recalled that the wife was a sharp-witted woman with a mind of her own. She might not take kindly to being told to make herself inconspicuous. However, her family had been destitute yesterday, so she was likely to see these restraints as a small price to pay for shelter and security.

They walked on. Last night Philip had seen all this destruction as a supernatural tragedy, a terrible defeat for the forces of civilization and true religion, a body blow to his life's work. Now it just seemed like a problem he had to solve—formidable, yes; even daunting; but not superhuman. The change was mainly due to Tom. Philip felt very grateful to him.

They reached the west end. Philip saw a fast horse being saddled at the stable, and wondered who was going on a journey today, of all days. He left Tom to return to the cloisters while he himself went over to the stable to investigate.

One of the sacrist's helpers had ordered the horse: young Alan, who had rescued the treasure chest from the chapter house. “And where are you off to, my son?” said Philip.

“To the bishop's palace,” Alan replied. “Brother Andrew has sent me to fetch candles, holy water and the Host, as we lost all those things in the fire and we are to have services again as soon as possible.”

That made sense. All such supplies had been kept in a locked box in the quire, and the box was sure to have been burned. Philip was glad the sacrist was well organized for a change. “That's good,” he said. “But wait a while. If you're going to the palace, you can take a letter from me to Bishop Waleran.” Sly Waleran Bigod was now bishop-elect, thanks to some rather disreputable maneuvering; but Philip could not now withdraw his support, and was obliged to treat Waleran as his bishop. “I ought to give him a report on the fire.”

“Yes, Father,” Alan replied, “but I already have a letter to the bishop from Remigius.”

“Oh!” Philip was surprised. That was very enterprising of Remigius, he thought. “All right,” he said to Alan. “Travel cautiously, and may God go with you.”

“Thank you, Father.”

Philip walked back toward the church. Remigius had been
very
quick off the mark. Why had he and the sacrist been in such a hurry? It was enough to make Philip a little uneasy. Was the letter just about the burning of the church? Or was there something else in it?

Philip stopped halfway across the green and turned to look back. He would be perfectly within his rights to take the letter from Alan and read it. But he was too late: Alan was trotting through the gate. Philip stared after him, feeling mildly frustrated. At that moment, Tom's wife stepped out of the guesthouse, carrying a scuttle which presumably contained ashes from the fireplace. She turned toward the dunghill near the stable. Philip watched her. The way she walked was pleasing, like the gait of a good horse.

He thought again about Remigius's letter to Waleran. Somehow he could not shake off an intuitive, but nonetheless worrying, suspicion that the main burden of the message was not, in fact, the fire.

For no very good reason he felt sure the letter was about the stonemason's wife.

III

Jack woke up at first cockcrow. He opened his eyes and saw Tom getting up. He lay still and listened to Tom pissing on the ground outside the door. He longed to move to the warm place Tom had vacated and cuddle up to his mother, but he knew Alfred would mock him mercilessly if he did, so he stayed where he was. Tom came back in and shook Alfred awake.

Tom and Alfred drank the ale remaining from last night's dinner and ate some stale horsebread, then they went out. There was some bread left over, and Jack hoped that today they would leave it behind, but he was disappointed: Alfred took it with him, as usual.

Alfred worked all day on the site with Tom. Jack and his mother sometimes went into the forest for the day. Mother would set traps while Jack went after duck with his slingshot. Whatever they caught they would sell to villagers or to the cellarer, Cuthbert. This was their only source of cash, since Tom was not being paid. With the money, they bought cloth or leather or tallow, and on the days when they did not go into the forest Mother would make shoes, undershirts, candles or a cap while Jack and Martha played with the village children. On Sundays, after the service, Tom and Mother liked to sit by the fire, talking. Sometimes they would start kissing, and Tom would put his hand inside Mother's robe, and then they would send the children out for a while and bar the door. This was the worst time of the entire week, for Alfred would be bad-tempered and would persecute the younger ones.

Today was an ordinary day, however, and Alfred would be busy from dawn to dusk. Jack got up and went outside. It was cold but dry. Martha came out a few moments later. The cathedral ruins were already aswarm with workers carrying stones, shoveling rubble, building wooden supports for unsteady walls and demolishing those which were too far gone to save.

There was general agreement, among the villagers and monks, that the fire had been started by the devil, and for long periods Jack actually forgot that he had started it himself. When he remembered, he would be brought up with a start, and then he would feel extraordinarily pleased with himself. He had taken a terrible risk, but he had got away with it, and he had saved the family from starvation.

The monks had their breakfast first, and the lay workers got nothing until the monks went into chapter. It was an awfully long wait for Martha and Jack. Jack always woke up hungry, and the cold morning air increased his appetite.

“Let's go to the kitchen courtyard,” Jack said. The kitchen hands might give them some scraps. Martha agreed readily: she thought Jack was wonderful, and would go along with anything he suggested.

When they got to the kitchen area they found that Brother Bernard, who was in charge of the bakehouse, was making bread today. Because his helpers were all working on the site, he was carrying firewood for himself. He was a young man, but rather fat, and he was puffing and sweating under a load of logs. “We'll fetch your wood, brother,” Jack offered.

Bernard dumped the load beside his oven and handed Jack the broad, flat basket. “There's good children,” he panted. “God will bless you.”

Jack took the basket and the two of them ran to the firewood pile behind the kitchen. They loaded the basket with logs, then carried the heavy load between them.

When they got back the oven was already hot, and Bernard emptied their basket directly onto the fire and sent them back for more. Jack's arms ached but his stomach hurt more, and he hurried to load the basket again.

The second time they returned Bernard was putting tiny loaves of dough on a tray. “Fetch me one more basket, and you shall have hot buns,” he said. Jack's mouth watered.

They filled the basket extra high the third time, and staggered back, each holding one handle. As they approached the courtyard they met Alfred, walking with a bucket, presumably on his way to fetch water from the channel that ran from the millpond across the green before disappearing underground by the brewery. Alfred hated Jack even more since Jack had put the dead bird in Alfred's beer. Normally Jack would casually turn and walk the other way when he saw Alfred. Now he wondered whether to drop the basket and run, but that would look cowardly, and besides, he could smell the fragrance of new bread from the bakehouse, and he was ravenous; so he pressed on, with his heart in his mouth.

Alfred laughed at them struggling under a weight he could easily have carried alone. They gave him a wide berth, but he took a couple of steps toward them and gave Jack a shove, knocking him off his feet. Jack fell hard on his bottom, jarring his spine painfully. He dropped his side of the basket and all the firewood tipped out onto the ground. Tears welled up in his eyes, caused by rage rather than pain. It was so unfair that Alfred should be able to do that, without provocation, and get away with it. Jack got up and patiently put the wood back into the basket, pretending for Martha's benefit not to care. They picked up the basket again and continued on to the bakehouse.

There they had their reward. The tray of buns was cooling on a stone shelf. When they came in Bernard took one, stuffed it in his mouth, and said: “They're all right. Help yourselves. But careful—they're hot.”

Jack and Martha each took a bun. Jack bit into his tentatively, afraid of burning his mouth, but it was so delicious that he ate it all in a moment. He looked at the remaining buns. There were nine left. He glanced up at Brother Bernard, who was grinning at him. “I know what you want,” the monk said. “Go on, take the lot.”

Jack lifted the skirt of his cloak and wrapped the rest of the buns in it. “We'll take them to Mother,” he said to Martha.

“There's a good boy you are,” Bernard said. “Off you go, then.”

“Thank you, Brother,” Jack said.

They left the bakery and headed for the guesthouse. Jack was thrilled. Mother would be pleased with him for providing such a treat. He was tempted to eat another bun before he handed them over, but he resisted the temptation: it would be so nice to give her such a lot.

As they were crossing the green, they met Alfred again.

He had evidently filled his bucket, returned to the site, and emptied it, and he was now coming back for a refill. Jack decided to look nonchalant and hope that Alfred would ignore him. But the way he was carrying the buns, wrapped in the skirt of his cloak, was too obvious to conceal; and once again Alfred turned toward them.

Jack would have given him a bun willingly, but he knew Alfred would take them all if he got the chance. Jack broke into a run.

Alfred gave chase and soon caught up with him. Alfred stuck out one long leg and tripped Jack, and Jack went flying. The hot buns scattered all over the ground.

Alfred picked one up, wiped a smear of mud off it, and popped it into his mouth. His eyes widened with surprise. “New bread!” he said. He began to pick up the others.

Jack scrambled to his feet and tried to grab one of the fallen buns, but Alfred hit him a hefty swipe with the flat of his hand, knocking him down again. Alfred quickly scooped up the rest of the buns and walked off, munching. Jack burst into tears.

Martha looked sympathetic, but Jack did not want sympathy: he was suffering from humiliation as much as anything else. He walked off, and when Martha followed he turned on her and said: “Go away!” She looked hurt, but she stopped and let him go.

He walked toward the ruins, drying his tears on his sleeve. There was murder in his heart. I destroyed the cathedral, he thought; I could kill Alfred.

Around the ruins there was a good deal of sweeping and tidying this morning. Some ecclesiastical dignitary was coming to inspect the damage, Jack recalled.

It was Alfred's physical superiority that was so maddening: he could do anything he liked just because he was so big. Jack walked around for a while, seething, wishing Alfred had been in the church when all these stones fell.

Eventually he saw Alfred again. He was in the north transept, shoveling stone chips into a cart, and he was gray with dust. Near the cart was a roof timber that had survived almost undamaged, merely singed and blackened with soot. Jack rubbed the surface of the beam with a finger: it left a whitish line. Inspired, Jack wrote in the soot: “Alfred is a pig.”

Some of the laborers noticed. They were surprised Jack could write. One young man said: “What does it say?”

“Ask Alfred,” Jack replied.

Alfred peered at the writing and frowned in annoyance. He could read his own name, Jack knew, but not the rest. He was riled. He knew he was being insulted but he did not know what had been said, and that was humiliating in itself. He looked rather foolish. Jack's anger was a little soothed. Alfred might be bigger, but Jack was smarter.

Still nobody knew what the words said. Then a novice monk walked past, read the writing, and smiled. “Who's Alfred?” he said.

“Him,” said Jack with a jerk of the thumb. Alfred looked angrier, but he still did not know what to do, so he leaned on his shovel, looking stupid.

The novice laughed. “A pig, eh? What's he digging for—acorns?” he said.

“Must be!” said Jack, delighted to have an ally.

Alfred dropped his shovel and made a grab for Jack.

Jack was ready for him, and went off like an arrow from a bow. The novice stuck out a foot to trip Jack—as if to be evenhandedly nasty to both sides—but Jack nimbly leaped over it. He raced along what had been the chancel, dodging around piles of rubble and jumping over fallen roof timbers. He could hear the heavy steps and grunting breath of Alfred right behind him, and fear lent him speed.