The Pillars of the Earth

by Ken Follett

  Tom ate his apples gratefully, and his belly felt a little better, but he could not help wondering how soon supper would be served. Monks generally ate before dark, to save candles, he recalled happily.

  Cuthbert was looking hard at Ellen. "Do I know you?" he said eventually.

  She looked uneasy. "I don't think so."

  "You seem familiar," he said uncertainly.

  "I used to live near here as a child," she said.

  "That would be it," he said. "That's why I have this feeling that you look older than you should."

  "You must have a very good memory."

  He frowned at her. "Not quite good enough," he said. "I'm sure there's something else.... No matter. Why did you leave Earlscastle?"

  "It was attacked, yesterday at dawn, and taken," Tom replied. "Earl Bartholomew is accused of treason."

  Cuthbert was shocked. "Saints preserve us!" he exclaimed, and suddenly he looked like an old maid frightened by a bull. "Treason!"

  There was a footstep outside. Tom turned and saw another monk walk in. Cuthbert said: "This is our new prior."

  Tom recognized the prior. It was Philip, the monk they had met on their way to the bishop's palace, the one who had given them the delicious cheese. Now everything fell into place: the new prior of Kingsbridge was the old prior of the little cell in the forest, and he had brought Jonathan with him when he came here. Tom's heart leaped with optimism. Philip was a kindly man, and he had seemed to like and trust Tom. Surely he would give him a job.

  Philip recognized him. "Hello, Master Builder," he said. "You didn't get much work at the bishop's palace, then?"

  "No, Father. The archdeacon wouldn't hire me, and the bishop wasn't there."

  "Indeed he wasn't--he was in heaven, though we didn't know it at the time."

  "The bishop is dead?"

  "Yes."

  "That's old news," Cuthbert butted in impatiently. "Tom and his family have just come from Earlscastle. Earl Bartholomew has been captured and his castle overrun!"

  Philip was very still. "Already!" he murmured.

  "Already?" Cuthbert repeated. "Why do you say 'already'?" He seemed fond of Philip but wary of him, like a father whose son has been away to war and has come home with a sword in his belt and a slightly dangerous look in his eye. "Did you know this was going to happen?"

  Philip was slightly flustered. "No, not exactly," he said uncertainly. "I had heard a rumor that Earl Bartholomew was opposed to King Stephen." He recovered his composure. "We can all be thankful for this," he announced. "Stephen has promised to protect the Church, whereas Maud might have oppressed us as much as her late father did. Yes, indeed. This is good news." He looked as pleased as if he had done it himself.

  Tom did not want to talk about Earl Bartholomew. "It isn't good news for me," he said. "The earl had hired me, the day before, to strengthen the castle's defenses. I didn't even get a single day's pay."

  "What a shame," said Philip. "Who was it that attacked the castle?"

  "Lord Percy Hamleigh."

  "Ah." Philip nodded, and once again Tom felt his news was only confirming Philip's expectations.

  "You're making some improvements here, then," Tom said, trying to bring the subject around to his own interest.

  "I'm trying," Philip said.

  "You'll want to rebuild the tower, I'm sure."

  "Rebuild the tower, repair the roof, pave the floor--yes, I want to do all of that. And you want the job, of course," he added, apparently having just realized why Tom was here. "I wasn't thinking. I wish I could hire you. But I couldn't pay you, I'm afraid. This monastery is penniless."

  Tom felt as if he had been struck by a fist. He had been confident of getting work here--everything had pointed to it. He could hardly believe his ears. He stared at Philip. It really was not credible that the priory had no money. The cellarer had said it was monks doing all the extra work, but even so, a monastery could always borrow money from the Jews. Tom felt as if this were the end of the road for him. Whatever it was that had kept him going all winter now seemed to drain out of him, and he felt weak and spineless. I can't go on, he thought; I'm finished.

  Philip saw his distress. "I can offer you supper, and a place to sleep, and some breakfast in the morning," he said.

  Tom felt bitterly angry. "I'll accept it," he said, "but I'd rather earn it."

  Philip raised his eyebrows at the note of anger, but he spoke mildly. "Ask God--that's not begging, it's prayer." Then he went out.

  The others looked a little scared, and Tom realized that his anger must be showing. Their staring at him annoyed him. He went out of the storeroom a few steps behind Philip, and stood in the courtyard, looking at the big old church, trying to control his feelings.

  After a moment Ellen and the children followed him out. Ellen put her arm around his waist in a comforting gesture, which made the novices whisper and nudge one another. Tom ignored them. "I'll pray," he said sourly. "I'll pray for a thunderbolt to strike the church and level it to the ground."

  In the last two days Jack had learned to fear the future.

  During his short life he had never had to think farther ahead than tomorrow; but if he had, he would have known what to expect. One day was much like another in the forest, and the seasons changed slowly. Now he did not know, from day to day, where he would be, what he would do or whether he would eat.

  The worst part of it was feeling hungry. Jack had been secretly eating grass and leaves, to try to ease the pangs, but they gave him a different kind of stomachache and made him feel peculiar. Martha often cried because she was so hungry. Jack and Martha always walked together. She looked up to him, and nobody had ever done that before. Being helpless to relieve her suffering was worse than his own hunger.

  If they had still been living in the cave he would have known where to go to kill ducks, or find nuts, or steal eggs; but in towns and villages, and on the unfamiliar roads between them, he was at a loss. All he knew was that Tom had to find work.

  They spent the afternoon in the guesthouse. It was a simple one-room building with a dirt floor and a fireplace in the middle, exactly like the houses peasants lived in, but Jack, who had always lived in a cave, thought it was marvelous. He was curious about how the house was made, and Tom told him. Two young trees had been chopped down, trimmed, and leaned against one another at an angle; then two more had been placed in the same way at four yards distance; and the two triangles thus formed were linked, at their tops, by a ridgepole. Parallel with the ridgepole, light slats were fixed, joining the trees, forming a sloping roof that reached to the ground. Rectangular frames of woven reeds, called hurdles, were laid over the slats, and made waterproof with mud. The gable ends were made of stakes driven into the ground, the chinks between them filled with mud. There was a door in one gable end. There were no windows.

  Jack's mother spread fresh straw on the floor and Jack lit a fire with the flint he always carried. When the others were out of earshot he asked Mother why the prior would not hire Tom, when there was obviously work to be done. "It seems he would rather save his money, so long as the church is still usable," she said. "If the whole church had fallen down, they would be forced to rebuild it, but as it's just the tower, they can live with the damage."

  When the daylight began to soften into dusk, a kitchen hand came to the guesthouse with a cauldron of pottage and a loaf as long as a man is tall, all just for them. The pottage was made with vegetables and herbs and meat bones, and its surface glistened with fat. The loaf was horsebread, made with all kinds of grain, rye and barley and oats, plus dried peas and beans; it was the cheapest bread, Alfred said, but to Jack, who had never eaten bread until a few days ago, it was delicious. Jack ate until his belly ached. Alfred ate until there was nothing left.

  As they sat by the fire trying to digest their feast, Jack said to Alfred: "Why did the tower fall down, anyway?"

  "Probably it was struck by lightning," said Alfred. "Or there might have been a fire."
/>   "But there's nothing to burn," Jack said. "It's all made of stone."

  "The roof isn't stone, stupid," Alfred said scornfully. "The roof is made of wood."

  Jack thought about that for a moment. "And if the roof burns, does the building always fall down?"

  Alfred shrugged. "Sometimes."

  They sat in silence for a while. Tom and Jack's mother were talking in low voices on the other side of the fireplace. Jack said: "It's funny about that baby."

  "What's funny?" Alfred said after a moment.

  "Well, your baby was lost in the forest, miles away, and now here's a baby at the priory."

  Neither Alfred nor Martha seemed to think the coincidence very remarkable, and Jack promptly forgot about it.

  The monks all went to bed immediately after supper, and they did not provide candles for the humbler sort of guest, so Tom's family sat and looked at the fire until it went out, then lay down on the straw.

  Jack stayed awake, thinking. It had occurred to him that if the cathedral were to burn down tonight, all their problems would be solved. The prior would hire Tom to rebuild the church, they would all live here in this fine house, and they would have meat-bone pottage and horsebread for ever and ever.

  If I were Tom, he thought, I'd set fire to the church myself. I'd get up quietly while everyone else was sleeping, and sneak into the church, and start a fire with my flint, then creep back here while it was spreading, and pretend to be asleep when the alarm was raised. And when the people started throwing buckets of water on the flames, as they did when the stables burned at Earl Bartholomew's castle, I'd join in with them, as if I wanted to put out the fire just as much as they did.

  Alfred and Martha were asleep--Jack could tell by their breathing. Tom and Ellen did what they usually did under Tom's cloak (Alfred said it was called "fucking") then they, too, fell asleep. It seemed that Tom was not going to get up and set fire to the cathedral.

  But what was he going to do? Would the family walk the roads until they starved to death?

  When they were all asleep, and he could hear the four of them breathing in the slow, regular rhythm that indicated deep slumber, it occurred to Jack that he could set the cathedral on fire.

  The thought made his heart race with fear.

  He would have to get up very quietly. He could probably unbar the door and slip out without waking anyone. The church doors might be locked, but there would surely be a way to get in, especially for someone small.

  Once inside, he knew how he would reach the roof. He had learned a lot in two weeks with Tom. Tom talked about buildings all the time, mostly addressing his remarks to Alfred; and although Alfred was not interested, Jack was. He had found out, among other things, that all large churches had staircases built into the walls to give access to the higher parts for repair work. He would find a staircase and climb up to the roof.

  He sat up in the dark, listening to the breathing of the others. He could distinguish Tom's by its slightly chesty wheeze, caused (Mother said) by years of inhaling stone dust. Alfred snored once, loudly, then turned over and was silent again.

  Once he had set the fire, he would have to get back to the guesthouse quickly. What would the monks do if they caught him? In Shiring Jack had seen a boy of his own age tied up and flogged for stealing a cone of sugar from a spice shop. The boy had screamed and the springy switch had made his bottom bleed. It had seemed much worse than men killing one another in a battle as they had at Earlscastle, and the vision of the bleeding boy had haunted Jack. He was terrified of the same happening to him.

  If I do this, he thought, I'll never tell a soul.

  He lay down again, pulled his cloak around him, and closed his eyes.

  He wondered if the church door was locked. If it was, he could get in through the windows. Nobody would see him if he stayed on the north side of the close. The monks' dormitory was south of the church, masked by the cloisters, and there was nothing on this side except the graveyard.

  He decided just to go and have a look, to see if it was possible.

  He hesitated a moment longer, then he stood up.

  The new straw crunched under his feet. He listened again to the breathing of the four sleeping people. It was very silent: the mice had stopped moving in the straw. He took a step, and listened again. The others slept on. He lost patience and took three rapid steps to the door. When he stopped, the mice had decided they had nothing to fear, and started scrabbling again, but the people slept on.

  He touched the door with his fingertips, then ran his hands down to the bar. It was an oak beam resting in paired brackets. He got his hands under it, gripped, and lifted. It was heavier than he had expected, and after lifting it less than an inch he had to drop it. The thud it made when it hit the brackets sounded very loud. He froze, listening. Tom's wheezy breathing faltered. What will I say if I'm caught? thought Jack desperately. I'll say I was going outside ... going outside ... I know, I'll say I was going to relieve myself. He relaxed now that he had an excuse. He heard Tom turn over, and waited for the deep, dusty voice, but it did not come, and Tom began to breathe evenly again.

  The edges of the door were outlined with ghostly silver. There must be a moon, Jack thought. He gripped the bar again, took a deep breath, and strained to lift it. This time he was ready for its weight. He raised it and pulled it toward himself, but he had not lifted it high enough, and it failed to clear the brackets. He raised it an inch more, and it came free. He held it against his chest, relieving the strain on his arms a little; then he slowly went down on one knee, then on both, and lowered the bar to the floor. He stayed in that position for a few moments, trying to quiet his breathing, while the ache in his arms eased. There was no sound from the others except the noises of sleep.

  Gingerly, Jack opened the door a crack. Its iron hinge squeaked, and a cold draft came through the opening. He shivered. He wrapped his cloak closer around him and opened the door a little more. He slipped out and closed it behind him.

  The cloud was breaking up, and the moon came and went in the restless sky. There was a cold wind. Jack was momentarily tempted to return to the stuffy warmth of the house. The enormous church with its fallen tower loomed over the rest of the priory, silver and black in the moonlight, its mighty walls and tiny windows making it look more like a castle. It was ugly.

  All was quiet. Outside the priory walls, in the village, there might be a few people sitting up late, drinking ale by the glow of the fireside or sewing by rushlights, but here nothing moved. Still Jack hesitated, looking at the church. It looked back at him accusingly, as if it knew what was on his mind. He shook off the spooky feeling with a shrug, and walked across the broad green to the west end.

  The door was locked.

  He walked around to the north side and looked at the cathedral windows. Some church windows had lengths of translucent linen stretched across them, to keep out the cold, but these seemed to have nothing. They were big enough for him to crawl through, but they were too high to reach. He explored the stonework with his fingers, feeling the cracks in the wall where the mortar had worn away, but they were not big enough to give him toeholds. He needed something to use as a ladder.

  He considered fetching stones from the fallen tower and constructing an improvised staircase, but the unbroken stones were too heavy, and the broken ones were too uneven. He had a feeling that he had seen something, during the course of the day, that would serve his purpose exactly, and he racked his brains to remember it. It was like trying to see something out of the corner of his eye: it always remained just out of sight. Then he glanced across the moonlit graveyard to the stable, and it came back to him: a little wooden mounting block, with two or three steps, to help short people climb on large horses. One of the monks had been standing on it to comb a horse's mane.

  He made his way across to the stable. It was the kind of thing that might not get put away at night, since it was hardly worth stealing. He walked quietly, but the horses heard him all the same, and
one or two of them snorted and coughed. He stopped, frightened. There might be grooms sleeping in the stable. He stood still for a moment, listening for the sound of human movement, but none came, and the horses went quiet.

  He could not see the mounting block. Perhaps it was up against the wall. Jack peered into the moon-shadows. It was hard to see anything. Cautiously, he went right up to the stable and walked along its length. The horses heard him again, and now his closeness made them nervous: one of them whinnied. Jack froze. A man's voice called out: "Quiet, quiet." As he stood there like a scared statue, he saw the mounting block right under his nose, so close that he would have fallen over it with one more step. He waited a few moments. There was no more noise from the stable. He bent down, picked it up, and hefted it on his shoulder. He turned around and padded back across the grass to the church. The stable was quiet.

  When he climbed to the top step of the block he was still not high enough to reach the windows. It was irritating: he could not even look in. He had not finally made up his mind to do the deed, but he did not want to be prevented by practical considerations: he wanted to decide for himself. He wished he were as tall as Alfred.

  There was one more thing to try. He stood back, took a short run, jumped one-footed onto the block, then sprang up. He reached the windowsill easily, and got a grip on the stone frame. With a jerk he pulled himself up until he could half-sit on the sill. But when he tried to crawl through the opening he had a surprise. The window was blocked by iron latticework which he had not seen from outside, presumably because it was black. Jack examined it with both hands, kneeling on the sill. There was no way through: it was probably there specifically to prevent people from getting in when the church was shut.

  Disappointed, he jumped down to the ground. He picked up the mounting block and carried it back to where he had found it. This time the horses made no noise.

  He looked at the fallen northwest tower, on the left-hand side of the main door. He climbed carefully over the stones at the edge of the heap, peering toward the interior of the church, looking for a way through the rubble. When the moon went behind a cloud he waited, shivering, for it to come out again. He was worried that his weight, small though it was, might shift the balance of the stones and cause a landslide, which would wake everyone even if it did not kill him. As the moon reappeared he scanned the pile and decided to risk it. He began to ascend with his heart in his mouth. Most of the stones were firm but one or two wobbled precariously under his weight. It was the kind of climb he would have enjoyed in daylight, with help near at hand and nothing on his conscience; but now he was too anxious, and his normal surefootedness left him. He slipped on a smooth surface and almost fell down; and there he decided to stop.