Page 129 of The Pillars of the Earth

“I want no comforts.”

“Please ...”

“Never.”

She gave up. He was always at least as hard on himself as he was on everyone else. “Very well,” she said, and it came out in a sob.

“Now you’d better go,” he said.

“Already?”

“Yes. This is a place of despair and corruption and death. Now that I’ve seen you, and I know you’re well, and you’ve promised to rebuild what we have lost, I’m content. The only thing that could destroy my happiness would be to see you wasting your time visiting a jailhouse. Now go.”

“Papa, no!” she protested, although she knew it was no use.

“Listen,” he said, and his voice softened at last. “I’ve lived an honorable life, and now I’m going to die. I’ve confessed my sins. I’m ready for eternity. Pray for my soul. Go.”

Aliena leaned forward and kissed his brow. Her tears fell freely on his face. “Goodbye, Father dear,” she whispered. She got to her feet.

Richard bent down and kissed him. “Goodbye, Father,” he said unsteadily.

“May God bless you both, and help you keep your vows,” Father said.

Richard left him the candle. They went to the door. At the threshold Aliena turned and looked back at him in the unsteady light. His fleshless face was set in an expression of calm determination that was very familiar. She looked at him until tears obscured her vision. Then she turned away, went through the lobby of the jailhouse, and stumbled out into the open air.

III

Richard led the way. Aliena was stunned with grief. It was as if Father had already died; but it was worse, for he was still suffering. She heard Richard asking for directions but she paid no attention. She gave no thought to where they were going until he stopped outside a small wooden church with a lean-to hovel beside it. Looking around, Aliena saw that they were in a poor district of small tumbledown houses and filthy streets in which fierce dogs chased rats through the refuse and barefoot children played in the mud. “This must be St. Michael’s,” Richard said.

The lean-to at the side of the church had to be the priest’s house. It had one shuttered window. The door stood open. They went in.

There was a fire in the middle of the single room. The place was furnished with a roughhewn table, a few stools, and a beer barrel in the corner. The floor was strewn with rushes. Near the fire a man sat on a chair drinking from a large cup. He was a small, thin man of about fifty years, with a red nose and wispy gray hair. He wore ordinary everyday clothes, a dirty undershirt with a brown tunic, and clogs.

“Father Ralph?” said Richard dubiously.

“What if I am?” he replied.

Aliena sighed. Why did people manufacture trouble when there was already so much of it in the world? But she had no energy left for dealing with bad temper, so she left it to Richard, who said: “Does that mean yes?”

The question was answered for them. A voice from outside called: “Ralph? Are you in?” A moment later a middle-aged woman came in and gave the priest a hunk of bread and a large bowl of something that smelled like meat stew. For once the smell of meat did not make Aliena’s mouth water: she was too numb even to be hungry. The woman was probably one of Ralph’s parishioners, for her clothes were of the same poor quality as his own. He took the food from her without a word and began to eat. She glanced incuriously at Aliena and Richard and went out again.

Richard said: “Well,FatherRalph, I am the son of Bartholomew, the former earl of Shiring.”

The man paused in his eating and looked up at them. There was hostility in his face, and something else Aliena could not read—fear? Guilt? He returned his attention to his dinner, but mumbled: “What do you want with me?”

Aliena felt a tug of fear.

“You know what I want,” Richard said. “My money. Fifty bezants.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ralph said.

Aliena stared at him incredulously. This could not be happening. Father had left money for them with this priest—he had said so! Father did not make mistakes about such things.

Richard had gone white. He said: “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now piss off.” He took another spoonful of stew.

The man was lying, of course; but what could they do about it? Richard pressed on stubbornly. “My father left money with you—fifty bezants. He told you to give it to me. Where is it?”