Page 35 of The Pillars of the Earth

As he drew nearer he could see them more clearly. They were a tall man, a small woman, a youth almost as big as the man, and two children. They were visibly poor: they carried no little bundles of precious possessions and they were dressed in rags. The man was big-boned, but emaciated, as if he were dying of a wasting disease—or just starving. He looked warily at Philip, and drew the children closer to him with a touch and a murmured word. Philip had at first guessed his age at fifty, but now he saw that the man was in his thirties, although his face was lined with care.

The woman said: “What ho, monk.”

Philip looked sharply at her. It was unusual for a woman to speak before her husband did, and whilemonkwas not exactly impolite, it would have been more respectful to saybrotherorfather.The woman was younger than the man by about ten years, and she had deep-set eyes of an unusual pale gold color that gave her a rather arresting appearance. Philip felt she was dangerous.

“Good day, Father,” the man said, as if to apologize for his wife’s brusqueness.

“God bless you,” said Philip, slowing his mare. “Who are you?”

“Tom, a master builder, seeking work.”

“And not finding any, I’d guess.”

“That’s the truth.”

Philip nodded. It was a common story. Building craftsmen normally wandered in search of work, and sometimes they did not find it, either through bad luck or because not many people were building. Such men often took advantage of the hospitality of monasteries. If they had recently been in work they gave generous donations when they left, although after they had been on the road a while they might have nothing to offer. Giving an equally warm welcome to both kinds was sometimes a trial of monastic charity.

This builder was definitely the penniless kind, although his wife looked well enough. Philip said: “Well, I have food in my saddlebag, and it is dinnertime, and charity is a holy duty; so if you and your family will eat with me, I shall get a reward in heaven, as well as some company while I dine.”

“That’s good of you,” said Tom. He looked at the woman. She gave the slightest of shrugs, then a little nod. Almost without pause the man said: “We’ll accept your charity, and thank you.”

“Thank God, not me,” Philip said automatically.

The woman said: “Thank the peasants whose tithes provided the food.”

Here’s a sharp one, Philip thought; but he said nothing.

They stopped at a small clearing where Philip’s pony could graze the tired winter grass. Philip was secretly glad of the excuse to postpone his arrival at the palace and delay the dreaded interview with the bishop. The builder said that he too was heading for the bishop’s palace, hoping that the bishop might want to make repairs or even build an extension. While they were talking, Philip surreptitiously studied the family. The woman seemed too young to be the mother of the older boy. He was like a calf, strong and awkward and stupid-looking. The other boy was small and odd, with carrot-colored hair, snow-white skin and protuberant bright-blue eyes; and he had a way of staring intently at things, with an absent expression that reminded Philip of poor Johnny Eightpence, except that unlike Johnny this boy would give you a very adult, knowing look when you caught his eye. In his way he was as disturbing as his mother, Philip found. The third child was a girl of about six years. She was crying intermittently, and her father watched her constantly with affectionate concern, and gave her a comforting pat from time to time, although he said nothing to her. He was evidently very fond of her. He also touched his wife, once, and Philip saw a look of lust flash between them when their eyes met.

The woman sent the children to find broad leaves to use as platters. Philip opened his saddlebags. Tom said: “Where is your monastery, Father?”

“In the forest, a day’s journey from here, to the west.” The woman looked up sharply, and Tom raised his eyebrows. “Do you know it?” Philip asked.

For some reason Tom looked awkward. “We must have passed near it on the way from Salisbury,” he said.

“Oh, yes, you would have, but it’s a long way off the main road, so you wouldn’t have seen it, unless you knew where it was and went to find it.”

“Ah, I see,” said Tom, but his mind seemed to be elsewhere.

Philip was struck by a thought. “Tell me something—did you come across a woman on the road? Probably very young, alone, and, ah, with child?”

“No,” said Tom. His tone was casual but Philip had the feeling he was intensely interested. “Why do you ask?”

Philip smiled. “I’ll tell you. Early yesterday a baby was found in the forest and brought to my monastery. It’s a boy, and I don’t think he was even as much as a day old. He must have been born that night. So the mother must have been in the area at the same time as you.”

“We didn’t see anyone,” Tom repeated. “What did you do with the baby?”

“Fed him goat’s milk. He seems to be thriving on it.”

They were both looking at Philip intently. It was, he thought, a story to touch anyone’s heart. After a moment Tom said: “And you’re searching for the mother?”

“Oh, no. My question was casual. If I came across her, of course, I would give the baby back to her; but it’s clear she doesn’t want it, and she’ll make sure she can’t be found.”

“Then what will happen to the boy?”

“We’ll raise him at the monastery. He’ll be a child of God. That’s how I myself was brought up, and my brother too. Our parents were taken from us when we were young, and after that the abbot was our father, and the monks were our family. We were fed, we were warm, and we learned our letters.”

The woman said: “And you both became monks.” She said it with a touch of irony, as if it proved that the monastery’s charity was ultimately self-interested.