The Pillars of the Earth - Ken Follett [118]
Tom asked a blushing novice where the cellarer was to be found. Strictly speaking, it was the sacrist he should have asked for, because the fabric of the church was the sacrist’s responsibility; but cellarers as a class were more approachable. In the end the prior would make the decision, anyway. The novice directed him to the undercroft of one of the buildings around the courtyard. Tom went in through an open doorway, and Ellen and the children followed. They all paused inside the door to peer into the gloom.
This building was newer and more soundly constructed than the church, Tom could tell at once. The air was dry and there was no smell of rot. Indeed, the mixed aromas of the stored food gave him painful stomach pangs, for he had not eaten in two days. As his eyes adjusted he saw that the undercroft had a good flagstone floor, short thick pillars, and a tunnel-vaulted ceiling. A moment later he noticed a tall, bald man spooning salt from a barrel into a pot. “Are you the cellarer?” said Tom, but the man held up a hand for silence, and Tom saw that he was counting. They all waited in silence for him to finish. At last he said: “Two score and nineteen, three score,” and put the spoon down.
Tom said: “I’m Tom, master builder, and I’d like to rebuild your northwest tower.”
“I’m Cuthbert, called Whitehead, the cellarer, and I’d like to see it done,” the man replied. “But we’ll have to ask Prior Philip. You’ll have heard that we have a new prior?”
“Yes.” Cuthbert was the friendly sort of monk, Tom decided; worldly and easygoing. He would be happy to chat. “And the new man seems intent on improving the appearance of the monastery.”
Cuthbert nodded. “But he’s not so keen on paying for it. Did you notice that all the work is being done by monks? He won’t hire any workmen—says the priory already has too many servants.”
That was bad news. “How do the monks feel about that?” Tom asked delicately.
Cuthbert laughed, and his wrinkled face creased up even more. “You’re a tactful man, Tom Builder. You’re thinking that you don’t often see monks working so hard. Well, the new prior’s not forcing anyone. But he interprets the Rule of Saint Benedict in such a way that those who do physical labor may eat red meat and drink wine, whereas those who merely study and pray must live on salt fish and weak beer. He can show you an elaborate theoretical justification for it, too, but the upshot is that he has plenty of volunteers for the hard work, especially among the youngsters.” Cuthbert did not seem disapproving, just bemused.
Tom said: “But monks can’t build stone walls, no matter how well they eat.” As he spoke, he heard a baby cry. The sound tugged at his heartstrings. It took him a moment to realize how odd it was that there should be a baby in a monastery.
“We’ll ask the prior,” Cuthbert was saying, but Tom hardly heard. It sounded like the cry of a very small baby, just a week or two old, and it was coming nearer. Tom caught Ellen’s eye. She looked startled too. Then there was a shadow in the door. Tom had a lump in his throat. A monk walked in carrying the baby. Tom looked at its face. It was his child.
Tom swallowed hard. The baby’s face was red, its fists were clenched, and its mouth was open, showing toothless gums. Its cry was not the cry of pain or sickness, just a simple demand for food. It was the healthy, lusty yell of a normal baby, and Tom felt weak with relief to see his son looking so well.
The monk carrying him was a cheerful-looking boy of about twenty years, with unruly hair and a big, rather stupid grin. Unlike most of the monks, he did not react to the presence of a woman. He smiled at everyone and then spoke to Cuthbert. “Jonathan needs more milk.”
Tom wanted to take the child in his arms. He tried