The Pillars of the Earth - Ken Follett [147]
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.
A moment later he realized he had run the wrong way. There was no way out of that end of the cathedral. He had made a mistake. He realized, with a sinking heart, that he was going to get hurt.
The upper half of the east end had fallen in, and the stones were piled up against what remained of the wall. Having nowhere else to go, Jack scrambled up the pile with Alfred hot on his heels. He reached the top and saw in front of him a sheer drop of about fifteen feet. He teetered fearfully on the edge. It was too far to jump without hurting himself. Alfred made a grab for his ankle. Jack lost his balance. For a moment he stood with one foot on the wall and the other in the air, windmilling his arms in an attempt to regain his footing. Alfred kept hold of his ankle. Jack felt himself falling inexorably the wrong way. Alfred held on a moment longer, unbalancing Jack further, then let go. Jack fell through the air, unable to right himself, and he heard himself scream. He landed on his left side. The impact was terrific. By an unlucky chance his face hit a stone.
Everything went black for a moment.
When he opened his eyes Alfred was standing over him—he must have clambered down the wall somehow—and beside him was one of the older monks. Jack recognized the monk: it was Remigius, the sub-prior. Remigius caught his eye and said: “Get up, lad.”
Jack was not sure he could. He could not move his left arm. The left side of his face was numb. He sat upright. He had thought he was going to