The Pillars of the Earth - Ken Follett [318]
This is going to be about my father, Jack thought. He ignored Alfred.
One of the carpenters, an older man called Peter, said: “You’d better do what you’re told, prentice boy.” An apprentice was always supposed to obey a master craftsman.
“I’m not Tom’s son,” Jack said. “Tom is my stepfather, and Alfred knows it.”
“Do what he says, all the same,” Peter said in a reasonable tone.
Reluctantly, Jack took Alfred’s money and joined the line. “My father’s name was Jack Shareburg,” he said in a loud voice. “You can all call me Jack Jackson, if you want to make a difference between me and Jack Blacksmith.”
Alfred said: “Jack Bastard is more like it.”
Jack said to the world at large: “Have you ever wondered why Alfred never laces up his boots?” They all looked at Alfred’s feet. Sure enough, his heavy, muddy boots, which were designed to be tied at the top with cords, were loosely open. “It’s so that he can get at his toes quickly—in case he needs to count above ten.” The craftsmen smiled and the apprentices chortled. Jack handed Alfred’s penny to Enid and got a jug of ale. He took it to Alfred and handed it to him with a small satirical bow. Alfred was annoyed, but not very; he still had something up his sleeve. Jack moved away and drank his ale with the apprentices, hoping Alfred would lay off.
It was not to be. A few moments later Alfred followed him, and said: “If Jack Shareburg was my father I wouldn’t be so quick to claim him. Don’t you realize what he was?”
“He was a jongleur,” Jack said. He made himself sound confident, but he was afraid of what Alfred was going to say. “I don’t suppose you know what a jongleur is.”
“He was a thief,” said Alfred.
“Oh, shut up, shithead.” Jack turned away and sipped his beer, but he could hardly swallow. Alfred had a reason for saying this.
“Don’t you know how he died?” Alfred persisted.
This is it, Jack thought; this is what he learned yesterday in Shiring; this is why he’s wearing that stupid grin. He turned around reluctantly and faced Alfred. “No, I don’t know how my father died, Alfred, but I think you’re going to tell me.”
“He was hanged by the neck, like the lousy thief he was.”
Jack gave an involuntary cry of anguish. He knew intuitively that this was true. Alfred was so completely sure of himself that he could not be making it up. And Jack saw in a flash that this explained his mother’s reticence. For years he had secretly dreaded something like this. All the time he had pretended there was nothing wrong, he was not a bastard, he had a real father with a real name. In fact he had always feared that there was a disgrace about his father, that the taunts were valid, that he really did have something to be ashamed of. He was already low: Aliena’s rejection had left him feeling worthless and small. Now the truth about his father hit him like a blow.
Alfred stood there smiling, inordinately pleased with himself: the effect of his revelation had delighted him. His expression maddened Jack. It was bad enough, for Jack, that his father had been hanged. That Alfred was happy about it was too much to bear. Without thinking, Jack threw his beer in Alfred’s grinning face.
The other apprentices, who had been watching the two stepbrothers and enjoying the altercation, hastily moved a step or two back. Alfred dashed the beer from his eyes, roared with anger, and lashed out with one huge fist, a surprisingly quick movement for such a big man. The blow connected with Jack’s cheek, so hard that instead of hurting, it just went numb. Before he had time to react, Alfred’s other fist sank into his middle. This punch hurt terribly. Jack felt as if he would never breathe again. He crumpled and fell to the ground. As he landed, Alfred kicked him in the head with one heavy boot, and for a moment he saw nothing but white light.
He rolled over blindly and struggled to his feet. But Alfred was not yet satisfied. As Jack came upright he felt himself grabbed. He began to wriggle. He was frightened now. Alfred