The Pillars of the Earth - Ken Follett [41]
Tom was mystified. “Why?”
“You abandoned a baby. It counts as murder. Let’s spy on the place from the woods and see what kind of people they are.”
Tom did not think he was going to be in trouble, given the circumstances, but there was no harm in being cautious, so he nodded assent and followed Ellen into the undergrowth. A few moments later they were lying at the edge of the clearing.
It was a very small monastery. Tom had built monasteries, and he guessed this one must be what they called a cell, a branch or outpost of a large priory or abbey. There were only two stone buildings, the chapel and the dormitory. The rest were made of wood and wattle-and-daub: a kitchen, stables, a barn, and a range of smaller agricultural buildings. The place had a clean, well-kept look, and gave the impression that the monks did as much farming as praying.
There were not many people about. “Most of the monks have gone to work,” Ellen said. “They’re building a barn at the top of the hill.” She glanced up at the sky. “They’ll be back around noon for their dinner.”
Tom scanned the clearing. Over to their right, partly concealed by a small herd of tethered goats, he saw two figures. “Look,” he said, pointing. As they studied the two figures he saw something else. “The man sitting down is a priest, and ...”
“And he’s holding something in his lap.”
“Let’s go closer.”
They moved through the woods, skirting the clearing, and emerged at a point close to the goats. Tom’s heart was in his mouth as he looked at the priest sitting on a stool. He had a baby in his lap, and the baby was Tom’s. There was a lump in Tom’s throat. It was true, it really was; the baby had lived. He felt like throwing his arms around the priest and hugging him.
There was a young monk with the priest. Looking closely, Tom saw that the youngster was dipping a rag into a pail of milk—goat’s milk, presumably—and then putting the sodden corner of the rag into the baby’s mouth. That was ingenious.
“Well,” Tom said apprehensively, “I’d better go and own up to what I’ve done, and take my son back.”
Ellen looked at him levelly. “Think for a moment, Tom,” she said. “What are you going to do then?”
He was not sure what she was getting at. “Ask the monks for milk,” he said. “They can see I’m poor. They give alms.”
“And then?”
“Well, I hope they’ll give me enough milk to keep him alive for three days, until I get to Winchester.”
“And after that?” she persisted. “How will you feed the baby then?”
“Well, I’ll look for work—”
“You’ve been looking for work since last time I met you, at the end of the summer,” she said. She seemed to be a little angry with Tom, he could not see why. “You’ve no money and no tools,” she went on. “What will happen to the baby if there’s no work in Winchester?”
“I don’t know,” Tom said. He felt hurt that she should speak so harshly to him. “What am I to do—live like you? I can’t shoot ducks with a stone—I’m a mason.”
“You could leave the baby here,” she said.
Tom was thunderstruck. “Leave him?” he said. “When I’ve only just found him?”
“You’d be sure he’d be warm and fed. You wouldn’t have to carry him while you look for work. And when you do find something, you can come back here and fetch the child.”
Tom’s instinct rebelled against the whole idea. “I don’t know,” he said. “What would the monks think of my abandoning the baby?”
“They already know you did that,” she said impatiently. “It’s just a question of whether you confess now or later.”
“Do monks know how to take care of babies?”
“They know as much about it as you do.”
“I doubt it.”
“Well, they’ve worked out how to feed a newborn who can only suck.”
Tom began to see that she was right. Much as he longed to hold the tiny bundle in his arms, he could not deny that the monks were better able to care for the baby than he was. He had no food and no money and no sure prospect of getting work. “Leave him again,” he said sadly. “I suppose I must.” He stayed where he was, gazing across the clearing at the small figure in the priest