The Pillars of the Earth - Ken Follett [520]
When Francis had done, Philip began to speak. “That baby was not mine,” he said simply. “I swear it was not mine, in peril of my immortal soul I swear it. I have never had carnal knowledge of a woman, and I remain to this day in that state of chastity commended to us by the Apostle Paul. So why, the lord bishop asks, did I treat the babe as if it were my own?”
He looked around at the listeners. He had decided that his only chance was to tell the truth and hope that God would speak loud enough to overcome Peter’s spiritual deafness. “When I was six years old, my father and mother died. They were killed by soldiers of the old King Henry, in Wales. My brother and I were saved by the abbot of a nearby monastery, and from that day onward we were cared for by monks. I was a monastery orphan. I know what it’s like. I understand how the orphan yearns for a mother’s touch, even though he loves the brothers who care for him. I knew that Jonathan would feel abnormal, peculiar, illegitimate. I have felt that feeling of isolation, the sense that I am different from everyone else because they all have a father and a mother and I do not. Like him, I have felt ashamed of myself for being a burden on the charity of others; have wondered what was wrong with me, that I should have been deprived of what others took for granted. I knew that he would dream, in the night, of the warm, fragrant bosom and soft voice of a mother he never knew, someone who loved him utterly and completely.”
Archdeacon Peter’s face was like stone. He was the worst kind of Christian, Philip realized: he embraced all of the negatives, enforced every proscription, insisted on all forms of denial, and demanded strict punishment for every offense; yet he ignored all the compassion of Christianity, denied its mercy, flagrantly disobeyed its ethic of love, and openly flouted the gentle laws of Jesus. That’s what the Pharisees were like, Philip thought; no wonder the Lord preferred to eat with publicans and sinners.
He went on, although he understood, with a sinking heart, that nothing he could say would penetrate the armor of Peter’s righteousness. “Nobody could care for that boy as I could, unless it were his own parents; and those we never could find. What clearer indication of God’s will....” He tailed off. Jonathan had just come into the church, with Jack; and between them was the witch, Jack’s mother.
She had aged: her hair was snow-white, and her face was deeply lined. But she walked in like a queen, her head held high, her strange golden eyes blazing with defiance. Philip was too surprised to protest.
The court was silent as she entered the transept and stood facing Archdeacon Peter. She spoke in a voice that rang like a trumpet, and echoed from the clerestory of her son’s church. “I swear by all that is holy that Jonathan is the son of Tom Builder, my dead husband, and his first wife.”
There was an astonished clamor from the crowd of clergy. For a while nobody could be heard. Philip was completely bowled over. He stared openmouthed at Ellen. Tom Builder? Jonathan was the son of Tom Builder? When he looked at Jonathan he knew immediately that it was true: they were alike, not just in their height, but facially. If Jonathan had had a beard it would have been obvious.
His first reaction was a sense of loss. Until now, he had been the nearest Jonathan had to a father. But Tom was Jonathan’s real father, and although Tom was dead, the discovery changed everything. Philip could no longer secretly think of himself as a father; Jonathan would no longer feel like his son. Jonathan was Tom