Page 86 of The Pillars of the Earth
Jack took the basket and the two of them ran to the firewood pile behind the kitchen. They loaded the basket with logs, then carried the heavy load between them.
When they got back the oven was already hot, and Bernard emptied their basket directly onto the fire and sent them back for more. Jack’s arms ached but his stomach hurt more, and he hurried to load the basket again.
The second time they returned Bernard was putting tiny loaves of dough on a tray. “Fetch me one more basket, and you shall have hot buns,” he said. Jack’s mouth watered.
They filled the basket extra high the third time, and staggered back, each holding one handle. As they approached the courtyard they met Alfred, walking with a bucket, presumably on his way to fetch water from the channel that ran from the millpond across the green before disappearing underground by the brewery. Alfred hated Jack even more since Jack had put the dead bird in Alfred’s beer. Normally Jack would casually turn and walk the other way when he saw Alfred. Now he wondered whether to drop the basket and run, but that would look cowardly, and besides, he could smell the fragrance of new bread from the bakehouse, and he was ravenous; so he pressed on, with his heart in his mouth.
Alfred laughed at them struggling under a weight he could easily have carried alone. They gave him a wide berth, but he took a couple of steps toward them and gave Jack a shove, knocking him off his feet. Jack fell hard on his bottom, jarring his spine painfully. He dropped his side of the basket and all the firewood tipped out onto the ground. Tears welled up in his eyes, caused by rage rather than pain. It was so unfair that Alfred should be able to do that, without provocation, and get away with it. Jack got up and patiently put the wood back into the basket, pretending for Martha’s benefit not to care. They picked up the basket again and continued on to the bakehouse.
There they had their reward. The tray of buns was cooling on a stone shelf. When they came in Bernard took one, stuffed it in his mouth, and said: “They’re all right. Help yourselves. But careful—they’re hot.”
Jack and Martha each took a bun. Jack bit into his tentatively, afraid of burning his mouth, but it was so delicious that he ate it all in a moment. He looked at the remaining buns. There were nine left. He glanced up at Brother Bernard, who was grinning at him. “I know what you want,” the monk said. “Go on, take the lot.”
Jack lifted the skirt of his cloak and wrapped the rest of the buns in it. “We’ll take them to Mother,” he said to Martha.
“There’s a good boy you are,” Bernard said. “Off you go, then.”
“Thank you, Brother,” Jack said.
They left the bakery and headed for the guesthouse. Jack was thrilled. Mother would be pleased with him for providing such a treat. He was tempted to eat another bun before he handed them over, but he resisted the temptation: it would be so nice to give her such a lot.
As they were crossing the green, they met Alfred again.
He had evidently filled his bucket, returned to the site, and emptied it, and he was now coming back for a refill. Jack decided to look nonchalant and hope that Alfred would ignore him. But the way he was carrying the buns, wrapped in the skirt of his cloak, was too obvious to conceal; and once again Alfred turned toward them.
Jack would have given him a bun willingly, but he knew Alfred would take them all if he got the chance. Jack broke into a run.
Alfred gave chase and soon caught up with him. Alfred stuck out one long leg and tripped Jack, and Jack went flying. The hot buns scattered all over the ground.
Alfred picked one up, wiped a smear of mud off it, and popped it into his mouth. His eyes widened with surprise. “New bread!” he said. He began to pick up the others.
Jack scrambled to his feet and tried to grab one of the fallen buns, but Alfred hit him a hefty swipe with the flat of his hand, knocking him down again. Alfred quickly scooped up the rest of the buns and walked off, munching. Jack burst into tears.
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.
