He had realized, even before the fire-blackened ruins were cold, that this was his chance to build his own cathedral.
Prior Philip was already convinced that God had sent Tom to Kingsbridge. Tom knew he had won Philip’s trust by the efficient way he had begun the process of clearing up and made the priory viable again. When the moment was right he would begin talking to Philip about designs for the new building. If he handled the situation carefully, there was every chance that Philip would ask him to draw the designs. The fact that the new church was likely to be fairly modest made it more probable that the planning might be entrusted to Tom, rather than to a master with more experience of cathedral building. Tom’s hopes were high.
The bell rang for chapter. This was also the sign that the lay workers should go in for breakfast. Tom left the crypt and headed for the refectory. On his way he was confronted by Ellen.
She stood aggressively in front of him, as if to bar his way, and there was an odd look in her eye. Martha and Jack were with her. Jack looked terrible: one eye was closed, the left side of his face was bruised and swollen, and he leaned on his right leg, as if his left could not take any weight. Tom felt sorry for the little chap. “What happened to you?” he said.
Ellen said: “Alfred did this.”
Tom groaned inwardly. For a moment he felt ashamed of Alfred, who was so much bigger than Jack. But Jack was no angel. Perhaps Alfred had been provoked. Tom looked around for his son, and caught sight of him walking toward the refectory, covered with dust. “Alfred!” he bellowed. “Come here.”
Alfred turned around, saw the family group, and approached slowly, looking guilty.
Tom said to him: “Did you do this?”
“He fell off a wall,” Alfred said sullenly.
“Did you push him?”
“I was chasing him.”
“Who started it?”
“Jack called me a name.”
Jack, speaking through swollen lips, said: “I called him a pig because he took our bread.”
“Bread?” said Tom. “Where did you get bread before breakfast?”
“Bernard Baker gave it to us. We fetched firewood for him.”
“You should have shared it with Alfred,” Tom said.
“I would have.”
Alfred said: “Then why did you run away?”
“I was taking it home to Mother,” Jack protested. “Then Alfred ate it all!”
Fourteen years of raising children had taught Tom that there was no prospect of discovering the rights and wrongs of a childish quarrel. “Go to breakfast, all three of you, and if there’s any more fighting today, you, Alfred, will end up with a face like Jack’s, and I’ll be the one who does it to you. Now clear off.”
The children went away.
Tom and Ellen followed at a slower pace. After a moment Ellen said: “Is that all you’re going to say?”
Tom glanced at her. She was still angry, but there was nothing he could do about it. He shrugged. “As usual, both parties are guilty.”
“Tom! How can you say that?”
“One’s as bad as the other.”
“Alfred took their bread. Jack called him a pig. That doesn’t draw blood!”
Tom shook his head. “Boys always fight. You could spend your whole life adjudicating their quarrels. Best to leave them to it.”
“That won’t do, Tom,” she said in a dangerous tone. “Look at Jack’s face, then look at Alfred’s. That’s not the result of a childish fight. That’s a vicious attack by a grown man on a small boy.”
Tom resented her attitude. Alfred was not perfect, he knew, but neither was Jack. Tom did not want Jack to become the pampered favorite in this family. “Alfred’s not a grown man, he’s fourteen years old. But heisworking. He’s making a contribution to the support of the family, and Jack isn’t. Jack plays all day, like a child. In my book that means Jack ought to show Alfred respect. He does no such thing, as you will have noticed.”
