The Pillars of the Earth Page 8

  Agnes tensed again, and fresh beads of sweat appeared on her contorted face. This is it, thought Tom. He was frightened. He watched the opening widen again, and this time he could see, by the light of the fire, the damp black hair of the baby's head pushing through. He thought of praying but there was no time now. Agnes began to breathe in short, fast gasps. The opening stretched wider--impossibly wide-- and then the head began to come through, face-down. A moment later Tom saw the wrinkled ears flat against the side of the baby's head; then he saw the folded skin of the neck. He could not yet see whether the baby was normal.

  "The head is out," he said, but Agnes knew that already, of course, for she could feel it; and she had relaxed again. Slowly the baby turned, so that Tom could see the closed eyes and mouth, wet with blood and the slippery fluids of the womb.

  Martha cried: "Oh! Look at its little face!"

  Agnes heard her and smiled briefly, then began to strain again. Tom leaned forward between her thighs and supported the tiny head with his left hand as the shoulders came out, first one then the other. Then the rest of the body emerged in a rush, and Tom put his right hand under the baby's hips and held it as the tiny legs slithered into the cold world.

  Agnes's opening immediately started to close around the pulsing blue cord that came from the baby's navel.

  Tom lifted the baby and scrutinized it anxiously. There was a lot of blood, and at first he feared something was terribly wrong; but on closer examination he could see no injury. He looked between its legs. It was a boy.

  "It looks horrible!" said Martha.

  "He's perfect," Tom said, and he felt weak with relief. "A perfect boy."

  The baby opened its mouth and cried.

  Tom looked at Agnes. Their eyes met, and they both smiled.

  Tom held the tiny baby close to his chest. "Martha, fetch me a bowl of water out of that pot." She jumped up to do his bidding. "Where are those rags, Agnes?" Agnes pointed to the linen bag lying on the ground beside her shoulder. Alfred passed it to Tom. The boy's face was running with tears. It was the first time he had seen a child born.

  Tom dipped a rag into a bowl of warm water and gently washed the blood and mucus off the baby's face. Agnes unbuttoned the front of her tunic and Tom put the baby in her arms. He was still squalling. As Tom watched, the blue cord that went from the baby's belly to Agnes's groin stopped pulsing and shriveled, turning white.

  Tom said to Martha: "Give me those strings you made. Now you'll see what they're for."

  She passed him the two lengths of plaited reeds. He tied them around the birth cord in two places, pulling the knots tight. Then he used his knife to cut the cord between the knots.

  He sat back on his haunches. They had done it. The worst was over and the baby was well. He felt proud.

  Agnes moved the baby so that his face was at her breast. His tiny mouth found her enlarged nipple, and he stopped crying and started to suck.

  Martha said in an amazed voice: "How does he know he should do that?"

  "It's a mystery," said Tom. He handed the bowl to her and said: "Get your mother some fresh water to drink."

  "Oh, yes," said Agnes gratefully, as if she had just realized she was desperately thirsty. Martha brought the water and Agnes drank the bowl dry. "That was wonderful," she said. "Thank you."

  She looked down at the suckling baby, then up at Tom. "You're a good man," she said quietly. "I love you."

  Tom felt tears come to his eyes. He smiled at her, then dropped his gaze. He saw that she was still bleeding a lot. The shriveled birth cord, which was still slowly coming out, lay curled in a pool of blood on Tom's cloak between Agnes's legs.

  He looked up again. The baby had stopped sucking and fallen asleep. Agnes pulled her cloak over him, then her own eyes closed.

  After a moment, Martha said to Tom: "Are you waiting for something?"

  "The afterbirth," Tom told her.

  "What's that?"

  "You'll see."

  Mother and baby dozed for a while, then Agnes opened her eyes again. Her muscles tensed, her opening dilated a little, and the placenta emerged. Tom picked it up in his hands and looked at it. It was like something on a butcher's slab. Looking more closely, he saw that it seemed to be torn, as if there were a piece missing. But he had never looked this closely at an afterbirth, and he supposed they were always like this, for they must always have broken away from the womb. He put the thing on the fire. It made an unpleasant smell as it burned, but if he had thrown it away it might have attracted foxes, or even a wolf.

  Agnes was still bleeding. Tom remembered that there was always a rush of blood with the afterbirth, but he did not recall so much. He realized that the crisis was not yet over. He felt faint for a moment, from strain and lack of food; but the spell passed and he pulled himself together.

  "You're still bleeding, a little," he said to Agnes, trying not to sound as worried as he was.

  "It will stop soon," she said. "Cover me."

  Tom buttoned the skirt of her dress, then wrapped her cloak around her legs.

  Alfred said: "Can I have a rest now?"

  He was still kneeling behind Agnes, supporting her. He must be numb, Tom thought, from staying so long in the same position. "I'll take your place," Tom said. Agnes would be more comfortable with the baby if she could stay half-upright, he thought; and also a body behind her would keep her back warm and shield her from the wind. He changed places with Alfred. Alfred grunted with pain as he stretched his young legs. Tom wrapped his arms around Agnes and the baby. "How do you feel?" he asked her.

  "Just tired."

  The baby cried. Agnes moved him so that he could find her nipple. As he suckled, she seemed to sleep.

  Tom was uneasy. It was normal to be tired, but there was a lethargy about Agnes that bothered him. She was too weak.

  The baby slept, and after a while the other two children fell asleep, Martha curled up beside Agnes, and Alfred stretched out on the far side of the fire. Tom held Agnes in his arms, stroking her gently. Every now and again he would kiss the top of her head. He felt her body relax as she fell into a deeper and deeper sleep. It was probably the best thing for her, he decided. He touched her cheek. Her skin was clammy, despite all his efforts to keep her warm. He reached inside her cloak and touched the baby's chest. The child was warm and his heart was beating strongly. Tom smiled. A tough baby, he thought; a survivor.

  Agnes stirred. "Tom?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you remember the night I came to you, in your lodge, when you were working on my father's church?"

  "Of course," he said, patting her. "How could I ever forget?"

  "I never regretted giving myself to you. Never, for one moment. Every time I think of that night, I feel so glad."

  He smiled. That was good to know. "Me, too," he said. "I'm glad you did."

  She dozed for a while, then spoke again. "I hope you build your cathedral," she said.

  He was surprised. "I thought you were against it."

  "I was, but I was wrong. You deserve something beautiful."

  He did not know what she meant.

  "Build a beautiful cathedral for me," she said.

  She was not making sense. He was glad when she fell asleep again. This time her body went quite limp, and her head leaned sideways. Tom had to support the baby to prevent him falling off her chest.

  They lay like that for a long time. Eventually the baby woke again and cried. Agnes did not respond. The crying woke Alfred, and he rolled over and looked at his baby brother.

  Tom shook Agnes gently. "Wake up," he said. "The baby wants to feed."

  "Father!" said Alfred in a scared voice. "Look at her face!"

  Tom was filled with foreboding. She had bled too much. "Agnes!" he said. "Wake up!" There was no response. She was unconscious. He got up, easing her back until she lay flat on the ground. Her face was ghastly white.

  Dreading what he would see, he unwrapped the folds of the cloak from around her thighs.
/>   There was blood every where.

  Alfred gasped and turned away.

  Tom whispered: "Christ Jesus save us."

  The baby's crying woke Martha. She saw the blood and began to scream. Tom picked her up and smacked her face. She became silent. "Don't scream," he said calmly, and put her down again.

  Alfred said: "Is Mother dying?"

  Tom put his hand on Agnes's chest, just underneath her left breast. There was no heartbeat.

  No heartbeat.

  He pressed harder. Her flesh was warm, and the underside of her heavy breast touched his hand, but she was not breathing, and there was no heartbeat.

  A numb coldness settled over Tom like a fog. She was gone. He stared at her face. How could she not be there? He willed her to move, to open her eyes, to draw breath. He kept his hand on her chest. Sometimes a heart might start again, people said--but she had lost so much blood....

  He looked at Alfred. "Mother is dead," he whispered. Alfred stared at him dumbly. Martha began to cry. The new baby was crying too. I must take care of them, Tom thought. I must be strong for them.

  But he wanted to weep, to put his arms around her and hold her body while it cooled, and remember her as a girl, and laughing, and making love. He wanted to sob with rage and shake his fist at the merciless heavens. He hardened his heart. He had to stay controlled, he had to be strong for the children.

  No tears came to his eyes.

  He thought: What do I do first?

  Dig a grave.

  I must dig a deep hole, and lay her in it, to keep the wolves off, and preserve her bones until the Day of Judgment; and then say a prayer for her soul. Oh, Agnes, why have you left me alone?

  The new baby was still crying. His eyes were screwed tightly shut and his mouth opened and closed rhythmically, as if he could get sustenance from the air. He needed feeding. Agnes's breasts were full of warm milk. Why not? thought Tom. He shifted the baby toward her breast. The child found a nipple and sucked. Tom pulled Agnes's cloak tighter around the baby.

  Martha was watching, wide-eyed, sucking her thumb. Tom said to her: "Could you hold the baby there, so he doesn't fall?"

  She nodded and knelt beside the dead woman and the baby.

  Tom picked up the spade. She had chosen this spot to rest, and she had sat under the branches of the chestnut tree. Let this be her last resting-place, then. He swallowed hard, fighting an urge to sit on the ground and weep. He marked a rectangle on the ground some yards from the trunk of the tree, where there would be no roots near the surface; then he began to dig.

  He found it helped. When he concentrated on driving his shovel into the hard ground and lifting the earth, the rest of his mind went blank and he was able to retain his composure. He took turns with Alfred, for he too could take comfort in repetitious physical labor. They dug fast, driving themselves hard, and despite the bitter cold air they both sweated as if it were noon.

  A time came when Alfred said: "Isn't this enough?" Tom realized that he was standing in a hole almost as deep as he was tall. He did not want the job to be finished. He nodded reluctantly. "It will do," he said. He clambered out.

  Dawn had broken while he was digging. Martha had picked up the baby and was sitting by the fire, rocking it. Tom went to Agnes and knelt down. He wrapped her cloak tightly around her, leaving her face visible, then picked her up. He walked over to the grave and put her down beside it. Then he climbed into the hole.

  He lifted her down and laid her gently on the earth. He looked at her for a long moment, kneeling there beside her in her cold grave. He kissed her lips once, softly. Then he closed her eyes.

  He climbed out of the grave. "Come here, children," he said. Alfred and Martha came and stood either side of him, Martha holding the baby. Tom put an arm around each of them. They looked into the grave. Tom said: "Say: 'God bless Mother.' "

  They both said: "God bless Mother."

  Martha was sobbing, and there were tears in Alfred's eyes. Tom hugged them both and swallowed his tears.

  He released them and picked up the shovel. Martha screamed when he threw the first shovelful of earth into the grave. Alfred put his arms around his sister. Tom kept on shoveling. He could not bear to throw earth on her face, so he covered her feet, then her legs and body, and piled the earth high so that it formed a mound, and every shovelful slid downward, until at last there was earth on her neck, then over the mouth he had kissed, and finally her face disappeared, never to be seen again.

  He filled the grave up quickly.

  When it was done he stood looking at the mound. "Goodbye, dear," he whispered. "You were a good wife, and I love you."

  With an effort he turned away.

  His cloak was still on the ground where Agnes had lain on it to give birth. The lower half of it was sodden with congealed and drying blood. He took his knife and roughly cut the cloak in half. He threw the bloodied portion on the fire.

  Martha was still holding the baby. "Give him to me," Tom said. She gazed at him with fear in her eyes. He wrapped the naked baby in the clean half of the cloak and laid it on the grave. The baby cried.

  He turned to the children. They were staring at him dumbly. He said: "We have no milk, to keep the baby alive, so he must lie here with his mother."

  Martha said: "But he'll die!"

  "Yes," Tom said, controlling his voice tightly. "Whatever we do, he will die." He wished the baby would stop crying.

  He collected their possessions and put them in the cooking pot, then strapped the pot to his back the way Agnes always did.

  "Let's go," he said.

  Martha began to sob. Alfred was white-faced. They set off down the road in the gray light of a cold morning. Eventually the sound of the baby crying faded to nothing.

  It was no good to stay by the grave, for the children would be unable to sleep there and no purpose would be served by an all-night vigil. Besides, it would do them all good to keep moving.

  Tom set a fast pace, but his thoughts were now free, and he could no longer control them. There was nothing to do but walk: no arrangements to make, no jobs to do, nothing to be organized, nothing to look at but the gloomy forest and the shadows fidgeting in the light of the torches. He would think of Agnes, and follow the trail of some memory, and smile to himself, then turn to tell her what he had remembered; then the shock of realizing that she was dead would strike like a physical pain. He felt bewildered, as if something totally incomprehensible had happened, although of course it was the most ordinary thing in the world for a woman of her age to die in childbirth, and for a man of his age to be left a widower. But the sense of loss was like a wound. He had heard that people who had the toes chopped off one foot could not stand up, but fell over constantly until they learned to walk again. He felt like that, as if part of him had been amputated, and he could not get used to the idea that it was gone forever.

  He tried not to think about her, but he kept remembering how she had looked before she died. It seemed incredible that she had been alive just a few hours ago, and now she was gone. He pictured her face as she strained to give birth, and then her proud smile as she looked at the baby boy. He recalled what she had said to him afterward: I hope you build your cathedral; and then, Build a beautiful cathedral for me. She had spoken as if she knew she was dying.

  As he walked on, he thought more and more about the baby he had left, wrapped in half a cloak, lying on top of a new grave. He was probably still alive, unless a fox had smelled him already. He would die before morning, however. He would cry for a while, then close his eyes, and his life would slip away as he grew cold in his sleep.

  Unless a fox smelled him.

  There was nothing Tom could do for the baby. He needed milk to survive, and there was none: no villages where Tom could seek a wet-nurse, no sheep or goat or cow that could provide the nearest equivalent. All Tom had to give him were turnips, and they would kill him as surely as the fox.

  As the night wore on, it seemed to him more and more dreadful tha
t he had abandoned the baby. It was a common enough thing, he knew: peasants with large families and small farms often exposed babies to die, and sometimes the priest turned a blind eye; but Tom did not belong to that kind of people. He should have carried it in his arms until it died, and then buried it. There was no purpose to that, of course, but all the same it would have been the right thing to do.

  He realized that it was daylight.

  He stopped suddenly.

  The children stood still and stared at him, waiting. They were ready for anything; nothing was normal anymore.

  "I shouldn't have left the baby," Tom said.

  Alfred said: "But we can't feed him. He's bound to die."

  "Still I shouldn't have left him," Tom said.

  Martha said: "Let's go back."

  Still Tom hesitated. To go back now would be to admit he had done wrong to abandon the baby.

  But it was true. He had done wrong.

  He turned around. "All right," he said. "We'll go back."

  Now all the dangers which he had earlier tried to discount suddenly seemed more probable. For sure a fox had smelled the baby by now, and dragged him off to its lair. Or even a wolf. The wild boars were dangerous, even though they did not eat meat. And what about owls? An owl could not carry off a baby, but it might peck out its eyes--

  He walked faster, feeling light-headed with exhaustion and starvation. Martha had to run to keep up with him, but she did not complain.

  He dreaded what he might see when he returned to the grave. Predators were merciless, and they could tell when a living creature was helpless.

  He was not sure how far they had walked: he had lost his sense of time. The forest on either side looked unfamiliar, even though he had just passed through it. He looked anxiously for the place where the grave was. Surely the fire could not have gone out yet--they had built it so high.... He scrutinized the trees, looking for the distinctive leaves of the horse chestnut. They passed a side turning which he did not remember, and he began to wonder crazily whether he could possibly have passed the grave already and not seen it; then he thought he saw a faint orange glow ahead.

  His heart seemed to falter. He quickened his step and narrowed his eyes. Yes, it was a fire. He broke into a run. He heard Martha cry out, as if she thought he was leaving her, and he called over his shoulder: "We're there!" and heard the two children running after him.