The Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follett

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 everywhere .
    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