And he had gone. But it was certain the woman had found no peace in him, and he had none to offer. He had left her repulsive hovel as quickly as he could.
But the Bishop’s encouragement had meant a great deal to him, and he was determined to rise to the Bishop’s notice and blessing, if only for the assuredness he might garner from one much greater than himself. Perhaps some of that beauty of spirit would rub off on him, if he could contrive to gain the Bishop’s presence more often. Ah yes, he would find some excuse by which he might petition the Bishop’s presence to this rotten town once more. And with this he thought he must not seek to bring so much of a lull to the townsfolk’s ferment as he had earlier hoped. In this way, he knew he must walk a fine line, which being at least modestly calculating in his temperament was a project within his means, and one that would keep his thoughts much occupied, and certainly less so on the problems of his parish and the frailties in himself.
‘’E’s off o’er there boy, yer brother is,’ said a nearby stonemason to Dem..
Dem had climbed to the uppermost turret, still largely complete at the east end, but with some crumbled edges that a group of men now worked at. Thurston was among them, heaving cracked and broken tiles over the edge to an area below where they smashed even more, to be swept and carried away later by some other worker. Thurston yelped and hollered at the thrill of each toss, sometimes heaving large pieces of stone way out beyond the low turret wall, older men grinning and occasionally tut-tutting at the young boy’s spirit.
‘I ’ear Bishop’s aground there, boy. You best not ‘it ’im,’ one man called out to the amusement of others.
Thurstan laughed and peered over the edge to check who or what was below.
‘Na, is nuthin’ there ‘t’all,’ he replied, momentarily tottering at the edge for effect.
‘Thurstan!’ yelled Dem. ‘Ya damn fool! Ger’on with yer work an’ stop that larkin’.’
‘Dem! Come ‘n’ look ’ere! Look! Ya’ can see forever!’
Thurstan scrambled to the top of a pile of rubble at the edge of the wall, and spread his arms like a great bird looking to fly from the turret up into the clear sky and over the great city. The men about stopped their labours, enjoying again the young man’s fun-loving energy.
‘Yer an ijit and no one should give ya’ time a’ day,’ Dem feigned indifference, nodding at the other workmen, who could all see he was doing his best to tame the younger boy.
‘’ere, lad.’ A very large red-headed man nodded back at Dem. ‘Give uz a hand wi’ this lot then,’ indicating a pallet of new stone that had been hoisted up at the outer wall.
Another man joined them, and they unloaded it to a stack closer in, and let the pallet back out over the edge, calling out to someone below to lower it back down..
‘C’mon then,’ Dem said to Thurston, ‘we gotta ge’ back down. Gree’s go’ things ’e wants doin’.’
‘Just a bi’ longer, Dem. I’s a wonder ’ere. T’see so far. Look a’ it, Dem..’ Thurston stood on the pile of rubble still, his face shining in the sun as he stared out to the west of Lincoln and all round to the north and south.
‘Aye. ’Tis a thing t’be way up here, fer sure.’
‘Aye, lads,’ enjoined the red-headed man, ‘ther’s no like it anywhere it’s true.’
And the men hushed a moment and enjoyed the scene and their grand height, and the sun and a small breeze. Not one had ever stood higher, nor would they ever again.
‘World’s diff’rent from ’ere, eh? No’ so troubled. No’ so ’ard.’
‘Aye,’ said another. ‘Crops look perfect an’ all’s broight int’ sunshine. No’ a care, eh?’
When their faces changed a moment later though, Dem would not be able to tell his older brother afterwards whether it was a look of surprise or a look of shock that overcame them, whether Thurston had really thought to fly from the turret, or whether the rubble had given way beneath his feet and he had fallen. One way or the other, in an instant Thurston was gone from sight with not a sound and no one remembered how his face had looked in that moment, except that an instant before it was of innocence and joy.
Had he really even been there at all, on that roof that day? Perhaps he’d been down below, working diligently away at the rock as he should have been. Perhaps he’d thought to take the dyke road back to their mother. Perhaps he’d been stopped by the Bishop himself; they said he was a kindly man, and perhaps Thurston’s sweetness had moved the great man to give some attention to the boy.
Whatever it was had really occurred, Dem Warriner never remembered being atop the turret that day, and would refuse to go up it, or any other height, ever again.
The Bishop had left the Cathedral site a short while earlier and for now wandered the edge of the Brayford Pool at the foot of Lincoln hill. As he walked he considered the argument he expected to have with the King, confident in himself that he would prevail. After all, he must. There was a balance to things that Hugh believed now was askew, and that good works, indeed great works, must be a focus for the Church. And if it was a focus for the Church, then Henry and his nobles across England and Europe would need to make it their business also. They were, after all, the servants of the Church, not the other way around, despite that they all liked to throw the tantrums they did. In the end, they all unquestioningly believed.
It was imperative Henry go to Jerusalem. The Holy City was ever at risk from the increasingly dominant and marauding Muslims. Those who sought peace with this foe were to be admired, and Hugh supported every good will and intention brought to bear in this way, but the fear that the city would fall to Islam’s power was real. And it was a bitter and tyrannical battle that threatened to ensue, since those that would ultimately gain power would have a vast control over the hearts of men, both Christian and Muslim.
Hugh knew a little of the Islamic Faith, and despite the suspicions of the age he had a respect for its tenets, not that he would ever voice such. Their armies were men of the desert, just as brutal as he knew soldiers of Christ could be, albeit that the Crusaders would always be painted the heroes in any tale, and their foe as wicked and ungodly. No, Hugh knew better than this. But what he also knew was the power of the image of an isolated Jerusalem.
A new crusade must keep the sanctity of the Holy City.
Henry had shown himself a fierce soldier, although not always an astute statesman. He had, it was true, undermined the power the Church had over society, but for the Bishop this was not to be minded, since he knew himself the tyranny and dogmatism with which the Church often manipulated the people, and he found the wranglings between those hungry for power within his own fold of great distaste and certainly far from God..
Hugh though did not fear Henry; he even enjoyed the exchanges he had with the King. He knew that Henry had connived to secure the assassination of the Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Becket, fifteen years earlier. He also knew of Henry’s own deep remorse and the blackness that inflicted itself on the King’s mind as he wrestled with his guilt, even submitting himself to a public flogging at the steps of Avranches in Normandy. It had been a barbaric display Hugh himself had witnessed, although he believed Henry had no knowledge that he, Hugh, even knew this had taken place, let alone that he had seen it occur.
Hugh was not one to read a multitude of possible meanings, or any sleight of hand, into his dealings with the King, or any other of the mighty and powerful with whom he engaged. He was aware that the King though saw, studied, and imagined he saw, many a slur against himself, and his soul had paid dearly with the excess of power at his disposal in condemning innocents and loyalists to many a horror. The entangled King was not to be trifled with, and Hugh determined to address him as always with the utmost sincerity and clarity, with due respect to the throne, but expecting at the same time the due of the Church..
Strolling the promenade, Hugh took in the view and sounds of industry along the port, noting the many canal boats arriving with wood and stone piled high a
nd creating a need for great skill from their helmsmen as their loads threatened to overturn their boats and cargo into the river. There was a lot of calling out of orders and instructions, pointing and scurrying about for ropes and pulleys, and all the toolery of shipmen and dockworkers.
These men knew their task and it was not always simple. They would know, for instance, the way a boat angled and how best to steer it past the many obstacles clogging the waterways, altering their position according to their load. They understood the speed with which they may best affect a gentle landing of the equipment they delivered via pulleyed platforms to the shore. Their every task was a matter of astute calculation of the forces of the physical world, and they worked with intelligence as much as muscle. Hugh appreciated the depth of the appraisal and reckoning they brought to their efforts and knew there was many a skilful and resourceful wit among them. Indeed, he saw no greater skill or cunning in his own role and social status in this life, rather he knew these were merely an appearance of some greater distinction and class. The scheme of things though was that appearances, of class and rank, were to be preserved. While he may feel an impulse, as he did now, to throw of his holy tweeds and roll his sleeves with these men and dirty himself in their toil, and rub shoulders with the elements of the common folk, closer to God’s inspiration than they knew, he would not act on this vision any more than any of these men would ever dream he might, and indeed they may consider him mad to do any such thing.
The complexity of the wharf’s labours before him mirrored the complexity of events and needs that tossed like a juggler’s batons in his head, each maintaining its proper orbit, all of them together trying to find their right pattern. Hugh’s thoughts ran from the singular act of devotion of each individual workman at the rebuilding of the cathedral to the powerful image of that structure in the Universe of God’s Church; from the ignorance of man towards the People of the Book to a great battle that must ensue with the People of the Prophet; and the rights and wrongs, and the balance of each one of these.
Hugh found his way beyond the hum of the port to a short and verdant walk at the far end of the pool, a calm spot, the flattened grass telling that is was frequented by others perhaps seeking some solitude as he did now. The water rippled to the edge of the pool, a small flutter from the rocking and manoeuvring of the boats behind him. The grass here was long and the dry path became obscured, although apparently leading through a small wood and further along the river. No one else was about, despite the industriousness not far from him, and although secure in himself, Hugh, vigilant nonetheless, thought to walk no further and stopped to look back to the top of the Lincoln Hill. He saw just a small crumbling spire of the Cathedral rising above its surroundings, perhaps a little less defiant than his impression a few days before upon arriving at the city. The import of his tasks had expanded in their weight upon him in that time.
Amid the reverie of his greyness, a movement to the corner of his eye lent his head around casually to a heart-lifting sight. A great swan emerged from long grass a little further around the pool, waddled slowly to the water and stepped gracefully in. Its red-brown eye apparently towards him, the giant bird waded silently towards Hugh, cutting a new ripple across the other that continued from the moorings at the wharf.
The bird seemed at ease and peaceful and as it reached the edge where the Bishop stood, it lifted its giant wings to propel itself to the bank, revealing its prodigious wingspan in all its majesty and beneath its large body its two orange webbed feet, one slightly twisted and bent in on itself.
The bird stood before him on his path, as though awaiting his instruction, an obedient servant. And Hugh stood in awe of the animal, standing as it did almost his own full height.
The bird cocked her head from side to side, perhaps waiting for his response, perhaps hearing other sounds beyond them, inaudible to Hugh. Then just as momentously as she had appeared, apparently to lift him from his thoughts, and as though her presence was merely a portent of something been or to come, the bird spread her great wings and turned back towards the pool, flapping a still wind beneath her as she rose across the water and into the trees. And then she was gone.
All thought of Kings, crusades and wars momentarily scattered as Hugh watched her leave and wondered at her departure and when he would see her again. He stood a while, and when he turned back along the path, his thoughts invaded again. Wishing still that he could stop awhile with the workmen at the dock, he knew undoubtedly there would be something needing his attention atop the hill, and he hurried on.
Fulk had sat long enough. He realised he was perhaps a little too excited by this prey and possibly not yet mindful enough of the bird’s own instincts. But he decided that whatever may happen now was his moment, as the bird sat contentedly below his branch. He breathed deeply and sprang from his observation spot, leaping upon the bird’s back. His hands instantly about the bird’s neck, he was surprised in that moment how thick it was, thicker than his own wrist, thicker even than his forearm, and he struggled more than he’d anticipated, to put his large hands about it. He had not imagined the power in that length, and he could feel as well, just beneath the bird’s down, two limbs of seeming brass.
The bird twisted and brought its powerful beak down on to Fulk’s neck, but to Fulk, aroused as he was, this felt little, and he focused his mind and all his being on the white stem between his hands. The bird’s wings came up and beat at his body and legs and threatened to topple him from his position astride the animal, but with a great force of his legs, he pushed the bird from its feet, and he lay atop it as it sought to right itself.
Despite a furore of leaves and forest floor beneath himself and the bird, Fulk differentiated a sound far off, and it alerted him to an even greater danger. Someone was approaching, and more than just one, as he heard a distant sound of voices nearing. With a great snap, his prey collapsed beneath him, but too late, Fulk knew, he must abandon his catch, and moved swiftly from astride the bird. He sprang silently away into the undergrowth, pausing quietly in a new hiding place, watching as two of the Thane’s men came upon the site of his erstwhile wrestling match, stopping in horror at the sight of the swan’s body amid strewn feathers and churned soil and leaves. Pallor whitened their countenance; Fulk watched and waited, his heartbeat slowly returning to a steady rhythm.
‘Jesus Lord! What d’ ya think?’ one said to his companion.
‘Le’s get i’ back to manor. Lord’ll be fierce o’er this.’
‘I’s not me is gonna tell ’im.’
‘Don’ be coward, man. I’s no’ our doin’. Best we get bird to ’im. We’ll scarper quick as we can after. C’mon then.’
‘I reckon there’s someone about still,’ one of them said, drawing a knife.
‘I’m no’ gettin’ caught in no scuffle. Been enough bloodshed round here a’ late, and if’s to be any more, t’won’t be mine. Get a hold on this now.’
The men looked around briefly, knowing any attacker would most likely be alone and not so ready to take on two men of the manor.
‘Anyway, may ’as not been a man done this. May ’as been some other beast. We don’ know. Is no clue as to wha’ a’ all.’
They reached down slowly to heave the bird between them back to the manor.
‘’s heavy as hell!’
‘We’ll manage between us.’
With difficulty they grappled with the ungainly body and loped away awkwardly. They would stop often to re-handle their load and avoid notice from others who’d afford some gossip or telltale about the thing. The town and its surrounds were full already with enough tattle.
The housekeeper at the small manse next to the church in Torksey scurried into Father Taylor’s library, afluster at the arrival of a visitor from Lincoln. The squat woman wrung her hands on her filthy apron, annoyed as much that her morning routine was about to be interrupted by who knows what impositions to courtesy that she knew the Father’s own terseness and anxiety would render. It was not us
ual to receive visitors and certainly not those so unexpected as this. No doubt, she thought, the Father would delight in it and her own day would be disrupted with more orders than usual.
‘’E’s ’ere, Father,’ she said. ‘An’ I’m no’ ready for ’im, but I’ll do what I can. T’would be a help to know as ’e’s comin’.’
‘Who’s here, woman?’
‘Bishop, Father! Bishop’s ’ere! ’E’s waitin’ in vestibule for ye, an’ ’e’s no’ lookin’ so ’appy, I can tell ye.’
Father Taylor’s eyes widened, and he leapt up from his armchair, causing it to nearly topple..
‘Lord, woman! I had no idea he was coming!’ And he bolted from the room, leaving his housekeeper still wringing her hands and scurrying out behind him to attend to this new inconvenience.
‘Your Grace,’ beseeched the priest, rounding into the vestibule to the Bishop, who appeared near collapsed in a waiting but clearly uncomfortable wooden pew.
‘Father. How kind of you,’ replied Hugh, a little breathless. ‘I’m wearying of the day and it’s barely begun. Pray, do sit a moment with me here while I find my strength to move.’
Father Taylor, greatly relieved at this easy reception, took a seat next to the Bishop.
‘How goes the Cathedral, Your Grace? What a burden this must be for you.’
‘Ah, indeed it is. But I have great faith. The sight of the reconstruction is a wonder, Father. You must, if you can, travel to see it. We are watching a history being made there. A vast undertaking it is, a vast undertaking. It is a great thrill to see the workings of it all, the engineering, the tradesmen of all sorts, and their dedication and effort. It is quite something.’
Hugh put his head back and closed his eyes.
Angels in the Architecture Page 20
