Odo's Hanging

by Peter Benson

  ‌1

  There is no one like Turold. I have seen him in every way. I have seen him drunk, lurching from the workshop to the cloisters, past the long entry to the gates, and he has howled at the moon from the watchtower. I have never been more frightened than at that sound. It cuts, shreds, melts and pierces, for he is in pain, the pain of art. He is a bigger man than any I have seen, his beard is longer and thicker, his eyes are set back in his head, deep and brown, like they’ve been pushed back by thumbs. His lips are pink and his cheeks are red. Hair covers his forehead, his forehead is creased and high, there is a scar that runs from his temple to the bridge of his nose.

  I have seen Turold asleep. He sleeps only four hours a night. He lies on his back with his mouth open, and as he breathes out, his lips flutter. His tongue rests in his cheek, he is thinking, removing scenes from the day and replacing them with new. More colour, more movement, more men, ships and horses. His beard lies like a pet on his chest, his eyes are still, moonlight does not disturb him.

  I have seen Turold work. I am his mixer, fetcher, carrier, messenger and watchman. I sleep under planks behind the workshop. He is the greatest designer. I am proud to be his boy. Clergy pay silver for his cloaks, stoles and maniples, knights pay gold for embroidered cloaks and banners, and murals for their halls, Bishop Odo pays gold and favour for the best work. I have seen this fat man dressed in the finest chasuble Turold designed, embroidered by the most cunning nuns; as he moved to his altar, God’s glory radiated from the Bishop and through the vestments, so the abbey filled with light and the song of colour.

  Art.

  Sleep.

  Design.

  Turold thinks deeply about his work, then, when he is at his table, he sketches quickly. I have learnt that at this time, it is my job to be still and keep others quiet. I was never told to do this, I worked it out for myself. I am Turold’s perfect shadow. I know what it must be to have his mind.

  I cannot speak, I do not know who my parents were, I am too small, my hair is black. When I was four, the monks took me in and I worked as their boy. I fetched and carried, I skulked in corridors outside their cells, and I hid in the abbey roof to watch their prayers. They prayed towards me but did not know I was there; I listened to everything they said. They thought I was a stupid boy, they never knew that dumbness breeds the ideas speech deafens.

  When I was seven, I had only grown an inch, I was treated as I had been three years before, I was not allowed to grow. I was bored, I was not allowed to learn things other children were taught. I was fed and given a bed in the corner of the kitchen, a warmer place than any in the house, but that was my only comfort. I could do more than carry a bucket, so when I was eight and passed to Turold, I felt like a pigeon, released from hands. Now I am fourteen, and his education meets theirs in confusion. He is not the believer he could be, and not always likely to hold his tongue in his head.

  I have seen Turold eat, three times a day for six years. No man puts so much in his mouth at once, and no man makes so much noise as he chews. He talks with his mouth full, and drinks before swallowing his food. His beard dribbles, his lips shine, and his eyes come out of their deep holes, like snails poking out. His tongue is fat, his cheeks are round, his nose is the size of a small pie and the colour of blood.

  I have seen Turold fight. His fists are the size of horses’ hoofs, hard as stone and quick. Only strangers bother him, only men who hope to prove their strength or show their courage. If courage means stupidity, these men are brave, but how can they be so stupid? Life goes in circles, the monks taught me this, and Turold has painted it and drawn it on linen. He has stitched, he has proved it; from heaven to hell and back again, from life to death and into new life, from the clouds to the rivers to the sea, from the flight of a single pigeon over the towers and cloisters, and in the four seasons.

  Thinks.

  Eats.

  Fights.

  I have heard Turold argue. The monks wanted to increase the rent. I followed him to Rainald. I can stand behind him and not be seen. I think he does not know I am beside him any more, though he would notice if I was not; I was there when he met the monk.

  ‘You take,’ he said, ‘but what do you give?’

  ‘Succour,’ said the monk, ‘through and in Christ.’ He sat low in his chair, as if the world was on his head. He stretched his hands, weakly, and muttered, ‘ “For in that He Himself hath suffered being tempted, He is able to succour them that are tempted.” ’

  ‘I enjoy temptation.’

  The monk smiled, as if he had seen and done everything in the world. ‘We are old friends.’

  ‘And that gives you the right to rob me?’

  ‘Please. We are robbing no one. We raise sufficient for our needs, that is all. More brothers join us all the time, each day it becomes harder to keep the house.’

  ‘The house should keep itself!’

  ‘Turold.’ Rainald leant towards him. ‘I think you have the best workshop you could wish for, and you could not find cheaper.’

  ‘I could.’

  ‘But quieter? Cloistered?’

  Turold shrugged. He picked at dried paint on his hands.

  Rainald spread his hands. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, ‘but the case is out of my hands. Your workshop could be let ten times over at double the price; you must believe when I say that you are as honoured as we are honoured to have you working under our roof. But as we favour you, so must you, in return.’

  ‘I thought forgiveness could only come from God, but you ask me to forgive you? Please,’ said Turold, ‘do not place such a burden upon me. My shoulders are not so wide.’

  ‘There is temporal forgiveness as there is divine. I do not need to remind you of that.’

  ‘You,’ said Turold, ‘should have been at court. Your answers could please anyone.’

  ‘I am,’ said the monk, ‘of another’s court.’

  Turold slapped his forehead. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘what are religion and politics if not unsubtle…’

  Rainald held his finger to his lips. ‘And what is Turold if not so unsubtle himself?’ He shook his head, and took on a grave, worried face. ‘One day your mouth will lead you into trouble.’

  Turold could not argue with this. He has a river of good in his heart, the only thing that floods his anger when the anger should not be shown, but the good is only drawn out by the patient. Rainald is a patient man, as devoted as a saint, as willing to help as a dog, as gentle as a pigeon.

  Pigeons are my friends. I keep three pairs in a box in the orchard, fancy birds will bill and coo. I scrounge corn from the mill, and keep this dry in a sack hung from the wall.

  Pigeons are the sweetest things. They trust me completely, though it is not in their nature. I have thought dangerous thoughts about them and me, imagining that I am their God and they are my flock. I can pick one up and hold it to my chest, stroke its head, slip two fingers around its neck and kill it. I have this power, but I do not use it. I love my birds, even when they fail to return. Or they might return but refuse to come down from perches on the abbey, from where they can look down and gloat. Then, of course, they think they have free will, but they are never out of my reach. I have the bag of corn and I have a sling-shot, and I can use it.

  Rainald said, ‘I think, however, that you will not need to worry about your rent for much longer.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘That is not for me to say. My lips are sealed, by order.’

  ‘Temporal or divine?’

  The monk looked away. ‘Temporal.’

  ‘Odo?’

  ‘Bishop Odo’s willingness to show favour is the least of his virtues.’

  ‘He has never shown me favour.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not, but he is about t
o. Your prayers are to be answered.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  Rainald put a finger to his lips.

  ‘You cannot know what my prayers are.’

  ‘I hope that you say them, but I would not presume to know them.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Turold, ‘not.’

  Turold rose from boy to the painter Master Bertin of Rouen to this place; now Bishop Odo will send men on horseback to bring him to his hall. I followed, and was allowed to be present in the glamour of that hour.

  Odo, the warrior Bishop of Bayeux, son of Herluin of Conteville and Herleve the tanner’s daughter, brother of Robert, Count of Mortain, half-brother of William, Duke of Normandy and King of England, is a great and powerful man. Ordained bishop at nineteen, father of a dozen bastards, at Hastings he rallied the young men in their panic, in meditation he holds the attention of martyrs. Chastiser of Northumberland, his preaching is famous for its brevity, his politics are tactless. As William’s vice-regent and Earl of Kent, he owns four hundred and thirty-nine English manors. As patron, he is respected for his work in the cathedral school of Bayeux, and loved for his indulgence of the many scholars he has sent to Liège and Rennes. His cathedral is decorated with the finest ornaments, his hall is richly decorated. Shields and banners, flags of command, gonfalons, murals and hangings cover the walls, the furniture is carved, his salt is fashioned from walrus ivory. At our visit, tables were laid for a feast, the smell of food filled the place. I kept close to Turold, who was seated beside the Bishop.

  The Bishop also inspires fear in men. This fear has no limits. People do not relax around him, no one laughs unless he laughs first, no one eats before him, no one argues with him. Two great men must recognise each other’s greatness, only then can they be like brothers; Odo considers Turold’s work the finest in the world, Turold is pleased to have the ear of a man who knows what he wants and pays for it.

  Gold.

  Silver.

  Women.

  ‘A question,’ said Bishop Odo. ‘What does my hall lack?’

  The company was quiet. No one wished to give the wrong answer, for Odo’s displeasure could echo through the rest of their lives. Paths could be blocked, positions denied, a future blighted. Only Turold spoke, in a whisper, in the Bishop’s ear.

  Others leant towards the two men, but no one heard what was said. Some resented Turold’s presence. He was an indulgence, the producer of useless goods. Real men fight in battle, Turold did not. Real men work land, Turold did not, real men keep the company of women for one reason, Turold did not. Real men draw the fear of arms in their wake, Turold only fought with his fists. If Odo had a weakness, it was for useless goods. He stood up, banged the table and spoke.

  The following morning, Turold found Rainald in contemplation in the vegetable gardens. The monk did not need to look up to know who it was that disturbed his peace. ‘Bishop Odo has provided you with an answer?’

  ‘You know what he wants?’

  ‘Yes.’ The monk’s voice was full of resignation, for he too had been summoned by Odo. ‘You are to design his hanging, and I am to intercede between you and the nuns of Nunnaminster.’

  ‘That,’ said Turold, ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘And that,’ said Rainald, ‘is why I accompany you.’ He folded his hands together and looked straight at his friend. His pale blue eyes were as soft as pools of rain water that lie on marshy ground, edged with fine hairs, big and wide and open. ‘You are required to act with a greater care than you have ever done. The Bishop’s order is the most important; you must treat it and behave with honour and reverence. Your work will be seen by William, your interpretation must strike a fine balance. Offence is not cheap, Turold.’

  ‘Do not lecture me on the value of offence. I have offended…’

  ‘But never the Duke of Normandy. King of England…’

  ‘Never the Duke.’

  ‘Then take care.’

  ‘I am sure,’ said Turold, ‘that you will advise me if I do not.’

  ‘I will advise against the thought and kill the deed.’

  ‘How many times have you said that?’

  ‘I have never meant it more,’ said the monk. ‘Yesterday’s command is today’s labour and tomorrow’s pride.’

  ‘And you preach against pride.’

  ‘The pride of man is not of the Father. His pride is holy.’

  ‘Bishop Odo’s work is no more holy than his gonfalon.’

  ‘His gonfalon is blessed by the Pope and sanctioned by William. However close you feel to him, never forget that you are as easily crushed as the English. You have been to England?’

  ‘You know I have.’

  ‘And has Canterbury forgotten you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Winchester is not Canterbury, Turold.’

  ‘If I have workshops, any place is the same as the next.’

  ‘The great man speaks…’

  ‘He speaks, he works; mostly, he works.’

  ‘Do it well.’

  ‘Well is the only way I know.’

  ‘Well would be better if married to humility.’

  ‘In whose eyes, Rainald? Yours? Odo’s? William’s?’

  ‘Only in God’s eyes, Turold. Only his are large enough to see you properly.’

  ‘I am honoured?’

  ‘Honour is a temporal thing. God is all powerful, all forgiving. He has no need of honour. Honour requires the threat of deceit in both parties. God is incapable of deceit.’

  ‘As I am.’

  ‘Be careful. All men are capable of deceit, as most men are born of it.’

  ‘Rainald,’ said Turold, ‘sometimes I believe you have rejected your fellow men.’

  The monk stretched his arms as if addressing a congregation, and said, ‘God’s world is my world, and His creatures reflect His love. I reject nothing that comes from Him, nothing that He has created. Only we create misery, it comes from free will.’

  ‘God did not create misery?’

  ‘It is how we use his gifts that gives us grace.’

  ‘And sometimes,’ said Turold, turning to walk away, ‘I think you have confused the message.’

  ‘And you have not?’

  ‘Arts are the message and the reply,’ said Turold.

  ‘Earthly pleasures are…’

  ‘Earthly! Temporal!’ Turold took my sleeve and pulled me away. ‘Give me strength!’ he shouted; we left the vegetable gardens, passed through the cloisters to the workshop, and while I ran to fetch food from the refectory, Turold cleared his tables and sat down to work.

  All work, the monks teach, should be for, in and of the glory of God. Men must struggle to live in Christ, and reflect their love for Him in their work. Thus arts are given breath. And thus I am taught, though not by Turold. He will listen patiently to his masters, but betray them in my company. He is a blasphemous man; only I am privy to his blasphemy. Because I cannot speak, he will forget that I can hear, or maybe he thinks I cannot tell, or maybe he forgets that I am there. That is most likely, for when he is working, he is not aware of anything but his arts, as while the monks labour in their gardens, they meditate on the Lord, His works and their reflection of Him.

  ‌2

  Turold, Rainald and I sailed for England in April. They had sailed before, but I had never, and was sick. The swell lifted the ship slowly, up and down and sideways in long, evil heaves. First I was high and the ocean was below, then we were low and waves were curling above. Then we were level and the water met the sky at a misty horizon, gulls wheeled and cried over us. Their voices were like distant human screams, though they were close. I felt that I was inside an invisible ball, I clung to the side as if I was bolted there, and nothing could move me.

  Beneath us, the deep swam with horrors. I concentrated my faith in the captain, who said that he had made the crossing hundreds of times, and would not get lost. He could find the way by considering the time of day and the position of the sun; even under cloud a
nd rain he could see it, as if his eyes could pierce gloom and see wind.

  Turold and Rainald engaged in conversation and argument. At that time they considered the fear of God. Turold believed that this fear was a terror to believers, Rainald rubbed his head, creased his brow and said that this was not true. ‘The fear of God is shown in reverence,’ he said. ‘ “The fear of the Lord, that is wisdom; and to depart from evil is understanding.” I think if Job, though afflicted as no man has ever been, could utter these words, they must hold more truth than even you could dispute.’

  ‘Affliction is a signpost on the road to truth?’

  ‘I could not have said it better.’

  ‘Out of the mouth of babes?’

  ‘You quote David, I quote Moses.’ Rainald smiled, satisfied. He has front teeth, and dimples in his cheeks. ‘We are closer than either of us thinks.’

  ‘To England or the Lord?’ Turold looked out across the water.

  ‘Both,’ said the monk, ‘and each other, I believe.’

  I was allowed to carry my pigeons abroad, in a basket loaded with Turold’s packs and Rainald’s chest, lashed to the bottom of the boat with rope and sailor’s knots. The cunning arts are endlessly different, and everywhere. The knots were quickly tied and fast, for as we rode the swells, and the basket threatened to slide across the deck, the ropes held, the pigeons cooed.

  The knots could have been an art of their own; as carvers make rope from stone or wood, or illuminators twirl paint and ink into their knots, so here knots were doing what knots have to do. They have to hold fast, they do not have to prove a designer’s skill or please another’s eye. I would rather be lost at sea with a sailor than a designer, and when we were saved, he could tie his knots uselessly, and then they could be art.

  Even if I could talk I would not say this to Turold. The sea began to anger him. He said it was impossible to think while being tossed. He could not concentrate on the thread of his argument, and he was not allowed to drink. The captain, following William’s order, forbade cider and wine aboard; a man so skilled in navigation showed more interest in my pigeons than he did in Turold’s work or the reason for our journey. Turold is not an arrogant man, but he can brood if people are not talking about him. I took a hen from the basket and showed the captain how to hold her. He gave the tiller to a crewman and said, ‘How old is she?’