by Peter Benson
I nodded.
‘Can you hear her?’
I shook my head.
‘I think,’ he said, ‘we might be betrayed.’
I looked into the clearing. It was quiet and cool, like a green pond. The grass was disturbed by a breeze. I thought I saw moonlight glint on armour; when I focused I saw it was a silvery leaf shivering.
‘Betrayed,’ said Turold. ‘Betrayed by Odo and now we are betrayed by her.’ He took my hand and led the way around the clearing. ‘This country,’ he said. ‘I knew it would be like this.’
I nodded.
‘It is impossible to know who is on your side and who is not.’ He flailed at a branch; it snapped back and caught him on the cheek. ‘Even the trees are against us,’ he said, wiping a streak of blood away. Then he put his hand up, crouched down and said, ‘Ssh…’
I knelt at his side. Beyond us and beyond the clearing, three men were gathered around a tree stump. Mildred was talking to them. I could hear her voice but not the words. Turold said, ‘What did I say?’
The men were English, armed with short swords, each carried a pack on his back. They were all big, but none bigger than Turold. He fingered the roll of sketches. ‘Could I defend us with these?’ he said.
I shrugged.
‘Or this?’ He took out a dagger. The blade was shorter than a man’s hand, sharp and pointed. ‘Could I?’
I do not know.
He asks me questions as if expecting an answer. Maybe he senses my thought, I am really his son.
‘What did Rainald say?’
I remember everything Rainald said.
‘If you leave, you walk into more trouble than you have ever known?’
I nodded.
‘Was he talking about Odo, or does he know something we do not?’
I shrugged.
‘Did Rainald betray us too?’
Turold is seeing enemies everywhere and now, as he laid his hand on my shoulder, I could feel him shake. He is afraid, and it is nothing to do with art. He thinks everyone is against him, the country is against him, all he has is his thoughts, the sketches, me and the desire for home. Familiarity is his hope, his eyes were shifting one way and another, and I knew he was thinking he was trapped. Mildred’s voice crowed on, then it stopped, she turned from the men and walked towards us.
She took the quietest steps, her eyes were fixed to the ground, the three men waited where they were. One had his hand on the hilt of his sword, the second scratched his head, the third watched. An owl called above us, Mildred walked slowly and was almost upon us when Turold stood up, took her around the neck with one arm and clasped his hand over her mouth. He pulled her to the ground, laid her on her front, sat on her back and whispered, ‘I am going to ask you questions. If you cry, I will break your neck. Do you understand? Nod if you do.’
She nodded.
I could see her thighs. Turold said, ‘Who are those men?’ He took the hand from her mouth.
‘Friends.’
He put the hand back. ‘Yours or ours?’ He took the hand away.
‘Yours and mine,’ she said.
“Why should I believe you?”
‘They can protect us,’ she said. ‘I have explained. I told them you are an English merchant and his boy. If you say nothing, if you do not give yourself away, you will be safe to the coast.’
‘I believed that you were our guide.’
‘I can be your guide but not your protector.’
Turold put his hand over Mildred’s mouth and he thought. The men looked towards us but saw nothing. They waited patiently. Three people travelled faster and quieter than six, what use would three armed men be if we met twenty Norman soldiers? The English would provoke them. A nun, a merchant and his boy would attract less attention.
I went down on my knees and prayed. ‘Our Father in heaven, give me the power of speech, a voice with which to praise thee and the words to warn my master.’
‘Ermenburga said nothing about these men,’ he said.
‘She knows nothing about them,’ she said, ‘but believe me. We need them.’
So many people need so many people, and as the world lies beneath heaven, and as it tries to raise itself up, Turold shook his head, stood and offered his hand to Mildred. She took it and pulled herself up. I tugged at his sleeve, he shook his head. ‘No,’ he said.
Mildred came to me and put her hand to my face. Her hand was freezing, and her fingernails were long. ‘You will follow your master?’ she said.
I nodded.
Turold said, ‘I can trust him.’
I had nowhere else to go.
Now six of us were stealing through the forest. We followed paths that did not appear to be there until we were on them, the armed men did not speak and made little noise. They noted things by trees we could not understand, and signs on the ground that meant we were safe. They could smell Normans at two hundred paces, they could see Normans through walls, each had killed more Normans than you could count on your fingers, each carried a price on his head. The one with the highest price led the others, we put our feet where he put his, the moonlight shadows followed us.
We had walked two hours when this man stopped and made us crouch behind undergrowth. A Norman patrol was approaching, marching the same path. ‘Twelve men.’
‘Twelve men.’
‘Three mules.’
‘Three mules.’
We waited before I heard them, then the rattle of their swords and the sound of their voices began to drift through the forest. They laughed about something, they were drinking. Their mules whinnied, their packs creaked, we crouched as low as we could.
I heard one say, ‘How much longer?’
Another said, ‘Why do you keep asking?’
‘My feet are killing me.’
‘We rest when I say.’
I peered through the bushes, and I saw them, twenty paces away. A third voice said, ‘Mine are killing me too.’
The first soldier put his hand up and said, ‘Enough! I have my orders, you have mine!’ His voice was measured and slow. He was in command.
‘I’m tired.’
‘You’re always tired.’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘You are.’
‘You’ll sleep before me.’
‘I sleep when I need to.’
There was laughter here, and the patrol halted. I could hear them breathing. I looked to my right. Our three protectors were on their haunches, hands on their swords.
Seconds passed as hours do, slowly creeping over themselves. The Normans were relaxed and tired. One began to unbuckle his belt. The leader said, ‘What are you doing?’
‘I need to shit.’
‘We all need to shit, but if you don’t do it up, when we get to camp you’ll be shitting out the wrong hole for the wrong reasons.’
More laughter here, except from the one who had unbuckled. He was doing up again and they moved towards us, passing so close to our hiding-place that I could have reached out and touched their boots. I smelt their boots and I smelt stale cheese. This reminded me of home, and I am thinking, what are we going to do when we are home? Does Turold know there will be nothing for us, we will not be welcome anywhere by anyone? Irritate Bishop Odo and you worry other people, anger him and those people pretend they never knew you. Turold jumps before he thinks, Turold’s mind is on higher things, but he forgets that higher things must be supported by the every-day. I looked at him. His eyes followed the Normans, he licked his lips, we heard their rattling as they threaded their way through the trees. Turold stood up, one of the English pulled him back, put his finger to his mouth and held up five fingers. We waited for five fingers and then quickly, as rabbits in the path of dogs, we were away again, following the path towards the dawn and the coast, and the trees protected us along the way.
We reached the coast as the sun rose, walked on to dunes that banked the beach and sat to rest in a circle of sea-grass. The three men posted themselves where t
hey could watch the approaches, Mildred passed bread and said, ‘We are two hours from Bosham. We will lead you to the path, but then we must turn back. The men are anxious when they leave cover, and I must return quickly.’
The sea was blue and the sun glittered across it as silver thread. The sand was fine and yellow, a headland stood in the distance, and closer to us, other spits of land jutted out. A fresh breeze cooled the air, though the sea gave warning of heat to come. The bread was coarse, there was no cheese to eat with it, only a bottle of water, and two apples.
Turold and I approached Bosham at midday. The sun was hot, the quays were busy. Six ships were tied there, more lay at anchor in the bay. Sailors mingled with merchants, groups of soldiers were gathered in squatting groups, throwing dice and passing jugs. Turold bowed his head and I walked as close to him as I could, holding the corner of his coat.
‘Why were you born dumb?’ he said.
I do not know.
‘Sometimes, I think your advice might be worth while.’
I nodded.
Bosham, where Harold embarked upon the journey that led him to Guy of Ponthieu, then to William and the relics of Bayeux. Bosham smelt of fish. I followed Turold to a stall above the quay where ale was served, and benches were crowded with drinkers, whores and whores’ children. He collected two mugs, passed me one, drank his in one, collected another and told a sailor, ‘We want passage.’
‘Who doesn’t?’ said the sailor. ‘But who can pay?’
Turold took out a bag and weighed it in his hands.
The sailor’s ears filled with the sound of money, and his eyes widened.
‘What’s the rate?’
‘That depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On who you are,’ said the sailor. ‘No one’s going to carry anyone who comes along. If you’re travelling, you must have a reason. And reasons cost money…’
‘Do they?’
‘Yes.’ The sailor was as big as Turold, and had a beard. He had black teeth and a fish bone in his hair.
‘I have good reason.’ I moved from behind Turold’s back, and he said, ‘We have a good reason. Better than any.’
‘I’m sure,’ said the sailor, ‘you do.’ He narrowed his eyes, trying to place us in something he had heard, some warning or maybe a simple story.
It is a simple story, a tale everyone has heard, and everyone adds a chapter. Turold said, ‘Are you sailing today?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Where?’
The sailor narrowed his eyes, as if he was trying to remember us. ‘Where do you want to go?’ he said. He looked over our heads, I turned around. A patrol was passing along the quay, two foot-soldiers and one on horseback. He gestured towards them and said, ‘They worry you?’
‘Should they?’
The sailor put his hand on Turold’s arm, said, ‘You tell me,’ and squeezed. Turold tried to pull away, the sailor did not let go, Turold grabbed the man’s hair. Immediately, two other sailors pounced, I ducked under the table, the table buckled under the men’s weight as they toppled on to it, mugs and food spilt, and then they were on the ground.
As long as Turold had his hands on the first sailor, as long as he could kick, as long as he could spit curses and take blows he felt safe. His strength scared me, a splash of blood landed on my cheek and in a blink I saw the sailor’s face. He had lost a tooth and his ear was torn, he yelled, the two other men pulled at Turold, Turold kicked at them and caught one in the balls. The other swerved and aimed a foot at Turold’s head. Turold stood up quickly, clenched his fist and struck the man in the chest.
The fist disappeared into the man’s chest, his mouth opened and a blast of breath left his body as a rabbit bolts from cover, the man’s eyes bulged, then he dropped.
The first sailor touched his mouth, the second held his balls, the third put his hands on his chest. I put my head out from beneath the table in time to see a foot-soldier come from behind and strike Turold’s neck with his mace. Turold’s face popped with surprise, his legs straightened and then they buckled, he went down like a tree. He groaned, a chain was taken from a saddlebag, wrapped around his wrists and I heard a voice say, ‘The man’s as stupid as they say.’
I jumped out.
‘And the mute!’
I was not afraid. I bent down and put my hand on the roll of sketches. The mace crashed on to the back of my hand. I did not flinch. Look at me. Look into my eyes. Do you think you can hurt me? Am I as stupid as my master? I will protect his work. I lay down and covered the roll with my body.
‘The devotion of a saint,’ said the mounted soldier. ‘Brings tears to your eyes, doesn’t it?’ He laughed. ‘Get him up.’
The soldiers lifted me up. I struggled.
‘Pass me the roll.’
The roll was picked up and handed over.
I cringed.
Turold was coming round.
The mounted soldier kissed the roll. We were the best luck of his life. ‘Bring them,’ he said.
There was nothing I could do.
7
We were taken back to Winchester and locked in a cell. Turold’s chains were removed. He sat and rubbed his wrists.
My feet ached.
There was a window, high in the wall. The stones wept with damp, the floor was covered with rank straw. Rats gathered at a corner hole, the sound of wailing carried from another cell to where we were.
Turold said, ‘Forgive me.’
For what?
‘I should never have led you here.’
I am part of you, as much of you as your head or your hands. I will never leave you.
‘You should never have left home.’
You are my only father.
‘You know what?’
What?
‘I think about your pigeons.’ He took a deep, painful breath. ‘Will they live without you?’
I nodded.
He looked at me, then moved towards me. He hesitated, put his arms around me, and hugged. I felt the power of this man, and I was thinking, what is going to happen to us? A rat scuttled from the corner and sniffed at my foot. I kicked it away. It squeaked and ran, the others disappeared into the wall and scratched along their burrow.
‘Do you forgive me?’
I nodded.
‘I was a fool.’ He shook his head. ‘How could I have been such a fool?’ He tapped his head. ‘You know what I’ve been called?’
I shook my head.
‘The greatest. My work could seduce women, calm insanity, but sometimes,’ he said, and he lowered his voice, ‘I think I am two men.’
Two men.
‘In here.’ He tapped his head again.
Another rat came from the hole. Fresh air blew in the window and I heard a dog bark. The wailing in another cell stopped, then started again.
‘Hello?’ said Turold.
I squeezed his arm.
He was looking at me, smiling. I closed my eyes.
‘Go to sleep,’ he said, and his voice was soft as straw.
I dreamt. There were horsemen galloping across a plain, and in their wake, foot-soldiers carried lances. The lances were tipped with fire and the horses rode on fire; battle was joined at a fork in a river, steam rose all around, flames burst from holes in the ground.
And a hand came down from heaven and blessed the armies. The hand did not bless just one army or another, it blessed both, and the light of God shone on all the men. They looked up to see, but as each stared at the hand, they were blinded, they were struck dumb and unable to fight.
Weapons fell into the river. The horses threw their riders and bolted for woods on hills that bounded the plain. A village stood to one side, and when I looked, I saw women standing on the roofs, wailing.
A window opened in the sky. I was awake and the window was in the cell. I closed my eyes again, and the armies were folding into themselves. Each man was part of the man he stood next to, the weapons on the ground melted, I opened my eyes a
gain, light was shining through the window and Turold was looking down at me. He had held me through the night, he had not slept at all. He had cursed himself and worried about his sketches. He wanted to continue with the work, he would work with a scribe, he had no choice, but he would not have his design dominated by text. He was wasting time in a cell. I heard the sound of approaching feet, rattling keys and a key in the lock. The jailer brought bread and water and said, ‘Someone is coming to see you.’
The jailer was an idiot.
Turold smiled, picked up some bread, took a bite, folded his arms, sat with his back against the wall and chewed.
‘Someone is coming to see you,’ said the jailer, again.
‘Can I eat in peace?’ said Turold.
The jailer glared at him. The jailer only had one eye, but he carried keys, and keys were big magic. He did not know how locks worked, he did not know how iron was forged, he put his hands on his keys, as if they were his balls.
‘He will be here soon.’
‘My visitor is a man?’ said Turold, pretending to be disappointed.
The jailer bent down and said, ‘If I had my way, I would draw that tongue from your mouth and slice your fingers to ribbon.’ He stood up straight and held his back. ‘But I have orders.’
‘You have orders?’ Turold laughed now.
The jailer clenched his fists. ‘You must be someone special.’
‘I am.’
I nodded.
Wailing began from another cell. The jailer turned to the sound, smiled and left. Turold passed me some bread. I took some, and sipped some of the water.
At midday, as the sun cut barred lines across the floor, the air was filled with the sound of commotion, doors were opened and slammed, keys rattled and heavy footsteps stamped along the corridor that led to our cell. Turold wore a calm face, there was nothing anyone could do to him. He had sketched his greatest work, his Tree of Life hung in St Pierre sur Dives, his chasubles and copes were worn by great men of the Church, his girdles were admired by the Queen, her Ladies longed to lay them out. He was not frightened, so I was not. A key turned in the lock, the door swung open and Bishop Odo stood on the threshold. He sniffed the air.
