Odo's Hanging

by Peter Benson

  His fist caught Odo on the cheek, the fat man’s face appeared to throw itself away from his head, he staggered, he was out of condition. He could barely mount a horse unaided, his chins bounced up and met his mouth. A sound came from him, like a dog’s bark; he put his hand to his cheek, he was bleeding. The blood trickled through his fingers, he looked at it, he looked at Turold and yelled, ‘You dare hit me?’ He took a deep breath. ‘You hit your Bishop?’

  Turold shook his head. ‘I do not consider a man’s position before I hit him.’

  ‘You should,’ said Odo, and he lunged towards Turold, who side-stepped and pushed him in the back as he went by. The Bishop could not stop himself tumbling into another trestle; it collapsed beneath his weight and he lay on it, on his stomach, his cloak thrown up to cover his head. Turold smiled at me, he did not care. I thought he had gone too far now, too close to the heat, you could not humiliate Bishop Odo and live. You cannot expect William’s constant support. The protection of the realm was more important than the resolving of petty quarrels. Odo was a greater part of the system than Turold could be. William would tolerate Odo’s immorality rather than see the ripples it caused threaten stability. William could, Odo would, Odo struggled to pick himself up, but caught his feet on the cloak and went down again.

  Turold took a step towards him and said, ‘My Lord, I…’

  ‘Never!’ yelled Odo and he ripped his cloak from his neck, threw it to one side and pulled himself to his feet. ‘I will never forget this!’ I thought his face would explode.

  Turold did not say anything.

  ‘You may worry now, but when this work is finished, then you will sweat.’

  ‘I…’

  ‘Do you understand?’ Odo picked up his cloak and flung it over his shoulder.

  ‘I think…’

  ‘And that is your problem! You think but you do not allow your head to consider your thoughts before your mouth opens.’ He brushed past me. I smelt bad eggs in the air, he had blood on his lips. He stopped in front of Turold and hissed, ‘Work well; this will be the last mark you make.’

  The last mark you make. The expression on Turold’s face did not change. He looked at Bishop Odo, but I do not think he saw him. The patron provided the means, the designer provided a glimpse of heaven and a glimpse of heaven was stronger than a draught of poison or the strength of arms. Turold wore a calm and satisfied face, his eyes were clear, his lips were moist, his beard was thick and black.

  Ermenburga said, ‘I never intended to lead you into such trouble.’

  Turold still did not care. ‘The only trouble that bothers me is this; do we have enough night blue?’

  ‘Night blue?’

  ‘Wool.’

  ‘I think,’ said Ermenburga, then, ‘Turold…’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do not mock me.’

  ‘I am mocking no one.’ He stood over the Abbess, he put his hand on her shoulder. ‘I know Odo’s threats are real. I know he will have his revenge, but I cannot regret what I did. I cannot deny my convictions. Maybe I should worry, but I cannot. I can express my cunning in more ways than you think.’

  ‘I am sure you can.’

  ‘I was blessed.’

  ‘You are blessed.’

  ‘As you are,’ said Turold, and then he left the Abbess and came to where I was hiding. He stood in front of me, reached down and pulled me up. He held me so my face was in front of his and said, ‘Leave us, Robert.’

  I am looking into his eyes.

  Ermenburga looked at me. She raised her hand slightly, then turned away.

  ‘Go and watch your girl.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Or listen to Rainald.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Choose one or the other, but do not stay out here.’

  Bishop Odo, touched by a light fear of Turold, took his anger out on Brother Lull. The scribe, who never meant to do anyone any harm, who was simply weak. He would go wherever his master wanted, do whatever his master required, he had opinions and true feelings but kept them hidden behind a mask of insecurity and terror. Now, as the final touches were made to the transferred sketches, as the colours of the horses that won the battle were chosen, Lull struggled to find the words to describe William’s speech to his men. Harold’s army had been sighted along the ridge; ‘Do I mention the ridge?’ he said.

  ‘No,’ said Turold, ‘keep it simple.’ He pointed to the sketch. ‘Put “Here Duke William exhorts his soldiers to prepare manfully for the battle.’ ”

  ‘…against the English army.’

  ‘That is obvious,’ said Turold.

  ‘And that, as we know, is the problem.’

  Lull looked at Turold and Turold looked back. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘If I could…’

  ‘That they prepare manfully and wisely for the battle,’ said Lull. ‘I think it would be wise to say this.’

  ‘Wise to say what?’ This was Odo’s voice. He had crept into the workshop in the hope of overhearing slander. His patience was exhausted by talk of simplicity and wisdom.

  ‘My Lord,’ said Lull.

  ‘What?’ said Odo. He ignored Turold, who stood to one side while the Bishop stood over the scribe and cast his eyes over the inscribed sketches.

  ‘I was explaining, my Lord, that here, as William prepares for battle, he exhorts his men to prepare not only manfully, but also wisely. I believe the King places great store in correct thought. Moral thought…’

  ‘Does he?’ said Odo, quietly.

  ‘As I said…’

  ‘I heard you.’ Odo gathered his cloak around him and took a deep breath. He was caught between real life and wishes. At one moment he wished that he had never commissioned the hanging, at another he thought that it would bring him favour he had lost. To tolerate Turold proved that he was above petty feud; he could take his frustrations out on Lull. Turold could be dealt with later, all the Bishop needed was patience. He would train himself; he moved along the trestle, pointed to the scene when he encourages the knights in their panic, and said, ‘I will be named here?’

  ‘I have the text prepared,’ said Lull, ‘it is simply a matter of placing it in the design.’

  ‘Simply?’ said Odo. ‘It is that simple?’

  ‘My Lord.’ Everything Lull said took him to the edge of the Bishop’s anger; all this worried him, it turned his mind upside down, he wanted to return to the quiet life he had known before. He would rediscover his faith if it meant that he could be free of the Bishop; he would escape but he did not have the courage, he would have to accept his role, he could not change it. He said, ‘It is simple when you know how.’

  ‘Is it?’ said Odo, meanly.

  Lull only wanted to please the Bishop. He said, ‘I think so.’

  Turold shook his head. He did not approve or agree. Designers and scribes studied hard to learn their skills. Nothing was simple about it.

  ‘Are you saying,’ said Odo, ‘that this is, for you, easy work? Trivial, even?’

  ‘My Lord, I did not say that. I did not mean…’

  ‘I know what you did not mean!’ Odo rose to his full height and pushed out his belly. Lull shook with fear, he did not know what to say now, he forgot what he had said, his ambition did not match his instinct. His ambition was to cling to Odo and ride with him to the centre of power, his instinct was to lock himself in a cell and scribe the Lives of Saints, and Histories of the Church. His only courage had withered with his faith, he was the shell of a man, waiting for whatever would pour into him.

  ‘You meant that you are above this work?’

  ‘I never said I…’

  ‘I will tell you what you never said!’ Odo banged the trestle with his fist, colour drained from Lull’s cheeks. ‘You never said that you were honoured to inscribe this work!’ He turned to Turold and said, ‘At least he did.’

  Turold did not take pride in this. Odo was work for him, monied means behind the cunning. He had never considered the Bishop a step to great
er power. He looked at Lull and pitied him; the scribe’s eyes were damp with fear, he was picking at his sleeves.

  ‘But you!’ Odo turned back and jabbed his finger in Lull’s face. ‘All you wanted to do was use me.’

  ‘My…’

  ‘Quiet! For you, I was the gates of heaven on earth!’

  ‘I have sworn holy orders. I never…’

  I swore the same orders!’ screamed Odo. ‘But that did not stop me…’ The fat man took a breath, fisted his hands and licked sweat from his top lip.

  ‘I am…’

  ‘You are nothing!’

  ‘My Lord…’

  ‘Silence!’

  Lull wished he was dead.

  ‘Have you seen,’ said Turold suddenly, ‘the cunning way in which Brother Lull has inscribed this scene?’ He pointed to the outline of the council William called before battle. William, Bishop Odo and Robert sit together, their names do not intrude upon the design, they could be there, they might not be. Odo looked at his image, touched the inscription with his finger and said, ‘What is cunning about it?’

  ‘Brother Lull gave great thought to the…’

  ‘And why do you suddenly support him? He was the reason you flew for the coast!’

  ‘He wasn’t the reason. The inscription was.’

  ‘You dare,’ said Odo, and he clenched his fists again, ‘interrupt and contradict me?’

  ‘My Lord,’ said Turold, mockingly.

  ‘Do I have to remind you?’

  ‘Of what?’

  Lull was still white, he was looking at Turold. His eyes were dog’s eyes, he would follow whoever was the kindest master.

  ‘William’s favour can be removed as easily as it is given. His mind is occupied by many thoughts, great thoughts. Ambition. Power. Enemies. He will have forgotten you long before I do.’

  ‘I’m shaking,’ said Turold.

  Odo kept his temper, but loaded his voice with poison. ‘You will do more than shake,’ he hissed, and then he turned to Lull and said, ‘and you will do more than piss yourself.’ He looked down at the pool that was growing around the scribe’s feet, pulled his cloak around him and left the workshop. He left a smell by the sketches, but the wind blew it away.

  Rainald, who was in England to intercede, calm and heal, spent less time applying himself to these tasks. First the flight for the coast, then Turold’s fight with Bishop Odo convinced him that he was wasting time. He had tried to be of use when Lull first appeared; the experience had frustrated him. Now he spent more time in the forest, ‘It is God’s own cathedral,’ he told himself. Then he rebuked himself. Cathedrals were built by men to glorify the Father, nature’s work was of the Father, He could not glorify Himself. He was all glory. Doubt touched Rainald, confusion came to him in the night and said, ‘What are you doing here?’

  The night was warm and close.

  ‘Turold has angered Bishop Odo, Odo has sworn revenge, because of Turold William has taken against Odo, Ermenburga has appeared to melt for Turold, Lull is going mad with fear, Robert chases the first girl he sees, the hanging will not be finished in time. These things are beneath you. Retreat and you will advance. Do not become infected by the hatred, greed and lust that surrounds you. The hanging touches everyone with trouble. You are marked for greater things.’

  And Rainald went down on his knees in the forest, and he prayed. What was his prayer?

  Did he pray for the birds to come from the trees and rest on his head, did he pray for the animals of the forest to accept him as one of their own? He was tired, he wanted to disappear and contemplate the goodness in things, none of the bad. Too many nights were disturbed by Turold’s complaints, his ramblings about finer points of the design, his musings on my worth.

  Too few nights were spent in peaceful sleep, nights that came dreaming in calm clothes. Once in his life, long before he had met Turold, he had enjoyed many nights like that, now he remembered that time and wondered why he had lost it. Had he earned a divine retribution, and if he had, why? ‘The Lord shall give thee there a trembling heart, and failing of eyes, and sorrow of mind; and thy life shall hang in doubt before thee; and thou shalt fear day and night, and shalt have none assurance of thy life.’

  Rainald could live with a trembling heart, failing eyes and a sorrowful mind, he could cope with fear, but he was lost when doubt began to cloud his mind. Doubt was his worst nightmare; without it, he could live with any trouble or pain. With it, all trouble and pain took his spirit and swamped it. Doubt suggested the worst, it suggested that God’s eye was not upon all men, that His interest could wane, that He could forget. But how could God forget, how could He allow His flock to scatter? Were men doomed to see the light but never hold it, were they, as the prophet warned, the architects of their own destruction, given the gift of free will but not the sense to understand the gift? Rainald sat on the city wall and looked towards the forest. The trees were shedding their leaves, a cold wind was blowing from the east.

  ‘What doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?’ Micah’s words troubled Rainald, they struck his heart and rattled in there. They were the words that had convinced him of the right of a monastic life; now they returned to remind him that a humble walk with God was simply that, it was a walk with God and no one else. I heard him sniff. I think he was crying. Then he called me. ‘Robert?’

  I did not move.

  ‘Robert?’

  I stood up.

  ‘Don’t be afraid.’ He beckoned me. ‘Come here.’

  We stood together on the wall.

  He said, ‘Have you considered that God’s gift to you was silence? I sometimes think a dumb man has greater opportunity for the deepest thoughts. Is this true?’

  I shook my head.

  He carried on as if I was not there. ‘I sometimes wish I was not required to answer questions, soothe arguments and calm troubles.’

  You are required to but you never do. You have ignored your responsibilities. Maybe if you took more interest in the world around you, God’s world, you would not be so confused. We all follow His plan, but only He knows what that plan is. Madness is the price you would pay for that knowledge. There are more mad men than mad women. This means that men are more inclined to impossible thoughts, more likely to wish for a truth they believe hangs in heaven but actually lies at their feet.

  Rainald said, ‘I believe the life of a hermit would fulfil me.’

  Yes, Rainald.

  ‘I am drawn to the forest. I could draw closer to the Lord if I lived in the shadow of His works. Works untouched by man, places where men have never been.’ He looked at me now. ‘Do you ever have such feelings, Robert?’ His eyes were milky and his eyelids drooped.

  I shook my head.

  ‘You are satisfied?’ He looked away. ‘Satisfied to do His work, to move amongst the heathen…’ He put his head in his hands. ‘Did you know the heathen see signs of fate in the flight of birds, the fall of a leaf?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘They do.’

  I was sorry for Rainald. Everything he said was true for him; he should have stayed in Bayeux. His talent was at home, moving quietly about the monastery, smoothing the ripples that disturbed the order of the place. But he had to obey an order; the temporal betrayed the divine. The divine must floor the temporal, he had to banish fear and embrace the greater will. ‘As each leaf dies,’ he said, ‘it falls and covers its own shadow. A fallen leaf has no shadow.’

  Rainald. Go and live in the forest.

  Turold said, ‘I am worried about Rainald.’

  I buried my head in my hands and followed him out. We sat on benches, he shooed a dog, drank and said, ‘And I am worried about Lull.’

  Lull. The inscriptions changed every day, they did not need to change at all, but he made them. The longer he stared at the words, the more he hated them. He had changed ‘Here Duke Harold returned to English soil’ to ‘Duke Harold sails for England’ to �
��A ship carries Harold to England’ to ‘Here Duke Harold returned to English soil’ again; he was not satisfied, he was frustrated and cursed himself. It was dangerous to curse anyone else; such a simple task, so difficult to execute.

  ‘I think,’ said Turold, ‘he’ll go mad.’

  I sipped.

  ‘And when I look at Rainald, I think he’ll disappear into thin air. Have you noticed?’ Turold swayed towards me. ‘The life seems to have left his eyes.’

  No.

  ‘Has he spoken to you?’

  I nodded.

  ‘What did he say?’

  Turold is using his stupidity to avoid madness and doubt. He engages a sensitive and imaginative mind when he is required to work, he leaves this mind in his work and takes an empty head away.

  ‘What did he say?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘He didn’t care?’

  I nodded.

  ‘He did care?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Robert…’ said Turold. I know he says the same prayer as me.

  I pointed out of the door, towards an orchard, apple trees and birds.

  ‘What?’ Turold finished his second drink and clapped for another.

  I made the shape of a tree with my hands. Rainald wants to be a tree.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  I pointed again.

  He looked towards the orchard, then back at me.

  I nodded, opened my mouth and showed him my tongue.

  ‘What about it?’ His left eye was half-closed.

  Best to do nothing now. I put my hands on my lap and bowed my head.

  The drink came.

  ‘What?’ said Turold again, and he took my face in his right hand.

  I am shaking my head. His hand hurts. He is pinching my cheek. I try to wriggle away, but cannot.

  ‘Robert,’ he said, quietly, ‘speak to me.’ He picked up his drink with his free hand, and drank half.

  I wanted to cry.

  Suddenly he let go and slapped my cheek. ‘Speak to me! Speak!’ His right eye was wide open, his left was tightly closed, his mouth did not believe what his voice had said, but it did not hold him back. ‘Don’t just sit there!’

  I cried.