Odo's Hanging

by Peter Benson

‘And don’t cry!’

  People were looking at us; when Turold looked at them, they looked away. He finished his drink and shouted for another.

  I put my sleeve to my eyes and blew my nose on it.

  ‘What are you? Boy or man?’

  I looked at Turold. I stared into his eyes and did not blink; I drew in my lips.

  ‘Nod if it’s a boy,’ he said.

  I did not move.

  ‘Man?’

  I did not move. I stared until I had had enough, then I looked away. I saw his hand flash in front of my eyes, then he had me by the throat and we were on the floor.

  He hit me once in the back of the head, I tried to squirm away, it was useless, he turned me over and sat astride me, my arms pinned back by his knees. My head was between his thighs, he lifted his fist again and then I began to bleed.

  The sight of my blood froze Turold, the colour of it transfixed him, he lowered his fist, shook his head and said, ‘Robert?’

  I pulled my arms out.

  He put his fingers to the cut, dabbed at the blood, looked at the end of his fingers and said, ‘It’s so red.’

  I began to squirm my legs out from beneath him. He was a heavy man. I think he had forgotten I was there. He was staring at my blood as if he had never seen blood before. Colour is the son of his gift. People went back to their drinking. We were known in town; the Norman designer was unpredictable, liable to fits of anger, waves of remorse, acts of foolishness, words of stupidity, works of brilliance, cunning art in a cunning head. His boy was dumb, his boy had power over birds, his boy was after Martha the baker’s daughter. I pulled my legs out and waited for Turold to see me again. My blood began to dry; as its colour faded, so his face began to change, his left eye opened, his mind came back from the place it had been and he said, ‘Robert?’

  I nodded.

  He pulled himself up. ‘Did I hit you?’

  I nodded.

  He put his hand on my head and then pulled me into his waist. It was like this, it was like this in Winchester. He forgot and he remembered, and when the time was right, and he had taken my hand, we went back to the lodging.

  ‌12

  The first stitch was sewn on a Tuesday in October, in 1075, in red wool; the first flip of the scroll that borders King Edward, throned and instructing Earl Harold.

  It was Turold who threaded the needle, Turold who chose the colour, Turold standing at the frame. He leant over the embroiderers at their benches; they sat in pairs, each pair two paces apart. Twenty-six worked the main field of the hanging, and eighteen apprentices stitched the borders. They were all sisters of Nunnaminster, each chosen for speed, nature and care.

  The translation of the sketch, the folds of a man’s cloak, the branches of trees, the fall of a horse’s mane, the wind in the sails of ships across the sea; all had to be stitched with delicacy and confidence. The movement behind the pictures must be felt, and the passion behind the story leap from the stitches.

  A calm nature, a mind of pious thought, eyes cast to heaven when they were not upon the work. Steady hands, slim fingers, perfect sight, no need to gossip. So the only sound in the workshop was a hissing, as the needles pulled the threads through the linen, day after day, week after week, each outline filling with colour and life.

  The stitches were simple. The sketches were defined by stem stitches, then filled with laid and couched work. None of the embroiderers could not sew these stitches in her sleep, and none of them, though they all marvelled at the way Turold’s brilliance lifted their own work, allowed admiration for the designer to cloud her mind. The embroiderers lived in the Lord. I was watching them but they did not watch me. They would allow me to stand behind them, I could have been born a dog.

  The work was to be finished by Christmas of 1076, to be hung around Bishop Odo’s hall in celebration of ten years of William’s reign. ‘What does my hall lack?’

  ‘Whores, my Lord?’

  ‘The greatest work you can produce, Turold. A hanging.’

  ‘When do you want it finished?’

  ‘By Christmas.’

  I am standing behind Turold when he hears that he, I and forty-four nuns have fourteen months to finish the work.

  ‘Impossible.’

  ‘What is impossible?’ said the Bishop. He held Turold with his eyes, the two men circled each other, like primed cocks. ‘Do you think William listened when he was told a crossing to England was impossible?’

  ‘That was a different situation.’ Turold waved his hands. ‘You cannot compare the two. The embroiderers cannot work faster than they already do. Fingers can only go so fast…’

  ‘Waves can only be so tall,’ said Odo.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You will be.’

  ‘I cannot…’

  ‘You can, and you will! Forget any other threats I have made to you,’ said Odo, and he moved on Turold, so their faces were a fist apart. ‘You have failed me in many ways, but if you fail to complete within the time, you will wish you had only failed as you did before…’

  Turold was tired of threats. He shrugged, he could do no more, sunlight was in the workshop. ‘I could find more embroiderers.’

  ‘Do it.’

  ‘Their work might not be as fine…’

  ‘The work will be the finest!’ Odo’s eyes popped and the veins on his neck rippled. The embroiderers did not stop working. The shouting washed over them, their minds were on the Lord, their fingers followed the sketches as if they had eyes at their tips.

  ‘It will never be less,’ said Turold.

  Here is Martha and here I am, and we are standing in the yard beneath our lodging. We can see Rainald. He is kneeling at his cot. He has been kneeling all day. He will not leave the lodging during the day, I have to bring him food. Martha says, ‘Is he sick?’

  I shrugged.

  If I had her now, I would be given my voice, but the more I know her the more difficult it becomes. We are in the dark, her father and mother were asleep, her father snored like a bull.

  Rainald’s head cast a shadow on to the wall. This shadow was sad, I could tell: he was screaming. Peace, the removal of doubt, a vision of the Lord enthroned, flights of angels in triumph; Martha said, ‘Do you ever think about me while you work?’

  I think about your paps.

  I nodded.

  ‘What do you think?’

  Why do people ask me questions like this?

  I looked into her eyes and I tried to tell her that way. I pulled her towards me and kissed her lips, and then, thinking that there was no reason to wait, I slipped my hand beneath her shirt and ran it up to her breasts. She blew air into my mouth, she twisted away, then came back again, she pushed at me but did not try to move my hand. My hand is on her now and her breast feels as I imagined it would. It feels exactly this way, I knew it would, as if I was spoken to by a bird. It feels like holding a pigeon. Her skin is feather, her pap fits between my fingers like a bird’s neck. I push it up and wait for it to squeak.

  ‘Robert,’ she whispered.

  I smiled.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  I am not waiting for you to lay an egg.

  ‘Is this all you want me for?’

  Do not be stupid, Martha. I want you for many reasons. I shook my head.

  ‘What is going on in there?’ she said.

  I had my eyebrows up, and then I put my other hand to her other tit, and I was holding them like a pair in their basket, and I was the perfect birdman.

  ‘Robert,’ she whispered.

  I whistled, softly, and I felt her paps stiffen.

  ‘Are you whistling at me?’

  Her breasts were fluttering in my hands.

  My pigeons are locked in their loft. I am not whistling at anyone but you.

  ‘I know what you want to do,’ she said.

  She knows.

  I know.

  I could feel her knee against mine, and when I slipped my thigh between hers, Rainald let out a
scream, as if he had been attacked by demons. We jumped apart, looked up, and he was standing at the lodging window, naked, his mouth wide open. A moment later, Turold appeared behind him and pulled him back.

  ‘He is in pain,’ said Martha.

  I put my hands to my nose and smelt her on them. Then I pointed up, kissed her once and climbed to our room.

  Rainald was on the floor now, his head resting in Turold’s lap. ‘He thinks God has deserted him.’

  I knelt down. The monk’s head was covered with sweat, he glowed in the dark. He was breathing heavily, his eyeballs were swinging beneath their lids. Turold said, ‘He should never have left Bayeux.’ He stroked his friend’s hair. ‘Why did Odo think he would be of any use here? He was only ever meant to patrol the edges of his own pond. This place, my work; he doesn’t need the trouble.’

  I looked out of the window, I could see Martha in the yard. I waved to her, she waved back and went into the bakery. Leaves blew around her feet, Turold whispered, ‘He never deserved this. He never did anyone any harm.’

  Turold wonders if the embroidery curses, then dismisses the idea. Some people make their own fate, he thinks. Other people cannot stop other people’s fate affecting them. ‘Men with a faith built on a sheltered life do not need the suggestion that God’s eye can shut.’

  I do not know what he is talking about. I can still feel Martha’s breasts in my hands, as men who lose their hands say that they can still feel them attached. Here are their sides and here are their paps, they are warm and smell of flour and feathers. Rainald opened his eyes, then his mouth, Turold put a finger to his lips and said, ‘Don’t say anything.’ He bent towards him and whispered, ‘Go to sleep. You are safe here.’

  Rainald turned his head towards me, his eyes were full of tears. He looked at Turold, then closed them.

  ‘You go to sleep too.’ Turold put his hand on my head. ‘I think you need it.’

  I could not sleep. I lay on my back with my hands on my chest; Turold sat up all night with Rainald’s head in his lap. They were both still, the air was filled with the smell of ripening apples and burning leaves. There were ghosts in the lodging, there were voices in the night that came from no mouths. No mouths had no heads; the voices came from thought. Martha would be sleeping in the next house, if I listened hard enough, I could hear her breathing. She is as kind as Turold, Turold is as kind as a nursing mother. He cares and he loves, he is only riled by injustice, and only forgets when he has drunk too much. He could go one way or the other; when he has people to care for, work to complete, pictures in his head of horses picking up speed for battle, then he shows his best. Here he has a cloth, and is wiping Rainald’s brow. He smiles as the sun breaks over the forest and shines through the branches of the tallest trees and he says, ‘Sleep on, Rainald. No one is expecting you.’

  Here is Lull.

  Oh Lord.

  He has finished the text, he has placed it on Turold’s sketches, and it has finished him. He is agitated, hopping from one foot to the other. He is waiting for a horse that will take him miles from Winchester. He will return to Canterbury, where there is one person who will listen and understand.

  Turold worked his way along the sketches. In places, the text had been placed carefully and with a degree of cunning, but in others it ranged clumsily through the action with the grace of drunk sailors dancing on benches. I saw the expression change in his eyes, but he did not allow Lull to see this. He wanted to see the scribe go, but he did not want him to think that his text had failed. Any partnership, whatever its foundations, can create a miracle; with Lull gone, he could place the text exactly as he wanted. Bishop Odo would never know the difference; he said, ‘This is good.’

  ‘You think so?’ said Lull.

  ‘Of course. I might place some words differently, but…’

  ‘Please,’ said Lull. ‘Do whatever you want. I am happy to have finished.’ He looked over his shoulder. His pack was at the door, rain was blowing across the precinct yard. His face was white, Turold put his hand on his shoulder and said, ‘Strength, Brother Lull.’

  Lull jumped at the touch. ‘There is none for me here,’ he said. ‘Only when I’m home; when I’m home, when I’m at my own desk again.’ He looked to his place at the end of the workshop. ‘I was never even given a desk here.’

  ‘Fix your mind on home,’ said Turold. ‘Forget Winchester.’

  Lull laughed. His laugh sounded like metal on metal. ‘I will never forget Winchester,’ he said. ‘It will haunt me for ever.’

  ‘Rather it haunt you than you have to stay here.’

  Lull looked at Turold. ‘I’m sorry for you,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘If I had half your trouble I would rather die than face another day.’

  ‘If I die, the world will lose my vision.’ Turold looked at me, smiled, looked at the work and narrowed his eyes. ‘My vision freezes my fears; I don’t have to worry.’

  ‘Modesty never worries you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing…’

  ‘Modesty has nothing to do with it.’

  ‘I know…’

  ‘Then why mention it?’

  ‘Forgive me,’ said Brother Lull.

  Turold looked down at the thin monk. The sound of hoofs echoed across the yard, and voices called out. The workshop door opened, a stableboy called for Lull. We shook hands with him and watched his back as he left. I am sorry to see anyone go, the sisters worked without stopping. The first completed figures appeared on the linen; they came slowly, they seemed to move, they would live for ever.

  Rainald ate some bread and drank some water, but he would not take anything else. His body was weak but his mind was strong. He had made a decision, and no one was going to persuade him that he was making a mistake. He sat up in his cot and stared from the lodging, over the bakery roof, past the city walls to the forest. He said to me, ‘I meant what I said.’

  What did you say?

  ‘The forest will be my home. I will put my life behind me and another before me.’

  What are you talking about?

  ‘I have learnt an important lesson.’

  Tell me what that lesson is.

  ‘God may be defiled by man, only nature allows Him to be pure.’

  I heard the bakery door open. I looked down. She was in the yard with a bucket. I listened to her footsteps.

  She stopped to look up at our window, but I did not show my face. I had promised to watch over Rainald, Turold had made me swear that I would not leave the lodging. He held my hand over my heart as I followed his lips with mine. ‘He is weak, you will not allow him to become weaker.’

  I looked at our friend. His eyes were on my face, but I do not think they saw me, not as Turold’s boy. I could have been a stranger or I could have been a spirit. ‘The Word,’ he said.

  I moved my head towards him, so I could feel his breath in my ear.

  ‘The Word of the Lord came to me, and said, “Set thy face toward the south, and drop thy word toward the south, and prophesy against the forest of the south field…”’

  What are you saying?

  ‘These are God’s words, and they are directed at me.’ Now his eyes widened and he could see me. ‘I trust you,’ he said. ‘You would not betray me.’

  No.

  ‘Would you be my help as you are Turold’s?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Would you be my raven?’

  What do you mean?

  ‘The Lord ordered Elijah to hide himself by a brook. You remember the story: the prophet drank from the brook, and ravens brought him food.’

  And you are a prophet?

  ‘Do not misunderstand me. I do not believe I am Elijah, but I know the Lord has called me. I recognised His voice. I heard it once before, when I was your age.’

  I have never heard the Lord. I know He is guilty, He knows I would turn against Him if He spoke to me, for I know He speaks with the voice I have been denied. Ye
s, I will be Rainald’s raven, I owe him more than anything I could do for him. In Bayeux, he taught me to count and he told me how Turold could be helped. He showed me the stairs to the top of the abbey tower, from where we could look down and see pigeons nesting below.

  Rainald loved to be so high, to look out across the country and watch the weather change.

  ‘Do not do this because you think you owe me something, but because you love me. I think at the heart of my doubt lies the idea that God’s love can never be complete, for He cannot love as one person loves another.’

  Rainald, go to sleep.

  ‘I have chosen a place. It is a hollow beside a stream, an hour’s walk from here. It is sheltered, obscured from view on all but one side, and that side cannot be reached without difficulty. A narrow path leads down to it. I will be able to build a roof over the narrowest part of the hollow. A hole in the bank will serve as a larder.’

  Have you told Turold?

  ‘I will leave in the morning. Will you come with me, so I can show you the way?’

  I nodded.

  He put his hand on my head. It was warm and sticky, like air before a storm. ‘You will bring me food?’

  Yes.

  ‘And butter for my burns?’

  Yes.

  He smiled at me, then looked away and faced the wall. I heard a noise behind me, and turned around. The shadow on the door moved, Turold took a step towards me and put his finger to his mouth. He took my arm and sat me on the far side of the room. ‘You are,’ he said, ‘willing to help him?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Good boy.’

  We looked at Rainald.

  ‘I will come when I can.’

  I heard a dog barking on the wall, and the sound of wind as it rushed through the room. There were smells in the air and a light in the night, but my senses froze, and the light shone in a different place in the world.

  ‌13

  In November, Bishop Odo came to the workshop, ignored the hanging, took Turold away from the face of Guy as he captures Harold, and said, ‘I am leaving,’ he coughed, ‘for Kent.’

  Only idiots and men on urgent business travel in November. I twirled some night blue around my finger. We were going to run out of it.