Odo's Hanging

by Peter Benson

  ‘A space?’ said Turold.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What will it be filled with?’

  Now William turned to the designer and laughed. The laugh was huge and stank, his eyes twinkled, he had planned something that gave him great pleasure. Bishop Odo was not worth the severest punishment or the most obvious; he would be hurt more by being reminded of the only occasion in his life when he exposed himself as a loving man.

  ‘It will be filled, as I said, with a scene of my own design.’ William smiled as he spoke. ‘Now I know you are willing to accept my idea, I may think more exactly about what I wish to show.’

  ‘Surely my willing has nothing to do with it.’

  ‘You are right, but I was anxious not to upset you. Odo said that you do not care for interference…’

  ‘As I have said…’

  ‘As you have said,’ said the King.

  I hoped Stephen was remembering this. He was in the workshop. I hoped he was awake. To miss the only conversation his master would be interested in. I think, if I had a voice, I would have called out to him. Wake up, Stephen! Do not make a mistake!

  ‘I wish you to leave room for two figures and an inscription.’ William raised his eyebrows. ‘You will be happy to do an inscription for me?’

  ‘I am happy to stitch Bishop Odo’s. I have allowed him that.’

  ‘For which he was grateful.’

  ‘Was he?’

  ‘I know he was.’

  Turold stood by the palace of Rouen, narrowed his eyes, raised his hand to the linen and said, ‘From here…’ he moved his hand to the right ‘…to here.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said the King.

  There was a snuffle in the workshop, by the wool stock. I took steps towards the noise, and when I reached the window, I felt my way along the far wall. The bats were flying, William and Turold’s heads were thrown into massive shadow, up the walls and into the roof. Their faces were illuminated by candles, a jewel at the King’s neck flashed colour on to the linen, through it and out again. I walked backwards towards Stephen, who was asleep on the floor. He was snoring lightly, and his face was free of the meanness it usually displayed. He had a slight smile on his lips, he was dreaming of a dog. He was the sort of man who would always have a dog and never a girl; I poked him in the ribs, he opened his eyes, blinked once and jumped up.

  I held my finger to my mouth.

  He looked fierce, as if he might bite my neck. He grabbed my arm and pulled it around; I ducked underneath him and pointed into the middle of the workshop.

  He let go of me and took a step towards Turold. Then he stopped, his arms went down by his side and his chin jutted out. He stared for a minute, then turned and whispered, ‘The King?’

  I nodded.

  These were the first words I heard him speak. His voice was as I had expected it to be, thin and flat as ice. There was panic in his face. ‘How long has he been there?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘What has been said?’

  Stupid Stephen. He is another. Please.

  ‘Idiot,’ he hissed.

  Me or you, pig breath?

  He began to creep along the first frame towards the men, crouched low, testing the floor with his hands before taking a step. He looked like a huge spider on the floor, his coat dragged behind him and his fingers were very thin.

  I walked back to the King as he was leading Turold to the workshop door. He said, ‘When this work is finished, the Queen wishes to see you. She has plans for her chamber.’

  ‘I would be honoured.’

  ‘You will be,’ said William, and when he turned to me he bent down and said, ‘And you will not be forgotten, Robert.’

  I was smiling, half at the King, half at Stephen. He was making too much noise in his approach. The King looked up and said, ‘You have mice.’

  ‘They do no harm,’ said Turold.

  The King banged on the workshop door. It opened from the outside. A blast of sleet blew in, we drew our cloaks around us and followed him into the yard. ‘No,’ he said, pushing us back. ‘Your fingers will freeze.’ He blew on his. ‘Keep them warm for my scene.’

  I turned around. Stephen was by the door, he mouthed the words, ‘Keep them warm for my scene,’ and looked at me. I shrugged, William stalked across the yard, his men followed him, they slammed the precinct gates. Turold said, ‘The Queen is a very small woman,’ to me, and went back to work.

  December was cold, snow lay on the path to Rainald, the brook was frozen at its banks, icicles hung from the trees. The silence in the forest was deep enough to slow my time to the hollow.

  I was afraid, but I did not have to be. Rainald had made his shelter as warm as any lodging. A carpet of ferns and mosses had been added to the wooden frame that covered the place where he slept, and he had woven hurdles of sticks to keep out draughts. The bank retained warmth, and the prevailing wind blew snow away from the place, so he was dry, and as we sat around a fire, and I dried my feet, I felt content and I think he felt so too. We ate bread, and I offered him some cider I had carried. He smelt it, thought about it, smelt it again and then said, ‘No.’

  I put the bottle to my lips.

  ‘But you have some.’

  It was sour.

  ‘I never see anyone indulging in their own pleasures, their own faiths. Faith; is that pleasure? Faith, is it within or without?’

  I took the bottle from my lips.

  ‘Pleasure needs no proof, faith needs no proof, you need no proof.’ He looked at me.

  Do you want butter on your burns?

  He looked away. ‘Forgive me,’ he said.

  I put the bottle on the ground.

  ‘How is Turold?’

  I smiled at him.

  ‘Good. Please, never think that because I am here I have forgotten you or him, or the work you are doing. I pray for you every hour. I hope you understand that I do not have your courage. I could not live another moment in the hanging’s shadow, or its spell.’

  It casts no spell. You were homesick, you were struck by the first doubt of your life, you needed to go away and think. This happens to everyone. You are not so special, Rainald.

  ‘Would you do my burns?’ he said.

  I nodded.

  A clot of snow dropped off a tree and landed in the hollow. ‘I wash in snow,’ he said.

  I picked up the bottle and had another drink.

  ‌15

  December was cold; cold for my birds and cold for Martha, who felt cold badly. She grew blue circles around her eyes, and when she had to run from the bakery door to the rubbish, she ran like a rabbit, hunching her shoulders and skipping between the pools of ice. I met her in the lodging, we lay in Rainald’s cot, I held her breasts but I was not allowed to touch any other part of her body.

  It is a good way to keep warm.

  Oh God.

  Please.

  Give me strength.

  I will go mad. I will follow Rainald to the forest. His doubt has stolen the certainty of his voice, You have stolen my voice, I cannot be certain of anyone because I cannot speak to them. I cannot ask, reassure, lie or joke. So why do I need people, when all they give me is frustration?

  ‘Do you love me?’ she said.

  Yes.

  ‘As much as your pigeons?’

  Yes.

  ‘More than your pigeons?’

  Yes.

  ‘How are your pigeons?’

  Well.

  ‘And you do love me?’

  I opened my mouth, lowered it to her ear and took a breath. As I did, I concentrated on the word. I forced it from my head to the back of my throat, gave it solid form and waited for my breath to catch it on the way out. I blew, Martha wriggled beneath me and I heard the very start of the word, the sharpness of the top of the first letter, but then my breath was out, it was in her ear, and I was on my back again.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  I am talking to you.

  ‘When will you take me to Ra
inald’s?’

  I do not know.

  ‘Please?’

  Martha.

  ‘Please?’

  I looked into her eyes and they were kind. I was going to take him honeyed cake for Christmas, her father had baked it for me. She could carry it for me, I would warn him that she was coming, we could celebrate the feast together. He would enjoy it; I gave her my best smile, I took her in my arms and kissed her. She was warm and I was so warm. Rainald’s cot was comfortable, I do not know why he did not take it with him.

  Poor Stephen. Like Lull but not like Lull at all. He changed our memories of Lull, so we began to remember the scribe as a good man. Stephen had to know what Willam had said, he would kill to know, but could not stand the sight of blood.

  First, he asked Turold, ‘How was the King?’ and Turold said, ‘Well.’

  ‘He looked well.’

  ‘Did he? When was that?’

  ‘When I saw him.’

  Turold let his needle hang and said, ‘You have just said more words in a minute than I have heard in six weeks.’

  “Words,’ said Stephen, ‘are expensive.’

  ‘Lull said that.’

  ‘Lull?’

  ‘A scribe. The scribe who wrote this text.’ Turold pointed to the work. ‘This is a nice word,’ he said. ‘Parabolant.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It rolls off the tongue.’ Turold stitched into it. ‘Right off the tongue,’ he said, and Stephen walked away.

  Next time, Stephen said, ‘What did the King say?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When you spoke. I was there, do not think I…’

  ‘If you were there, why didn’t you show yourself?’

  ‘Your boy saw me…’

  ‘And if you were there, why don’t you already know what the King said?’

  ‘There were some words I did not…’

  ‘Besides,’ said Turold, he threaded some wool, ‘what the King and I have said is between ourselves.’

  ‘The Bishop would not agree with that.’

  ‘What Odo agrees with and what he disagrees with mean nothing to me.’

  Stephen smiled.

  ‘You find me funny?’

  ‘No,’ said Stephen.

  ‘Odo said you do not understand jokes.’

  ‘He was telling the truth.’

  ‘And our Bishop always tells the truth?’

  ‘He likes to hear it too.’

  ‘Please,’ said Turold, ‘tell me something I don’t know.’

  Next, Stephen buried his pride and asked, ‘What is the King’s scene?’

  ‘Now you are asking the right question,’ said Turold, ‘and I can answer truthfully.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  ‘He has not told you?’

  ‘He is King.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘He does not have to tell me anything.’

  ‘But as the designer…’

  ‘As the designer, I do as I am told.’

  Stephen laughed.

  ‘That was not a joke.’

  Stephen said, ‘I know.’

  ‘I mean what I say.’

  ‘Deceive yourself, but you will not deceive me. I know more than you think.’

  ‘I am sure you do,’ said Turold, as if he were talking to a child. He reached out to pat the spy’s head, but the spy backed off.

  ‘Don’t touch me!’

  ‘Are you afraid?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Afraid of another’s touch?’

  ‘I prefer to keep to myself,’ said Stephen.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You do not need to know why.’

  ‘I would like to.’

  ‘You would like to? That is a good reason?’

  ‘Reasons lead to mistakes.’

  ‘Not just reasons.’

  Turold shook his head, Stephen waited, Turold said, ‘The King’s scene is the King’s business. His reasons are his alone. When I have to know them, maybe I will call you.’

  ‘You will not.’

  ‘Maybe…’

  ‘You cannot play with me…’

  ‘But I do.’

  Stephen looked hurt now, he turned away and shook his head. He was tired of talking, he was tired of trying to understand the workshop, he was afraid of what Bishop Odo would do to him. The spy’s job was to stay awake, he had fallen asleep at the wrong time. He looked at me, and I thought he was going to spit in my face, but he looked through me instead, and walked to his usual place by the window.

  In celebration of Christmas, Turold and I attended Matins in the abbey church. We were allowed seats behind the choir; I was given cushions, so my head was level with his. When I looked to my right, I could trace the tiny lines on his cheeks, when I looked to my left, I could count the heads of the nuns in the nave, and all their faces. When they stood, they rose like waves coming on to a beach; when they knelt, their habits rustled and the sound carried into the abbey roof and disturbed the pigeons that roosted there.

  It was warm inside, and the candles cast a thousand different shadows on to the walls, so another abbey and another service appeared inside the real, following in its path like a bad brother. When Ermenburga stood to read from the Gospels, Turold watched her without blinking, his eyes were on her, she turned towards us so her voice was clear as water, and as pure.

  We know the story — Mary is visited by the angel Gabriel, Cæsar taxes the world, Mary and Joseph travel to Bethlehem.

  There is no room at the inn, Ermenburga read slowly, she did not allow the occasion to worry her. I never saw her look so well, she was queen of her land, and every word she said was heard by that congregation.

  King William and Queen Matilda sat enthroned beside the altar. He sat still, his eyes fixed on the floor, then on the roof, then they stared at the floor again. He was a satisfied man; fresh from London, where he had used his power in ecclesiastical council. As Christ built his Church on Saint Peter, so William would build his kingdom on the solid ground of a disciplined Church. The spiritual nourished his people, it gave them a purpose and hope he could not provide. He provided what the Church could not, his Queen fidgeted and picked at the sleeves of her gown.

  Her throne was the same size as William’s, though the seat was higher, raising her body so her head was level with his shoulders. A tall footstool provided her with a step up, she sat on two cushions. Her arms were smaller than the rests, her crown was too big, and almost covered her eyes. Her face was small, like a nut. Her hair was black and tied in a ball. She swung her legs beneath her gown; William glanced at her, she stopped. She held up the fingers of one hand and inspected them; jewels on her collar sparkled, the story of the Nativity ran like a stream through the abbey, over our heads, around the columns and on to the floor.

  We know the story, it was warm inside, I began to feel sleepy. When I tipped towards Turold, he jabbed a finger in my side, and I sat up. Incense was burning, the smell went to my head.

  I stared at the ears of an old nun who sat in front of me. They were shaped like cabbage leaves, and tiny hairs grew out of them. At first, I thought these hairs were mould, then I saw them move in a draught. The more I looked at them, the closer they seemed, but I did not move forward, I allowed the praise to cover me, and all I felt was warm.

  In celebration of Christmas, Turold, Martha and I carried fresh milk, cream and honeyed bread to Rainald, through the snowy woods to his hollow. I walked in front, Martha came behind me and Turold last.

  ‘Do trees talk?’ he said.

  Martha was worried by him. The stories she had heard, lies, truth and nonsense; she laughed nervously.

  ‘Are you laughing at me, or the idea?’

  There had been fresh snow in the night. My old tracks had been covered, the noise our feet made comforted me.

  ‘How could trees talk?’ she said. ‘They do not have mouths.’

  ‘What does having a mouth have to do wi
th it?’

  I felt her eyes in my back. She was pleading with me to talk, she felt trapped, and wished she had not come with us.

  ‘You need a mouth to talk.’

  ‘Do you?’ said Turold. ‘Robert has a mouth, but he cannot talk with it, he talks in different ways. Have you ever felt that you are listening to his voice in your head?’

  Tell him.

  ‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘Yes.’

  ‘What has he said to you?’

  I turned around and looked at her. She blushed and said, ‘I would not like to say.’

  Turold laughed and said, ‘You would not like to say?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Naughty boy!’

  ‘No,’ said Martha, ‘he’s not.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He’s a good boy.’

  ‘You’re a good boy!’

  I quickened my step. They kept up.

  ‘He is!’

  ‘You are!’ Turold had a bottle with him. He drank from it and passed it forward. Martha would not touch it, but I took it and drank more than I should.

  ‘Ssh,’ said Martha.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  I knew what she wanted to say, but she did not want to embarrass me. She understands what it is like for me. She knows my head is screaming but my tongue will not answer. I am trying to tell her that I would have her in the evening. I am shouting this to her, but something is blocking her mind. The words are there, but she is deaf. The snow was crisp, and where sunlight lay upon it, holes formed over coins of mud and grass.

  Rainald welcomed us with open arms, he never appeared more holy. His hair was long and white, his beard grew from his face like fog, his eyes were pale and his voice was soft, as if it came from beyond him. He took the bread from Martha and held it as if it were a child. He cradled it in his arms, bent his head towards it and touched it with the tip of his finger. ‘Bless you,’ he said, and he touched Martha’s head. She stared at the ground. I thought she was going to kneel. ‘We will share it.’

  Turold stepped forward. ‘It is for you,’ he said. ‘Save it.’

  ‘As it is mine, so shall it be yours,’ said Rainald, and we sat down.