Odo's Hanging

by Peter Benson

  ‘Poultices,’ said Ethel, ‘are undervalued. Even the well can benefit from a poultice. I spread steamed bran and oak leaves on my legs, and am the more sprightly for it.’

  ‘Are you?’ Martha was polite.

  ‘How old do you think I am?’

  ‘Forty-five?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I guessed.’

  Martha.

  I could see her in front of me, but I could not open my eyes. I could see fields of flowers and fields of feathers. My pigeons flew by me, the poultice stank on my head, as if animals had shat there, and I was not allowed to move.

  Snow covered the world and I was walking through it. Although I could hear voices – sometimes Turold’s, sometimes Ermenburga’s, sometimes Martha’s – I was alone. I was on a journey but I did not know where I was going. I had been given a letter and been promised a guide at the edge of the forest. The forest lay along the bottom of a valley. The valley was below me, the snow crunched beneath me, a cold sun hung in the sky. There were no birds, no tracks but mine, the smell of wood smoke hung in the air.

  I crossed a field and came to a wall. The letter was tucked in my belt. When I lifted my leg to climb the wall, it dug into my stomach. A hand came from above and lifted me over.

  Rainald was alive, he was standing in front of me. He had shaved, his hair was cut, he was holding a Bible to his chest and wearing a smile on his face. There was no doubt in his eyes, no doubt at all, and his arms were strong.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘I am your guide.’

  Where are we going?

  ‘To fetch your voice.’

  Where is it?

  ‘In a woman.’

  In a woman?

  ‘Yes. I will show you where she is, but it is your job to take your voice from her. Do you think you can do that?’

  I do not know. What will I have to do?

  ‘I do not know,’ said Rainald. ‘Do not ask me about women.’

  The snow was cold, but I was not. The sun was cold, but the sun was hot. I knew I was in dead Rainald’s cot, I knew I could not move, but I was walking beside him, full of belief and trust.

  Rainald showed me nothing, the snow melted, I was with Turold, and we were talking about the embroidery. Here were the ships and here was the sea, here was the wind filling the sails, and the patient horses. Here is the landing on English soil. Turold wants me to tell him where a tree should go.

  I do not think the scenes need trees. I do not think he needs to stitch any trees before the horsemen leave Hastings; then there should be three. Two big ones with a small one in the middle.

  I think he has been thinking this too. He nods at me, and as a reward, tells me where to find my voice. It is in my stomach.

  I want to tell him that Rainald says it is in a woman, but Rainald is dead, how could he have told me? Then I know I am not talking to Turold anyway, he is in my head, I am tired though I have done nothing but lie down for a week, two weeks, a month? Two months? I am lost inside, I cannot feel my body, I am nothing but these thoughts, and this smell. This smell is a new poultice from sister Ethel. This one, I think, will make me want to eat. She says that if I want to eat, I will have to sit up. I will have to open my eyes, I will have to open my mouth and move my arms. One thing will lead to another, I am closer to recovery than anyone thinks.

  I think I have a red patch on my forehead, I think my nose will stop working. Turold put his finger on it, I opened my mouth to speak, he put his finger to my lips.

  ‘Ssh,’ he said. ‘Don’t try.’

  I am not trying.

  I was not dreaming anything, I was awake, but my eyes were closed. I could not open them, but I could smell. Martha was at the cot, we were alone, there was the smell of flowers in the air.

  I heard bubbling, then I felt my hand taken from my stomach, my fingers were spread and laid on a pigeon.

  A breast.

  A pigeon.

  Martha had brought one of my birds to see me. It knew who I was. I recognised it as the hen with red on her wings. She is small and delicate, with bones like needles and healthy eyes. I would hold her, I would like to keep her beside me, and teach her things I have learnt. A pigeon is pure and trusting, she flies for miles but returns to me.

  I felt Martha’s breath on my face. She whispered, ‘I love you,’ and kissed my cheek. ‘I brought her because I love you.’

  Why can’t I move?

  ‘The poultices will heal you. You have more colour than you used to.’

  Do I?

  ‘Hold her.’ She put the bird on my chest and folded my hands over her wings. The bird’s beak touched my lips, I forced them apart and tried to poke my tongue out.

  ‘Robert?’

  What?

  ‘Robert!’

  I closed my lips.

  ‘Do you want a drink?’

  I tried to shake my head, but I was too tired. I was too tired in Rainald’s old cot, I had been drained and now, as I lay as dead as a living thing can be, I prayed for the old monk’s strength, and I wished to work again.

  Martha came to me one night, and stood by the window. She held her arms behind her back, and stared down at the empty yard. I put my arms around her and kissed her.

  She kissed back, deeply, ran her fingers from my neck and down my back, spread them and pulled me towards her. Her body was warm, a soft breeze blew, she said, ‘I need you.’

  ‘I need you more than you need me,’ I said.

  ‘Show me how much that is,’ she said.

  I stood away from her, untied her belt and slipped her dress off. She let it drop, stepped over it and undid me. I took deep breaths, took her hands and led her to a bed that stood in the lodging.

  The bed was bigger than the lodging, but I did not wonder how. It was spread with red covers, furs and strips of white linen. Bolsters were piled at one end. I led Martha, laid her down and I lay next to her.

  ‘Whose bed is this?’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said.

  ‘Is it ours?’

  ‘It could be.’

  ‘It’s too big for us.’

  ‘How can that be?’ I said.

  I took her head in one hand and a breast in the other. The free breast sat on her chest. She raised one leg and rubbed it against mine, touched my lips with the tips of her fingers and said, ‘I love your voice.’

  ‘It’s the one I was born with,’ I said.

  ‘When were you born?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  I am looking down at Martha. She is waiting for me, and I cannot wait for her, but every time she closes her eyes and pushes towards me, I lose sight of her. She slips away from me, she opens her eyes and wants to know why I am doing nothing.

  I am talking. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Fuck me.’

  ‘How can I?’

  ‘Do you need to be shown?’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘but I need to know.’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘Why,’ I said, ‘are you so old?’

  ‘I’m younger than you!’

  ‘And why do you lie to me?’

  ‘Robert?’

  Her face was covered in lines, her body was shrunk and wrinkled, and her legs were throbbing with dark, thick veins. When I looked away, she took my chin and turned my face back to her.

  ‘Robert?’

  I can hear her voice, but I cannot see her lips move. The cot I am lying in is not the bed I thought it was, and the feeling that is growing in my body is the colour of milk. My eyes are shut, my eyes are open; open or shut, what I can see does not change.

  ‘Robert?’

  She lifts my arms and holds my shoulders. She shakes me, I can smell her breath. It smells of flowers, it smells of grass, it smells of cooking.

  ‘Please,’ she said.

  I opened my mouth, but I could not speak.

  ‘Robert?’

  I heard a dog barking in the yard, and birds on the roof. A month?
Two months?

  ‘Can you hear me?’

  I can hear you.

  ‘Ethel’s here. She wants to give you a fresh poultice.’

  How many poultices has she given me?

  ‘Are you going to lie flat?’

  No. I am going to open my eyes.

  ‘Robert?’

  I opened my eyes.

  Martha, Ermenburga and Ethel were looking down at me. The light in the lodging was blinding. I put my hand to my chin and felt the hairs I had grown there. I looked at the steaming bowl of herbs Ethel was holding. She held up a muslin and began to pack it; I pushed myself upright and shook my head.

  ‘Robert?’ Martha sat beside me.

  I was tired and weak. I needed rest.

  ‘Do you feel better?’

  I swallowed and nodded.

  ‘Do you want some water?’

  I nodded.

  She passed me a bottle but I was too weak to hold it; she put it to my lips and let me drink.

  Water is, to a man who had not drunk for weeks, a kiss. I held a mouthful and rinsed it around my teeth. Ethel tied her muslin and moved towards me. I held my hand up. She wanted to put the poultice on my head. I shook my head and did not stop shaking it until she had backed away. Ermenburga nodded at her but did not say anything. Martha smiled at me. It is a difficult life, made more difficult by our minds, and our minds play dangerous games with us.

  When I could walk, Martha took me to the city walls, and we sat on barrels to watch the execution of Earl Waltheof, traitor. The son of Earl Siward of Northumbria, he had been trusted by William, but this trust had been repaid with rebellion. This rebellion led the Earl to prison and then, as the spring faded into summer, and sunlight hurt my eyes, to St Giles Hill, beyond the city walls.

  We had a good view. Crowds had gathered around a scaffold that stood on top of the hill. Stalls had been set up; some sold drink, others sold bread, others sold crucifixes. Pennants flew from poles, soldiers guarded the scaffold. Their armour glinted in the sunshine, their pikes were sharp and pointed, the sound of the crowd drifted across the fields to where we were. Children played, women stood in groups and wagged their fingers at each other.

  Poor Waltheof. He was a weak man, he was drawn to rebellion reluctantly. All he wanted to do was manage his estates, love his wife and have ten children. He was a small man, he looked hungry, he had eaten his last meal and now he was led from his cell, through the streets. Behind and below us, we could hear the crowd chattering as he passed. There was some sympathy for him, there was some derision and some grief.

  ‘It’s a nice day for it,’ said Martha.

  I am sure Waltheof is pleased about that. I expect he is glad it is not raining.

  Martha tipped her head to catch the sun on her face as the city gates opened and the condemned, his escort and the crowd poured out.

  Here; I can lean over the walls and see the Earl. He was a brave man but stupid. He never believed the sentence, but now he saw the scaffold, he saw the crowd waiting and he saw the sun. He held his head up and walked manfully. Soldiers kept the followers in order, dogs barked, and above us, wood pigeons flew over the fields and swooped down to the forest.

  ‘Could a man live without his head?’ said Martha.

  No.

  ‘They can live without arms and legs, why not their head?’

  I think Martha knows she is being foolish. I think she likes the sound of her own voice. I like the sound of her voice, as I liked the sound of my own voice. I heard my own voice, I know I was talking, but I could not fuck Martha. I am worried about this, I am very hungry, I have a bottle of water. I want to faint but my body will not let me.

  Does Waltheof want to faint? He looks sturdy, walking up the hill. The crowd parted to let him pass; as he reached the scaffold he stopped, his guard stopped, and he stared at the sky.

  As he stared, so the guard turned to look, then the priest, then the executioner and then the crowd. Soon everyone was looking at the sky, but only Waltheof could see anything. His eyes were clear, he was an example, his confession had been true. He had been afraid, but he was brave now. He saw the gates of heaven and he saw the angels of God, buzzing at the foot of stairs that led from St Giles Hill.

  He climbed the scaffold, the priest muttered, the crowd stilled in anticipation, the executioner held a sword. He weighed it in his hands. Waltheof did not take his eyes off the sky. He stared and stared, the sun was hot, flies buzzed around my head.

  The colours of the world were very bright, I had forgotten how bright. They were more like colours in a dream than colours in a dream can be. Waltheof, the scaffold, the hill, the crowds and the sword were from a dream, but I was awake, I could look down, scratch my leg and know that that was all I was doing. Martha smiled at me and then, as the executioner took the first swipe, she said, ‘Disgusting.’

  The executioner had taken the side of Waltheof’s head off and embedded his sword in the rebel’s shoulder. The rebel was not dead. He screamed in agony, the executioner put his foot on his back, pulled the sword out and aimed again.

  The priest fainted, the crowd stood back, the executioner succeeded with the second blow. Waltheof’s head flew off his shoulders, rolled to the edge of the scaffold and teetered there. Blood fountained from the dead man’s neck, a groan ran through the crowd, the pennants cracked in the breeze and the head dropped off the scaffold. It fell on the grass and lay there. Martha looked away, I looked at her, the sky was deep blue and cloudless.

  ‌22

  When I returned to the workshop, Turold was burning for the work, he was working day and night, he had blocked all other thought, but he put his arms around me and held me tight. I do not think I have grown at all. He is as big as he always was. His head is full of ideas, he handed me a needle and some green wool and said, ‘Could you thread this?’

  You never forget how to thread a needle.

  I took it, licked the wool, twisted and threaded it. Turold smiled at me. His beard was thicker than it had ever been, but his teeth still showed through it. They were friendly teeth, they were stained and eighteen were missing.

  I ran my finger over the figure of Rainald carrying a sack of corn and followed the horses to the invasion fleet.

  The crossing was dangerous. William had prayed for a kind wind; when it came his army embarked with great haste. Many of Turold’s faces are worried. They do not know if the wind will hold, they do not know the strength of the army they will face, some are sick and some fear the depths.

  In the middle of the night, in the middle of the sea, William’s ship lost touch with the rest of the fleet. A lantern burnt at his mast-head, but it could not be seen. Here, following William’s ship, are two smaller ships with pointing men. The Duke, his faith in the wind complete, took a place at the bow, spread some bread and meat, and ate. He was relaxed, never more in the Hand of God. His claim was right, supported by relics, sanctioned by the wind. Turold has stitched him after his meal, standing in the bow to admonish the faithless and faint-hearted.

  ‘Do you like the work?’

  Do I like the work?

  ‘We have been busy.’

  Turold wants to know if I like the work. I shrugged.

  He laughed. ‘I missed your shrug.’

  I missed you, you bastard.

  ‘You do not do much, but you do me good.’

  What do you mean?

  ‘What do you mean?’ Ermenburga came from behind a frame, wagging her finger. She thought Turold was cruel. Turold can be stupid, he can forget himself, but he is never cruel.

  ‘I do not mean it,’ he said, and he messed my hair. His hands are so big, I forgot how big. And he sews these faces, he gives a horse a calm expression, or an excited one.

  Ermenburga touched me. ‘We prayed for you,’ she said, and she pointed to the sisters. They stopped work and looked at me. ‘We missed you.’

  I felt a lump in my throat.

  All the sisters were smiling. From where I stood,
their smiles stretched along the hanging, across the workshop to an open window. They were like a row of flowers beside a path, pleased to feel the sun. I was wanted, I was prayed for and wished health. I was chosen and I was blessed; I turned away and sat on a bench, sniffed into my sleeves and prayed for my voice. I wanted it more than ever, I wanted to dream again, and I wanted to shout. I opened my mouth, spit came out, I could feel the sisters looking at me.

  The horses are unloaded and the army advances on Hastings. Here comes a lamb for the slaughter, and here is Turold’s cow. He sketched this cow in place of a man, he stitched it and gave it a knowing look and a leap of joy. He likes cows, he likes horses, he was going to give the lamb a look of horror, but he let it stare blankly at the axe about to fall.

  The axe.

  Oh Lord, listen to me.

  Bishop Odo.

  Bishop Odo is clean, he has lost weight, but he has lost none of his habits. He is winking at the sisters, he is twirling his hair around his fingers, and now he is rubbing his left ankle with his right foot. He cannot stop doing this, he stands next to Turold. He looks tired, he looks worried. What he sees cheers him, and when he sees me he says, ‘Robert! Back to work?’ He still talks to me as if I was a fool, he turns back to the work and studies himself.

  He is pictured twice within two spans, the first time saying grace before the Hastings feast, the second time in conference with William and Robert.

  In the first scene, he wears a serene, confident face; he is studied by William, regarded with confidence. The table is spread with the Lord’s blessings, Odo remembered the day. It was warm, it was their day. The army was prepared, the horses were strong, the archers were practising.

  In the second scene, Odo is advising William while Robert lends an ear. The Duke is listening carefully, impressed by the Bishop’s understanding of the terrain, the enemy’s strength, the Norman army’s weaknesses.

  The Norman army had few weaknesses, the day — Odo remembered — was as good a day as he had known. Now he was reduced, now he could not relax, now he did not know who he should be. Warrior or bishop? Patron or schemer? Schemer and patron? And bishop? Philosopher? He wanted a sign, he had to be shown that he could be the man he had been, he did not have to live with nothing but the comfort of what he had done. The hanging reminded him, it nudged him, he did not wink once as he stared at his own faces. He touched them, one with his left hand, the other with his right. Then he whispered, ‘You are the cleverest man, Turold. For all the insults, you are the most cunning man.’