Odo's Hanging

by Peter Benson

  One pigeon, one King, his Queen, his Bishop and a column of knights, squires, archers and footmen. There was no sign that the King was wounded, no limp in his walk, no bandages on his head, his arms moved freely. He adjusted his cloak as he walked, Matilda did not take her eyes off him, he leant towards her and said something. She nodded, a horn blew from the palace.

  Odo followed, ten paces behind. He walked with a limp, he looked over his shoulder, he looked up to where I was standing, he twirled hair with his fingers and twitched his head. The noise of horses’ hoofs and clattering armour filled the streets, shutters opened, heads poked out, children were sent back to bed.

  ‘Trouble always returns to roost,’ said Turold. He came to stand behind me, Ermenburga followed.

  ‘“Although affliction cometh not forth of the dust,”’ she said, ‘“neither doth trouble spring out of the ground.”’

  ‘You sound like Rainald.’

  ‘“Man is born unto trouble, as the sparks fly upward.”’

  ‘The words of prophets, as I said to him, are not…’

  ‘The book of Job,’ she said, ‘is not a work of prophecy.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘If you knew anything, Turold, you would…’

  ‘If I knew anything?’ He laughed. ‘Can’t you tell when I’m mocking you?’

  ‘Do not try to hide your ignorance with pretence. You are too clever for that.’

  ‘I am ignorant and clever?’ he said. ‘At the same time or every other day?’

  Be quiet.

  ‘Job,’ she said. ‘You should read it.’

  ‘I have no time to read.’

  ‘No one,’ she said, ‘knows who wrote it.’

  ‘Knowing,’ said Turold, ‘who created a work of art has nothing to do with the work itself. It cannot change the way you look at it. How you appreciate it.’

  Oh Lord.

  ‘It should not but it does. Knowing a hanging was designed by you makes it worth inspection.’

  ‘Does it?’

  I turned around and stared at Turold. I had been happy to watch William and Odo return. I did not want to listen to them argue. I wagged my finger at him, spread my arms, pointed below and cupped my hands over my ears.

  ‘Robert?’ he said.

  Sometimes, you speak because you have nothing better to do.

  ‘How is Martha?’

  Martha, at night and in the day, Martha sitting up in bed and then lying down asleep. Martha, with a name that charms wild dogs, a face branded on my eyes and her voice in my ears. My child, her child, her thinning body, Ethel’s poultices and a bowl of soup sitting on a table.

  As the sisters stitched William’s haranguing of his army and the march on London, Bishop Odo came to the workshop. He knew. He had already prayed for forgiveness.

  He was quiet now, and had lost weight. He looked as though he had not slept for a week, his arms hung by his side as he walked along the strips, and here he stopped and stood in front of the King’s scene.

  I pitied him. As he studied the scene, he shrank, he sank at the knees, he did not fidget.

  He raised his hand, spread his fingers and held them over the work, but he did not touch it. A tired breath climbed from his belly to his mouth. He cocked his head to one side, then the other, then moved closer.

  Turold left the Norman army — William had ordered them to limit the pillage — and went to the Bishop. He coughed in his approach, and scuffed his feet on the floor. Odo did not look up. His eyes were fixed upon Ælfgyva’s face, her forgiving hands and her tiny feet. Her beautiful eyes and her lovely smile. And he was so young and slim, with an honest face and a light touch. His cloak is the finest in the hanging, his tonsure shines like ice.

  ‘Master Turold,’ he whispered.

  ‘My Lord.’

  ‘Master Turold…’

  I picked my sleeve and said a prayer for Martha.

  ‘…this is what we have been waiting to see.’

  ‘The King…’

  Odo held up his hand. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘I do not want to hear.’ He squinted at the beasts’ heads. ‘I never want to hear.’

  ‘I tried,’ said Turold, ‘to do justice to his sketch.’

  ‘Do you have it?’

  Turold took it from his sleeve and gave it to the Bishop, who unrolled it, studied it and said, ‘This text…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Here…’ he swallowed, ‘…a cleric and Ælfgyva part.’

  ‘It is what the King wants.’

  ‘Please,’ said Odo, and now he gripped Turold’s arm. His eyes were wide. ‘Please do not say they part.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Odo did not answer.

  ‘Bishop?’

  ‘Please?’

  ‘The King will not like it.’

  ‘I am patron and I ask you, please.’ He sniffed.

  ‘The King…’

  ‘The King knows the truth, and so do I, but to be shown parting — I would rather us shown in greeting…’

  ‘I cannot change the pose.’

  ‘I am not asking you to. Just the word.’ Odo reached up and now he touched the hanging.

  ‘The word?’

  ‘Turold.’

  ‘It would be easy…’

  ‘Please?’

  Turold looked away, tugged his beard, looked back and said, ‘I will have a lapse of memory.’

  Odo nodded. His face was calm, with faith at its edges. ‘If I was to be delivered a reminder, this is the way I would choose…’ He brushed Ælfgyva’s face and turned towards us. ‘I am reminded but I never forgot. But he knows,’ he whispered, ‘or thinks he knows. He thinks this scene will be a slap; he thinks I will regret knowing Ælfgyva. He wishes to ruin my ambition, but in truth…’ he turned back to the scene and laid the palms of his hands over the figures ‘…this is a caress.’

  You do not need a voice to say a prayer. I have a short prayer for Martha, and I repeat it twenty times a day. God hears me, He sees her in her cot, and watches Ethel as she prepares her poultices.

  ‘I am glad,’ said Turold.

  ‘And so am I,’ said Odo. He looked at us again. He held my eyes for a moment, then Turold’s. He rubbed the tips of his fingers together, then smelt them. ‘Are you surprised?’

  ‘I did not know what to expect, apart from surprise. So the surprise is no surprise at all.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I am resigned,’ said Turold.

  ‘Then we are resigned together,’ said Odo, and now he put his hand on my master’s shoulder. ‘You to me and I to the truth.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘My truth?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Odo patted Turold’s shoulder, turned to the hanging and touched Ælfgyva’s face again. ‘To be reminded…’ he said.

  ‘I…’

  ‘…to be reminded like this; I know I made more mistakes than I should have. All the way from there to here, and you. And Robert, and the Abbess. And William. He is above flattery and favour.’ He sniffed. ‘I smelt him today, and he smelt of fire.’

  He does smell of fire. He smells of flesh and cold metal, sharp edges and horse.

  ‘And the Queen smelt of fire too.’

  The hanging ends with the coronation of King William. He sits enthroned, his face is big and grave. To his left, Geoffrey of Coutances holds his hands in prayer; to his right, Alfred of York looks nervous.

  Ermenburga came to me while Turold stitched the King’s eyes, and she said, ‘Come with me.’

  Me?

  ‘Now.’

  Why?

  ‘I need him,’ said Turold.

  ‘Martha needs him more.’ Ermenburga looked at him and shook her head.

  I am gone, out of the workshop, across the precinct yard, up the steps to her cell. There is a smell I do not recognise, and the sound of sobbing.

  ‘Wait!’ Ermenburga was behind me.

  My head is pounding heavy music, heavy words and dead prayers, all
together, all filling my ears.

  The smell is coming from under the door. I tried to open it.

  ‘It’s bolted!’

  Why?

  ‘Knock twice.’

  I knocked twice. I waited for a moment, Ermenburga caught up with me, the bolt was drawn and the door opened.

  The curtains had been taken from around the cot, and piled by the window. Martha lay flat, two sisters were standing over her, I saw her face between them.

  Is she dead?

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Ethel. She came from her small room and took my arm. ‘I could do nothing.’

  What happened?

  ‘She has lost her child…’

  The child?

  ‘…and blood. But she is a strong girl. Very strong.’

  Will she die?

  ‘I think,’ said Ethel, ‘with God’s help and our prayers, she will live.’

  And your poultices.

  ‘I will change her poultice tonight.’

  Please.

  ‘I think she would like you to sit with her.’

  The two nuns moved away from the bed, Ethel pushed me gently in the back, and I went to Martha.

  She looked as though the blood had been drained from her body, her hair was wet, her lips were dry. I kissed them and licked them. She whispered, ‘Robert.’ I touched her cheek. It was freezing. I took a rug and pulled it up to her chin. I sat down, held her hand and listened to the nuns in the small room. They were washing pails and towels, murmuring prayers.

  ‘She died inside me,’ she said. ‘I could not feed her.’

  I put a finger to her lips.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘I can talk. Please.’

  Talk to me.

  ‘I wanted to but could not. All the time I was wishing and praying, but my body was saying no. I tried to make it understand, but it refused to listen.’ She coughed. ‘My mind is not strong enough.’ She lifted her hand and pointed to the small room. ‘Nor was my body.’

  You are strong enough for two.

  ‘I am sorry.’

  I know jealousy and ambition are lost before they are found, and nothing can check them, but great men do not. This makes them great.

  I have seen small men confuse themselves with jealousy and ambition, but they do not understand why they are confused, and that makes them small. We are small people, we must prove that great men are who they are.

  Martha’s child, the size of a hand, was swilled away by the sisters. The cell smelt sick. Martha’s hand was cold, the veins in her arms throbbed, and a fucking, fucking dog barked outside.

  Christ! You have put me here, You gave me the choice but You gave me no choice at all. A voice would give me the choice; a dumb, bastard throat gives me no chance. I bleed with spit and my head breeds more words, more garble than anyone with a voice could. The hanging is poison, the hanging is linen, stitched with wool. The hanging can be rolled up and carried on a man’s head. Its threads breathe but they have no voice. The text speaks but it has no voice. It is enough. No more.

  Ethel came from her room and stood next to me. She held a steaming pot, the two sisters muttered to each other. The mutter is from a voice’s bad side, its scheming head. I kissed Martha again and her mouth broke on mine. Ethel put her hand on my head, I stood up, Ethel moved to the cot and the two sisters showed me to the door.

  ‌28

  There is no one like Turold. I have seen him in every way, but I do not know him. He swings from one thing to another; skill and foolishness, cunning and anger, resignation and ambition, I can never tell. I know Odo, the warrior Bishop of Bayeux, ordained at nineteen, father of a dozen bastards. At Hastings he rallied the young men in their panic, now he prefers the attention of martyrs. He intends to retreat for two months, to contemplate God’s will. He has forgiven Turold, forgiven the King and forgotten Ermenburga.

  Martha bathes in front of the bakery ovens; her breasts are like apples, swollen by a wet season. I will protect her when I am not with her, as William protects us.

  His clothes are magnificent, his face is grave, his hair is the colour of rust. He is with Matilda, his men and her Ladies are absent, the hanging has been removed from the frames and hung around the walls of the workshop.

  The weather is freezing. A cold wind blew.

  Bathing.

  Rust.

  Turold and I stood with the King and Queen, and Bishop Odo. Ermenburga and Martha sat in a corner by the stove, the sisters stood in a line along the far wall.

  ‘When you stand back,’ said William, ‘and see the hanging as one piece, there is no doubt…’ he nodded ‘…the ships sail, the horses charge.’

  ‘And the borders,’ said Matilda. ‘Your animals are so lively.’

  ‘The apprentices,’ said Turold, ‘learnt their arts.’

  ‘I will have them,’ she said.

  ‘They would be honoured…’

  ‘Would they show me their favourites?’

  Turold beckoned the apprentices. When they bowed, they disappeared into their habits. They appeared again and Edith, the oldest, took her to the lion that welcomes the other beasts to his lair. A monkey introduces the beasts. Edith said, ‘These were stitched by Isabel, our youngest.’

  ‘Isabel?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  Isabel stepped forward and fell to her knees.

  ‘Your animals are charming.’ Cough. ‘You will work for me.’

  ‘M…’

  ‘Please, child. Stand.’

  Edith helped Isabel to her feet. ‘Majesty,’ she said, but she could not look at the Queen’s eyes.

  ‘Good.’

  Isabel bowed again, Edith stopped her before she touched the floor with her nose.

  ‘And your sisters will join you.’

  ‘Majesty.’

  ‘Show me more.’

  Wolves lick their paws to silence their stalking.

  The Raven, the Fox and the Cheese.

  The Cow, the Sheep and the Goat hunt with the Lion.

  Ploughing, sowing, harrowing. Boy with a sling-shot.

  Bear-baiting.

  Camels.

  Peacocks.

  Fire-drakes.

  Griffons.

  Pards.

  Quails.

  William, Bishop Odo and Turold made their own inspection. The King was slow and thoughtful, Odo was quiet. He had the air of a man home from a tiring journey. He had thought he would never see home again, he had rejected it, but now he has seen it he is glad. It did not give him a burning head or dreams of any kind. He walked with his hands behind his back, his hair was shorn, he wore fresh clothes. He looked at Turold and thanked God.

  Turold was anxious to explain subtleties an untutored eye would miss. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘the English horses are hog-maned.’

  ‘I noticed,’ said William.

  ‘And only Harold wears spurs.’

  The King leant towards the hanging, squinted at Harold and nodded his head.

  This scene — Harold riding with hawks to Bosham — was begun as I first held Martha’s breasts. I left Turold and sat with her and Ermenburga. I held my hands over the stove. When they were warm, I put them to Martha’s cheeks. She put her hands on mine and smiled through them. ‘Speak to me,’ she said.

  I am.

  ‘Speak to me.’

  I moved towards her and put my lips to her ear and whistled a low, quiet note.

  ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘Speak.’

  Listen.

  ‘I want to hear you say my name.’

  I have tried. I have carried your name from my head to my belly and tried to catch it with my breath.

  ‘Martha,’ she said.

  Martha.

  ‘Martha?’ said Ermenburga.

  ‘You would have a beautiful voice.’

  Ermenburga looked at me and shook her head. The girl in her and the girl in me.

  ‘Robert?’

  Talk is not comfortable.

  ‘I love
you.’

  Do not say anything else.

  ‘Do you love me?’

  I nodded.

  On the far side of the workshop, William had his hand on Bishop Odo’s shoulder, and was talking in his ear. Turold was standing back, squinting at a horse’s head.

  Matilda, surrounded by sisters, stood to admire the eels and fish that swim in the River Couesnon.

  A gust of wind blew across the precinct yard and forced a window shutter. The draught blew through the workshop and disturbed the hanging. It rippled in waves along the wall, so the action appeared to move backwards, undoing itself. I jumped up and closed the shutter. The hanging settled again. Turold put his hand up and called, ‘Thank you, Robert.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the King, and he looked at me. ‘Thank you.’ I bowed and then he bowed to me, in Winchester, before the people who knew me and Odo’s hanging, and the bats hung asleep in the eaves.

  From the forest and the hills to the town; one of my pigeons returned. She sat on the window ledge and watched me. I put my hand out, offered a finger, she fluffed her feathers and squeaked. She was the one with red on her wings.

  Martha joined me at the window. As she did, the pigeon started, spread her wings and hopped off the ledge. She flew over the yard, turned and rose over the walls of Nun-naminster. Below us, Martha’s father carried a bag of flour from his store to the bakery. At the door, he looked up to our room. We backed away from the window and fell on to Turold’s cot.

  ‘Will you go back to him?’ she said.

  No.

  ‘Do you miss home?’

  No.

  ‘Would you rather stay with me?’

  Yes.

  I work for the nuns of Nunnaminster. I am the only man with the freedom of the nunnery. Women treat me as their boy, they give me familiar names and believe, because I do not speak their language, that the names make sense. I understand what they are talking about, but do not believe it. I live close to God but never feel His presence; the nun’s God is elusive, He walks barefoot on air, and never speaks.

  Turold promised word from home, but it has not come. He is working designs for the Queen, his workshop in Bayeux is not as large or light as Winchester’s, but he needs home. I have a home here. It is a small room, with a small window. It smells of flour and straw, and is too high in the house for rats.