by Peter Benson
I held up eight fingers.
‘Eight years?’
I smiled and shook my head.
‘Eight months?’
I nodded.
‘And they can return to their home from many miles away, as if they read the heavens?’
They do read the heavens.
‘And you don’t need to teach them to do this?’
I shook my head.
He held the bird to his mouth and said, ‘You and I are cousins.’ The hen blinked, he puckered his lips and kissed her lightly on the top of the head. His hands were huge and cut and grazed; the bird turned to look at me and her tail went up. He could have crushed her and not noticed, but when she struggled for a moment, his fingers were prised apart as if they had no strength, and she escaped his hold.
Freedom for this bird came as a surprise, the expanse of water that stretched below and beyond her, even more. She flew up, twisted away from the sail and then dropped towards the swell like a stone, tipping back and splaying her feet as she fell. Her wings were paralysed by shock, I ran to the side, the captain cried, ‘She’s away!’ and ‘I’m sorry,’ I clicked my fingers, she looked towards me, I saw a look of horror on her face, we dipped in the water so I lost sight of her behind a wave. When I saw her again, her eyes were wide, I clicked again, she thrust her head forward and beat her wings furiously, twisting her body this way and that, fighting for height. Turold and Rainald joined me at the side; ‘Back!’ yelled the captain. ‘Unless you want to swim!’
Turold was first back, then Rainald, who laid a hand on my shoulder before returning to his bench. The heat of his touch burned through my clothes to my skin, and when I turned to look at him, I saw my bird reflected in his eyes. Not a reflection of the bird over the sea, but of the bird sitting on its perch, waiting for me to feed.
The pigeon climbed into the sky, but she was confused and frightened by the ship. She saw it as a giant bird below her, flying with one wing across a solid sky, as a pair of gulls began to swoop and caw at her; she tumbled, as is her nature, and lost them.
Gulls are not the wisest of God’s creatures. Their stomachs are closer to their heads than any other bird’s; before they had a chance to approach the pigeon again, she found the confidence to approach the mast-head and alight there, balancing perfectly, as she could do on the abbey tower, as if to goad me. Ropes snapped against the mast below her, a pennant flew behind and the sail flapped at its top corner; I clicked my fingers again and then whistled, a high, long note I can hold.
I have wondered what my voice would sound like, and the more I wonder the more I think that I could speak as perfectly as Rainald, who knows beautiful words. Turold can use these words too, and the crudest. These he will deliver in the hope that they will shock, but from his lips they are expected.
She looked down at me, lowered her head and cooed back. I raised the note of my whistle so she could not resist, and with a hop, she jumped from the mast-head and dropped into my hands.
‘The magic of it,’ said the captain. ‘She goes to the boy as if obeying his command.’
Of course she is.
‘She is,’ said Turold, smiling at me. She is my pet, I am his, he is Rainald’s, Rainald is Bishop Odo’s, Bishop Odo’s is William’s, William is God’s. We are all God’s, and though we are all the same in His eyes, we are not, and never will be, the same in each other’s. We are the same in the eyes of a pigeon, so could a pigeon be God? This is blasphemy, but a luxury of dumbness is that idle thoughts are never given voice. Idle thoughts kill the men violence doesn’t; the dumb live longer than any other.
England was, in that spring, blazed with flowers, high tree-covered downlands and the deepest forests. I recognised home in some of its places, though when we stood on the shore, and the sun dipped to our right, and I recalled the sun dipping to our left at home, I was bewildered.
Here along the way, the pigeons were anxious, flapping in their basket and bubbling. The tracks were well marked, and a week of warm weather had dried the ruts. Our carts and horses threw up dust, at our passage English people waited in forlorn groups on the verge, doing nothing, waiting for no one. Their faces had shown terror, then submission, now abjection, accepted now and expected to come. We were their masters though we did not stop to prove it; they had faith in us, proof was not needed.
On the way, we cracked a wheel, the carter refused to go further until it was repaired, and we would not leave our packs. We were in a valley, trees covered the sides of the hills that pressed down on all sides, and towered over the track so it appeared to be a tunnel. The daylight broke through the leaves and branches and settled on the ground like water; the horses were allowed to graze, the broken wheel was taken from its shaft, and laid on hard ground while the carter unpacked his tools.
I settled my pigeons then wandered through the trees, treading quietly, looking for birds. Here and there, wrens and tits flew away from me, and at one place, rooks were building their nests in the highest branches of ash trees. They called at my approach, then, when I was past them, returned to work.
A hanging Turold designed for the abbey church of St Pierre sur Dives, which hangs there now, shows Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden. They are standing beneath the tree of life, a single fruit is hanging from a branch, and a serpent is entwined about its trunk. The art makes the serpent appear one with the tree; its skin blends with the bark as if it were part of its growth, and its head appears as if twin to the fruit. Turold is saying something through his work, something more than the story tells us, but only he and Rainald know exactly was this is. They argued about its meaning; they disturbed my pigeons and my pigeons disturbed me. ‘I think,’ Turold shouted, angrily, ‘that if you believe I have made the serpent’s head to resemble the fruit because I want to mean something…’ he stopped here, and took a deep breath, then said, ‘Think what you want! I painted a pear, I painted a serpent’s head. Can I help it if they look alike?’
‘And you call the fruit of the tree of life a pear! The Scriptures say nothing of pears!’
‘The Scriptures say that Adam and Eve were naked before the fall, but I was required to clothe them!’
‘You know the reason.’
‘Flesh was created by God…’
‘And lust by the Devil. We have argued this. There is no point disturbing old ground.’
‘Unless it is fallow.’
‘The best crops are grown on land that has lain fallow; there is a lesson in that.’
‘A lesson or one of your sermons?’
Rainald laughed. ‘You cannot,’ he said, ‘hurt me with your barbs.’
‘My barbs are not for you,’ said Turold. I imagined him patting the monk on the shoulder. I imagined Rainald smiling. ‘They are for Philistines.’
‘“For all the wells…”’ said Rainald, ‘ “…the Philistines had stopped them…” ’
‘Exactly.’
The trees of England were more like Turold’s tree of life than any tree in Normandy. I know this was not true, but as I stood beneath them and watched for birds in branches and holes, and the carter banged a peg into the split wheel, the trunks around me swirled and twisted with unnatural colour, and the leaves rustled with music. Strange, unholy music, enticing me and promising. Of course it did not, of course the English forests were no more dangerous than others. God protects forests as he protects man and beast. The carter’s banging echoed through the trees, I saw a flash of colour as Turold stood and looked towards me. He called, ‘Robert! We’re away!’ The wheel was hauled upright and trundled to its axle.
The rooks called again as I walked beneath them, one dropped from its perch as if to attack me, but alighted instead on a branch that overhung the track, and he watched us make our way up a hill and around bends on the way to Winchester.
3
Turold, Rainald and I lodged in rooms attached to a bakery. An alley passed our door; this led in a curve to a door set in a high wall. This door opened on to the precinct yar
d and buildings of the nunnery. Here, in a long, well-lit workshop, Turold was offered tables, trestles, pens, parchment and assistance. Here, in a high, freezing room, furnished with two chairs and a table, we met the Abbess Ermenburga, the stick-faced queen of Nunnaminster.
Turold sat in one of the chairs, Ermenburga sat in the other, with the table protecting her from the man. I stood behind him, so my head was level with his, and the only visible part of me.
‘I would prefer to talk alone,’ she said, the first thing she said. She had not welcomed us, or offered refreshment.
‘You may,’ said Turold.
‘Please leave us,’ she said to me, without looking at me. Her eyes were grey and fierce, her nose was long and straight, like an arrow’s head, her body was thin.
‘The boy stays,’ said Turold. ‘He cannot speak.’
Ermenburga looked at me. Her eyes narrowed, as if she was trying to spot dumbness in my face. She took a deep breath and clasped her hands in front of her. ‘Your lodgings are comfortable?’
‘They are, yes.’
‘And the workshops? We have provided you with all you require?’
‘You have, thank you.’ Turold, polite as a fish on a line, and I am thinking — only men fish. They stick their rods out and wait for something to nibble their line. The fish’s lips nudge, the fish’s lips can smell, the fish’s mouth has two sets of lips. They open and close and suck; the fisherman feels the bite, holds his rod upright and pulls his line in.
Before the interview, Rainald had reminded him that the nuns would resent his presence. Their embroidery was the finest in the world. Their designs did not lack cunning or imagination, the Norman’s story of the events of the spring of 1064 to Christmas 1066 would be, could be, disrespectful to the English. The nuns had suffered rape, hunger, firing and the removal of their treasures, but nothing had dented their faith or reputation. Turold’s presence could do more harm to them than an army; to be lorded over by a Norman designer was an insult, but there was little they could do. Compliance would, Ermenburga had been assured, result in the elevation of the nunnery to a position of importance previous abbesses had only dreamt of. Turold had Bishop Odo’s ear, Bishop Odo — whose papal ambitions were as much common knowledge as his whoring — had his hands on many purse-strings.
‘I am sorry,’ she said, ‘but I am sure your own workshops must be finely appointed. Your reputation preceded you, of course, so we made every effort to obtain the materials you required.’
‘Please,’ said Turold. ‘Our lodgings are more comfortable than anything at home, the workshops are larger, lighter, altogether more suited to design.’ He turned and put his hand on my shoulder. ‘We will be very happy.’
Ermenburga narrowed her eyes again, turned away and slipped her hands into her sleeves. Men were God’s creatures, but easier prey for devils than any woman. They were rarely allowed in the precincts, they were a disruption even when they did not try to be. ‘I hope you will be,’ she said.
‘I know we will be,’ said Turold, in his deepest voice.
Ermenburga held his stare for a moment, then she stood and the interview was over. Turold stood, walked towards the door, then he stopped and wiped his hands on his coat. It was freezing in that room, but I was not cold, and when I looked at Turold, there were beads of sweat on his forehead. They were dripping down his face and into his beard; ‘Well…’ he said, and with a soft boot he pushed me out, following slowly, then quickly, down the stairs to the yard.
In ways, Winchester reminded me of Bayeux, from the market to the merchants, from the abbey and clergy to the green fields and woods that surround both towns. From the busy streets to crowded houses, across the water meadows to the King’s forest and back again, along the alley to our lodgings. I followed this way with Turold, as he began to prepare and sketch scenes for his work. Bishop Odo had given instructions about size and shape, and had suggested incidents, for which Turold was publicly grateful but which he resented privately. The patron could approve the work, the patron could reject the designer’s sketches and employ another, but Turold would not dare to suggest to Odo that his sermons lacked bite, or his singing was flat. Do not make the mistakes children make. We are men at our work, and do not need advice. I know Turold’s methods better than I know myself. Was I abandoned when I was three, four or five? Did my mother look back after she left me at the gate, or did she walk quickly away, dragging my brothers and sisters with her? Who was my father? Was he a bastard, is he dead, was it not my mother’s fault? Why did Turold take me to help him, will I ever talk? I have a tongue, I can whistle, I can cough and splutter and form sentences in my head. I know the Litanies, the Psalms, Scenes from The Life; if I wasn’t abandoned — as the monks told me — was I lost? Is my mother looking for me now, would Turold be accused of stealing me? I would not accuse him of anything, I would not leave him for anything.
Rainald spoke with Ermenburga. United in God, they prayed before they talked; he quickly, she long and hard, both kneeling, but apart. ‘She,’ he told Turold later, ‘will cause you more trouble than you think. She lives in Christ but cannot rid herself of human failings.’
Turold laughed. ‘And you have?’
‘No one does, no one can. We are born to overcome vice, it is our duty to apply our minds to this task, in order that our spirits might draw closer to God; some are born with more resolve than others, but resolve cannot be learnt, however hard the suppliant tries. Abbess Ermenburga is abbess for more practical reasons than spiritual. Her abilities are envied by the abbesses of lesser houses. Do not underestimate her…’
‘What abilities?’
‘Please,’ said the monk, ‘if you do not know, simply imagine. Ermenburga is not the model of piety she would have us believe.’
‘Show me a model of piety and I’ll show you a liar.’
Rainald coughed, and did not take his eyes off his friend. ‘Show me a designer who does as he speaks.’
‘A designer,’ said Turold, ‘only has to do. Talk obscures his message.’
‘And your message is?’
Turold scratched his head. ‘Words are not enough. They will never have the power of an image.’
‘Words create their own images, and each reader sees a different one.’
Turold sighed. ‘I cannot explain, only work,’ he said.
Rainald laughed. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I do not mean to plague you.’
‘You call your interest a plague? Am I the victim?’
‘Only of your own truth.’
‘My work is my truth.’
‘Exactly. And if your truth had more meaning, you would have more meaning.’
‘I should take that as an insult. You,’ said Turold, patting the top of the monk’s head, ‘are forgiven.’
‘Should I be grateful?’
‘As Adam was made in the image of God, so was I.’
‘The image, but not the essence.’
‘You confuse me, and you confuse yourself.’ Turold narrowed his eyes and dragged his fingers through his beard.
‘ “I am full of confusion; therefore see thou mine affliction…” ’, Rainald whispered, stood up and walked to the door.
‘What?’ said Turold.
‘My mind is clear,’ said the monk, but there was hesitation in his voice, and a chip of doubt in his eyes. He opened the door, turned and opened his mouth to say more, but nothing came. The sound of singing nuns drifted across the courtyard, and a bubble of noise from beyond the precinct walls. The spring was warm, and the sky was blue.
4
The baker, a shy, fat man, had a daughter called Martha. Every morning I saw her from my cot as she carried wood for the ovens. Her skin was pale, her hair was brown and fell in curls to her shoulders, her back was straight and her walk was stately, as if she had been taught to move by a lady.
Jesus said to Martha, ‘I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.’ From the foot o
f my cot, as I bent to watch her gather sticks, taking care to leave the stack as ordered as she found it, sweeping her hair out of her eyes, feeling weather on her skin, I believed, and I knew. She was mine when I smelt her as she brushed past me in the alley. My heart flew when I saw her, then it sank. I have had a woman, but have not loved, not in the way they do and want. I know what they want.
How can I approach Martha, take her face in my hands and ask? My eyes can speak, I can explain, I can tell a story, but only someone who wants to can understand what I mean. I pray a girl like her would desire, from the knot of hair that sits on top of her head to the soles of her feet. I listen to my own words in my head. She is proud, but this is not a pride that creates ugliness, it is something I do not understand. It is Turold’s pride, not Bishop Odo’s. She is sixteen years old.
Her breasts, God you have not seen any like them. She washes in the yard below. They are like apples swollen by a wet season. As water runs over them, they reflect the sun. Between them, flowers could bloom, and on their paps, dew balls form. Their flanks rise, their skin is like marble, cut from the newest quarry, shipped far and carved with cunning; I cannot compare them to any others, I would not look at others, they are all I need. She dries them carefully. She covers them with her shirt. I watch them disappear and think of them being rubbed by the rough cloth. I will steal a piece of white linen, sew it to her shape and give it to her. I will make a garment that holds and protects them, I will win her with this. She will wear it and never think of her breasts without thanking me. I will protect her even when I am not with her, I will be hers as she is mine, though we have not touched.
Turold worked a design in small scale on parchment. He followed a list of the events Bishop Odo wished to recall, and though the sketches were roughed, the sense was not. Here is Edward crowned, here are the folds of his clothes, here ships carry Harold to Guy of Ponthieu, here William’s men demand that Guy surrender Harold to the Duke. The palace at Rouen, the men ride to fight Conan of Brittany — the figures, horses, trees, buildings and ships were drawn quickly but they never lacked life. Turold’s mind was full. He worked long hours, he did not stop to eat or drink.