Odo's Hanging

by Peter Benson

  He was assisted by two nuns. He called them twin fowl. They rustled like birds, they flapped like birds, they moved from the paint table to Turold’s trestles, they twittered among themselves like birds. When they bent over their work and their faces disappeared into their cowls, and their cowls fell down to appear as beaks, they looked as though they were pecking grain. Our grey pigeons, plain, old birds, too tough for the pot.

  They kept distance between themselves and Turold, but they were closer, closer to me. Sometimes I caught some look of longing in their eyes as they looked at me, as if they wanted to fold me into their clothes and carry me to their cells. Other times they were anxious to explain what they were doing, and how carefully the ink should be worked. Confidence was the key to care; I learnt this from the nuns, and resolved to apply it to my own English design. Approach a task knowing that you will complete it successfully, and you will. Have faith in God and His willingness to watch over your endeavours, and you will be rewarded. If he could, Turold would argue with me, saying that all he needed was faith in himself, he would work and please with or without the greater powers, as if he did not owe his existence to any greater powers. He has no real faith, and though I have some, it is not as complete as Rainald’s.

  The nuns dressed in grey, Rainald dressed in black. Nothing deceived the nuns more, for they believed he was as dark as his habit, and did not possess the most forgiving nature. For a week, I never heard them exchange a word. Why do Christ’s sisters and brothers live in different houses, why do they mistrust each other’s reading of the Scriptures, why do they fail to understand that the eleventh commandment is the greatest? Turold will love anyone, though his lesser nature will obscure this true and honest feeling. He chided the nuns behind their backs out of affection, not malice. There was never malice in Turold, he was never anything but true to himself.

  My dumbness excuses me; people believe I am dumb because I am stupid. ‘His watchmen are blind: they are all ignorant, they are all dumb dogs…’ I cannot tell them otherwise so I use their ignorance to my advantage. I could wander around the nunnery buildings, the cloisters and gardens, and I was never asked my business, or sent back to the workshop. Nuns would raise their hands to me, nod as if I was expected, or stare after me as if I was the ghost of their wombs. I became friendly with many and trusted by all; my imagined idiocy was my strength, for as I was allowed to wander, so I found the place where wools and linens were stored, in bolts on wooden shelves.

  I was alone, and the linens rose above me. Their value was immense, I dared not touch them for fear of leaving a mark. White and clean in their rolled lengths. I stood back from them.

  Many had already been cut and hemmed to the width and length Turold required; these were laid to one side, covered with a coarser cloth, ready for his use. To one side, in a basket, were oddments, scraps and short lengths. Nothing was wasted, everything was recorded, if not in ledgers, then in Ermenburga’s head. Clerical matters kept her from many day-to-day affairs of the house, but she kept an interest in the linen store, as she had done before she was abbess, before she had the power and the power began to crack beneath her. The stick-faced queen sat in the store when her responsibilities were too much. It was less obvious than a chapel, quieter than her office, warmer than her cell. The bolts soothed her, they gave off the kindest smell.

  I rummaged through the basket until I found a length to suit my design. I held it to my face. It was soft and clean, softer than any cloth that ever touched Martha’s skin. I held it to my chest, imagining her size and the knot she would need to tie at her back. Thinking of her made me want her, wanting her made me wish. I folded the length, tucked it beneath my shirt and whistled my way out of the store, across the court, around the gardens, through the cloisters and down to the workshops. I was not missed. When Turold saw me, he slapped his stomach and said, ‘My horses will amaze you!’

  He was happy with the design, happy with the twin fowl, English cider was a powerful brew, and he was reserved choice meals, at Odo’s order. The designer had to be fed, if not he would not produce the finest work. Nothing was to be denied the man. Bishop Odo would use the hanging to stress his allegiance, to prove his taste and underline his wealth. The great use the great and become greater; I agreed with Turold, nodding and smiling. Sheets of parchment now covered the trestles, the air in the workshop was powerful and thick.

  ‌5

  In the night, Turold left the lodgings and took the alley to the walls, and stood at a rise between towers to watch the dark flat across the river and the forests beyond. Here, above the roofs and streets, above the stench, he could take the day and turn it over his mind, look closely at its parts and release tensions that plagued him. The pain of art, the ache in his hands and the cunning of his mind. Sometimes, he believed his mind was working against himself. Certainly it was when he slept and dreamt, maybe when he was concentrating on design and all other thoughts were blocked. What was his mind planning? Did it envy his hands? Did it want to blind him? Could it ambush him when he was not expecting it, could it force him to say something he would regret? Arts were no defence, they could never win an argument. He put his hands together and held them over his head, half pointing, half praying. From a distance, he looked as though he might dive off the walls, and on to the piles of rubbish below.

  Dumbness breeds stealth. As the night blew, I crept silently to a place close to him, close enough to hear him breathe. He did not hear me, I know he did not hear me, I have better ears than anyone and I did not hear myself, but I wanted to be near him. I do not want him to worry that he has no one in the world to stand between his art and himself and his patron and himself, or his mind and himself. I am here, and will repay him the kindness he has shown me. I am small enough to be hidden by a barrel.

  I watched him for a minute. He did not move, he stared into the night. An owl called from the forest. Its voice carried an echo inside itself, the real echo drifted towards us, and as it died away, another hoot came. Turold turned his head to the sound, the sound was soft, a light, warm breeze ruffled his hair. He looked like a king, a second owl called from the north, and the moon came out from behind a cloud.

  The young men are riding, and here Bishop Odo rallies them in their panic. William’s thanks will cover the Bishop, the Bishop will repay his King’s thanks. The Bishop will scheme and the Bishop will betray, the Bishop is a warrior and here he wields a mace. Turold said, ‘Do you have a clean shirt?’ He coughed. ‘If you do not, I will give you one.’

  I did not move. I was feeling my toes. I thought he was talking to himself. I did not have a clean shirt. The owls hooted together, and a dog barked in the town.

  ‘Bishop Odo inspects the design tomorrow.’

  The words come to me as if hung from a rope, showing themselves in front of me. Turold turned his head towards me.

  ‘Robert?’

  I stood up and showed myself. He looked away and said, ‘Odo is a particular man.’

  We stood side by side, and after a while, and after the moon had gone behind another cloud, and the owls called again and again, he laid his hand on my shoulder. I could feel his fingers’ heat, he said, ‘I love you.’ He coughed. ‘Fathers always hear their sons, however carefully they creep.’

  I looked up at him and wished I could tell him how much I loved him, and how I would do anything for him in any place. One place was the same as another, that was sure but did not matter. People work, eat, fight and love, that is all they do, and they do it everywhere. The only difference is no difference at all, people did it when Christ lived, people will do it when Christ is forgotten and Turold’s work is dust. Any place; I wanted to prove myself, I did not want to stay the boy at his shoulder, the one ready to fetch a dry pen or another sheet. The little touches I do for him, filling in a leg here, tracing the outline of a horse, I do at his request. It was a quiet night, and it prayed for us.

  Turold greeted Odo at the workshop door. The Bishop smiled and clapped the designer on
his shoulders. In another time, the two men could have been equals; as it was, Turold stepped a fine dance around him, he knew his distance and he knew the Bishop’s tune. This was power, and the voice was loud. Odo allowed himself a dash of envy at Turold’s skill. He had said that the designer had been given greater gifts than he, and it hurt. Now, as he swept past me and led his train to the trestles, he said, ‘I know you will please me.’

  ‘I believe I will,’ said Turold.

  ‘Ah…’ said the Bishop, as he bent over the first sheet and followed the early scenes.

  Edward in state, instructs Harold.

  Harold, five men, five horses, five dogs and one hawk. The hawk is unhooded.

  The church at Bosham.

  Harold feasts.

  Harold’s party take ship and leave England for his estates, carrying dogs and hawk.

  Harold beaches in Guy’s land.

  Guy takes him. Harold rides. Both men carry hawks.

  William’s men are instructed to bring Harold from Guy.

  William’s palace at Rouen. It is a fine building; William sits on a cushion and listens to his men and Harold.

  Bishop Odo hummed as he worked his way along, fingering figures here and there, tapping a horse and a ship, noticing the delicate twists of ink that made the trees. Turold followed, watching the Bishop’s face, glancing down when he stopped to examine more closely; here Harold joins William against Conan, here the siege of Dinan, and here, in a scene Turold designed and planned to draw the eye as no other, Harold swears on the relics.

  Odo stopped here and lingered, and wore a serious face. He had blotchy cheeks, winkly eyes, and three chins. ‘Have you given this enough room?’ he said.

  ‘I have. Embroidered, it will appear larger, I will make sure of that.’

  Odo turned now, and smiled at Turold. ‘I am sure too, as sure as this…’ and he slapped a hand on the sketches ‘…is what I want. Exactly what I want, except for one thing.’ He looked back at the work and passed quickly along, past Harold’s admonishment, Edward’s death, Harold’s coronation, the building of the ships, the loading and sailing. Turold kept up with him. ‘What is missing?’ he said, and as they stood over the beginning of the battle, he looked around the room to where the rest of the sketches were laid, all gently flapping in the draught that blew through. Sunlight fell here and there, I was a step behind Turold, Odo said, ‘One thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Guess.’

  Turold shook his head. ‘There is nothing I can think of.’

  ‘Think.’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Harder?’

  ‘My Lord…’

  Odo smiled as if he was smiling at a child, and said, ‘Text?’

  ‘Text?’ The word leapt from Turold’s mouth and surprised the Bishop, who lost his smile and snapped, ‘Yes! Text! How are people to know what is happening?’

  Turold shook his head. ‘My design tells people what is happening! I have no need for words!’

  ‘And if I say that I think you do, will you think that I am insulting you?’

  ‘I would not say so…’

  ‘But you would think so?’

  Turold took a step back, and from where I stood, I saw his eyes. They were popping, and he was licking his lips. ‘If the story cannot be interpreted without words, does it not reflect on my ability?’

  Odo smiled again, moved towards the designer and put his hand upon his shoulder. He glanced at me, and winked. Bishop Odo, Earl of Kent, William’s half-brother, winked at me in the spring of the year 1075, in Winchester, England. He looked back at Turold and said, ‘Forgive me. I did not mean to insult you. Of course you make the story perfectly clear. Anyone can see that. It is the finest work.’ He gestured towards it. ‘But many of those who see the work are ignorant, and will not understand the…’

  ‘And ignorant men can read?’

  ‘Your idea of what makes a man ignorant is different from those of us who are required to treat with them.’ Odo’s face hardened, his blotches reddened. ‘A text, Turold, or your gold will turn.’

  ‘You cannot persuade me with gold.’

  ‘I…’ hissed Bishop Odo, and he moved so that his face was almost touching Turold’s, ‘…do not need gold to persuade anyone.’ His cheeks were blown out, he licked his lips, his eyes had sunk behind fat flaps of skin. The priests in his train shuddered at his hiss, I took a step back, Turold stood his ground.

  ‘Text…’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But it will…’

  ‘Turold!’

  ‘It will make nonsense of my design.’ He picked up two sheets. ‘Here.’ He showed where Harold swears on relics and said, ‘I have balanced it: a group of men here, a group of men there. One in each group points to Harold who holds his hands thus. The reliquaries come between Harold and men, he stands alone, hemmed in by God. Only a fool could not understand what I have drawn, to what it refers…’ he cleared his throat ‘…besides, there is no room.’ Odo’s priests were sweating, but Odo was smiling. Few men questioned him, he was grateful for the experience. He would temper the designer’s tongue if he thought the man was insulting; now, he also enjoyed watching his priests squirm. He turned to them and showed his teeth. Turold said, ‘What would you have me write? “Here William came to Bayeux, where Harold made an oath to him?” ’

  ‘That would do.’

  ‘Ha.’

  ‘But I have a scribe waiting. He will do as I require.’

  ‘Waiting?’ Turold turned away. ‘Do I know him?’

  ‘He is English.’

  Now Turold exploded. ‘English!’ he yelled. ‘And he will write Latin?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘The English write Latin as they screw.’ Turold did not smile, but Bishop Odo did. The priests hid their faces, the twin fowl, hovering in the background, turned away.

  ‘Badly?’ said Odo.

  ‘Yes.’

  Odo moved towards Turold and whispered, ‘You are wrong. Twice.’

  Turold tossed the sketches away and said, ‘I am not.’

  Odo’s face turned again, hard and bright, and he said, ‘You disagree with me?’

  ‘On few things…’

  ‘Disagree with me and you disagree with William…’

  ‘I cannot work,’ said Turold, without thinking, ‘knowing that I must make room for text.’ He turned and walked towards the door. ‘It is impossible.’

  ‘Turold!’ Odo screamed, and his chins wobbled. ‘Leave this workshop and you never work again.’

  ‘I will always work.’ Turold turned around and held up his hands. ‘As long as I have these.’

  ‘I could arrange for their removal.’

  ‘And never see your hanging complete?’

  ‘This?’ said Odo, and he pointed to the sketches. ‘I have all I need. The nuns do not lack imagination to finish the job.’

  ‘You call it a job?’

  ‘You overestimate your worth, Turold. You are thinking beyond your reach.’ He walked towards the designer, and his face slackened. ‘Look,’ he said, stretching out a hand. ‘Let us not fight.’ Turold turned away again. ‘Turold!’ The face blackened again, and the voice was cruel. ‘Never,’ he said, ‘never turn away from me again.’

  Turold bowed his head now. I could see he was biting his lip, and his eyes were swivelling backwards and forward. ‘My Lord,’ he whispered. ‘A text.’

  ‘A text, yes. But we will discuss it in the morning. We like your designs, and that is what you are paid to produce. If I want a text, I will have one; it does not mean you will not be paid.’

  ‘But the form of the work, the whole…’

  ‘We will,’ said Odo, and he clicked his fingers, ‘talk again.’ His priests stood behind him, anxious, all young and pale. ‘Now I must meet Abbess Ermenburga, and I hope,’ he said, leaning towards Turold, ‘that she is less trouble than you.’ He winked, I felt Turold flinch, and then he was gone, his priests following in his wake like
ducklings, and the ducklings were in the sunshine.

  Late, very late, late with the night, the stars, the moon and the angel of my dream; as dogs slept and the roofs glided with rats, Turold woke me, and whispered in my ear, ‘We are leaving.’ He pointed at Rainald and shook his head. ‘You and me, alone.’

  The moon was full. He wanted his designs before we left. I was to climb the walls of Nunnaminster and steal them from the workshops. I was the thief, I could lose my hands. I would never be able to sew Martha’s shirt.

  I have my mouth open.

  Turold stroked my hair.

  There is a bird in every living tree.

  I had been dreaming about Martha. We had been swimming in the river, and as we lay on the bank, I dried her body. Her legs were slim, and as I rubbed them with the cloth, it was as if I was polishing silver. The more I dried, the brighter she shone. I polished and she smiled, she turned over and I buffed her cheeks.

  As I worked on them, they began to seep honey. I bent over her and began to lick it off, but the more I licked so the more came, and as more came she began to moan beneath me. One moment I had the cloth in my hand, and then it was gone. It had melted against her skin. I sat up, she turned over, leaned towards me and whispered in my ear. I could feel her lips against me, and a wisp of her hair on my cheek. She took my hand and pulled it towards her, and held it over her breasts. I could feel the heat coming from her body, and I saw a ring of tiny pimples around her paps. She tipped her head back and closed her eyes, her lashes fluttered and she whispered again.

  Her stomach was like a patch of earth around the foot of a small apple tree. It is warm and clean and smells of fruit. I leant my head down and she thrust towards me. Her thighs came up, and then the rest of her body folded over me. She pulled my arms and I felt a rough hand on my shoulder. Turold whispered, ‘Wake up. We are leaving.’