Odo's Hanging

by Peter Benson

  ‘How can you stand it?’ he said, and strode in. Three men followed him, one carried a chair. This was placed in the middle of the cell, we stood up, he sat down and with a faint wave of his hand, dismissed the others. ‘I’ll call,’ he said. ‘Wait outside.’

  One of the men looked at Turold and grinned an evil, yellow smile. He bowed to the Bishop and joined the others.

  We were alone.

  ‘Turold,’ said Odo. ‘Turold.’ He sighed. ‘What am I going to do with you?’

  Turold shook his head.

  ‘You disappoint me.’ The Bishop spoke as if addressing a boy. He was indulgent and quiet, and looked at my master with sorrow and a kind of longing. ‘There was no need for it…’

  ‘My Lord…’

  ‘Quiet!’ Suddenly Odo’s face flushed and his voice grew a hard edge. ‘Only speak when I tell you to!’

  Turold opened his mouth, began to form a word, then closed it again.

  ‘Take a lesson from your boy!’

  Turold looked at me and nodded.

  I nodded.

  We are nodding. We are like a pair of chickens. Here is the corn, here is the straw, but do not lay any eggs. The rats were in the wall. Bishop Odo looked strange, sitting on a beautiful chair, wearing his fine clothes in the middle of the cell. He took a deep breath, looked away, then looked back.

  ‘What am I going to do with you?’ he said again, quietly.

  I wanted to scratch my leg, but did not.

  ‘You are a dilemma. If I do not make an example of you, my enemies will think me weak; but if I do, I deny myself your talent.’

  It is talent.

  ‘I could have the hanging worked without your further help; the sketches are enough, but do not think I do not know that it needs your supervision. Your touch from beginning to end.’

  Turold bowed his head.

  ‘That does not mean that I will dispense with the scribe.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Silence! We have already discussed the subject, and I do not need any more from you!’

  I know Turold knows he has no choice. He has explained to me, he simply wants to explain to Odo.

  ‘You have no choice,’ said Odo. ‘My respect for you can easily be betrayed by my desire for your neck. I swear to you…’ and the Bishop leant forward so his face was almost touching Turold’s, ‘…last night I would have had your balls sooner than blink. You may thank God He persuaded me otherwise.’

  God talks to Odo.

  Balls.

  Neck.

  Text.

  ‘As it is, I think I’ll just scar you; something to match the one you already have?’

  Turold put his hand to his face.

  ‘And then you can meet Brother Lull.’

  ‘The scribe.’

  The scribe.

  ‘My Lord,’ said Turold.

  Odo’s hand flashed and he caught Turold on the chin. Turold did not flinch, his eyes were lowered, Odo hit him again, this time on the nose. A dribble of blood came from one nostril. The Bishop smiled at this, his eyes were red, his lips were wet. He swung between such piety and this violence, Turold swung between stupidity and brilliance, I swung whichever way I had to. I was the boy; if I had not been in the cell, the interview would not have been conducted any other way.

  ‘What did I tell you?’

  ‘Only speak when you ask me to.’

  ‘And did I ask you?’

  ‘No, my Lord.’

  The Bishop hit Turold again, this time with enough force to make him sway on his feet, but he made no move to defend himself.

  ‘You are a lucky man. I think you know how lucky. Not all patrons have my appreciation. A true appreciation.’

  This was true.

  Turold nodded.

  ‘Never forget my indulgence.’

  Turold looked at the floor.

  I scratched my leg. Bishop Odo looked at me. I thought about Martha.

  Our packs had been taken at the gate. Her strip of linen was folded at the bottom of mine, wrapped in a clean rip of sacking. I never thought that I would not see her again. The story of our flight would be known by everyone in town; as Normans we had been shunned, as Normans who refused to obey our masters we were noticed. Craftsmen were bonded by their secrets and cunning; bakers, masons, carvers or designers. All had boys, all the boys loved girls they had not approached. All the girls had fathers. Odo said, ‘William has heard of your escapade; as I say, your actions reflect on me. He had the grace to laugh, but I was not sure whether he was laughing at me or you. I think you know; he is a master at disguising his true feelings, and I think he was indulging me. So, as he indulges me, I indulge you.’ The Bishop looked at me. I looked at him. ‘I think your boy indulges you,’ he said, and then he spoke to me. ‘Do you indulge your master?’

  I nodded.

  He smiled.

  ‘Robert?’

  I nodded, opened my mouth and formed the word ‘Yes.’ I felt tears behind my eyes. I formed the word again, forced air through my mouth and almost heard the word. The Bishop spoke to God, God spoke through the Bishop, I was closer to God than I had ever been. God took my voice, God could return it to me. I saw God holding my voice in His hand, all the words I had wished to say and all the words I will say. My voice can be seen, it is a ball of blue air. God has to toss it in my mouth, I tried to say, ‘Yes’ again, but when I tried, when I thought about it, nothing came. Nothing but the wish and an echo in my head. Odo said to me, ‘Robert?’

  I nodded again.

  ‘Your master is lucky to have you.’

  I looked at Turold. He wiped his nose and said, ‘He is a good boy.’

  I had tears in my eyes.

  ‘Men dream of boys like you.’

  I heard shuffling feet outside. Odo turned to the noise, tapped the side of his head and said, ‘I have other matters to attend to.’

  ‘My Lord.’

  ‘You will be allowed to return to your lodgings, but please, Turold, do not be so foolish again. You will return to work in the morning.’

  ‘My Lord?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘My sketches…’

  ‘They are in the workshop, and will not leave the precincts again. They will be under lock and key when you are not working.’

  ‘May I…’

  ‘You,’ said Odo, and now he stood up, ‘are in no position to request anything.’

  ‘I…’

  ‘No!’ Odo walked to the cell door and banged it. ‘I have given you my thoughts.’ The door opened, a man came in and picked up the chair. ‘Remember,’ said the Bishop. ‘I indulge you, but I only indulge once. Pray, Turold, then go back to work.’

  ‌8

  Rainald was waiting when we returned to the lodging. He wore a disappointed face, disappointed that his advice had been ignored. Rainald was not like other men. His mind was fixed. He knew the outcome of things, he had faith, he did not drink or swear. He said, ‘Were you hurt?’

  ‘Hurt?’ said Turold. ‘It would take more than Odo to hurt me.’

  ‘So you have learnt your lesson?’ Rainald crossed himself. ‘May the Lord protect you.’

  ‘I’ve learnt one lesson. I’ll be more careful next time. I’ll play along with his wishes, but he’ll regret not listening to me in the first place. It’s easier to make a scribe look foolish than it is a man like me.’

  ‘What is a man like you?’

  Oh God.

  I opened my pack and rummaged to the bottom. I pulled out the sack, laid it on my cot, opened it and took out Martha’s linen. I held it to my face. It smelt fresh and clean.

  ‘A man like me?’ Turold smiled at his friend. ‘I am the sort of man who makes the world.’

  ‘The pride of fools.’

  ‘Rather the pride of fools than the humility of the pious.’

  ‘ “By humility and the fear of the Lord are riches, and honour, and life.” ’

  ‘Another dead prophet?’

  ‘The Book of
Proverbs was not the work of a prophet.’

  ‘Priest, semanticist, philosopher. Do your talents ever cease?’

  Rainald looked away. ‘I am a humble man,’ he said. ‘It is enough for me to honour God. It is left to men like you to express His will, His thought.’

  ‘I express God’s thought?’ Turold laughed at his friend. ‘Me?’

  ‘Of course. We all express God’s thought, but you have been especially blessed. Few are.’

  ‘Maybe…’

  ‘Not maybe…’

  ‘Flattery…’

  ‘Truth…’

  Martha.

  Night was falling. Turold and Rainald loved as brothers. They argued and fought, they rarely found good words for each other; when they did, the words were not believed. One envied the other’s talent, and believed that the other did not understand that this talent was a gift. Gifts should be accepted with grace and used to honour the giver and the thought behind the original deed. The other scorned the one’s absolute belief, the certainty of faith and the calmness of his nature. Rather than be angry, Rainald was ‘disappointed’ with Turold. Turold wanted anger, but he knew enough to know that he would not get it. He got a long, steady stare instead, and said, ‘I know.’

  ‘You know,’ said Rainald, ‘but you don’t care.’

  ‘How can you say that? I cared enough about the work to resist a text’s intrusion. I risked my life for my convictions; have you ever done that?’

  ‘You know I have…’

  ‘Forgive me…’

  ‘You are.’

  Ten years previously, a fire had consumed the greater part of the monastery of St Denis. Against advice and order, Rainald had returned to the burning library to rescue a Bible, a History of Saints, a History of St Denis and twelve rolls of sketched parchment. His courage showed in scars that covered his back, his hands and his right ear. They required the daily application of butter.

  ‘You were brave.’

  ‘I was God’s instrument.’

  ‘God’s instrument…’ mumbled Turold.

  ‘Believe and you will understand and fear nothing, no one.’

  ‘I’m not afraid of anyone now. Belief has nothing to do with fear.’

  ‘You are wrong.’

  Turold laughed.

  ‘You fear the scribe.’

  Turold stopped laughing.

  ‘Don’t you?’

  Turold did not answer.

  ‘Do you fear words?’

  ‘Pictures have more power.’

  ‘Pictures never changed the world.’

  ‘Have words?’

  ‘The Bible,’ said Rainald, ‘has changed the world.’

  ‘So words can suit any man for any purpose. Pictures can never be so two-faced.’

  I looked down at the yard below the lodging. Martha came from her door. She was carrying a bucket of swill. She tipped it on to a heap, poked it with her foot, a dog came and sniffed the fresh pile. She said, ‘Shoo!’ then she turned and looked up at me.

  Her face reflected the stars, her eyes were blue and her hair was long. I held the linen in my hand, I turned it over and sniffed it. As the material touched my face, she held up her hand, smiled and waved.

  I looked over my shoulder. Rainald was saying, ‘Faith is…’, Turold was shaking his head. I looked back at Martha. She opened her mouth, licked her lips and waved again.

  I waved back.

  She put her hand down. She held her empty bucket as someone else would hold a tray of eggs. Her fingers were white and tiny, I wanted to shout to her.

  ‘Sheep…’ said Rainald.

  I held up the linen, but she would not know why or what it was for. I saw the shadows her breasts made, I saw her tongue in the dying light. A voice called from the bakery, she put her hand up again, closed her fingers and walked away.

  ‘The Lord watches over His wayward sheep,’ said Rainald.

  ‘Do not compare me to a sheep and I will not compare you to a goat.’

  Eight wooden frames were set in the workshop. Each measured nine paces in length and four spans in width. The linen was stretched on these frames. There was room between each pair of frames for benches. The embroiderers sat on these to work. Small boxes were provided for needles and wool. At the far end of the workshop, Turold arranged a trestle. Here he laid the sketches, his brushes and quills, his inks and cloths.

  Oblong boxes were arranged on small trestles beneath the windows. These contained the stock of wool. Five main colours had been dyed. These were:

  Terracotta red.

  Blue-green.

  Dark green.

  Sea blue.

  Gold.

  Two other colours were prepared in smaller quantities. These were:

  Sage green.

  Night blue.

  Empty of people, the workshop resembled a scene from a dream. The frames were solid and well built, the linen was white and trembled slightly when a breeze blew in the windows, the benches were neatly rowed and the baskets of wool breathed an air of promise. I was with Turold when he transferred the first sketches to the linen.

  He used charcoal sticks for the outlines, and marked letters to indicate colours. The folds of tunics, the harnesses, roof tiles and windows were carefully drawn, the first boat was launched on to lines of waves, while in the borders, the first fables were put in place.

  Ermenburga came as we were working. A week had passed since our last meeting. When she entered the workshop, Turold put down his charcoal, rubbed his hands in a cloth, approached the Abbess and said, ‘You have been hiding from us.’

  Ermenburga’s face was thinner than I had ever seen it, her eyes were red, she took Turold’s hand and said, ‘You were forgiven?’

  ‘Does the Bishop forgive? Can he?’

  ‘That is for you to tell me.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Turold said, ‘maybe not. He forgives if it is in his interests. If he believed he could complete the work without me, he would have had my hands, at the least.’

  ‘I am glad you kept them.’ Ermenburga had not let go of Turold’s hand. She rubbed its back with the tips of her fingers, he bowed his head towards her and for a moment, I thought he would kiss her. ‘Is Mildred safe?’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And our escort?’

  ‘Your escort?’

  ‘Three Englishmen. They acted as guards.’

  Ermenburga released Turold’s hand. ‘She said nothing about them, but I am sure they are safe. She would have said if they were not.’ She looked around.

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I?’

  ‘Mildred told me.’

  ‘She should not have done that.’

  ‘No,’ said Turold. ‘She should. And I will…’

  ‘Please.’ Ermenburga put her finger to her lips.

  ‘Please what?’

  ‘Forget what you know. I do not want to…’

  ‘This,’ said Turold, ‘is just another job for me.’

  Ermenburga laughed now. I had not heard her laugh before. She covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes cleared, she reminded me of a girl. ‘I know you do not mean that. You cannot.’

  ‘I don’t,’ he said. ‘But your laugh was worth the lie.’

  ‘Please,’ said Ermenburga.

  Turold took her hand and drew it towards him. She turned away, bowed her head and said, ‘No.’

  No.

  Turold.

  He picked up a stick of charcoal and went back to work. She did not move. I passed him a cloth, the sun shone through the windows, through the linen and on to the floor. The Abbess took a step towards Turold, then she walked to the door. He turned as she opened it and said, ‘Forgive me. I was proving that I can be as stupid as you think.’

  ‘You are not as stupid as you think.’

  ‘A part of me is more intelligent than anyone.’

  ‘Stupidity is intelligence’s shadow.’

  Look at me. I am standing to one side. I pray for a voice, and I pray
for the chance to leave my mark. I am not stupid, I am not intelligent, I had the luck to be there. I was there from start to finish, and when I think about it now, I do not think I paid enough attention.

  My pigeons flew. They took a path from their loft to the woods. I watched them go. The English summer was hot. They flew lazily. There were six of them. Each knew its place in the kit, none jostled another.

  Here was the sun and here was the sky, there are the trees and my birds flew towards them. They are my birds, I have power over nothing else. They respond to the only sound my mouth can make. I whistle three times and they come, I click my fingers and they rustle in their basket. They will never be free, I will never be free, Turold will never be free, Ermenburga will never be free, Odo will never be free, William will never be free. Rainald thinks he is free in God, Martha’s breasts are free, free as the birds.

  This story is not complete. The rambles interrupt the story. Is the story more important than the rest? Are my pigeons more important than anything? In their minds, do they think the same as us? They are dumb, they coo and squeak, but that is all.

  Now they are flying back from the woods. If they wished to fly over my head and not come back, I could not stop them. They are flying fast. They are their own arrows, I am holding Martha’s linen in my hand.

  I have cut two holes in the strip, and with two larger circles of linen I cut from the ends, I am going to stitch a bowl over each hole. Her breasts will be able to sit in these bowls, like puddings. I would not think of her breasts as puddings, but this is one way to explain.

  Turold’s job is to explain.

  Here I am.

  My pigeons are back from the woods. One is perched upon my head. It has shat in my hair. This is the kiss of pigeons, and this, as the day spins and I allow it to, is the gate of cunning.