Odo's Hanging

by Peter Benson

  If you have seen Odo’s hanging, all the lengths stitched together, the story complete and balanced from beginning to end, the colours of the wool, the life in the horse, the strength of the ships, the expressions on the faces of important characters, it is easy to imagine the look of the linen as it filled with the outlines. It was the ghost of art, the end of Odo’s dream. The lines of charcoal were applied thinly, the linen was stretched tight and easy to work. It was my job, as Turold reached the end of the first strip, to complete the borders. He had sketched the outlines of a pair of birds here, a pair of bears there, a fable here, a hunting scene where a hunting scene should be. Diagonal lines of colour would separate these scenes. He had put a line of dots where each solid bar would be, and in a generous moment, allowed me to choose the colours of the bars. I am about to leave my mark, and here, about to leave his mark, is Brother Lull. Odo has offered to accompany him on his first visit to the workshop, but the scribe says he can look after himself.

  It was a warm day in the middle of August. Rainald was sitting at a window, listening to bird-song. Turold and I were fiddling with this scene: Westminster Abbey is completed, the weathercock is erected, the Hand of God blesses it. Edward’s shrouded corpse is carried by eight men. Two acolytes carry bells. Turold was trying to find room for four pairs of legs at the front of the bier, and four pairs at the rear; he struggled, he gave up, Lull knocked on the door, Turold shouted, ‘Who is it?’ and the scribe opened the door.

  Lull’s robes were stained, he had a paunch, ink on his fingers, bad teeth and a beard. His beard was thin and scraggy, and there was a bald patch over one cheek. His eyes were dull, I do not think there was a muscle in his body.

  ‘Master Turold?’ he said.

  Turold thought the man was a messenger. ‘Yes?’ he said. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I am Brother Lull. Bishop Odo’s scribe.’

  ‘Lull?’ said Turold.

  Rainald left his place and came to where we were, but he did not say anything.

  ‘At your service,’ said Lull, nervously.

  ‘If you were at my service,’ said Turold, ‘you would not be here.’ He began to draw a row of cobbles for the bearers to walk upon. Lull narrowed his eyes and watched.

  ‘I heard,’ he said, ‘you were unhappy a text was to be added.’

  ‘Unhappy,’ said Turold, ‘is not the word I would have used.’ The cobbles stretched from the eastern end of the abbey to the foot of the walls of King Edward’s palace. ‘I was

  insulted.’

  ‘Bishop Odo and I have…’

  ‘Bishop Odo and I!’ Turold mimicked Lull’s high, weedy voice. ‘You enjoy a special friendship?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Do you?’ Turold finished the cobbles, dropped his charcoal into a box, turned and faced the man. ‘You like to think?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought scribes hated to think.’

  Rainald tapped Turold’s ankle with his foot.

  Lull did not rise to the bait.

  Turold looked at the scribe. Turold does not dislike often, but he made an exception for Lull. Lull shuffled from one foot to another and looked away. I felt sorry for him now; he was following orders, he did not want to irritate the designer. He said, ‘Will you choose the style of script?’

  ‘I have not been asked to.’

  ‘You are the designer.’

  ‘Thank you for reminding me.’

  Rainald took Turold’s arm, led him to a corner of the workshop and said, ‘Listen.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You and Brother Lull will be working together for many months. It would be wise to remember this.’

  ‘Wise?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How could I forget?’

  ‘You misunderstand me. If you mean to antagonise him from the start, you will allow your work to suffer. You remember Abbot Nicholas’s cope?’

  ‘How could I forget?’

  Lull was leaning forward, straining to hear.

  The Abbot Nicholas’s cope was designed by Turold in the eighth year of the conquest. In an effort to impress his loyalty to Odo, the Abbot demanded the orphreys embroidered with arms of Norman knights; for this reason, a secretary, expert in the study of arms, travelled to Bayeux.

  This pale and slimy man insisted on interfering in the general design of the cope, a servant who believed himself above other servants. Turold wished to depict twelve scenes from The Life in frames of cloud. The secretary suggested that twelve was an inappropriate number. Turold hit the secretary, broke his nose and lost the commission. Later, he was thanked by Bishop Odo for blooding the man, but the thanks were tempered by a warning. Upset his servants and you upset the Bishop; at that time he was indulged because Odo disliked the Abbot Nicholas. Rainald said, ‘You remember what Bishop Odo said at the time?’

  ‘Not what he said.’

  ‘Upset my servants and you upset me.’

  ‘I am his servant now, and I am upset. Did that count for anything?’

  ‘He forgave you.’

  ‘I have already discussed his idea of forgiveness with Ermenburga.’

  ‘I know.’

  Turold fixed Rainald’s eyes; he held them for a minute, then turned and said to Lull, ‘If you do not try to interfere with my design, we will be able to work together. But…’

  ‘I was never…’

  ‘But we will fight if you begin to voice any opinion on this.’ He pointed at the outline of William’s council with Odo, and the order given to build the invasion fleet. ‘You know where the text is to be placed?’

  ‘I have an idea; if I use your sketches, I could ink on them.’

  ‘You could what?’ Turold raised his voice, Rainald bowed his head and whispered something I did not hear.

  ‘I should say, this was Bishop Odo’s suggestion.’

  ‘Odo can…’

  ‘Turold,’ said Rainald.

  I heard a dog, barking beyond the precinct walls.

  ‘Odo,’ said Turold again.

  Lull lowered his eyes, I saw him smile.

  Lull.

  He was liked by no one, had only been loved by his mother, he would take payment for anything from anyone, he did not owe people anything, he wanted his revenge on the world. He pitied himself, for no one else would, his faith had dried up years before; greed and a desire to hinder others’ progress had filled the place where faith had been. He imagined his Bishop’s favour when news of Turold’s attitude was delivered. Rainald said, ‘I think then, you should see the sketches.’ He put his hand on Turold’s shoulder.

  ‘It would be a good idea.’

  ‘One man’s idea is…’ Turold began.

  ‘Turold!’ said Rainald, and the monk’s eyes flashed with a look faith could not control. When we flew for the coast, he had never sprung like this. Now he turned Turold towards him and said, ‘It is a good idea. The hanging will have a text, that is final. Brother Lull will be unable to place it without reference to your sketches, and then you will be able to make whatever changes you wish.’ He turned to the scribe. ‘I am sure that would be Bishop Odo’s wish?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lull, softly. ‘I am sure he would not like to think that his designer was unhappy in any way. An unhappy man is unlikely to produce the best work, is he?’ He raised his eyebrows and looked straight at Turold. He had no talent, no talent at all, but for the ability to disturb Turold’s mind. The one man’s head was full of pictures and colour, the other’s was a jumble of words. Words come in black and white, they can only be read by those who understand the language. Pictures can be understood by people of all ages, faiths and races; words are more dangerous. They hold secrets better than pictures, they can fly like pigeons. Pictures hang like hawks, and there it is.

  ‌9

  Here is Martha’s linen, stitched and ready to give. I am waiting by the bakery door with it tucked in my waist, I am holding the most beautiful pigeon I own.

  Her feathers are f
lecked with red, her eyes are bright as jewels, she sits in my hand as Martha’s breasts will sit in their bowls. I am stroking the pigeon’s head when she comes out, she saw me standing there, I did not move.

  ‘Hello,’ she said.

  I nodded.

  ‘Robert?’

  Yes.

  ‘I see you every day.’

  I opened my mouth, and for a moment it was filled with the shadows of words, as it had been when Bishop Odo spoke to me. William’s half-brother has spoken to me, and has asked for my opinion.

  ‘You cannot talk, can you?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘I am sorry.’

  She said this as if it was her fault, and she would do anything in the world to give me a voice.

  I put my hand to my waist and felt the linen. The more I thought about it, the more impossible it was to give.

  ‘How long have we lived next door to each other?’

  I do not count.

  ‘Oh!’ she said suddenly, and looked at my pigeon. ‘Can I hold him?’

  I shook my head. He is a she.

  ‘Why not?’

  I nodded my head now and passed the bird to her.

  Our fingers touched as I gave the bird to her. She held her as the nest and said, ‘She is so warm.’

  Her cupped hands were bigger than the cups I had stitched to the linen. I put my hand to my waist and looked at her eyes. They were filled with wonder, big and blue as sky. ‘I have seen you fly them. Do they always return?’

  I nodded.

  ‘They must love you.’

  They know me, if that means love. I put out my hand to take the bird back; when she was in my hands again, I pointed to the city wall and opened my mouth.

  ‘Are you going to fly her?’

  I pointed to the wall again, and walked away. Martha followed me, I could hear her footsteps next to mine, and the rustle of her clothes. Her hair was fine and shiny. She was the same height as me. I stood back to let her climb the steps and followed her up.

  Her ankles were tiny, and I was thinking how could such fragile things hold up her body? Then I was thinking they make such a nice sound as the bones click together, and her calves are so white and smooth, and I was squeezing my bird. She squeaked, I relaxed my grip and stroked the top of her head. A pigeon’s head feels so light to touch, and then we were on the wall together. It was early in the evening, and children were playing on the rubbish below us.

  The sun was sinking, the forest was covered in light that turned the leaves gold, the sky was as high as it ever was, and bluer than the sea.

  ‘Are you going to let her go?’ said Martha.

  I nodded and held the bird to my lips, pecked her lightly on the top of her head, then held her above my head and opened my hands. She sat in my palms for a second, lifted her tail, then opened her wings and flew, tipped slightly in the air then righted herself and went like an arrow, over the rubbish to the trees. I whistled once and she adjusted her flight; Martha said, ‘She can hear you?’

  I nodded.

  ‘I can hear you,’ she said.

  I looked at Martha. There was nothing I could do. I moved towards her, and as I had done with my hen, I pecked her lightly on the top of her head. As I did, she lifted her face and kissed my lips. We held each other’s gaze, I forgot about the bird. Her hair blew towards me and brushed against my cheeks, children yelled below us, but I did not hear them. I put my hand to my waist and pulled out the linen, and gave it to her. I said, ‘I made this for you,’ in my head, I opened my mouth, forced the words into it, but they stuck there. I prayed for them, I prayed for a sign, she took the linen and said, ‘What is this?’

  I smiled.

  She opened the linen and held it up. ‘For me?’ she said.

  I nodded.

  She turned it upside down, she held it the right way up, she put her hands in the bowls. ‘What is it for?’

  I could not say.

  ‘Did you make it?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Is it for straining? For cheese?’

  Oh God.

  ‘My father uses bags like this, but they are not so small.’

  Size has got nothing to do with it.

  She held it to her face. ‘This is fine stuff,’ she said.

  I am smiling.

  ‘Where did you get it?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘I have never seen finer.’

  I held my hands as cups and placed them over my chest, but as I did this, she turned towards a noise below us. Suddenly I was red, I scratched under my arms and she said, ‘Did you steal it?’

  I shook my head.

  She shook her head.

  We are shaking heads together.

  This was my prayer. Dear God, Take my sight and give me voice in its place. I will never forget what Martha looks like, her face will always be behind my eyes, whether she is with me or not.

  I have my eyes closed, and I am thinking about God in heaven, and his thoughts. All men have gifts as all men have been denied. Some men never know what they were denied, others can never forget; as Turold was His instrument, so I was Turold’s instrument, and useless blind. God did not reply, I opened my mouth, said the words, ‘It is for you, to hold you,’ but not a sound came.

  Martha said, ‘Is this your way of pleasing my father?’

  It could be.

  ‘He’ll be pleased with it, I’m sure.’ She folded it and tucked it into her waist, then kissed me on the lips again. This time, we did not move away from each other, the tip of her tongue flicked into my mouth, I touched it with mine, her arm pulled me tight, then we broke apart and she said, ‘A boy who does not talk.’

  What could I say?

  ‘Does everyone love you?’

  I do not think so.

  ‘I think they do,’ she said.

  This is stupid.

  ‘Who do you love?’

  I turned away from her and whistled. The forest was vast and stretched from coast to coast. My pigeon appeared as a speck, then grew as she approached, the red feathers on her wings were tinted by the sun, and she held her neck out. She folded her wings before dropping down to me. I scooped a handful of corn from a bag, and held it up. She landed on my fist; I brought her down, let her feed, then stroked her head.

  ‘Do you have a girl?’ said Martha.

  I shook my head.

  ‘Would you like one?’

  I nodded my head.

  ‘Would you like me?’

  I looked at her face. Her chin was small, her ears were like flowers. Her nose was straight and covered with freckles. Her shirt was open to the top of her breasts. I nodded again.

  She smiled.

  I bent down and drew a sign in the dirt.

  She said, ‘That is pretty. What is it?’

  I can draw.

  She talks, I do not.

  ‘You are so clever,’ she said, and she took my arm. She stroked the hen’s head. ‘I never thought I would meet someone like you.’

  No.

  I put my hand on hers and squeezed her fingers. A voice called ‘Martha!’ from below. She shouted ‘Coming!’ and said to me, ‘My father. Would you like to see him?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘He would like to see you.’

  I pointed towards the nunnery, and made a scribbling sign with my hand.

  ‘You have to work?’

  I nodded.

  ‘And such beautiful work, I know.’

  It is beautiful work. I am with Turold and he is with me. I lifted Martha’s hand to my mouth and kissed it, then I let her go and I walked to the loft, bedded the hen and then followed the alley to the gates of Nunnaminster.

  The transfer of sketch to linen continued for weeks. Occasionally, the twin fowl came to the workshop to inspect the work, but most days Turold and I worked alone, while Brother Lull sat at the far end of the workshop, writing sentences, cursing quietly, scratching out words, inserting different, battling with the sense. I know the
form and style of the embroidery had appeared to Turold by magic. The story was well known. Harold was not a bad man. He was brave, he was dignified; his mistake was to swear on the Relics of Bayeux and then break his oath. He paid his price, as anyone will pay the price of betrayal. Harold was a hero, now he is dead, and the man who helped him become a hero — William — is King of his lands. Turold’s vision of the story slipped quietly on to the linen. Lull’s vision was clouded, the clouds would not clear.

  Turold came to him as he snapped a quill, wiped his hands and pushed the sketches away.

  ‘Are you struggling?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why?’ Lull stood up, tossed the broken quill to the floor and said, ‘Have you any idea of the size of my problems?’

  ‘Are they big?’ said Turold.

  ‘And you mock me.’

  ‘You have so many problems…’

  ‘The only thing you and I have in common is orders. If I had the choice, I would be away.’

  ‘No!’ said Turold. ‘Don’t leave us!’

  Lull turned away and looked at the sketches.

  Here, above the ships being dragged to the sea, Lull has written, ‘Here the ships are dragged to the sea.’ Turold followed the words with his finger and laughed. ‘I’d never have known that this is what is happening.’ He traced his fingers along the ropes that run from the ships to the men. The men are bare-legged, wading into the water.

  ‘That is my biggest problem.’

  ‘Ah…’

  ‘Why do I have to state the obvious?’

  ‘That is what I asked Odo.’

  ‘And his reply?’

  Turold shrugged. ‘He did not convince me, but his mind was made up. It defied reason, he was most insistent. The more I tried to persuade him otherwise, the more fixed he became in his ideas.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Turold, ‘he did. It is a habit of his.’

  I am wondering; does Lull mean what he says, or are his problems created for our benefit? Does he want us to believe that he considers Odo stupid so we express our true thoughts about the man? Turold does not trust Lull. He wears a knowing smile as he talks to the scribe. He said, ‘Leave the story to me and do as Odo requests. I am resigned to your contribution; if I was not, then you would have problems.’