by Peter Benson
Lull thinks Turold is playing with him. He does not know what else to think. Bishop Odo has told him to keep one eye on the master’s work and an ear to his talk; now he thinks that he and the master have more in common than not. All Odo’s servants live under a black cloud; it is how to see the cloud that counts. It covered Lull, it was hardly noticed by Turold, I saw it once or twice, but the Bishop had winked at me, he had asked my opinion, he saw no threat from me.
‘My contribution,’ said Lull, and he turned back to the sketches, sat down and let out a sigh. He picked up a fresh quill and mumbled to himself. He looked grey and sad. He had rejected the divine master for an earthly, while all the time he wanted no living master at all. Turold’s only master was his work; Lull envied this. Lull was a slave to his work. Once he had loved words and seen truth in the way they could lie, now he hated them. His head was boiling with uncertainty and guilt. Once he had loved, now he was lost. He wanted to obey Bishop Odo but he wanted to give some trust to Turold. He was in a crisis. He buried his head in his hands and said, ‘These men are carrying arms to the ships.’
‘Do you like the way they strain?’ said Turold.
Lull did not answer.
Look at the expressions on the faces of the men who carry the arms and haul the cart. They are walking slowly, it is a hot day. Turold sketched his scene in no time at all, he saw it in a dream, he heard the sound of the cart wheels on the ground, and the curses of the men.
10
In the night, Turold was joined on the wall by Ermenburga. They stood next to each other. They did not touch, their cloaks did not brush, the moon was down, wind blew through the forest. She said, ‘I have two weeks left.’
Turold did not say anything.
‘I do not know what to do. My life is here, I have only left Winchester…’ she stopped for a moment, ‘…four times. I would not know what to do if I was forced to leave.’
Turold ran his fingers through his hair.
‘I have been raped,’ she said, ‘but never by the Bishop I kneel before. If he had me and I was permitted to stay, I would have to leave. Either way I am trapped.’
He put his hand on her shoulder, she did not move away. ‘I have some influence,’ he said.
‘How?’
‘When the sketches are complete, William will inspect them.’
‘So?’
‘I may speak to him.’
‘About me?’
‘Yes.’
‘No one speaks before being spoken to. You would…’
‘I speak when I like.’
‘Please…’
‘Why not?’
‘No!’ Ermenburga became agitated. She took a step back, put her hand to her mouth and shook her head. ‘They have no secrets. They would…’
‘William does not trust Odo. You know that. The Bishop is too ambitious. If he is trying to find favour through my work, he will be disappointed.’
‘I do not believe you.’
‘Abbess,’ said Turold, and he turned her towards him. ‘I never talk unless I know that what I am saying is the truth.’
‘Ha!’ Her profile cut the night, we had knives like that in the workshops. Knives for linen, knives for life. ‘However much William mistrusts Bishop Odo, they are half-brothers. You would be meddling in family business.’
‘William holds strong views. He sees the immorality of his court reflecting upon him. He would be convinced.’
‘Of what?’
‘His brother’s lust threatens his own position. William knows that control is best achieved through example. Convince conquered people that you lead an exemplary life and they will respect you. His own marriage is proof of this.’
Ermenburga pulled her cloak around her and said, ‘What you suggest is…’
“The only way,’ said Turold. He was firm. ‘There is no other.’
‘I wonder. If I am to survive…’
‘You will.’
Ermenburga moved towards Turold, hesitated and then laid her hand on his arm. They looked at each other, and in the black gap between them, a star appeared. I thought they would kiss, I thought he would take her head in his hands, but he was the first to move away. She gathered her cloak, turned and walked away. Turold watched her go, then, as he passed my hiding-place, he said, ‘Come on, Robert. Martha will be going to bed.’
I stood up.
He put his hand on my head and ruffled my hair. I looked into my master’s eyes and they were as kind as Martha’s, as kind as a pigeon’s, they were deep and I thought they knew everything.
The last sketch was transferred to the linen on the first day of autumn.
The frames stood in their places in the workshop, each covered with the charcoaled outline of the story. Men, ships and horses floated on the linen, as if they could fill themselves with colour. There was life in them, a quiet, hardly breathing life, drifting between heaven and earth.
The linen snapped in the breeze that blew through the workshop, falling leaves gathered in small heaps at the door.
Turold and I stood on a table, so we could look down and see the entire work, one strip behind another. He held my hand and said, ‘Be proud of yourself.’
Pride.
Those horses; did they move? Did they whinny?
The dogs are barking.
Men enjoy a meal.
Men wade into the sea carrying dogs.
The ships sail across a faint sea.
Men ride.
Men are questioned.
Below us, on the first strip, Turold had sketched himself, as is the custom, as a dwarf. He is holding the reins of two horses, floating above the ground, as if supported by cunning. His beard is tidy, his feet are small, he holds his head up.
Below him, in the border, a boy is slinging stones at a pair of birds. This is me. See how I am aiming wide of the birds, see my big hands? I stitched my own hands, I stitched the sling, I left my mark on the world, as the world touched me and I touched Martha.
I was thinking about Martha as we tidied the workshop. We met each day on the wall, and she talked about baking, asked questions about home, wanted to know who my mother and father were, and she kissed me. I kissed her, I put my arm around her waist, but I would become fixed there. The more I wanted to slip a hand beneath her dress so the more difficult it was to do. I imagined the feel of her stomach, I wanted to touch her breasts. I did not want to hurt her, I wanted her to want me. She was not the girl I had imagined her to be; she was shy, and not at all confident. She told me I gave her confidence, but only when I was with her. She said I reflected my master’s greatness, and that I had some of it myself. I sat quietly with her, her hair smelt of flour. As Turold and I were in the workshop, I took a deep breath, as if I could draw the thought of her smell to me. Turold was saying, ‘Put those rags for the wash,’ when I heard a commotion outside, horses and the shouts of men, the clank of arms and the heavy rustling of armour.
‘Dismount!’
‘Whoa!’
‘Steady!’
There was more shouting.
I began to walk towards the door but Turold took my arm and pulled me back. ‘Quiet,’ he said.
Why?
Give it to me! It is no use to You. You have a thousand voices, and each of them speaks a thousand languages, and each mouth holds a thousand tongues. And as I pleaded — I am almost on my knees, blood is rushing into my legs and out again, my eyes are screaming with tears and my mouth is full of salt — King William entered the workshop.
What will I say? The stories and legends I have heard, the love and fear and hatred. The cruelty and the forgiveness, his understanding and courage. His presence filled the workshop, his clothes were magnificent, his face was large and grave. His hair was the colour of rust. I could not look at his eyes. I stared at his hands. They were huge, and covered in hairs. He said, ‘This is it?’ His voice was low and quiet, like thunder rolling over hills. Bishop Odo appeared behind him and squeaked, ‘It is.’
&n
bsp; Odo was rubbing his hands together, nervously. He was sweating.
Turold took a step.
I stayed where I was.
‘And this,’ said Odo, ‘is Master Turold.’
‘Master Turold,’ said William.
Turold moved forward, bent and kissed the ring.
‘Yes,’ said William.
Turold stood.
William studied his face. They were equal in height, their eyes met, the King said,’Show me your work.’
William walked along the strips, Turold followed two paces behind, I was at Turold’s elbow, Odo was three paces behind me, clerks followed him. William’s men stood at the door and scowled; leaves blew against the backs of their legs.
As I followed the King, I felt power in the air. It followed him like foam in the wake of a ship, it smelt of fire and blood. His shoulders were huge, he stopped and stared at himself in conversation with Harold in the palace at Rouen. The palace arches were carefully outlined, William appears calm as he listens to two men’s opinion. He is pointing in the sketch, he is pointing at himself and he said, ‘This is fine work.’
Bishop Odo said, ‘The best.’
‘We will wait and see.’
Turold swallowed hard.
I touched his coat.
William turned around and said to Turold, ‘Your reputation is justified.’
Turold was speechless. He tugged his beard. I did not let go of his coat. William coughed, and then he looked down at me.
His eyes were big and brown, and pierced me as if they were reading my thoughts. I was thinking, ‘If I touch his coat, I will be given my voice.’ This is a truth. His hands were folded in front of him, I looked away from his face, then he went down on his haunches, took my face in his hands and said, ‘And who are you?’
I gagged, breath shot to my mouth in spurts, I put my hands out to steady myself, his hand was cold, it froze my skin, I wanted to run. His beard had crumbs in it, my legs could not move, my mouth was open. I had to say who I was. Turold said, ‘This is Robert, my boy. He is dumb.’
‘Dumb?’ said William.
I nodded at the King.
The King’s eyes softened. He loves children and dogs, he believes they are unlikely to scheme. ‘Why?’
‘He has never spoken,’ said Turold. ‘He was found by the monks of Bayeux. As a baby he never cried; the physicians could not explain it.’
‘Physicians cannot explain anything,’ said William, and he stood up straight. He laid his hand on my head, I gasped for breath, no words came, he turned away and said, ‘And here,’ pointing to the linen, ‘I give arms to Harold.’
‘Yes,’ said Turold, smiling. The text had not been sketched in.
William walked slowly along the linen, nodding here, scratching his head there, stopping to look closely at the image of Harold crowned at Westminster. By the time he had reached the eve of the battle, Odo was ten paces behind, discussing a detail with two clerks, strangers to the nunnery. So Turold dared say, ‘Your Majesty?’
‘Master Turold?’
‘Your Majesty…’
William looked from the work and said, ‘You have something to say?’
‘If I may be allowed.’
The King looked into Turold’s eyes. There was no trace of deceit in them, or worry. ‘You are.’
‘I have promised a helpless woman, and only you can help me keep my promise.’
‘How is that?’
Turold looked towards Odo. The Bishop was squeaking at his own image. He was advising William, his face was thinner than real life, and appeared to radiate love and understanding. The clerks were indulging him, congratulating him on his taste, envying his appreciation. William said, ‘Does what you have to say concern Bishop Odo?’
Turold nodded.
‘He is too keen to impress me; he must be shown that I am chosen, he was merely picked.’
‘He,’ said Turold, ‘has demanded the Abbess of Nunnaminster screw him, and if she does not, she will lose her position.’
‘He has what?’ William’s voice was raised. Odo and the clerks looked towards him, he held a hand up.
‘The Abbess Ermenburga…’
‘He wishes to screw the Abbess?’
Turold said, ‘Yes.’
William’s clenched his fists. ‘Odo,’ he hissed.
‘Your Majesty…’ said Turold.
William’s eyes were white with anger, spit was at the corners of his mouth. ‘What do you want?’
‘I told the Abbess I would speak with you, but she was afraid.’
‘And you were not? To approach me in this way?’
‘I am your servant.’
‘You are.’
‘Forgive me.’
William looked hard at Turold, his face relaxed and he said, ‘She has nothing to fear.’ He licked his lips. ‘Nor you.’
‘The embroidery will not suffer?’
‘No. I will make sure of that.’
‘Thank you,’ said Turold. ‘We thank you.’ He put his hand on my head.
‘No,’ said William, ‘I thank you.’
Turold bowed, William clapped him on the shoulder, then turned and hurried from the workshop. Bishop Odo watched him leave, he looked at us, Turold smiled, the Bishop’s face was crossed by question, then panic, then he hurried after the King, but the King was gone, spurring his horse across the precinct yard to the gates.
11
I lay on a hill with Martha and my pigeons. I rested my head on their basket, she sat with her legs crossed and played with leaves.
‘Do you love me?’ she said.
I nodded.
‘How much?’
I stretched my arms as far as they would go. She moved towards me, I wrapped my arms around her and nestled my face in her face. I opened my mouth and breathed her in. There were cows on the hill.
‘I love you,’ she said.
I tried to get my hand on her stomach. She took the hand and held it.
I looked hurt.
She raised her eyebrows. I held my hands over her breasts. She slapped them. I smiled. I loved her, and I loved her because she could give me voice. I had touched a bishop, I had been touched by a king, neither had given me the power. The messengers of divine and temporal power were powerless, only virgin love would do. I thought this, I imagined that I had belief and some sort of belief lay upon me. Martha lay upon me, and as her hair covered my eyes, I kissed her.
Bishop Odo’s anger was greater than any I had seen. He came to the workshop as Turold was removing a man and adding a cow to the scene inscribed, ‘And here the soldiers hurried to Hastings to seize food.’
Look at this cow. This is not the work of a worried man. Turold was at peace with himself. He had spoken to the King, and the King had responded. He had saved Ermenburga from Odo, the cow is jumping with joy.
‘Your foolishness,’ screamed the Bishop, ‘exceeds all others!’
‘My Lord?’ said Turold, as if the fat man was whispering.
‘And do not use that tone!’ Odo’s mouth quivered, his chins bounced up and down. He held himself upright, his stomach was like a barrel. ‘You forget who I am!’
‘You are a bishop,’ said Turold.
‘And your King’s brother! Whatever you dared say to him, do not think you can come between us.’
‘I would not dare…’
‘But you dared speak before being spoken to.’
‘I listened to my conscience.’
‘Did you?’ said Odo. ‘And it spoke?’
‘Yes.’
‘And it told you to betray your patron?’
‘Betrayal,’ said Turold, ‘was not mentioned. Hypocrisy and…’
‘Hypocrisy?’ Odo’s face was red, and covered with sweat. ‘You accuse me of hypocrisy?’
‘I did not accuse you. I informed the King that his servant’s morals reflected on him. He was grateful for the reminder.’
‘You have the impertinence to claim that?’ Odo slammed
his fist on a trestle, the trestle buckled, its legs snapped, sketches slipped to the floor.
‘I am only reporting what I believe to be true.’
‘True?’ Odo kicked at the trestle. ‘The truth is this! You and I were patron and designer. We were as close as men of different stations could be. Maybe, and I remember the time, we touched the edge of friendship, but now…’ he drew himself up to his full height and licked his lips, ‘…now we are enemies.’
‘My Lord.’
‘William humiliated me before the court.’
‘I am sorry.’
‘You will be.’ Bishop Odo’s voice was hard and sharp, it cut the workshop air and burnt the pieces. ‘When the hanging is finished, when William sees that I honour him, and when he has forgotten that you ever spoke to him, then I will take pleasure in watching you plead for mercy. You will regret that you ever spoke…’
‘And Ermenburga?’
Odo laughed. ‘Ermenburga is nothing. I could have her whatever the circumstance.’
Turold did not move. He said, ‘Could you?’
Odo narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice. ‘Why don’t you learn, Turold?’
‘We are all learning, all the time.’
‘That is true, but some of us learn the wrong things and forget what they should remember.’
‘I agree.’
‘So you have some sense?’
‘I have more sense…’ began Turold, then he stopped.
‘You have more sense what?’
‘I have work to do.’
‘No!’ Now Odo took Turold’s shirt and pulled him towards him. ‘You have more sense than who? Me?’
‘My Lord…’
‘You walk a fine line, Turold. Finer than any you could draw, and more dangerous.’
Turold did not flinch. He believed he was protected by truth. Though he lacked faith he saw God looking down at the world and considering all men equal. Why should he be afraid of someone because they had one kind of power? He had another, and it would last longer than any. He said, ‘The only lines I care about are these.’ He turned towards the linen, and as he did, Odo struck him on the chin. As soon as the blow landed, Turold pulled himself away, his eyes flashed and he hit back.