Odo's Hanging

by Peter Benson

  ‘We’ll miss you, my Lord.’

  ‘Don’t!’ said Odo.

  ‘Believe me…’

  ‘How can I? I don’t trust you, so how can I believe you?’

  Turold turned away, looked at the row of embroiderers, the hiss of needles filled the air. He looked back at the Bishop and said, ‘All I want to do is produce the finest work…’

  ‘And all I want you to do is finish. Finish, Turold, come back to Bayeux with me and enjoy the reception I have planned.’

  Turold is holding Odo’s stare. He is not afraid. ‘Kent?’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You are leaving today?’

  ‘Yes; I will be back for the new year.’

  ‘Two months?’ said Turold. He spoke quietly.

  ‘You can count?’ said Odo.

  Turold nodded.

  ‘Good. Then you will notice that from today, there will be an extra face in the workshop. Someone to watch over you.’

  ‘Another Lull?’

  ‘Lull was a scribe.’

  ‘He was more than that, but it did not help him…’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘It is the truth.’

  ‘Truth again, Turold?’

  ‘I think…’

  ‘And thought!’

  Turold turned away but Odo pulled him back and said, ‘His name is Stephen, and he doesn’t like you already.’

  ‘I will try to like him.’

  ‘And he doesn’t understand jokes. I’ve never seen him laugh.’

  ‘I never saw Lull laugh.’

  ‘Scribes never do,’ said Odo.

  The sisters bent towards their work, they pursed their lips and steadied the linen with their little fingers. Their sewing fingers moved like maggots wriggle on flesh, never still, moving for only one reason. Their eyes were wide, they breathed slowly and quietly.

  Here, on the first strip, is the completed scene of two messengers, sent by William to demand Harold’s release from Guy’s custody.

  The horses are flying, but they are tired. You can see this in the eye of the one in front, and in the way it is overreaching its stride. The ground is poor, the messengers are wearing spurs.

  The sisters stitched the colour, Turold stitched the messengers’ heads. All important heads and faces were stitched by Turold. I was behind him, I passed him the wool and he turned it into the men’s hair, and sent wind rushing through it. He made the speed of the galloping horses appear in stitches, the messengers’ heads are thrust forward, their faces are written with William’s order. The picture did not lie. Bishop Odo said, ‘Turold?’

  ‘My Lord?’

  ‘Kent is closer than you think.’

  Stephen was a weasel, thinner than Lull, and taller. He could hide behind a pole, he could listen to talk at a hundred paces. He was always in the workshop but it was as if he was not there at all, just the echo of a man. He never spoke, I never heard him cough, he could stand and watch for hours without blinking. I ignored him, Turold ignored him and the sisters ignored him; this was not what he wanted. He wanted to scare people, he wanted to keep us on edge, he wanted to be the weasel at the mouth of the vole hole, and the moon was bright.

  I am with Martha. She has given me bread for Rainald, and I have some cheese from the nuns. Turold has given me apples, it is morning, I have not been to the workshop.

  Martha thinks I am wonderful and brave, and that I understand people. I do not understand anything at all. It is my job to take this food to Rainald, it is my job to stand behind Turold and know when he is going to need the length of wool.

  ‘I could come with you,’ she said.

  I shook my head.

  ‘Why not?’

  Rainald only expects me; he is close to the edge of madness, I think the sight of a girl would throw him over. All he wants is the bread, the cheese, and the chance to talk to someone who will not answer back. I am his perfect friend, the holy man’s bird. I come and I go, I do not threaten at all.

  ‘Please.’

  I shook my head again. Now I do not want to shake it again, I want to leave the yard and get on the path.

  ‘I could follow you.’

  I took her head in my hands and shook it backwards and forwards. I opened my mouth and let out a blast of air. Her eyes opened wide, and her tongue flipped out of her mouth.

  ‘Stop it!’ she cried. ‘You’re hurting!’

  I stopped. I never wanted to hurt her. What have I done?

  I was alone in the forest, walking the path to Rainald’s hollow. The trees were bare, their branches rattled in the wind. Sleet blew in my face and stung my skin.

  We have had our first fight, and I am ashamed. I had been taught never to use strength as a substitute for words, but I had forgotten the lesson. She forgave me but I could not forgive myself. I looked over my shoulder though I knew she would not be following. She could have come some way with me, Rainald would never have known, I had not given her the chance to suggest that.

  Here are the trees. The trees in the embroidery were grown in the mind. They have a life beyond plant life; see how the ones logmen are about to chop for William’s ships are standing tense and fearful, as if they want to run. Before the battle, three trees on a hill appear to be talking to each other, but they are not afraid, only resigned. Trees whisper, they stand in gangs and watch the solitary traveller as he passes. They have all the time in the world but you have none, that is what scares me. I know they are saying things about me, but I do not know what.

  When I sit with Rainald, an hour seems like a day, and I grow tired though I am doing nothing. I am listening to him, I am watching the brook bubble at our feet, I am listening to birds in the trees. I am listening to Rainald, but he is not saying anything I understand. His hair has grown, his beard is longer than Turold’s, he does not ask about Turold. I do not think he knows who I am, or who I was when he knew me in Bayeux. I am a miracle who appears every day with food; maybe he believes I am a messenger from God, muted by knowledge, followed by no one.

  He breaks bread, takes some cheese and places it on a rock. He kneels before his meal, places his hands in prayer, closes his eyes and whispers a long grace. The sound he makes reminds me of the needles in the workshop, the wool through linen, the creak of the benches and the rustle of the sisters’ cloaks. It is cold in the workshop, but our work keeps us warm, as if it was bred in the sun.

  Turold sat alone in the workshop at night, and Ermenburga watched him from outside. She did not want him to know she was there, she wanted to look at him as if he was a statue. She could stare like this at the Cross; a feeling of peace and security filled her body and lightened her eyes. We had thought she was sour and cold, but she gave thanks to Turold for saving her from Bishop Odo. I was watching her from inside a barrel, and heard her whisper under her breath.

  ‘…and shield him from the forces of darkness, and give him the wisdom to understand Your mercy.’

  The barrel had a fleece in it. There were maggots in the fleece, and they began to crawl up my legs. I could feel them wriggling on my skin, and sucking at the creases behind my knees. I bent down to brush them off, the barrel rocked. The noise it made echoed across the yard, then two hands appeared over the rim and steadied it. Ermenburga stuck her head in and said, ‘Quiet, Robert! Why do you have to make so much noise? He is thinking!’

  She reached in and lifted me out.

  I stood up and brushed the maggots off. Some were squashed, others wriggled away.

  ‘Did no one ever tell you about bad barrels?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Come,’ she said, and she took my hand and we stared in.

  Turold was stitching the first word. A burning candle, set in a metal clamp, illuminated the work. From where we were, we could see his hand, a circle of linen, one completed figure, two horses’ heads and half his face, floating in a sea of darkness. The light shone on the scene, as if it was a painting.

  Turold’s hand stitched his na
me over his image, six letters bordered by two lines. He blew on his work, he touched it lightly with his fingers, as if he was waiting for it to dry.

  ‘How can he stitch so finely?’

  People ask me questions. I know the answers, but I am not saying. Turold is not two men, he is a man and a woman. He knows this, women he has known have known this. I knew the moment he took me as his boy, that he was my father and my mother. He could move in any direction, the needle drew the wool, and a bat flew through the workshop.

  We love the bats. People say they blow from hell and return to hell at dawn, but I know they roost in the workshop roof. They are blind but see by singing. I am dumb but speak by looks. They hang while they sleep, Turold needs less and less sleep, I am in bed before him, and he is up before I am awake. Dogs bark, and their message carries over the city walls to the forest; it is lost in the trees, and its pieces fall to the ground.

  ‌14

  Ermenburga, the once stick-faced queen of Nunnaminster, grew plump cheeks in Bishop Odo’s absence. She spent an hour of each afternoon in the workshop, and as each day passed, we watched her fatten.

  Turold was afraid the weasel Stephen’s presence would upset her, but she ignored him as we did. He was born to be ignored; his efforts to wear a threatening face were clever but did not convince. We began to pity him as we had pitied Lull, but at least Lull had done something. Lull could do something, all Stephen did was lurk.

  Ermenburga’s hour in the workshop was a daily gift to herself, she believed that she had earned it. No one argued with her, she sat in a chair Turold placed for her, he placed it with care, and never in the same place twice.

  I could see the feelings he had for her in his eyes. He was thinking the things he thought about a woman he wanted, but was held back. He had never wanted an abbess, he had never had a thin woman. He was confused when he looked up and saw her face at rest, her eyes half-closed, her hands folded in her lap. The urgency of the work was forgotten, I saw him stare with longing in his eyes. Maybe I was wrong, and maybe he saw her as his mother, or his sister; maybe he did not want her in any other way.

  I was not around them all the time, so how can I tell? One morning I was in the workshop, the next I was carrying to Rainald, the next I was in the yard for an hour with Martha. How long have I been with Martha, and how many loaves has she taken for me? How long has Stephen watched us, and can he be distracted? If Bishop Odo meets with an accident in Kent, will the work ever be finished?

  Martha has taken dozens of loaves. Rainald thinks his food comes straight from God, and he could be close to the truth. He never asks me questions, he does not want to know anything. The weather is cold, but I have never seen him shivering, he never complains. God has wrapped Himself around the monk, His protection is greater than the armour of kings, the angels are in heaven, but they come to earth. They do not touch the ground for they know it would burn them. The angels are pure, and Rainald gives them messages. He is losing his face as his mind runs out of his head, and I am afraid that all that will be left will be a mad man. I think it is easy to go mad; doubt is the seed, solitude is the earth, unwashed clothing is the water and stolen bread is the sunshine. Sometimes, I want to cry for him, and pull him back to town, but I know he would not come. Everyone thinks they are found and others are lost; I look into Rainald’s eyes but they are not there. They could be in the trees, looking down at me, they could be in a beast’s head, and the beast is waiting for me on a hidden corner.

  The sisters had left, only Turold and I were in the workshop. Stephen might have been there, he might not have been. We did not care, we were busy men, working on great art, we were above the ordinary. Even our lies could express the truth, and our mistakes would never need correction. But we were never satisfied. Turold believed he could do better; there is not a scene in the hanging that he did not find fault with. Even the most carefully planned and wrought were missing something. Sometimes, he did not even know what that something was, but he knew it was missing.

  It was one of these evenings; dark before it should be, and here, Harold saves two of William’s men from the quicksands of the river Couesnon. He was strong and brave. Turold was stitching his face, giving him wide eyes and a long moustache. He had been William’s companion in arms, he had proved himself worthy of the honour bestowed upon him. Greed had betrayed him, bad advice had sealed his fate.

  Turold was not happy with the man on Harold’s back; was this a man or boy? I was not asked. The workshop was quiet, candles burnt around our work, I held a box of wool on my knee.

  ‘What would I do without you?’ he said.

  I did not know. When I thought about my work, it was nothing. I was another pair of hands for him, but they were not connected to his mind, they could have been anyone’s. Maybe me just being next to him was enough, maybe he was so used to my presence that I was a solid, living shadow. Shadows serve no useful purpose, they are cast, they shorten and they lengthen. There were no shadows in the hanging, no shadows at all, for it is a shadow itself. A shadow of the story it tells, not even the story itself, for it is full of lies.

  ‘Master Turold?’

  The voice was low, the workshop door was open, and a cold wind blew in.

  ‘Are you there?’

  Turold left his place, took a taper from the wall, and left me where I was. I put the box of wool on the floor and stood up.

  ‘You work hard.’

  ‘I have to.’

  ‘Because you need to, or because Bishop Odo makes impossible demands?’

  ‘When I am in the middle of any work, I become obsessed. I cannot leave it alone. Bishop Odo’s orders are the wheels of the cart, but they cannot make the cart move by themselves. A horse is required…’

  ‘I think you could have been a bishop. Your mind is full of the most imaginative ideas…’

  Turold laughed, the workshop door slammed shut and the King came to where we were working. He was visiting alone, his men were standing at the gate. He had been hunting. His clothes were covered in mud, his hair dripped, his boots squidged as he walked.

  ‘Robert,’ he said to me, and he crouched down. The candle-light flickered across his face. ‘How are you?’

  How do you think I am? He is so big, I could fit inside him twice. The darkness made him bigger, it thickened the power that surrounded him, I felt his breath upon my face. It smelt of meat, I opened my mouth, but I could not say anything.

  ‘Would you like to talk?’ he said to me.

  I nodded.

  ‘One day,’ he said, ‘I think you will.’

  When?

  ‘What will he say? What would you like to ask?’

  I would like to ask the King why he married a midget. Queen Matilda is the smallest woman I have seen. She is the size of a large child. I have seen her and heard her voice; she makes up for her lack of height with it. It has the power of three, it can range from the highest a woman can manage to the depths of a large man; she has changed William’s mind more times than anyone alive. I want to know why he married her.

  The two men looked at me. I felt small and cold. I held my hands tight, but I never wanted to be sent out. I was standing in the presence of two great men, and between them, they were baffled by me. They wanted to understand something about me, and this made me important. I had to take a step back, then William put his arm on Turold’s shoulder and said, ‘Tell me. Do you work better without Bishop Odo looking over your shoulder?’

  ‘Better is not the word I would use.’

  William stared at Turold. No one told him that he was using a word another would not. What the designer said sounded strange to him.

  ‘Bishop Odo,’ said Turold, ‘does not know what he wants.’

  ‘He wants too much…’ said William, as if to himself.

  ‘And his problem becomes mine. It is easier to work with him away, but I do not believe the work is improved by his absence. The work is above argument.’

  ‘You believe that?’
>
  ‘Yes.’

  William nodded, and for the first time, I saw him smile.

  William’s smile exposed his face, for it was thin and showed his teeth. These were better teeth than I had ever seen on a man, few were missing and they were a yellowy white, as if he polished them. He ran the tip of his tongue over them, then rubbed a knuckle on them. ‘So,’ he said, and the word hung in the air.

  ‘Yes,’ said Turold.

  William leant forward to examine the march past Mont St Michel, the quicksands of the Couesnon and the attack on Dol. He touched the mounted figure that represented him, he traced the outline of his horse’s neck and said, ‘Your horses are magnificent.’

  ‘A horse,’ said Turold, ‘represents the best of nature; the most expressive of animals, quite predictable, but only when they want to be.’

  ‘Is that you, Turold?’

  ‘Me, Majesty?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘I was talking about horses…’

  The King looked away from the work.

  ‘I am,’ said Turold, ‘like a horse.’

  ‘Bishop Odo called you a reptile.’

  ‘Bishop Odo…’

  ‘Bishop Odo what? You cannot tell me anything I do not already know.’

  ‘He is a good patron, to me and many others, but for the wrong reasons.’

  ‘Are there right reasons? You are paid?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Turold.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I wish we could discuss the work without argument, but when I…’

  ‘Would you,’ William interrupted, ‘make room for a scene of my own design?’

  ‘Your Majesty.’ Turold tugged at his beard and mumbled, ‘I would have to…’

  ‘Answer me. Yes or no.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, but I think Bishop Odo would…’

  ‘My scene will be my present to him.’ He pointed to the scene of his palace at Rouen, where he meets Harold in audience. It was half completed; he and Harold had been stitched, the palace arches and the columns that supported the roof were only sketched in. ‘There would be room for it here.’ He made a circle around the outline of Harold’s entourage. ‘Remove some of these men and leave a space between them and this horse.’ He pointed to the rearguard of the column that passed Mont St Michel.