Odo's Hanging

by Peter Benson

  I poked the fire.

  Turold said, ‘If you say so.’

  ‘The Lord has taught me so.’

  ‘That was good of Him.’

  ‘Turold.’ Rainald shook his head. ‘You never change, do you?’

  ‘I change all the time. My mind never stops changing its mind…’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘My work.’

  ‘Your work,’ said Rainald, so softly I could hardly hear.

  Martha broke the bread, and passed pieces around.

  ‘And as my work is mine, so one day it shall be yours.’

  ‘How is it?’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘And our Bishop?’

  Turold snorted. ‘No word. I do not think he will change…’

  ‘I think,’ said Rainald, ‘that he is most likely to change. There is more good in him than bad, but the bad is stronger. This is, I believe, a problem in men, one which power feeds.’

  ‘Remove his power and the good overcomes the bad?’

  ‘I did not say that.’

  ‘But you think it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then we agree,’ said Turold, and he ate some honeyed bread, and it was good.

  Here, after Harold’s rescue of the men from the quicksands of the Couesnon, William rides against Duke Conan of Brittany. A group of horsemen attack Dol, flames spout from the keep while Conan escapes the town by climbing down a rope. Turold has allowed him to keep his hat, but he is wearing a worried look as he shins to the ground. He has no baggage, and escapes unarmed.

  With great discipline, four armoured knights attack Rennes and charge on to Dinan. Their horses are flying, their faces are grim, they are wearing spurs. Sheep are grazing on the fields below Rennes, but at Dinan, foot-soldiers are sweeping the fort with fire brands, lances pierce the border, a group of three defenders, trapped in the keep, are panicking. They have fought in vain, William is determined, his support for the rebels of Brittany had not been foreseen by Conan, who, in this delicate scene, surrenders the keys of the city to William.

  The space around the tips of the lances, the pennants and the keys was carefully considered. The keys must be on Conan’s lance but closer to William. Conan holds his lance with both hands, and leans over the moat. He is afraid he will fall. William halts his horse, and with the most humble expression, it bows its head and closes one eye.

  William looks grim. When he leaves Brittany, he will leave Conan and his jealous nobility to themselves; it is enough for them to know that their northern neighbour is capable of conquest. Turn south, Conan, and I will take these keys.

  So William gave arms to Harold. William was anxious to trust Harold, he never wanted an ally more, and he believed he had one. Harold was brave, he was honourable, he was armed, I stitched cobbles beneath their feet, from the ruins of Dinan to the relics of Bayeux.

  ‌16

  In the new year, we asked Stephen to join us for a drink. We would wait for the sisters to leave, take benches to a corner of the workshop, light candles, drink and eat the remains of a chicken.

  Stephen did not want to drink, but he wanted to eat chicken. He could eat all day and not put on any fat. He burnt it in his head. His face shone, he sweated in the cold, he was a freak. He was shy too, his fearful look was a mask. He wanted to be friends.

  ‘Our Bishop is a day away,’ said Turold. ‘Celebrate his return!’

  ‘Do not mock.’

  ‘Would I?’

  ‘You are indulged, but not for long.’

  ‘Sit down.’

  Stephen stared at the bench. I moved it for him and pointed to the spot.

  ‘Robert has even warmed a place for you.’

  I smiled.

  ‘He is a good boy.’

  Stephen looked at me, nodded and sat down. Turold passed him the chicken. ‘Have a leg,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And I will tell you about the King’s scene.’

  Stephen held the chicken in his hands and took a couple of short, squeaky breaths. Then he took a deep breath and more of the squeaky ones; I thought he was having an attack, then I realised he was laughing.

  ‘I mean it.’

  ‘You said,’ said Stephen, ‘he had told you nothing about it.’

  ‘We have spoken again.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Last night.’

  ‘I watched you all night…’

  ‘Not all night,’ said Turold. ‘There was a time after Compline.’

  ‘You never left your lodging.’

  ‘I did not have to.’

  ‘The King visited you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Stephen let out another squeaky breath, then a deep one. ‘I do not believe you.’

  ‘Ask Robert.’

  Stephen turned to me and said, ‘Did the King visit your lodging last night?’

  I picked up a bottle, shrugged and had a drink.

  ‘He is worse than you…’

  ‘I know.’

  Stephen took a bite from his chicken and chewed slowly. He pulled some of the skin away and sucked it into his mouth, pointed at Turold with the bone and said, ‘So…’

  ‘Do you want to know what the King said?’

  ‘So why are you asking me?’

  Turold put his arm up as if to put it around the spy’s shoulder, but stopped himself. ‘I want to help you.’

  ‘Help me?’

  ‘We are always anxious to help Bishop Odo’s servants.’

  I nodded.

  ‘For we are his servants too, and know how cruel he can be.’

  ‘You are mocking me.’

  ‘I am not!’ Turold raised his voice. ‘It was the same with Brother Lull. Brought in to provide a text I never wanted; at first we hated him, but then we grew to understand him.’

  ‘I know nothing about Brother Lull or his art,’ said Stephen. ‘My job is to be the Bishop’s eyes and ears; I am not required to have opinions.’

  ‘But that is an art in itself.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘To be another’s eyes and ears.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Stephen.

  Turold picked up a bottle, and drank. Beer dribbled into his beard, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, ‘So the King sat on my cot and passed me a sheet of parchment.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘He did.’ Turold took another drink. When he put the bottle down, he almost missed the table. ‘“There,” he said, “that is my design.”’

  ‘The design for what?’

  ‘His scene, Stephen. The King’s scene. You see? He is King, he gave me his design.’

  ‘I am not an idiot.’

  ‘An idiot?’

  ‘Go on…’

  ‘So I was holding this parchment in my hands, and I opened it, and studied the design.’

  ‘And what was the design?’

  ‘Ah!’ Turold tapped the side of his nose. ‘That is between him and me. I swore not to reveal it to anyone else. Even Robert.’ He turned and touched my head with his thumb.

  ‘But you said you would tell me. You said you…’

  ‘And I have.’

  ‘You’ve told me nothing!’ Stephen threw his chicken bone away. ‘And what you have told me are lies.’

  ‘How can a man tell another man nothing but still tell him lies? Are lies nothing?’

  ‘Bishop Odo will hear about this.’

  ‘As he will hear about your dozing in the King’s presence.’

  Stephen looked at the ceiling. I know he wished the world would close in, he wished to return to the certainties of life at Odo’s hall. There, he was required to listen for murmurs of discontent and wayward ambition; here, he was afraid that all he heard was spoken at his expense, mocking to his face. The designer was mad. Mad Turold, dumb Robert, this hanging. He looked at the chicken, he looked at a bottle of beer, he reached out, picked it up and took a long drink.

  ‘And then,’ said Turold, ‘the ea
gle returned to the lodging, and after the King had given me his crown, he climbed on to its back and flew away.’

  Stephen looked up, the candles guttered. ‘Liar,’ he said.

  ‘Me?’ said Turold.

  ‘You know no more about the King’s scene than I do.’

  ‘That is the truth.’

  Stephen stood up and walked to the door. ‘I will not play,’ he said, and he left. He returned in the morning to collect his pack, and had to step over us as he crossed the workshop. We never saw him again. We had slept on the floor; the sisters were the next to find us, but they did not say anything.

  While the sisters stitched the campaign against Conan, Turold moved to the twenty-five faces that appear between the city of Bayeux and Edward’s admonishment of Harold. I was behind him, he stitched the heads and no more, so for sixteen spans of the work, the faces stared from nothing at nothing, floating on the linen like clouds in the sky.

  William’s face is calm and serious, but heavy with respect for Harold’s face, which is indistinct, hiding a lie. Behind William, two lesser faces warn; behind Harold, two faces are suggesting that the Earl hurry. There is a ship to meet, and here is the row of eight faces in the ship.

  The tillerman is shouting an order, the man in front of him offers advice, the next is watching the wind, the next tells a joke, the next is watching for land, the next watches the wind, the next is listening to the tillerman’s order, the last face in the row is Harold’s, still indistinct, and he is gazing at the face of his wife, who gazes back at him with a look of foreboding.

  Behind her, Turold stitched the craned faces of four wakeful children, and Harold’s face again, and the face of the nervous servant who accompanied him to Edward. In four final faces, he created four expressions in a way that caught my breath and held it inside. I was away from the workshop for a time; when I returned I saw for the first time what you may see, in wool.

  Edward’s first servant is wearing an expression of pure contempt, condemning Harold with his eyes and his black, crooked mouth. Harold uses his eyes to plead; he was forced to swear on the relics, he could not refuse. He is begging Edward’s forgiveness and understanding, swearing that he is his servant, not William’s.

  Edward is pained to hear Harold’s news, but has been expecting it, and his face is heavy with resignation. It inclines down and to the side. The old man is unwell, his eyes are weak, the crown is heavy. Behind him, a second servant has a furious face; the King is hurt, so he is. If this servant were King, Harold would be dead, but Edward is forgiving, he understands.

  The twenty-five faces floated above the outlines of their bodies, the ship, the horses and the palace. I touched Edward’s, Turold slapped my hand, the workshop door opened and Bishop Odo stepped in, fresh from Kent, a meal and two women.

  ‘Turold!’ he yelled.

  I had not forgotten his voice.

  ‘I have returned!’

  He was bigger than I remembered, fatter, redder and louder. He stamped mud on to the floor, smiled at the embroidery and slapped Turold on his back.

  ‘How is my work?’

  Oh God.

  ‘That is for you to judge, my Lord.’

  Odo laughed. He was in a generous mood, big and powerful. He had been welcomed by William with open arms. ‘And you, surely,’ he said.

  ‘Good,’ said Turold.

  ‘Good?’ Odo unbuckled his belt, handed it to a man and said, ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I cannot say the work is the best, but…’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Modesty…’

  ‘Modesty?’ Odo roared. ‘Modesty never prevented you before.’

  ‘This,’ said Turold, turning and leading the way to the completed scenes, ‘is the finest work.’ He winked at me, patted my head as he passed and pointed to Harold’s oath on the relics.

  ‘That is more like it…’

  ‘I am sure you agree.’

  ‘I do,’ said Bishop Odo, ‘I do.’

  Harold swearing on the relics is the hinge of the work, the scene the rest spins around. If Harold had not agreed to swear, he would never have left Normandy, he would not have died in battle. The relics are as holy as relics anywhere — the small shrine contains a knuckle of Christ, the other contains the bones of Saints Rayphus and Ravennus, Englishmen martyred in France — the magic fumes from them, Harold is weighed down by his deed. The scene is a warning to everyone who sees it. Harold’s fate is a lesson. He knows what he is doing. Though his indistinct face hides the lie, his men’s warning faces are our warning faces. Beware, people. The Church is charged with the stewardship of ultimate power; that power may seek its revenge at any time, in any place. You are warned, do not forget. The most difficult lessons are the shortest ones, they hide truth in ceremony. Ceremony is the Church’s clothes; only God can stand naked before you. He is your Father, he is your Judge and your Saviour. Deceive yourself and you deceive Him. You cannot lie to Him, for he is Truth.

  ‘And the text?’

  ‘Does it suit your purpose?’ said Turold. ‘Brother Lull was anxious that it did.’

  ‘He is an anxious man…’

  ‘I have stitched it as clearly as I can; I did not want to…’

  ‘Allow it to intrude?’

  ‘I was resigned to its intrusion long ago. That no longer bothers me.’

  Bishop Odo snorted.

  ‘Now I wish to blend it with the main field. I have to blend it, so it appears to complement the original designs. I must not allow it to interfere, that is all.’

  ‘You do not mind interference, but you resent intrusion. Another of your fine lines, Turold.’

  ‘The finest lines are the best.’

  ‘Are they?’

  ‘My Lord…’

  ‘Sometimes,’ said the Bishop, and he turned away from the relics of Bayeux and walked to another scene, ‘you talk nonsense. Most of the time, when I think about it.’

  ‘Talking is not my strength.’

  ‘You need not remind us of that. I think your boy speaks more sense than you ever could.’

  Very funny, you bastard.

  Bishop Odo is in a good mood. Kent has been satisfactory, the travel was unhindered, his wealth is increased, he sees his future opening as it never has before. William’s power in the north, Odo’s power in Rome. The axis unbreakable, they will be unstoppable, he would lose some weight first. The hanging will seal the bonds of allegiance. It will point the way and teach lessons that must be learnt by powerful men.

  ‘And how are you, Robert?’ said Odo. He crouched down as William did, but I was not thrilled. His face was too big for his head, the edges of it spilled over like water in a basin. His nose was smaller than I remembered it, his lips shinier.

  I nodded at him.

  ‘Still not talking?’

  I hate him in this mood. I am not a child. I have feelings. I am growing.

  ‘You have grown.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Are you going to catch your master?’

  I do not know.

  ‘You have a long way to go.’

  I know that.

  I once looked at Bishop Odo with awe, and called him a great man. Now I have met a truly great man, I recognise the imitation. Some men are born to power, others wear it as a cloak, and any cloak can be stolen. A man’s birth can never be stolen from him.

  Odo stood up, touched my head and said, ‘And you have a long way to go,’ to Turold. ‘You will be finished in time?’

  ‘Is that a question or an order?’

  ‘Both, as you know.’

  ‘I will not let you down.’

  ‘Good,’ said Odo, and with a glance at the growing scene of Edward’s death he turned towards the door. As he came to it, Stephen appeared from behind a frame, the two men nodded and left together. It was a freezing day, the wind was loud and blew darts of sleet across the precinct yard.

  ‘Good,’ said Turold, ‘and not even midday.’

  I vi
sited Rainald but he was not waiting for me at the foot of the cliff above the hollow. He usually waited there, though he never looked towards the direction I would come from. He looked ahead, his hands folded, his lips moving. Now, in the coldest time, he was lying at the back of the hollow, shivering. His shelter had collapsed under the weight of snow, his food had frozen in its larder, the brook was iced over. He had been sucking stones, he had stared at the snow for too long. He was half blind, and when I tried to sit him up, he yelled with pain.

  ‘Let me down!’

  No.

  ‘Don’t touch me!’

  I gripped him around the waist. This time he hit me. He was not strong, but the surprise of his blows was enough.

  He looked towards me, but not at me. I think he saw me as a cloud, nothing else. ‘Leave,’ he said. ‘I am going to die here.’

  You do not mean that.

  ‘I do.’

  We must get you back to the lodging. You will be warm there.

  ‘I am warm in the body of Christ,’ he said.

  We could look after you.

  ‘And He looks after me as no one else can.’

  He does not feed you.

  ‘The food He provides is all I require.’

  Don’t be so foolish.

  ‘There is nothing foolish about it.’

  It? Is that all it is?

  ‘Though I would like to see Turold again.’

  I will bring him. He will talk to you.

  ‘You talk to me, Robert.’

  Do I?

  ‘Yes.’ Rainald’s eyes floated in their sockets, like feathers on water. ‘You have for a long time, and what I like about your talk is that it is spoken by your heart, not your mouth. You never lie, you never say what you do not mean.’

  You can hear me?

  ‘Have you gone deaf now?’

  No.

  ‘I can hear you, Robert.’

  No one can hear me.

  ‘I can.’

  Rainald could hear me, but not my chosen words. He can hear my thoughts, whatever comes into my mind. I could be thinking about Martha’s skin, and he will know, stealing an apple from a tree, he will know, any sin I commit, any blasphemy. God is not fair.

  ‘Someone has the gift to understand you, and you say God is not fair.’

  I thought it.

  ‘Your thoughts are mine.’