Odo's Hanging

by Peter Benson

  Are they?

  ‘Believe me.’

  I do.

  ‘And leave me…’

  I cannot.

  ‘Go!’

  All right, but I will return, and if we have to, Turold and I will drag you back to the lodging.

  ‘Do not try,’ said Rainald, and I was scared by his voice. ‘I will stay here.’

  Now I wish I could not speak to him. I am confused, and I want to see Martha. She does not complicate my life, she hovers above me and wants me happy.

  ‘Go!’ he said, again.

  I am going! Christ!

  ‘Robert!’

  What?

  ‘ “For the Lord will not hold him guiltless that taketh his name in vain.” ’

  Rainald.

  ‘Away!’

  Martha, I want you.

  ‘It was warmer today.’ She snuggled up to me.

  I will warm you.

  ‘But now I am as warm as I could be. Are you as warm as you could be?’

  No.

  ‘I know you are.’

  I held her breasts. When we meet, I always hold her breasts. I hold them and she smiles up at me, and when I put my lips to them, she closes her eyes and pushes towards me. They appear from a gap in her clothes like mushrooms shining in a muddy field. I cannot see anything wrong with them, I cannot see anything wrong with that. We love each other, but do not know why. She is there and I am here, but we will always be together.

  ‘Do you love me?’

  I opened my mouth and nodded. She made a buzzing sound, poked her finger in my mouth and touched my tongue.

  ‘How much?’

  Why do you want to know how much? This much. I opened my arms as wide as I could. She grabbed my neck and pulled me back to her; I lay on her like a bird. She smacked me and I pinched her side. She squirmed, I put my teeth on her neck, we turned over and fell out of Rainald’s cot. A mouse scuttled by my ear, sniffed it and ran away. ‘You watch it!’ said Martha, and she pushed me off, put her breasts back and brushed her skirts.

  Threaten me, Martha.

  ‌17

  ‘What is the King’s scene?’ Bishop Odo clenched his fists. He had snot on his top lip. ‘What does it mean?’

  Turold shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Liar!’ Odo spat, the snot flew across the workshop and landed on the embroidery. ‘What are you and William planning?’

  ‘There is…’

  ‘As soon as my back was turned…’

  ‘I swear to you. I know as much as you.’

  ‘You don’t deny that it is something? The King wishes to add his mark?’

  ‘I have been ordered to leave a space.’

  ‘A space?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What space?’

  Turold led Odo to the palace at Rouen.

  ‘And you have no idea?’ Odo held his chins in his right hand and stared at the gap between palace and horse.

  ‘There must be room for two figures.’

  ‘Two figures?’

  ‘And an inscription.’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  I do not know what it means, and I do not care. I am worried about Rainald. He is worse, he does not talk any more, and I am afraid to be with him. He knows my thoughts. He sits in the snow and stares with his blind eyes. I cannot be there longer than it takes to leave the food. He eats some, but not enough.

  Bishop Odo was thinking. He forgot where he was, he forgot we were there, he leant towards William’s image, enthroned at Rouen, and whispered, ‘What are you planning?’

  ‘My Lord?’ said Turold.

  ‘A little surprise for me? I will be sent away while you arrange it, I will return to enjoy it?’

  ‘Bishop?’

  ‘Am I close?’

  Turold put his hand out, I thought he was going to touch Odo’s shoulder. He held it over the man, then took it away. He turned me around and marched me back to the other side of the workshop, the death of Edward, Harold’s coronation and the star over England, shooting across the sky with fire in its tail.

  I showed Rainald’s cot to Turold, and stuck my fingers down my throat. Immediately, he found a sledge, he found a pony, he packed fresh bread, fresh milk and butter, and we left for the hollow. We were away so quickly that I forgot to worry about what the monk would say. He had scared me when he told me not to try and take him from the hollow; now I was leading the pony and Turold was behind with a stick.

  ‘How long has he been bad?’

  I held up three fingers.

  ‘Weeks?’

  I nodded.

  ‘You should have told me before.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Has he been difficult?’

  Yes.

  This is Turold; he does not think about the consequences of his actions. He does what he believes is right, and considers his mistakes afterwards. I think Rainald should be allowed to die where he wants. He is sick, but he has found peace in the forest. He is a holy man. I am regretting that I told Turold, I should have kept quiet. I could have found Rainald dead, he could have died in peace. We could have buried him in the forest, that would have saved a lot of trouble, and pleased him.

  The trees were his friends, but did not move to help him. They did what they could, but did not interfere or judge. He lay beneath them and his bones began to lock, his blood ran thick, his muscles withered and his eyes closed. Turold put his hand on his shoulder, shook him and said, ‘Rainald?’

  He did not move.

  ‘Can you hear me?’

  I think he is dead.

  ‘No I am not,’ he said, and he opened his eyes. They were all white, stared straight at me. They were pigeon’s eggs, they were round and dry. He said, ‘Not today.’

  ‘Not today what?’ said Turold, and he threaded his arms beneath the monk’s shoulders and lifted him up before he could complain. ‘You are coming home.’

  ‘Home?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is my home.’

  ‘Are you going to argue?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’ Turold had picked him up like a child, and carried him to the sledge. There were skins and rugs to cushion him and keep him warm. I arranged them before Turold laid him down. ‘There is no point.’

  ‘I want to die here.’

  ‘No one is dying anywhere,’ said Turold. ‘Talk about something else or be quiet.’

  ‘I hurt.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Everywhere this sledge takes me.’

  ‘Thank God for it.’

  ‘You still know some jokes, Turold.’

  ‘You are the biggest joke.’

  ‘I,’ said Rainald, ‘am no joke.’ Turold cracked the stick on the pony, I pulled the rein, we headed away from the hollow, on to the track and through the forest to Winchester.

  We laid Rainald in his cot, and while Turold arranged the monk’s rugs, I fetched Martha. She was going to sit with him while we worked, and if he showed signs of unusual kinds, she would call us. I kissed her at the bottom of the stairs to the lodging and she said, ‘Is he in his cot?’

  I nodded.

  ‘No more tit for you…’

  I shook my head.

  ‘It’s not for you to shake your head. That’s my job.’

  I put my hand over her bush, she slapped it away.

  ‘Stop!’ She pushed past me and began to climb the stairs. I followed close behind, teasing her as she went. She waved her hands behind her, but I would not stop until we were at the top, and then we went quiet and serious, and waited before opening the door.

  Turold was sitting over his friend, telling him a story that was not listened to. ‘Martha,’ he said, ‘is Robert bothering you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Stop bothering her, Robert.’

  Mind your own business and get your hair cut.

  Rainald’s eyes were open, but they saw nothing. He was not shivering, but his skin was blue.

&nb
sp; Turold stood up and Martha sat down where he had been, and smoothed the covers. ‘Has he eaten today?’ she said.

  ‘No. He had some water, but nothing else.’

  ‘Is he dying?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How much longer?’

  ‘Who knows?’

  Martha took a cloth and wiped his brow. When she touched him, his lips moved, and a ribbon of whispers came from his mouth. ‘What is he saying?’ she said.

  ‘The Words of God.’

  Martha looked at Rainald with wonder. She folded her hands on her lap and bowed her head. I believe we were in God’s presence. The monk lay with his head lit by a shaft of sunlight, the girl sat in reverence, Turold stood by the door with his arms crossed, one hand stroking his beard. I stood at the foot of the cot, put my hand out and touched Martha’s shoulder. The room was cold but I felt the warmth of compassion in the air, and a swirl of protection breeze never offers. The sunlight was pale and slight, it gave Rainald’s face some colour.

  On Bishop Odo’s return, Ermenburga retreated to her cell, she refused herself a daily hour in the workshop, she suffered from lack of daylight. She did what was required, she concentrated on a deeper understanding of the Scriptures.

  Turold went to her cell, argued to be let in. I was in the corridor, and when they were together, at the door, he said, ‘Forget him.’

  ‘How can I?’

  ‘He has forgotten you. His mind does not work as other men’s; his ambitions change daily. Now he has decided to chase the greatest…’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘You know.’

  ‘I know nothing about him.’

  ‘Everyone knows.’ I heard Turold’s feet shuffling.

  ‘Rome?’ Ermenburga laughed now, I heard the sound as it popped out of her mouth and bounced against the walls of her cell.

  ‘You,’ said Turold, ‘— and forgive me when I say this — were never more than an idle thought to him. It was not that I deprived him of you, it was that I deprived him of something, and approached the King…’

  ‘I will never forget what you did, but I pray you will not live to regret it.’

  ‘I will live and you will never live to regret it. Bishop Odo is a simple man. He is driven by simple instincts; he rarely allows thought to bother him, least of all regret.’

  ‘Now you are underestimating him.’

  ‘I know him,’ said Turold. ‘He has done nothing in England I haven’t experienced before.’

  ‘At his hands?’

  ‘At his hands.’

  ‘Then you do not learn your lessons. I am trying to learn mine.’

  ‘I learn my lessons,’ said Turold, and he raised his voice, ‘when they are worth learning. Odo can teach me nothing; I only regret that I react to his stupidity. I should ignore it.’

  ‘As you are asking me to ignore him?’

  There was silence now, only the sound of nuns passing across the yard below, and the chattering of my teeth.

  ‘Ermenburga.’

  ‘Fool.’

  ‘But you understand me?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘And you will come back to the workshop?’

  ‘You want me there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Turold doesn’t know?’

  ‘No one knows.’

  ‘No one knows what?’

  ‘What makes one person want another.’

  ‘I know why Bishop Odo wanted me.’

  ‘Lust is no reason for anything.’

  ‘I will take your word, but I have heard different.’

  ‘Lust is only an end in itself. It is the mayfly of emotions.’

  ‘And you want me for…’

  ‘Your presence strengthens me. It gives me confidence.’

  ‘I give you confidence?’ Ermenburga laughed again.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your mockery gets worse.’

  ‘Believe me. I mean what I say.’

  There was silence again.

  It was cold.

  ‘I mean what I say,’ said Turold, again.

  ‘I heard you.’

  ‘Come back to the workshop. You have my protection, so you have William’s.’

  ‘Protection is not what I need.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Respect.’

  ‘Odo has little respect for anyone; don’t imagine he will make you an exception.’

  ‘I don’t want to be an exception.’

  ‘You are,’ said Turold.

  Ermenburga sat in the workshop again. Here is the death of Edward, and his burial.

  The sun, warmer that it had been for months, bathed the hanging with fresh light, it picked out the arches of Westminster Abbey, the Hand of God and the bier.

  Dying Edward’s face is pleading. His faithful friends must be strong. They must support Harold, whom he touches. Queen Edith holds a kerchief to her face, her eyes are heavy with sadness. Stigand has not shaved, he knows the King has less than an hour to live, he listens patiently. Robert the Staller offers support, and here is the King dead.

  Stigand has shaved, servants wrap the shroud. Immediately, the crown is offered to Harold, who is crowned King.

  Harold’s face, as he sits upon the throne, is blank but firm. He knows his crime, but cannot resist Edward’s wish and the power of his position. He believes William will not invade. The Duke is threatened at home, he cannot risk leaving Normandy, the sea is too wide, he can only fight with horses, horses cannot travel by ship, the south coast is fortified, dogs eat their own tails. Here are two dogs eating their own tails, in the border beneath Harold’s throne.

  Here is Bishop Odo, and he thinks people are plotting against him. He is standing with Turold, he has glanced at the death of Edward, but it does not interest him. He has seen Ermenburga sitting in her chair, but does not recognise her. The more he thinks people are planning behind his back, the more he thinks people are planning behind his back. When he first heard about the King’s scene, he was flattered, then he was worried, then he was scared, then he was terrified, then he decided Turold was to blame, he said Turold could have refused the King’s request.

  ‘Refuse the King?’

  ‘You are on intimate terms.’

  ‘I am not!’

  ‘You are arguing?’

  ‘Please,’ said Turold. ‘I cannot tell you more about the King’s scene than I have…’

  ‘He has not approached you again?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Has he?’ Odo swung around and asked me; then he shouted, ‘Has he?’ to the others in the workshop. I shook my head, the sisters shook their heads, they would not stop work. They would not listen. ‘Who can I believe?’ he said. ‘Who can I trust?’

  ‘Trust me,’ said Turold. ‘He has not approached me; when he does, I will tell you. Until then, I can do nothing but continue with the work I know something about. Your work…’

  ‘Do not try to placate me, Turold. You do not have the time.’

  ‘My time is yours.’

  ‘And why don’t you kiss my arse?’

  Turold gave Odo a hard look. He was trying to keep the Bishop happy, he did not want to waste time. ‘I would rather not,’ he said.

  Odo laughed now. ‘Whose would you, rather?’

  ‘No one’s.’

  Odo threw back the look with one that came from his eyes in fire. I took a step back, every sister dropped a stitch. He yelled, ‘You will kiss mine!’

  ‘I would…’

  ‘You would rather not but you will! I will have you on your knees, Turold. William’s enemies are plotting; he will leave for home, then you will taste the fruit of my suspicion.’

  ‘Will that be an apple?’ said Turold. He was tired of the Bishop, he knew him too well, a dog barked in the yard.

  ‘An apple?’

  ‘As Eve offered Adam.’

  ‘You compare me to Eve?’

  �
��I compare you to no one, my Lord. You are quite unique. There is no one like you.’

  ‘No one likes me?’ Odo’s face twitched, and his right eye blinked five times.

  ‘I did not say that.’

  ‘You did!’

  ‘I did not. I…’

  ‘And you contradict me again.’

  ‘I said that there is no one like you, not that…’

  ‘And you repeat it!’ The Bishop was pale now, he was blinking again, and rubbing his forehead.

  ‘My Lord…’

  ‘Guard!’

  ‘May I return to my work?’

  ‘Here!’

  ‘We have a great deal to do.’ Turold was close to Odo, Odo was boiling red, I felt cold, the guard clattered his sword.

  ‘Take this man and lock him up!’

  Turold put his arm up, the guard grabbed it, he said, ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Following my instincts.’

  ‘I have done nothing! You cannot…’

  ‘Cannot is not a word I use, and you should not use it either.’

  ‘Why? Why am I…’

  ‘Why is another of those words!’ Bishop Odo was looking mad now. His chins were up and down, his eyes looked like fried nuts. ‘This is my hanging! No one, whoever he is, should interfere. I would not interfere in his plans, he has no right to interfere in mine.’

  ‘You have done nothing but interfere in mine,’ said Turold.

  Odo hit him in the face, then slapped him across the back of his head. ‘Take him away!’

  I took a step forward.

  ‘You!’ he shouted at Ermenburga, ‘are in charge! Do not make his mistakes, or you will join him!’

  Ermenburga looked straight at the Bishop, she was not afraid of him. Turold gave her courage, Turold’s face was tired but his eyes were wide. ‘My Lord,’ she said.

  ‘Bring him!’ yelled Odo, and he swung around, and led the way.

  ‌18

  Martha nursed Rainald, I sat beside her and worried. There was nothing I could do. I was trapped, all my thoughts could do was circle themselves, like buzzards on warm air. Bishop Odo’s threats were warm air, Turold was locked up, the sisters continued to work but the workshop lost its eyes.

  Rainald had lost himself, only the body remained. His mind was taken by God, he lay and waited for his flesh to give up. His flesh was stubborn, hardened by the forest. Martha was patient, she kept a bowl of bread soaked in milk for him, but he never ate.