Odo's Hanging

by Peter Benson

  We are sitting together, Turold had been locked up for a week, there was a knock on the lodging door.

  I answered it.

  It was King William.

  I was very afraid.

  Martha fainted.

  I was afraid he would break the floor.

  William went to her.

  There was nowhere for him to sit.

  His tunic creaked.

  His eyes were wide and red.

  ‘Help me,’ he said. He picked her up and laid her on Turold’s cot. He propped her head, undid his cloak and spread it over her. I stood behind him, I am standing behind the King, now I am straightening the hem of his cloak. Martha’s hair is covering her face, he stroked it away from her eyes. His hands were big, he said, ‘Does she do this often?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘I startled her.’

  I stared at him but did not move.

  ‘I could have sent a messenger, but I did not have a message.’

  I did not believe this.

  The King sat on Turold’s cot and looked at Martha. His eyes were full of regret, he shook his head and said, ‘I have not forgotten Turold, but I must allow Bishop Odo to punish him.’ He talked slowly. ‘I must allow him to think that he has the power. If I deny him now, he will only store up the resentment, and I cannot allow that to happen.’

  I looked straight at the King, he looked straight at me. His power was chipped in his eyes, his brow was covered with lines.

  ‘He will not be hurt.’

  You will hurt his mind.

  ‘And when he is released, he will be free to work to the finish.’

  Martha opened her eyes. She looked at me, then at the King. She closed her eyes, opened them again, felt the cloak that covered her and licked her lips. The tip of her tongue shone like a jewel. I wanted to touch it. She said, ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Safe,’ said the King.

  I am standing behind the King. I do not believe that I am here, I do not believe anything. Kings do not knock on doors and wait for a reply. This is the real world and we are all in it, whatever our names. We live our lives and cannot escape; even Turold and Odo know that. The King leads a blameless life, though he is cruel and dangerous. He is also kind, thoughtful and full of grace. He is a huge man, I stand back from him, so I can see his face and Martha’s.

  ‘Who are you?’ she whispered. Her voice was so quiet it came after her mouth had closed, he narrowed his eyes at her, opened his mouth to speak, she put a finger to her lips, he closed his mouth. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Turold,’ he said, ‘is in no danger. He will be released, but I want Odo to think he can still do as he wishes; within reason…’

  I am looking at the King. He does not have to explain to anyone. There is a bell in the tower, and it rings at midnight.

  It has rung. He is looking at me. I believe him, but what he says does not comfort me. I want to see Turold now, I want him in the workshop in the morning. If Odo knew anything, he would want him in the workshop too. The sisters are unhappy without him to watch their work; they know what they have to do, but they need his approval, even if all they have to do is complete a border. Nothing about this work is easy.

  ‘What did he do?’ said Martha.

  ‘What he did is not the point,’ said the King. ‘It is who he is.’

  ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘Nor do I.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘A man with a way that offends; Bishop Odo believes he is laughing at him…’

  He is laughing at him.

  ‘I am sure…’

  ‘What you are sure of,’ said the King, ‘is of no consequence.’

  I am thinking of the angel Gabriel’s visit to Mary. I blinked. I was there and they were too, one on the bed, the other beside her.

  Turold sat in jail, quietly. The jailer smiled at me, then at him, then left us alone.

  I sat on a stool beside him, he lay on a blanket and stared at the ceiling. Drops of water fell on us, the cell was cold, rats stayed in the walls. The first thing he said was, ‘How is Ermenburga?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘Is she looking after the work?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Do you see her?’

  I shook my head.

  He folded his arms across his chest. ‘And the hanging?’

  I smiled at him, but could not hide my thoughts.

  ‘Do the sisters miss me?’

  I nodded.

  He sighed now. ‘And Odo?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘Do you know how long I am to stay here?’

  I shook my head.

  He shook his head. ‘You…’ he said, then he stopped.

  What?

  ‘You are the first friendly face I have seen since I saw you last.’

  He hated to be alone, he hated having no one to talk to, he hated silence he could not control. Odo knew this. Turold could make his own torture. Force him to face himself and he will learn respect, he will become a better man.

  ‘How is Rainald?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘I think about him every day. Tell him I want to see him on his feet.’

  I looked at Turold.

  ‘I will be released soon.’ He put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Spring is coming, the work will never be less than I planned.’

  He wanted me to believe him, but he did not believe himself. He was not drowning, but he was losing strength. His arms were flailing in the solitude, he was screaming for another voice. I tried to tell him something, I was cursing inside, I put my hand on his. His eyes were half closed, his breathing was slow, he tapped his fingers. ‘And for nothing,’ he said.

  Odo will take nothing and turn it into something. This is the alchemy of power. Nothing can be anything if the result pays. The pay can be gold, respect, fear, love or land; Odo needs no reason to throw anyone in jail. There is a line between you and him, there are flights of angels in the clouds of hell. This is one day, there is another and here, resting in the palm of my hand, is Turold’s cheek. I think he is listening to me. He is warm. I laid my head on his shoulder and heard the blood in his neck.

  The workshop was cold and damp, the sisters worked slowly, the air was heavy. Turold’s voice haunted the walls but was trapped in them.

  I pretended to be in charge, that I could be the one who, at the last minute, changed the colour of a horse’s legs. I could stand at the linen and stitch the worried faces of the men as they marvel at the star, I could imagine the terror in their hearts. I could look across the sea and imagine the ships as the wind filled their sails, I could be a man on the beach, and seagulls wheel over me. I wish I was a man on a beach; I cannot be anyone but who I am, I cannot be anywhere else. I am lucky. I can touch the heart of power, I am trusted, my dead voice is my best friend, but I am not happy. I am Turold’s, I cannot work without him. I try, but I fail. I leave the workshop, cross the precinct yard, go through the gate to the alley and the lodging.

  Martha was in the bakery, Rainald was asleep. I sat beside him, his breath came like a pigeon’s. His hands lay on his chest, his fingernails were yellow.

  Behind his beard, his face had collapsed into hollows. I reached out and touched his shoulder. His body was still.

  I looked away. Outside, birds were singing, white clouds drifted in a deep blue sky. The sun was bright, the smell of fresh bread filled the air.

  Turold had been jailed two weeks and five days. I hated to think of him alone for so long. William protected him, I believed William, I prayed for him, Rainald’s hands moved, he opened his eyes and said, ‘Two more days.’

  I pissed myself. Rainald had not spoken for weeks, he had not opened his eyes, his hands were always folded. I was holding myself and thought, ‘What?’

  ‘Turold will be released in two more days.’

  How do you know?

  ‘God has told me.’

  God?

  ‘God. His protection is the only one.
William will die, Bishop Odo will die, Turold will die, you will die. When you die, who will protect you?’

  God?

  ‘Yes.’

  And Turold will be released in two days?

  ‘Yes.’

  And will complete the hanging?

  Rainald closed his eyes and did not answer. The birds did not stop singing, they were on the roof. A dog barked in the alley, I heard Martha singing in the yard. Her voice was high and breathy, her skin was white, from her feet to her head.

  I sat alone on a hill outside town. I held my favourite cock. He was big and proud, and carried all my wishes. He pecked at my fingers, I nuzzled his head, he bubbled at me.

  Could a pigeon give me voice? I held him to my face, opened my mouth and put his head in. I closed my lips around his neck, I felt his bones with my teeth, he began to panic, he opened his beak and blew into me.

  I tasted his breath, and it tasted of corn. His beak cut the inside of my cheek, I closed my teeth so there was the smallest gap between them. He shat into my hand, I put my tongue to his eyes and licked them.

  I was thinking: the bird feels as I do, it is trapped, it is dying in the dark. It can give me no voice for it has no voice to give, all it does is breathe. Its feathers are soft, its bones are thin, it can fly fast as an arrow. Its feet scratch my hands, its head is going mad, my mouth is bleeding. I opened my mouth, let him out, opened my hands and he looked at me. His head was wet and spotted with blood. He lifted his tail and spread one wing; he opened his beak and his tongue poked out. It was sharp and red. I held him up, he looked at me but did not hate me. He knew I was troubled, he understood and did not want to leave me. I tossed him up. He flipped on to his back, opened his wings, turned over and then flew away, over the side of the hill towards town and the forest beyond.

  Soon, he was a spot in the sky, and then I lost sight of him. I whistled but he did not hear.

  Smoke rose from town, the abbey shone in the sun. I could see men on its roof, hauling blocks of stone along scaffolded walkways. To the north, pennants fluttered over William’s hall, and the sound of shouting carried to where I was. Turold was in the dark, I was in daylight, there was no star in the sky to warn, no omens, only the incomplete figures of the men of Odo’s hanging, staring from the linen.

  ‌19

  Turold was released as Rainald said he would be. The sun blinded him, he steadied himself on my shoulder, the jailer said, ‘Be back soon.’ Turold did not reply. He was not afraid, he was resolved, he was a strong man. He wanted a drink. I sat him in the lodging and fetched two jugs.

  He drank half a jug quickly, asked for some cheese, ate that, drank some more, pointed at the monk and said, ‘How is he?’

  I do not know.

  ‘I am in the Lord.’

  ‘He still talks, does he?’

  ‘I do.’

  Turold looked at Rainald. As his friend died, so he became scared. They had been young together. ‘Do you remember,’ he said, ‘when we used to argue?’

  You never did anything else.

  ‘We never meant it, we were doing it because we loved each other. We never fought, we never hurt each other. We were never like real men, we did not have to prove anything to each other. He had his faith, I had mine.’

  ‘Has,’ said Rainald.

  ‘See what I mean?’ Turold took another drink, wiped his beard and passed me the jug. ‘He can hardly move, but he has the strength to correct me.’

  ‘I have the Lord’s strength.’

  Turold laid his hand on his friend’s head and said, ‘You have the Lord’s strength.’

  A smile came to the monk’s lips, he opened his eyes and said, ‘Turold.’

  ‘I am free.’

  ‘Free?’ said Rainald.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘I can work.’

  ‘Work well.’

  ‘I do,’ said Turold, and he took the jug from me before I had a chance to drink.

  A murmur went through the sisters as Turold returned to the workshop; they stopped work to look at him, he went to where they were stitching, and inspected the progress.

  ‘Happy?’ he said.

  None replied.

  ‘Missed me?’

  They missed you; you do not need to be told.

  He looked at Harold’s coronation, traced his finger along the border to the empty ships of Harold’s omen, rubbed the dead King’s blank face and said, ‘Do you need me?’

  We need you.

  ‘Do you need me?’ Now he raised his voice, he wanted an answer, he needed it, but the sisters did not say anything. ‘Why don’t you answer my questions?’

  They are busy.

  ‘Why don’t you talk? Have you taken vows of silence?’

  You know they have not.

  Turold picked up a needle, I fetched a box of wool, he whistled through his teeth. ‘Why won’t anyone talk to me?’ he said.

  He had never asked this before, he had not cared. His eyes had a look I did not recognise; his mind was burning, then it was frozen, then it charged around his head. ‘Why?’ he said.

  ‘Because they have work to do,’ said Bishop Odo.

  Turold pricked his finger and stared at the blood as it oozed out and dripped on the floor.

  Oh God.

  Odo came from the door to where we were working. ‘As you have,’ he said. ‘Three weeks to catch up.’

  I passed Turold a cloth, he dabbed his finger on it.

  ‘Were you comfortable as my guest?’

  Turold bit his lip.

  Odo said, ‘I would not like to think you did not enjoy my hospitality. And now you are free to come and go as you please.’

  Turold put his finger in his mouth.

  ‘And you complain that no one will talk to you! Are you following your boy’s example?’ Odo reached out a hand to touch me, but I moved away. ‘Boy?’ he said to me. ‘Are you afraid?’

  ‘No one is afraid of you,’ said Turold.

  ‘Ah…’

  ‘For the harder you try, the more you fail. I see that now.’

  ‘And what am I trying to do?’ said Odo.

  Turold took some wool from the box, licked it and concentrated on the eye of the needle.

  ‘What am I trying to do?’ Odo held his temper, he held his hands behind his back.

  The wool would not go through the hole. Turold narrowed his eyes at it, shook his head, took a deep breath and tried again.

  ‘Do you think I cannot throw you back in jail?’

  ‘I already have three weeks to catch up…’

  ‘The example I must make of you is worth any number of weeks.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ said Turold, softly, ‘but…’

  ‘Forgive you?’ Bishop Odo was boiling now, I was tired, I wanted to live in the forest.

  ‘Forgive me,’ said Turold, and now he put the needle and wool down and turned to face Odo. He fixed the fat man with a powerful stare and folded his arms across his chest; six nuns dropped stitches, he said, ‘William does not want me locked up any longer. He is as irritated by you as I am; you should tread more carefully than I.’

  For the first time, I saw Odo turn his eyes away from Turold; he looked at the floor, then at the hanging, then at the floor again. He shuffled his feet, rubbed his hands together and said, ‘How I tread is my own business, whatever rumours you have heard.’

  ‘These rumours come from the King.’

  Now Odo looked at Turold with fear in his eyes, and belief. Turold did not care, he had seen the shadow of the worst Odo could do to him; now he would live for nothing but his work. William gave him this confidence, I showered in it, I stared at Odo, and for a moment, held his gaze.

  His eyes were glassy, the right one blinked madly, a trickle of sweat ran from his forehead, down the side of his face and across his cheek. He opened his mouth, his tongue lay inside it. It was small and pink, he ran it over his teeth and said, ‘The King has many concerns.’


  ‘You are one,’ said Turold.

  ‘I think,’ said Odo, ‘that his favour will go as soon as it came.’

  ‘His favour is no longer the question.’ Turold farted. ‘Your behaviour has persuaded him that you are the question.’

  ‘The way I treat my servants has never concerned him before.’

  ‘I will be the Queen’s; she dislikes you more than anyone…’

  Odo’s face darkened now, and he wrung his hands. ‘The Queen,’ he hissed, ‘has no power, no influence at all.’

  ‘Fool yourself,’ said Turold, ‘but no one else. She has more power in one hand than you will ever hold in both.’

  ‘She is…’ said Odo, but then he stopped. The sisters stopped work, Ermenburga’s face was at the window. She turned when she saw us, and walked across the precinct yard.

  ‘She is?’ said Turold.

  ‘Queen,’ said Odo, and then he walked away.

  The sisters went back to work.

  Here are Harold’s dreamt ships, here is the star in the sky. I tasted salt in my mouth, but I swallowed and it went; I swallowed and I felt a pain in my belly, a pain that caught me suddenly, as if I had been stabbed. I put my hand to the place, took a deep breath, when I let it out, I squealed. I sounded like a kicked dog. All the sisters looked at me, then their faces turned back to their work. Their fingers did not stop moving. Turold said, ‘Robert?’

  I shook my head, picked up the wool box, sat on the bench beside him and followed his fingers as they stitched Harold’s worried face, as he leans towards his adviser.

  ‌20

  The days grew longer, the forest trees burst their leaves, and as birds collected for their nests, Rainald died in his cot.

  An hour before it came, he opened his eyes and said, ‘Fetch them,’ to Martha. ‘Bring them, and I will tell you what I have seen.’

  She ran to the workshop, we left the nuns building and launching the fleet, the fleet sails, look at the horses in the ships. People said it could never be done, but they were secure, not one was lost in the crossing.

  We sat around Rainald and he said, ‘I have seen heaven and I have seen hell, and I have seen between the two. You…’ he pointed at Turold ‘…will triumph, die and triumph again.’