by Peter Benson
Turold looked at Rainald but could not say anything. There were tears in his eyes.
‘Triumph will be yours. I have seen this written in stone. Stones line the walls of the House of God, and all things are written on them. The Lord sits before them, and knows. Past, present and future life. Nothing escapes Him.’
Martha was on her knees, shaking. I put my arm around her and she fell towards me. She felt small against me, her eyes were closed, she did not want to look at Rainald. She believed everything he said was true, there was no doubt that he had seen heaven. There were angels in the air above him, and clouds to carry him away. I took her hand and held it. It was cold. She whimpered and pressed herself closer to me.
‘She understands,’ said Rainald.
I know.
‘You know but you do not understand.’
What is the difference?
‘If you do not know then you know nothing. But you are young, you will learn. You have the Hand of God upon you, and His angels protect you.’
‘I am young?’ said Turold.
‘I am not talking to you,’ said Rainald.
Turold looked at me.
I looked at Rainald.
I like the name Rainald. It sanctifies itself. Martha sanctified me. Her tears soaked through to my skin, the closer I held her the tighter she held.
‘Who are you talking to?’ said Turold.
‘Robert.’
‘He replies?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
‘I hear what he thinks.’
Turold laughed.
I looked away.
‘I can.’
‘Since when?’
Rainald shook his head. ‘What has when to do with it?’
‘I would like to know.’
‘Why?’
‘Because…’ said Turold, and then he patted his friend’s shoulder. ‘We’re arguing. We have not done this for a long time.’
‘Yes we have.’
‘When?’
‘When you tried to take me from the forest.’
‘I remember no argument.’
‘You wouldn’t,’ said Rainald, ‘But there was one.’ He stared at Turold, then turned to look at me.
‘Maybe in your head. I said nothing…’
‘Look after him,’ Rainald said to me. He put out his hand and touched my knee. His fingers were like roots.
‘I can look after myself…’
‘He needs a guiding hand.’ Rainald’s voice was breaking, cracks showed in his words, and the edges of them dropped off and fell to the floor. ‘I am sorry I failed him.’
‘You never failed me!’ said Turold. His voice was up, he wiped his nose.
Rainald bowed his head and closed his eyes. Martha looked up at him. Her face shone with tears, her hands shook in mine. She took deep gulps of air and sniffed. She wanted me to protect and comfort her, she felt safe in my arms.
‘Not once,’ said Turold, quietly.
I watched Rainald’s mouth as he took his last breaths. They came slowly, his lips hardly moved. He lay back, and as he did, he cackled. A smile crept on to his face, and as it did, I wondered where his voice would go when he died. Where do dead voices go, do they wander, looking for a home, would I be luck for Rainald’s voice? I opened my mouth, I moved closer to him and laid one of my hands on his. I held Martha with the other, Turold smiled at me, my father and my mother.
He did not know what I was thinking, Martha could only guess, Rainald was too tired now, and wished to go. I remembered him in Bayeux, I remembered him pointing from the abbey tower, and scuttling through the cloisters. I remember him telling Turold that the rent was fair, the house had expenses to meet, its income was limited. I remember him holding his hands together, praying across the table, willing us to see sense. There was no point arguing.
‘Please,’ he said, and I took my hand from his and put it on Martha’s head. She trembled, I put my nose in her hair and took a breath.
‘Rainald?’ said Turold.
‘Turold?’
‘I’m here.’
‘You must,’ said the monk, ‘not be so quick to…’ His voice trailed away, he coughed, raised his right hand, it fell back.
‘To do…’
Rainald gulped, opened his eyes wide and stared at the ceiling. He saw something there; I looked up, but there was nothing. ‘You are too quick too judge.’
‘I know…’
‘Do not forget. God is watching you…’
‘God is watching me…’
‘Nothing you do escapes his notice…’
‘Nothing…’
‘Nothing at all,’ said Rainald, and with a longing sigh, he died. His face sank into an expression of peace, his hands relaxed. I leant forward, I tried to catch the breath, but I failed. It slipped past me, it buckled in the morning air, and then flew away, out of the window and into the sky.
There is no reply to death, no peace at a funeral. Turold spun with regret. He wished Rainald had stayed in Bayeux, he wished the monk had never become involved, the hanging was to blame, the hanging was poison. It ruined, it twisted and it spat in its creator’s face. It had a life of its own, it raced across the linen, it did not need an excuse.
Turold drank in the workshop, something I had never seen him do. He believed art and drink mixed, but not in the same room. Now he said, ‘I do not care.’
Ermenburga was in her chair, but she did not chide him. She never drank, but she knew. She saw the grief in his eyes, she watched his face grow thin, she watched him stand over the sisters and shake his head but say nothing. Before Rainald’s death, even during the worst times, he had never stopped coaxing them, changing colours at the last moment, adding a man where no man had been before. Now he slouched around the frames, a bottle in one hand. His eyes were dying, he walked to where Ermenburga sat, and leant against her chair.
‘Are you pleased?’ she said. She pointed at the finished strips and the growing scene of the building, launching, loading and sailing of the fleet.
He stared blankly.
‘Turold?’
Turold is a strong, male name. It comes from the back of the throat and drops out of the mouth slowly. I should concentrate on saying one word; his name would be a good choice. I should build his name in my head, and when I have finished, I would carry it to my mouth without dropping it. There is no secret to talking, there are no secrets a dumb man knows.
‘Pleased,’ he said, ‘is not the word. How can it be?’
Ermenburga touched his arm and said, ‘What do you mean? It is beautiful, everything you said it would be.’
Turold shook his head. ‘Consider,’ he said, ‘the trouble it has caused, and now the death of my oldest friend. He did not deserve to die here. He should have gone home.’
‘His home is in the Lord…’ Ermenburga put her hand up to stop his interruption ‘…and the hanging had nothing to do with his death. Believe me. Doubt and the folly of his hermitage hastened it, not your work. He was proud of you.’
Turold snorted.
‘Do you think he would have wanted you to give this up?’
‘What he would have wanted means nothing.’
‘Doesn’t it?’
‘How can it?’
‘Memorialise him in the work. Would that mean something?’
Turold continued to stare at something else, but slowly came back from that place, his eyes widened, he shuffled his feet, focused on the scene in front of him and said, ‘A picture of Rainald?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
‘That is for you to say.’
‘And do.’
‘And do.’
Turold turned to Ermenburga and said, ‘You have the best ideas.’
She bowed her head.
I looked away.
‘No…’ she said.
‘You do…’
‘Will you do it?’
‘Maybe…’
‘Do it.’
He is tall and upright, with a pear-shaped, open face. His eyes hover between innocence and knowing, his arms are strong, the sack is heavy. He is in his prime, he believes God is true, there is no doubt in his mind. The men behind him, though their faces are straining, look up to Rainald. He is a good man, worthy of imitation.
He has a slim waist, the creases of his clothes are picked out in gold, stitched as though they were drawn. There is purpose in his stride. Before him, a group of horsemen lead the way to the fleet, and here, as the fleet sails across the sea, I am reminded of when I sailed across the sea, and Turold and Rainald argued about the fear of God. Affliction is a signpost on the road to truth? Affliction is affliction.
Bishop Odo in the workshop. Here he comes, walking between the frames, dragging his feet, winking for no reason and tugging at the hair at the back of his neck. He has food stains on his tunic, his chins are covered with stubble. He looks mad, he looks tired. When he speaks, his voice comes in squeaks.
‘William leaves this morning,’ he said, ‘as I said he would.’ He smiled, he thought he was safe. His smile was thin, his breath stank.
‘His enemies have shown their hands?’ Turold stitched into the face of William’s tillerman.
‘Yes.’
‘All of them?’
‘Those who think the time is right.’
‘Do you think the time is right?’
‘No…’
‘You count yourself one of his enemies?’
Odo looked at Turold, rubbed his chest, then looked away, picked at his fingernails and said, ‘Me?’
‘You.’
‘I,’ he said, quietly, ‘am his Bishop. It is my work to advise, never antagonise. And as his brother, I am privy to his more personal feelings; we could never be enemies…’
‘Two heads on one body?’
‘If you like,’ said Odo. ‘If you like.’
I took a breath. As I did, I felt a quick pain in my belly, as I had before. It banged into my lungs, it fingered towards my heart, then it dropped and faded away. I bent over, let out a soft rush of air, put out my hand to steady myself and Turold said, ‘Robert?’
I stood straight.
‘Are you sick?’
I shook my head and took a step back.
‘Two heads on one body…’ Odo liked this. He smiled and said, ‘Yes, I know.’
‘And one head is leaving for the coast,’ said Turold.
‘Which means,’ said Odo, ‘it is you and I again, and no one to come between us.’
‘The King never came between us…’
‘Didn’t he?’
‘His request was for the smallest space. Maybe he will use it to honour you…’
‘Honour me, through you?’ Odo laughed. ‘I have all the honours I want.’
‘Do you?’
‘Yes…’
‘Honours or honour?’
‘Is there a difference?’
‘Of course.’
‘And you would know what that is? You could tell me? You could throw some light on the nature of the scene?’
‘No…’
‘You could not?’ Now Odo was closer to his old self than he had been for months. The chins were going, the lips were trembling, his tongue flicked out. ‘Turold cannot throw light on something?’
‘My Lord…’
‘Patron!’
‘I…’
‘And designer!’ Odo jabbed his finger in Turold’s chest, the sisters concentrated as the ships sailed across the sea, the wind filled their sails, the horses stood in rows.
‘I am…’
‘Yes!’
‘And I wish to get on with my work,’ said Turold. ‘There have been too many interruptions.’
‘And whose fault were they?’
‘Please!’ Turold held up his hands. ‘Let us call a truce. I am tired, all I want to do is work…’
A truce?’ Odo twitched his head and narrowed his eyes.
‘My Lord.’
‘And my designer…’
‘For my benefit, and yours.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning nothing but what I said.’
Odo stood upright. ‘A truce?’
‘As I said…’
Now I felt as if my belly was going to split. I was on the floor before I knew I had hit it, I was holding myself tight, the pain ripped through me, spinning around and around. I could feel it moving, twisting up, lifting its head and slapping its tail against my insides. I let out a long, low roar; I felt hands on me, I do not know whose, and voices in my ears.
‘Robert?’
‘Hold him up.’
‘He’s swallowing his tongue.’
‘Catch his legs!’
I could not control my legs. They were running though I was on my back on the floor, my eyes were closed but I saw a straight road in front of me, and I was being chased. I had to escape from dangerous men, I could not wait. If I waited, I would die. I could not allow anyone to hold me back.
The pain grew, it moved closer to my heart, I tried to force it back with breath, but it fed on my breath, so I did exactly what it wanted me to do. It took me and tried to suffocate me; my arms went rigid but my legs would not stop thrashing. I could feel them going, I wished they would stop but I had no control.
I opened my eyes and saw Ermenburga’s face staring into mine. I felt a cold hand reach up from the pain and tickle my mind, a voice whispered, What’s the matter, Robert? Cat got your tongue?
‘Robert?’
Cat got your tongue?
I opened my mouth.
‘Robert?’ Now Turold’s face was close to mine, it was pale and worried.
‘What sort of cat would it be, Robert?’
The pain burst out of my belly and covered my heart. It took my heart and held it in its cold hands, and weighed it. I could feel my heart going up and down, I felt sick, I could not hold my head up, my eyes closed, I saw lights the size of towns, horsemen on hills and ships sailing across the sea. Birds flew, wolves hunted, I opened my eyes again and all I saw was darkness. I was blind, I heard voices, I felt hands, salt filled my mouth and then I forgot. I forgot who I was, where I was and why; my body shouted at my mind and my mind had no strength. I closed my eyes, there were no lights there and then no feeling at all.
21
I do not know how long I slept. A day, a week, two weeks. I did not ask. I did not care. I was not hungry. I did not drink. Three weeks, a month. I lay in Rainald’s cot, I lay in the air of his death, and Martha sat by me.
I had suffered a paralysis of my body. It had attacked quickly and completely. It saw me vulnerable, it was sharp and light, exactly like a blade, unexpected and in you.
Mostly I knew nothing. I saw nothing, heard nothing and felt nothing, but there were times when my darkness was filled with movement, light and action. Sometimes I would see action, but silence would be on the scene. So I would be witness to the massacre of innocents, and I could see women and children as they died screaming, but I could not hear their screams. Their mouths were open, their murderers were yelling, flames licked the walls of buildings and horses shied at the slaughter; all in silence, and the silence slowed the action. So now I was watching a dagger pierce a woman’s side, and as her hands went up to the blade, as she cried for help, as I could not take my closed eyes from the scene, I heard nothing. I was not deaf, I could hear myself breathing, but the rest of the world was dumb, the world was living as I live.
Once, I was aware of movement around my cot. I was awake but could not open my eyes. I wanted to but my lids refused to move. There was the sound of rustling habits, stools scraping across the floor and a rank, green smell in the air. This smell grew, it moved towards me, I heard a voice and it was Ermenburga’s. She said, ‘Has he woken?’
‘No,’ said Martha.
‘Sister Ethel?’
‘Yes?’
‘Sister Ethel,’ said Ermenburga, ‘has prepared a poultice for his head. Something of her own recipe that has, in the past, proved valuable. She will apply it now, and you must watch her carefully. She will leave enough for tomorrow and the next day, and return the day after with a fresh mix.’
‘A poultice?’ said Martha.
‘Yes,’ said Ethel.
Oh God I remember sister Ethel. Her potions and poultices, made from the vilest herbs she could grow, were hot, evil smelling and rarely did good. The fact that they had done some good once was enough to sustain the faith the house had in her; I heard her shuffle to the cot, and the smell of the poultice stung my nostrils.
I felt Martha’s hand on mine, I felt it squeeze, then it let go and the smell was over me. I could hear the smell, it was screaming down at me, telling me it would do no good. It would not release me from my paralysis, I was trapped and there was nowhere I was going. It was steaming, sister Ethel leant over me, I felt her presence, the poultice was on my forehead.
It was useless, it burnt me, but I could not move. I could not raise my hands, I was defenceless.
‘There,’ I heard her say.
‘Will it help?’ said Martha.
Her voice was like a bell in the desert, a bell at sea, a bell with a perfect note. The note will never change, it will never pretend to be something it is not. It will never pretend to be a choir, it will never pretend to be flutes, it will never try to sound more than one note. It is a truth that cannot be denied, it is this one note. Its clapper is a voice, its metal is flesh, everyone understands it. It does not ring unless it means something, it is loved and it is feared.
Poultice.
Bells.
Fear.
‘My poultices,’ said Ethel, ‘are known far and wide.’
‘I know,’ said Martha, ‘but do they do any good?’
I could feel Ethel as she controlled herself. Her poultices had relieved many illnesses. Many people would not be alive if it were not for her poultices. Her poultices were the result of a lifetime’s study. ‘My poultices,’ she said, ‘are the best medicine he could wish for.’
I heard Martha sniff.
I wanted to throw up, but my stomach was empty. My throat gagged, I felt it grab my mouth but it could not hold on.