Odo's Hanging

by Peter Benson

  ‘I am pleased,’ said Turold.

  ‘I am pleased.’

  ‘We have worked hard.’

  ‘I know.’

  The two men leant towards each other. Bishop Odo nodded slowly, rubbed his left ankle with his right foot and sighed. The hiss of the sisters’ needles could have come from bees, dandelion seeds blew into the workshop and floated in the air.

  Odo traced his finger back to his face at the feast, and gazed into his own eyes. They were full of grace, his face concealed nothing. He was trusted and would be trusted again. William would understand that he only wanted to prove his loyalty through the hanging, not seeking preferment by it. He was a satisfied bishop, he was humble but proud to serve. William admires him at the feast; Odo put his arm on Turold’s shoulder and said, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘My Lord…’

  ‘Your faces are alive…’ He fingered William’s, then moved to the left, said ‘…and…’ and then his face dropped.

  ‘And?’ said Turold.

  ‘This!’ Odo took a step back, then a step forward and peered closely at the scene. ‘Who is this?’

  Turold peered closely too, as if he did not know what the Bishop was talking about, then folded his hands and said, “This man?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Ah…’

  ‘Turold!’

  ‘My Lord?’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘I think…’

  ‘Tell me!’

  ‘You will…’

  Odo stamped his foot. ‘Turold!’

  ‘Me.’

  ‘You?’ Odo’s face was blue at the edges.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I think…’ Odo took a deep breath.

  ‘It was suggested to me…’

  ‘Suggested to you?’ Odo’s voice was up again, he started to pull his hair. ‘Someone suggested that you place yourself here…’ he jabbed a finger at the hanging, ‘…next to the King, with your elbow in his face, a bowl of wine in your hand, drinking while I say the grace!’ His face was popping, stitches were being dropped, Ermenburga sat in her chair, but she did not move. She had lost weight.

  ‘My Lord, I…’

  “What is it about you?’ Odo stepped on his own foot and winced. ‘One moment you prove your worth, the next you remind me that your worth is nothing compared to your foolishness.’ He took a deep breath, wiped his brow and looked at me. He winked at me. Lord. ‘And who? Who can insist on this…’ he pointed at Turold’s image, ‘knowing I cannot refuse its inclusion?’

  ‘You will be…’

  ‘And do not say the King. His enemies leave him no time to consider you or the hanging.’

  ‘The King’s problems are not…’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘If I say, will…’

  ‘Turold!’ I think Odo’s face will burst. His nose is glowing like a coal, his cheeks are out like a toad’s. ‘Who?’

  ‘It’s difficult for me…’

  Now Odo had Turold by the throat and he screamed, ‘Who?’ in his face. They tumbled towards the wall, slammed against it, Ermenburga jumped out of her chair and Turold yelled, ‘The Queen!’

  This stopped Odo like a rabbit shot. His hands went limp and his cheeks went down. Turold stepped away from him, the Bishop stared into his eyes, said, ‘Matilda?’ and looked away.

  ‘She…’

  ‘How many times has she visited?’ Odo’s voice was quiet again, and tired.

  ‘Four times.’

  ‘Four times?’ Odo slapped his forehead.

  ‘She wants me to design some hangings, and came to see if this work pleased her.’

  ‘And it did?’

  ‘My Lord…’

  ‘And this pleasure led her to persuade you that your presence at a feast you never attended, your face, drinking…’ Odo took a deep breath, and held his chest. I put my hand over my own heart, but it was safe.

  ‘As she told me, it is her way…’

  ‘Her way of what?’

  ‘Her way,’ said Turold, ‘of pleasing the King.’

  ‘Pleasing the King? What sort of…’

  ‘She did not explain why it would please him, but she said it would. I thought it improper to press her. She has a great appreciation of the arts, and is a formidable woman.’

  ‘You noticed?’

  ‘I would not like to anger her.’

  Odo smiled now. ‘Why not?’

  ‘As I said, she…’

  ‘Do not tell me,’ said Odo, and now he walked away from Turold and stood at the workshop door. He took a slow, deep breath, sniffed the air, kicked his right ankle with his left foot and said to no one, ‘Battle was less trouble than this.’ He sighed. ‘Battle is less trouble than this.’

  Turold took a step towards him but Ermenburga caught his eye and shook her head. A duck flew over the precinct yard, then another and another. The weather was warm, the rivers were cool, and all along their banks, shady places offered sanctuary.

  Martha and I walked into the forest and followed the path to Rainald’s hollow. The trees were alive with birds, sunlight dropped in pools around us, I was strong and healthy. I was eating well, drinking more beer every day, and sleeping less. As Turold was burning with the work, so I was; living the scenes, understanding the men, preparing horses for battle. I was excited, as if I was going into battle myself. I held Martha around her waist, and she was happy.

  ‘Once,’ she said, ‘we thought you were going to die. Ermenburga was going to call the priest, but Ethel knew you would recover.’

  Ethel.

  I made a face.

  ‘She is wiser than you think. And kinder. Her remedies work.’

  They stink.

  ‘And you should be grateful for them.’

  I know. I smiled. It is bad for you but it does you good. I did not stop smiling. I smiled all the way to the hollow.

  The hollow never lost Rainald’s scent, it never lost a feeling of peace he threw over it. This feeling was not touched by his death, it hung like the roof of a tent over us. I sat on the bank with my feet in the brook, Martha walked upstream, searching for pebbles in the water.

  She tucked her skirt into her belt and waded slowly, bending down to look, moving on, bending again and whistling through her teeth when she found a pebble she liked. It was white, flecked with pink spots. She polished it on her sleeve, held it up to the light and put it in a bag.

  ‘Where do stones come from?’ she said.

  I have no idea.

  ‘Do they come from heaven?’

  I doubt that anything on earth comes from heaven. I do not think heaven’s gates allow anything to leave; they only open to allow entry. They can be as wide as the sky or as narrow as the eye of a needle; stones are stones, and there is no mystery about them. They lie in the bottoms of streams, they lie in fields, they sit in walls, they do not ask questions. They might breathe, but who cares if they do? They cannot see and they cannot hear; they do not care.

  ‘They are so perfect.’ She found another, popped it in her mouth, rolled it around with her tongue, dropped it into her hand and tossed it to me. I caught it and held it to my eye.

  It was grey, but a jagged line of glass ran through it. I could see light through it. It sparkled, it was warm and some of Martha’s spit covered it. ‘Here’s another,’ she said, and waded back to where I was. ‘A blue one.’

  Turold would like a blue one.

  ‘Shall I give it to Turold?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Then I will.’ She sat next to me, I turned to face her, kissed her, put my hands on her shoulders and pushed her back so we lay in the hollow together; the trees spread over us and the brook burbled below.

  She closed her eyes, spread her arms and wiggled her fingers. Her neck was shining, her hair lay upon the grass, her skirt was tucked into her belt. I put one hand on her leg and stroked her cheek with the other. Her leg was wet. I began to dry it with my sleeve.

  ‘Robert?’ she whispered.

&
nbsp; I did not stop drying.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Answer your own questions. I did behind her knees.

  She opened her eyes and looked at me. They were brighter than any blue stone could be, and brighter than the sky.

  I want you.

  ‘Please,’ she said, ‘not today.’

  Why not?

  ‘I can’t.’

  Who told you?

  ‘But I promise,’ she said.

  What?

  ‘I mean it.’

  I do not understand what you mean. I am confused by people, I think Rainald had a good idea. His hollow is perfect in the summer, but it needs to be protected from winter. He is gone but we are here; she put her arms around my neck and kissed my mouth. Birds sang in the trees, her tongue was warm and tiny. She passed a pebble from her mouth to mine. I put it in my cheek, and held it there.

  Turold and Ermenburga stood on the wall and watched a fire burning on the edge of the forest. Soldiers were there, cooking a pig. A ring of women surrounded them, and some children played around a tree. The night was warm and soft, like a sea of black feathers.

  The two did not touch, they did not speak, they were relaxed. They could have been brother and sister, they could have remembered things they did together years ago. What were they like as children? I do not know.

  Do I care? I do not want to ask myself questions. I should ask my pigeons questions. They know answers.

  They are quiet in the night, sitting on their perch in the loft. I sat by them and listened. Silence is full of noise that has not reached it, as any mouth waits to speak. The night is dark before the day, I did not feel tired.

  One of the hens bubbled, that started the rest off. They moved along their perch until the one closest to me could rub her head against my cheek. I kissed her, she did not kiss me. The loft smells sour and the loft smells sweet. I am here and there, beyond the walls, the soldiers sit down with the women and eat the pig. The children are lying down, dogs circle, the fire is low and in the trees beyond, owls begin to call.

  Three trees — two big ones with a small one in the middle — close the scenes of the feast, the conference, the fortification of Hastings, news of Harold and the burning of one house. More men fight and more men stand doing nothing but work on the fortifications. The news of Harold is received by William with relief, the woman holds her son’s hand and asks the firers why they are burning her house. What has she done? If they left her in peace, she would leave them in peace. Anyone can live next to anyone else. She understood that William’s claim was just. She was a believer. Relics are relics. Leave me alone. Burn in hell, witch.

  Before the gates of Hastings, William stands, dressed for battle. His groom has brought his Spanish stallion. Harold’s men are close, the three trees bend like dancers and here, the soldiers went out of Hastings and came to the battle against King Harold.

  ‌23

  On the hottest day of summer, the Queen visited the workshop. We were sweating, the windows and doors were open wide, Turold said he would cut his hair and beard. I did not believe him.

  The Queen came with her Ladies, she left them outside. Ermenburga welcomed her and pointed the way.

  Turold stood and bowed, the sisters let their needles hang and folded their hands on their laps.

  ‘No,’ said the Queen. ‘Continue.’

  Matilda.

  ‘Have you seen finer work?’ said Ermenburga. ‘Work with more life?’

  ‘Never. You are a master, Turold.’

  Turold bent towards the Queen, she stared up at him and smiled. Her tiny face was transformed by that smile. Her eyes lit up, none of her teeth were missing, dimples appeared in her cheeks.

  ‘I look forward to seeing your designs for me, but,’ and she held her hand up and dropped the note of her voice, ‘Bishop Odo’s hanging must be finished first. I do not want to interrupt you.’

  Turold bowed again, his hair hung over his eyes.

  ‘I do not,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you for your understanding,’ he said.

  ‘It takes little effort to understand,’ she said, and then she wiped her brow, turned to Ermenburga and said, ‘It takes more effort to keep cool…’

  Heat.

  Horse.

  Matilda.

  She came to me and said, ‘Robert?’

  I nodded.

  ‘I have heard about you.’ Her eyes were kind. She was no taller than me, but she seemed to be. A dusting of William’s power covered her, she walked upright, her head thrown back. Her crown was made of gold and studded with precious stones. Some hair hung down from its sides. ‘Are you better?’ she said.

  I nodded.

  ‘I think you were very ill.’

  ‘He is better now,’ said Ermenburga.

  Yes I am. I nodded.

  The Queen put her hand on my head. My scalp tingled, she took her hand away and said, ‘I am glad.’

  So am I.

  ‘We missed him.’

  ‘I am sure you did,’ said the Queen, and then she walked to inspect the image of her husband asking the knight Vital for news of Harold’s army. The King holds his mace in the crook of his right hand, and points with the left; the Queen stood on tiptoe to stare, and gently touched William’s face.

  Turold stood behind her, took a step forward and for a moment I thought he was going to lift her up, so she could see better.

  ‘Vital?’ she said.

  ‘He is included at Bishop Odo’s insistence. He promised the knight, in return for some favour.’

  ‘Some favour?’

  ‘So I was told.’

  ‘Why is it always favours?’ The Queen’s voice dropped another note. Her face hardened and her mouth lost its lips. ‘Does the man know the meaning of anything else?’

  ‘That is not for me to say.’

  ‘But for you to know?’ The Queen grew, Turold shrank, he could not resist her. Her gaze was spun like a spider’s web, her voice could stun dogs.

  ‘I cannot lie,’ he said.

  ‘I know…’

  ‘Bishop Odo is a worried man. He feels his power is slipping, his ambitions will never be realised. He has great ambition, but it has become becalmed. He does not want to reach beyond his means, not while he is so close. But being close worries him; he is not close enough, maybe.’

  ‘The closer you get to your ambition, the more dangerous ambition becomes.’ The Queen stroked her chin and squinted at Turold. ‘Do you think?’

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘The King finds this every day. He has never been more powerful, but he has never had more enemies.’

  At the mention of the King, Turold tugged his beard. He wanted news of his scene, he grew agitated by the gap in the design, but the look in Matilda’s eyes warned him. She threaded her fingers together and cracked her knuckles. I jumped at the sound, she took Ermenburga’s arm, said, ‘It is too hot today, isn’t it?’ and led the way to the precinct yard.

  I should remember dates, but I cannot. I cannot remember what month it is, though I never forget a day. It was a Tuesday and there were wasps. It was warm, I had a drink, Martha had a loaf.

  When a wasp flies, what does it see? I have killed wasps and looked at their heads. They have huge eyes. They can look around corners without moving their heads. If you swallow one and it stings you inside, you die quickly. Your wind pipe swells up and you cannot breathe. They are such small things and all they do is steal honey. God’s creation, and Martha is God’s creation too. From her head to her feet her skin is white and she has no spots or scars. In Rainald’s hollow, she loses her shyness, she lay with her head on my chest, took the belt from her skirt and hung it from a bush.

  ‘People…’ she said.

  What about people?

  ‘…are talking about us.’

  Let them.

  ‘But what do they know?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Nothing. They are fools.’ She looked at me. ‘But we know, don’t we
?’

  I nodded. Yes we do.

  ‘We will show them.’

  Show them what?

  She untied her shirt and let it fall open, so I could look down at her breasts, put my hands on them, lean my head towards them and kiss them. She closed her eyes, whispered ‘You show me,’ and fumbled for my ties.

  I tie double knots; I sat up and undid them myself, pulled my tunic over my head, tossed it over the bush, she did the same, we put our arms around each other, rolled into the middle of the hollow, the grass was warm, wood pigeons flew up and fluttered around, the brook was running slowly, it had not rained for weeks.

  ‘Robert?’

  Yes?

  ‘Are you ready?’

  What does that feel like?

  ‘You are big.’

  I am desperate.

  ‘Does it hurt?’

  No.

  ‘It looks so…’

  I kissed her mouth, straightened her back, spread her legs and lay between them. Her eyes widened, she sucked air from me, dug her fingernails into my back and blew in my ear.

  It is sweet. It is sweeter than honey, bigger than the sky, brighter than the sun and longer than years. With Martha it burns me, she is full of instinct, she does not know any short-cuts, and does not want to. She is quick and then she is slow, she is light and twists, there is the grass and there is the sky. Here are clouds and there are insects, crawling away. Creation is moving, it never stops. There are arrows in my heart and I am in her, over and over. The table is piled up, the table is swept; my bottle is propped against a stone, and her loaf is in her bag. The meaning of it, as she moves beneath me and I run my fingers down her back, is plain but hidden for a day; the day dies every minute, but not with sadness. It knows it is born again, it does not worry. Pieces of it can be held and here, in my hand, is Martha’s bush.

  The hair is soft as down on a pigeon’s neck, and curls in waves. The skin beneath is white, the lips appear as a closed sleeve, moist and warm. When I traced my finger around its edge, she let out a gasp, then a longer, full moan. It has a heart in it, it beats quickly, it feels and wants me. She pushed it at me, it allowed me in. There was a promise in the air, and the smell of fish.