Odo's Hanging

by Peter Benson

‘What?’

  ‘The King is the one who wants to be reminded. I think you should understand that better than I do.’

  ‘I expected…’

  ‘What,’ she said, ‘did you expect?’

  Turold stared at the sketch, he stared at the hanging, he stared at Ermenburga, then he stared into space. ‘My job…’ he said.

  She touched his shoulder. ‘Do it well.’

  ‘Do I,’ he whispered, ‘ever do it any other way?’

  On a cold day, as the last leaves were ripped from the trees and spots of rain blew from the forest, Martha said, ‘I’m going to have a child.’

  Oh Lord.

  She looked at me. ‘Your child.’

  I put my arms around her and held her tight. She held me as if she was about to fall, she squeezed the breath from my body. ‘Are you pleased?’

  I nodded.

  A child.

  ‘What do you want?’

  My voice.

  ‘Boy or girl?’

  I put my hand on her belly.

  ‘Boy?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Girl?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Both?’

  I nodded.

  She laughed. ‘You’re greedy,’ she said.

  I am not.

  She put her hand on mine and said, ‘Your child.’

  A father must have a voice. My voice is waiting for the child to be born. It will arrive with it.

  ‘My father wants to see you,’ she said. ‘He is happier than I am.’

  Martha has a happy face.

  I lifted her tunic and kissed her paps. She put her hand to my head and held me there. I could feel her heart beat, and the blood as it ran through her body. I listened for the child’s cry, I listened for the sound of its legs rubbing together, but I heard nothing. Martha was warm, warmer than ever, feeding two.

  I wanted her. I laid her on the grass. The grass was damp, the top branches of the trees creaked in the wind. Her belly was no bigger, but I did not put any weight on it. We lay side by side, she wrapped her legs around my waist. As I was in her, her hair was in my mouth, as we moved, the rain became heavy. It rattled through the trees and dripped on us. It was cold but we were hot, there was no music in the air, but I heard music that had been there before. Whistles and flutes, drums; they played together and we played with them.

  Bishop Odo brought news of William’s defeat at Dol. He stumbled into the workshop, he did not know whether to be afraid or thank God. He knew the King had suffered heavy losses, he knew Philip of France had ranged against him, he knew the siege machines had failed, Dol was defended with more might and cunning than his spies had reported, William had retreated in panic, then disarray; now he was returning to England. His power was not diminished but it was not extended; he had learnt lessons, he needed peace and rest to reflect upon his mistakes.

  Odo said, ‘Some say the King is badly wounded. He is returning to die.’

  ‘And others?’

  ‘That he is not. Think the worst and hope for the best.’

  ‘Yes?’

  Odo jabbed the air with a finger, stuck it in his hair, twirled it and said, ‘Yes. He is wounded, but not badly.’

  ‘That is the truth?’

  ‘That is what I hope…’

  ‘Hope…’ said Turold. He stabbed the linen and pulled the wool through. ‘…is good medicine. Ask Robert.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He hopes, don’t you, Robert?’

  I nodded.

  ‘He is going to be a father…’

  Odo looked at me and shook his head.

  ‘Hope,’ said Turold, ‘is a poultice for the mind.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Father.

  Turold’s mind was attached to the hanging as Odo’s was to confusion. One only wanted to finish, the other did not know whether he was finished or beginning a new life, free of the shadow of his brother. Both ideas terrified him, he wished he could be away from Winchester. He would like a month in the forest, time to remind himself of his calling. God was his Lord, there was no other. He stared at the hanging, but he did not see it.

  ‘Without hope,’ said Turold, ‘even the keenest ambition is doomed.’

  ‘Ambition,’ said Odo, ‘is dangerous.’

  ‘Have you said that before?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I thought so.’

  ‘You agree?’

  Turold did not know. He shook his head. ‘Without ambition, the hanging would never have been stitched. It has its uses.’

  Odo was not convinced. He turned away, passed the King’s scene without noticing it, scratched his chin and narrowed his eyes, as if he was thinking about a serious problem. William’s blood drained from his body and ran to the sea; it floated from Normandy to England and drifted on to the shore. He wanted the power the King might lose but he did not want it. He wanted to see William alive, he wanted to reassure him, he wanted the security that would come from the man’s gratitude. He was afraid the madness he felt was born of his mind’s betrayal. He had never wanted to be the man he knew William thought he was. He pushed the workshop door open and stood for a moment, staring at the sky. Rain clouds were rolling from the west; he drew his cloak around him and hunched his shoulders. I felt some pity for him there. He was lost, he kicked his left ankle with his right foot and the door slammed shut behind him.

  ‌26

  Martha was ill. She could not walk without falling over, she sweated, her eyes faded. Her fingernails broke without reason and she could not hold things. She went to bed, I joined her mother at her side, and held my hand on her belly.

  Her mother was a fat woman, her father was a fat man, there was flour in their hair and a light dusting on their faces.

  They said nothing. They stared at Martha as though she was a stranger. Once a child, then a mother, here is the father. They stared at me as though I lived in the bakery, as if they had known me all their lives. Maybe, I thought, they stole Martha when she was a baby. How could two fat people have such a thin girl? Her real mother was searching for her. I could be her brother. Her father had died of a broken heart. I looked at her face.

  Her eyes were ringed by shadows, her lips were covered with tiny cracks. I held a damp cloth, and dabbed her forehead. She was hot, she poked her tongue out and licked her lips. ‘Robert,’ she said.

  Does it hurt?

  ‘It hurts.’

  Do not die, Martha.

  ‘It hurts so much.’ She put her hand on mine and squeezed it. Something was running through her body. I was scared.

  Her father and mother said nothing. They knew they had lost her to me, I was the one she needed. I could fetch sister Ethel.

  ‘Fetch sister Ethel.’

  I fetched her.

  She brought a bag of all the things she needed, sat on the cot, lifted Martha’s dress and laid her hand on her belly. She tapped it gently, then laid her ear to it and listened. As she listened, she widened her eyes and counted quietly. Then she said, ‘What do you feel?’

  ‘Pain.’

  ‘All over?’

  ‘Just here.’ She put her finger on her belly. She looked down, then she looked at me, and her eyes were full of tears.

  ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You must.’

  ‘I cannot…’

  ‘Food will give you strength.’ Ethel spoke quietly. I remember her voice. The softer it was the closer the poultice. She put her hand on her bag.

  ‘…it will not stay down.’

  ‘This,’ said Ethel, ‘will help you.’

  Martha.

  Ethel rummaged in her bag, pulled out a muslin, a bag of bran and a bag of herbs. ‘Robert?’ she said.

  What?

  ‘Boil some water, please.’

  I looked at Martha and she looked at me. She nodded at me. Her face was drifting. I did not want to lose her.

  ‘Robert?’

  Going.


  I stood with Martha’s father while the water boiled. He said nothing. He had a voice but chose not to use it. When he moved, a cloud of flour followed him. I stared at the fire and he stared at a stack of loaves. A rat sat up and watched us, Ethel’s murmuring voice carried to where we were. The world could have been on its side, bells could have rung, the hills could have been full of lost sheep. Time flies, innocence dies and trees crack in the cold wind.

  Bishop Odo left for the coast, to meet the King. He left in a hurry. He was pale and could not decide which horse to ride. First he wanted a black, then a piebald, then a brown mare.

  I watched him go. I was on the wall. I had sat with Martha, I had stitched with Turold, I had listened to the wind in the forest and said a prayer for Rainald. He had grown a beard like mist and had believed in doubt. He had died in the day, in his cot. Martha lay in her cot, Ethel’s yellow poultice sat on her belly. She would not stop sweating, she could not speak. Her hands shrunk on her arms, and the bones in her neck showed. Her breathing sounded like rain rattling on a roof.

  Odo’s men were patient with him. As he ranted about the black horse, and then the piebald, they stood in small groups and picked their noses. They said, ‘He is mad.’

  ‘Look out.’

  ‘Where?’

  Odo was trying to mount the brown mare. When he put his leg over her back she took a step forward; he grabbed the reins and tried to pull her back, but she took another step. ‘Whoa!’ he called, she shied to one side and he slipped off the mounting block.

  There was sleet in the air, and the wind whistled through gaps in the walls. I hunched my shoulders. The taller I grew the colder I felt.

  Odo mounted at the third attempt, then his men mounted and gathered around him. He held the reins in one hand, twirled his hair with the other and looked over his shoulder, towards where I was standing. I almost waved at him, but I stopped myself.

  Four English soldiers attempted to stop the attacking Norman knights, but they rode their horses through the defences, and killed Harold.

  The first soldier lies dead, killed by a spear through his heart. He has not had time to unsheath his sword. His face is dull and his eyes are closed. He was tired before the battle began.

  The second soldier, his shield stuck with arrows, prepares to throw his spear, the third soldier has just thrown his. It is flying towards an angry Norman on an angry horse, but misses.

  The fourth soldier has an arrow in his eye. He is trying to pull it out. The point is in his brain, the Norman rides past him, and with a single blow, kills Harold.

  Harold dies slowly. He cannot believe what has happened. He had been caught between Edward and William, a King’s touch and a Duke’s relics. He had been caught between William and Harold Hardrada. He had forced the march from the north and fought Hastings without Edwin or Morcar. The wind had never favoured him. His men were brave, they believed in his right to rule but they die, their armour is taken from their bodies, and their swords gathered up.

  Harold dies slowly. He drops his axe. His mouth splits his face, his one eye is closed and his hands lie by his side, as if prepared for the shroud.

  Harold dead in the hanging. As Odo rode to the coast, Turold moved to the gap between the palace at Rouen and the horse, and began to stitch the pillared gateway that frames Ælfgyva. The only gate of its kind in the hanging, he stole its style from a page in the abbey Bible. The pillars twist and grow beasts’ heads. The beasts wear collars around their necks, and flash their tongues.

  Here a cleric and Ælfgyva part.

  I fed the wool.

  Bishop Odo rode through the sleet to the coast, and his men rode with him. He camped the night in the forest and rode again at daybreak, and waited ten days at Bosham. The wind was too strong for a crossing, he spent more time in the town church than anyone imagined he would. His men had been expecting days of drinking; he allowed them to do as they wished, but he was drawn to prayer and contemplation, harried by his mind into considering his purpose, and the reason for his ambition.

  We moved Martha to a nunnery cell, where she would be warmer and closer to sister Ethel. Her father and I carried her on a pallet. She said nothing, he said nothing, Ethel walked beside us and said, ‘Faith, men.’

  Faith. Have faith and live, doubt and die. I had little faith but no doubt Martha would live. We covered her with skins and rugs, so all she showed was her face. I put my hand over it as we crossed the precinct yard and climbed the steps to her cell. I felt her breath in my palm, she opened her eyes, then closed them.

  Her cot was raised and surrounded by curtains. A table had been set beside it, and a stool. There was a bowl on the table and strips of linen piled; the window was shuttered, and a curtain hung over the door. Candles burnt, the smell of Ethel’s herbs hung in the air. There were no draughts.

  ‘She will be comfortable here,’ said Ethel.

  Martha’s father nodded.

  I nodded.

  Ethel looked at us as if we were two fools, sent from the bottom of the hill to the top, and we had always thought the top was the same height as the bottom.

  ‘I know he is dumb,’ she said to Martha’s father, ‘but I did not know you were.’

  Martha’s father shrugged.

  I looked at him.

  ‘Are you?’ she said.

  He shook his head.

  Martha lay in the cot, the covers were piled over her. I sat beside her and dabbed her forehead. When she opened her eyes and smiled at me, Ethel said, ‘We have moved you to St Mary’s. You will be more comfortable here.’

  ‘Talk is not comfortable,’ said her father.

  ‘What?’

  Her father did not repeat what he had said.

  ‘I will mix a poultice.’

  Martha did not stop smiling at me.

  Her father left.

  Ethel went to a small room next to the cell, and stoked a fire.

  ‘Get in with me,’ said Martha.

  I got into the cot. She was hot, she took my hand and put it on her belly. Her heart was beating fast and her breath smelt of rotting leaves.

  ‘Can you feel it?’ she said.

  Yes.

  ‘When I get well, we will have a cot like this.’ She looked at the curtains and rubbed her chin on the covers.

  Anything.

  Martha had blue eyes. How blue were they? Were they as blue as the sky or as blue as the sea?’

  ‘I am hot.’

  Her hair was brown.

  ‘Too hot.’

  The smell of boiling bran came from the small room, and the sound of a spoon stirring.

  ‘Do not leave me,’ she said.

  I will never be a moment away.

  ‘I need you.’

  Ethel pounded some herbs.

  I put my fingers to my lips. Do not talk. She lifted her hand and touched my cheek. I kissed her.

  ‘And love you,’ she said.

  ‘Out!’ said Ethel.

  Now?

  ‘Go on,’ said Martha.

  I stayed with her until I was pulled out of the cot and chased to the door; I stood and watched until the curtains were drawn around the cot, and the smell of the poultice made me wish for fresh air.

  Harold dies slowly. His army are either killed on the battlefield or chased from it.

  As night falls, William and his army camp amongst the dead and dying. Smoke obscures the stars, the moon does not show. The relics’ power is affirmed but heaven is closed. The wailing men, the stink of guts, a low moan of agony rumbles over the Normans. Here, a knight stands and hacks the head from a wounded Englishman’s shoulders.

  Piles of swords lie in the border, stacks of armour and a horse’s head. I stitched a bird with an arrow through its heart, and the branches of the single tree the battle was fought beneath. The ground was firm for fighting, the horses were strong and here, tied to a post are five of them, drinking from a stream.

  While the sisters stitched the carnage and the night, Turold wo
rked on the King’s scene. He made Bishop Odo young and slim, with an honest face and light hands. His right caresses Ælfgyva, he holds the other to his waist. He has small fingers, strong legs and wide hips. His cloak is held by a fancy clasp.

  I sat next to him and fed the wool. His hair stood up in spikes, there was a bald patch in his beard. He scratched it and said, ‘Ælfgyva.’

  She is a small nun.

  ‘I think she was young.’

  She looks young.

  ‘As young as Martha.’ He sat back, let his needle hang and put his hand on my shoulder.

  Martha, I am thinking.

  ‘Do Ethel’s potions relieve her pain?’

  I do not know.

  ‘Can she sit up?’

  Yes.

  ‘Could she stitch in bed?’

  Yes.

  ‘We need tassels. She could sew them.’

  What tassels?

  ‘Here.’ Turold took his needle, stuck it in a scrap of linen and gave it to me. ‘My gift to both of you. My sharpest needle. More useful than a ring.’

  I held the wool box.

  ‘And take all the wool you need.’ He looked along the frame to where Ermenburga sat. She nodded at him and smiled at me. The bats watched us, rolled around each other in their hanging, but they heard nothing.

  ‌27

  Martha at night and Martha in the day, Martha sitting up in her cot and then Martha lying down, asleep. Martha, with a name that calms weather, a face branded on my eyes and her voice in my ears. Martha with Turold’s needle, Turold’s needle on the stool beside her. My child, her child, Ethel’s poultices and a bowl of soup.

  Bishop Odo returned with William. They came to Winchester as night fell, the noise of their party could be heard an hour before they were seen. Footmen carried tapers, their flames shot the forest with light, the shadows they cast were taller than the trees, and climbed the city walls to where I stood.

  Matilda stood at the gate. The King reined his horse when he saw her, dismounted, unbuckled his sword, passed it to his squire and walked the last hundred paces. When he stood before the Queen, before she had a chance to lift his ring, he touched her head, as if in blessing. They exchanged words, he reached into his tunic and pulled out a wrap. He gave this to her, she held it to her chest, bowed and stood to one side. He bowed, she took his arm and they entered the city together. I heard a ripple of voices as they passed through the gate and into the streets, and a pigeon flew over me.