Bishop Odo, half-brother of William l, commissions a hanging to commemorate the King's conquest of England. The man he chooses to design this tribute, Turold, a Norman renowned for his skill but not his temper, reluctantly travels to the convent in Winchester where nuns will implement his sketches. He's accompanied by his old friend Rainald the monk, sent to liaise with the nuns and their abbess, and the narrator Robert, his young, devoted but mute apprentice. Weaving in the dramatic sequence of events portrayed by the Bayeux Tapestry, Peter Benson gives a striking impression of the politics, conflicts and religious beliefs of the era. With this intricately wrought and absorbing novel, he has brought to life a fascinating period of English history. Peter Benson was born in 1956 and educated in Ramsgate, Canterbury, and Exeter. His first novel, The Levels , won the Guardian Fiction Prize. This was followed by A Lesser Dependency , winner of the Encore award and  The Other Occupant , which was awarded the Somerset Maugham Award. He has also published short stories, screenplays and poetry, some adapted for TV, radio and many translated into other languages. Odo's Hanging By Peter Benson Alma Books Ltd Copyright © 2012 Peter Benson All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-84688-194-7 CHAPTER 1 There is no one like Turold. I have seen him in every way. I have seen him drunk, lurching from the workshop to the cloisters, past the long entry to the gates, and he has howled at the moon from the watchtower. I have never been more frightened than at that sound. It cuts, shreds, melts and pierces, for he is in pain, the pain of art. He is a bigger man than any I have seen, his beard is longer and thicker, his eyes are set back in his head, deep and brown, like they've been pushed back by thumbs. His lips are pink and his cheeks are red. Hair covers his forehead, his forehead is creased and high, there is a scar that runs from his temple to the bridge of his nose. I have seen Turold asleep. He sleeps only four hours a night. He lies on his back with his mouth open, and as he breathes out, his lips flutter. His tongue rests in his cheek, he is thinking, removing scenes from the day and replacing them with new. More colour, more movement, more men, ships and horses. His beard lies like a pet on his chest, his eyes are still, moonlight does not disturb him. I have seen Turold work. I am his mixer, fetcher, carrier, messenger and watchman. I sleep under planks behind the workshop. He is the greatest designer. I am proud to be his boy. Clergy pay silver for his cloaks, stoles and maniples, knights pay gold for embroidered cloaks and banners, and murals for their halls, Bishop Odo pays gold and favour for the best work. I have seen this fat man dressed in the finest chasuble Turold designed, embroidered by the most cunning nuns; as he moved to his altar, God's glory radiated from the Bishop and through the vestments, so the abbey filled with light and the song of colour. Art. Sleep. Design. Turold thinks deeply about his work, then, when he is at his table, he sketches quickly. I have learnt that at this time, it is my job to be still and keep others quiet. I was never told to do this, I worked it out for myself. I am Turold's perfect shadow. I know what it must be to have his mind. I cannot speak, I do not know who my parents were, I am too small, my hair is black. When I was four, the monks took me in and I worked as their boy. I fetched and carried, I skulked in corridors outside their cells, and I hid in the abbey roof to watch their prayers. They prayed towards me but did not know I was there; I listened to everything they said. They thought I was a stupid boy, they never knew that dumbness breeds the ideas speech deafens. When I was seven, I had only grown an inch, I was treated as I had been three years before, I was not allowed to grow. I was bored, I was not allowed to learn things other children were taught. I was fed and given a bed in the corner of the kitchen, a warmer place than any in the house, but that was my only comfort. I could do more than carry a bucket, so when I was eight and passed to Turold, I felt like a pigeon, released from hands. Now I am fourteen, and his education meets theirs in confusion. He is not the believer he could be, and not always likely to hold his tongue in his head. I have seen Turold eat, three times a day for six years. No man puts so much in his mouth at once, and no man makes so much noise as he chews. He talks with his mouth full, and drinks before swallowing his food. His beard dribbles, his lips shine, and his eyes come out of their deep holes, like snails poking out. His tongue is fat, his cheeks are round, his nose is the size of a small pie and the colour of blood. I have seen Turold fight. His fists are the size of horses' hoofs, hard as stone a