Angels in the Architecture (28 page)

So he waited now. Sometimes he would wait days, watching the way an animal moved, its habits, what frightened it, until he knew everything about it, until he understood it and almost became the animal himself. Because he studied his prey so closely, he could mimic the movements and sounds of most animals he had caught. And although he killed many animals, he considered most of them his kin, his clan. This was not a view he had of people.

Fulk knew that some animals were greater than others, that they were more nimble, more resourceful, more discerning than other creatures. He could even see that some were more gentle, more imposing and impressive, more elevated than others. But this did not suggest to him that such animals were to be excluded as quarry. It meant instead that the hunt of them demanded a greater prowess on his part, and this was only fair and right, for no such animal should be duped by a mediocre huntsman.

It was a hot day and everyone knew that to be very careful on a hot day was always wise, or the heat took over men’s rational minds and a lot of bad things could happen very fast that no one wanted to have happen, and afterwards they’d always be surprised that all hell was let loose when they’d never planned any such thing.

Father Taylor was not particularly of a mind to walk through the small, dusty lanes of Torksey, but he determined he would see for himself the state of commerce and community.

The priest fancied his presence may have some calming effect, though in fact the villagers viewed such a rare visit to their domain with some strangeness and not a little suspicion. Combined with the small priest’s sharp demeanour, his brief sojourn beyond his own residence, calling as he did on individual families, served only to heighten the town’
s disquiet, not that the priest in his arrogance understood such.

The Father
did not, in his visits, attend on Jacob Yazd, a Jew and a tailor. The priest held no ill t’ward the man but saw him simply as not part of his congregation and none of his responsibility, and it was not unfortunately, within his disposition or character to act with friendliness to all God’s creatures.

Indeed
, his singular lack of amiability was an extraordinary deficiency that may otherwise have changed the fate of so many. Berta Draper
saw
this lack in the man and the consequences of it when she spotted the Father emerging from the Smith’s. She saw it as a picture of a disturbing unravelling future as he walked past the Jew’s small home with what she perceived as a skewed sideways glance to the place. Perhaps there was a slight hesitation in his step also, that she would convey later, as she watched him proceed to visit the homes and workings that followed on along from the Jew’s, and on down the lane.

Oddly, Berta
was a villager neither afraid nor critical of the priest. She could see his fear as well as his stupidity and saw him as she saw any other man trying to make a certain way for himself, and like many without much of the necessary talent or opportunity to achieve his heart’s desire. Such was the lot of most and Berta gave little mind to it. Nor was she concerned that the priest carried a suspicion as others did for the Jew. It was just that at the very moment she saw him walk past that place she saw also the connectedness between Jew and Church – Church as institution, Church as army, Church as politics, and Church as structure. And for sure the Jew did not come off well in any of what she saw in the future, near or long distant.

Father Taylor
himself, despite his wanderings and his intention, was preoccupied. He had felt the strain of his discussions with Bishop Hugh. How could the Church lead the people away from their ignorance and fear? What did God have in store for them? Was God indeed to be feared? How was it that this agitation found targets in undue places – a bird, a small boy, the Jews? What could the Church bring to the life and soul of such as the Warriners? What would Hugh bring to a small village flock if it was he in the priest’s shoes? Surely there was no future for them other than that prescribed by their current condition, or perhaps worse. But certainly not better.

The idiot
boy himself the priest had found innocuous. The mother though bewildered him. He had seen her in his church for many years and he knew her to be a pious woman, one who had suffered much but acted always with charity and a quiet solicitude. He had felt in her presence an agitation – an agitation that was his – that he could fathom only as a sure reflection of those very qualities he himself lacked, including a serenity that belied her lot. Among the general flotsam of his parish of rustics and boors, Alice Warriner posed a unique promise of the evolution of humankind, as well as a threat to this man, almost equally small-minded as those whose souls he deigned to guide.

‘You must be the refuge in their storm, my son . . .
,’ the Bishop had said to him, and he could see that the Bishop himself had all of the qualities and more that might carry the day, but for himself he felt more and more ill-suited to his purpose..

‘. . .. and a balm to their suffering. This young boy needs your special care and attention, as do his family. That the rebuilding of
the Cathedral has taken three of their sons is an enormous sacrifice, and indeed should not have occurred. The mother must suffer terribly. You must visit this family and provide the strength of the Church for their peace.’

And he had gone. But it was certain the woman had found no peace in him
, and he had none to offer. He had left her repulsive hovel as quickly as he could.

But
the Bishop’s encouragement had meant a great deal to him, and he was determined to rise to the Bishop’s notice and blessing, if only for the assuredness he might garner from one much greater than himself. Perhaps some of that beauty of spirit would rub off on him, if he could contrive to gain the Bishop’s presence more often. Ah yes, he would find some excuse by which he might petition the Bishop’s presence to this rotten town once more. And with this he thought he must not seek to bring so much of a lull to the townsfolk’s ferment as he had earlier hoped. In this way, he knew he must walk a fine line, which being at least modestly calculating in his temperament was a project within his means, and one that would keep his thoughts much occupied, and certainly less so on the problems of his parish and the frailties in himself.

‘’E’s off o’er there boy, yer brother is,’ said a nearby stonemason to Dem..

Dem had climbed to the uppermost turret, still largely complete at the east end, but with some crumbled edges that a group of men now worked at. Thurston was among them, heaving cracked and broken tiles over the edge to an area below where they smashed even more, to be swept and carried away later by some other worker. Thurston yelped and hollered at the thrill of each toss, sometimes heaving large pieces of stone way out beyond the low turret wall, older men grinning and occasionally
tut-tutting at the young boy’s spirit.

‘I
’ear Bishop’s aground there, boy. You best not ‘it ’im,’ one man called out to the amusement of others.

Thurstan laughed and peered over the edge to check who or what was below.

‘Na, is nuthin’ there ‘t’all,’ he replied, momentarily tottering at the edge for effect.

‘Thurstan!’
yelled Dem. ‘Ya damn fool! Ger’on with yer work an’ stop that larkin’.’

‘Dem! Come ‘n’ look
’ere! Look! Ya’ can see forever!’

Thurstan scrambled to the top of a pile of rubble at the edge of the wall, and spread his arms like a great bird looking to fly from the turret up into the clear sky and over the great city. The men about stopped their labours, enjoying again the young man’s
fun-loving energy.

‘Yer an ijit and no
one should give ya’ time a’ day,’ Dem feigned indifference, nodding at the other workmen, who could all see he was doing his best to tame the younger boy.

‘’ere
, lad.’ A very large red-headed man nodded back at Dem. ‘Give uz a hand wi’ this lot then,’ indicating a pallet of new stone that had been hoisted up at the outer wall.

Another man joined them
, and they unloaded it to a stack closer in, and let the pallet back out over the edge, calling out to someone below to lower it back down..

‘C’mon then,’ Dem said
to Thurston, ‘we gotta ge’ back down. Gree’s go’ things ’e wants doin’.’

‘Just a bi’
longer, Dem. I’s a wonder ’ere. T’see so far. Look a’ it, Dem..’ Thurston stood on the pile of rubble still, his face shining in the sun as he stared out to the west of Lincoln and all round to the north and south.

‘Aye.
’Tis a thing t’be way up here, fer sure.’

‘Aye, lads,’ enjoined the
red-headed man, ‘ther’s no like it anywhere it’s true.’

And the men hushed a moment and enjoyed the scene and their grand height, and the sun and a small breeze. Not one had ever stood higher, nor would they ever again
.

‘World’s diff’rent from
’ere, eh? No’ so troubled. No’ so ’ard.’

‘Aye,’ said another. ‘Crops look perfect an’ all’s broight int’ sunshine. No’ a care, eh?’

When their faces changed a moment later though, Dem would not be able to tell his older brother afterwards whether it was a look of surprise or a look of shock that overcame them, whether Thurston had really thought to fly from the turret, or whether the rubble had given way beneath his feet and he had fallen. One way or the other, in an instant Thurston was gone from sight with not a sound and no one remembered how his face had looked in that moment, except that an instant before it was of innocence and joy.

Had he really even been there at all, on that roof that day? Perhaps he’d been down below, working diligently away at the rock as he should have been. Perhaps he’d thought to take the dyke road back to their mother. Perhaps he’d been stopped by
the Bishop himself; they said he was a kindly man, and perhaps Thurston’s sweetness had moved the great man to give some attention to the boy.

Whatever it was had really
occurred, Dem Warriner never remembered being atop the turret that day, and would refuse to go up it, or any other height, ever again.

The Bishop
had left the Cathedral site a short while earlier and for now wandered the edge of the Brayford Pool at the foot of Lincoln hill. As he walked he considered the argument he expected to have with the King, confident in himself that he would prevail. After all, he must. There was a balance to things that Hugh believed now was askew, and that good works, indeed great works, must be a focus for the Church. And if it was a focus for the Church, then Henry and his nobles across England and Europe would need to make it their business also. They were, after all, the servants of the Church, not the other way around, despite that they all liked to throw the tantrums they did. In the end, they all unquestioningly believed.

It was
imperative Henry go to Jerusalem. The Holy City was ever at risk from the increasingly dominant and marauding Muslims. Those who sought peace with this foe were to be admired, and Hugh supported every good will and intention brought to bear in this way, but the fear that the city would fall to Islam’s power was real. And it was a bitter and tyrannical battle that threatened to ensue, since those that would ultimately gain power would have a vast control over the hearts of men, both Christian and Muslim.

Hugh knew a little of
the Islamic Faith, and despite the suspicions of the age he had a respect for its tenets, not that he would ever voice such. Their armies were men of the desert, just as brutal as he knew soldiers of Christ could be, albeit that the Crusaders would always be painted the heroes in any tale, and their foe as wicked and ungodly. No, Hugh knew better than this. But what he also knew was the power of the image of an isolated Jerusalem.

A new crusade must keep the sanctity of
the Holy City.

Henry had shown himself a fierce soldier, although not always an astute statesman. He had, it was true, undermined the power
the Church had over society, but for the Bishop this was not to be minded, since he knew himself the tyranny and dogmatism with which the Church often manipulated the people, and he found the wranglings between those hungry for power within his own fold of great distaste and certainly far from God..

Hugh though did not
fear Henry; he even enjoyed the exchanges he had with the King. He knew that Henry had connived to secure the assassination of the Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Becket, fifteen years earlier. He also knew of Henry’s own deep remorse and the blackness that inflicted itself on the King’s mind as he wrestled with his guilt, even submitting himself to a public flogging at the steps of Avranches in Normandy. It had been a barbaric display Hugh himself had witnessed, although he believed Henry had no knowledge that he, Hugh, even knew this had taken place, let alone that he had seen it occur.

Hugh was not one to read a multitude of possible meanings, or any sleight of hand, into his dealings with
the King, or any other of the mighty and powerful with whom he engaged. He was aware that the King though saw, studied, and
imagined
he saw, many a slur against himself, and his soul had paid dearly with the excess of power at his disposal in condemning innocents and loyalists to many a horror. The entangled King was not to be trifled with, and Hugh determined to address him as always with the utmost sincerity and clarity, with due respect to the throne, but expecting at the same time the due of the Church..