Angels in the Architecture (29 page)

Strolling the
promenade, Hugh took in the view and sounds of industry along the port, noting the many canal boats arriving with wood and stone piled high and creating a need for great skill from their helmsmen as their loads threatened to overturn their boats and cargo into the river. There was a lot of calling out of orders and instructions, pointing and scurrying about for ropes and pulleys, and all the toolery of shipmen and dockworkers.

These men knew their task and it was not always simple. They would know, for instance, the way a boat angled and how best to steer it past the many obstacles clogging the waterways, altering their position according to their load. They understood the speed with which they may best affect a gentle landing of the equipment they delivered via pulleyed platforms to the shore
. Their every task was a matter of astute calculation of the forces of the physical world, and they worked with intelligence as much as muscle. Hugh appreciated the depth of the appraisal and reckoning they brought to their efforts and knew there was many a skilful and resourceful wit among them. Indeed, he saw no greater skill or cunning in his own role and social status in this life, rather he knew these were merely an appearance of some greater distinction and class. The scheme of things though was that appearances, of class and rank, were to be preserved. While he may feel an impulse, as he did now, to throw of his holy tweeds and roll his sleeves with these men and dirty himself in their toil, and rub shoulders with the elements of the common folk, closer to God’s inspiration than they knew, he would not act on this vision any more than any of these men would ever dream he might, and indeed they may consider him mad to do any such thing.

The complexity of the wharf’s labours before him mirrored the complexity of events and needs that tossed like a juggler’s batons in his head, each maintaining its proper orbit, all of them together trying to find their right pattern. Hugh’s thoughts ran from the singular act of devotion of each individual workman at the rebuilding of the cathedral to the powerful image of that structure in
the Universe of God’s Church; from the ignorance of man towards the People of the Book to a great battle that must ensue with the People of the Prophet; and the rights and wrongs, and the balance of each one of these.

Hugh found his way beyond the hum of the port to a short and verdant walk at the far end of the pool, a calm spot, the flattened grass telling that is was frequented by others perhaps seeking some solitude as he did now. The water rippled to the edge of the pool, a small flutter from the rocking and manoeuvring of the boats behind him. The grass here was long and the dry path became obscured, although apparently leading through a small wood and further along the river. No
one else was about, despite the industriousness not far from him, and although secure in himself, Hugh, vigilant nonetheless, thought to walk no further and stopped to look back to the top of the Lincoln Hill. He saw just a small crumbling spire of the Cathedral rising above its surroundings, perhaps a little less defiant than his impression a few days before upon arriving at the city. The import of his tasks had expanded in their weight upon him in that time.

Amid the reverie of his greyness, a movement to the corner of his eye lent his head around casually to a
heart-lifting sight. A great swan emerged from long grass a little further around the pool, waddled slowly to the water and stepped gracefully in. Its red-brown eye apparently towards him, the giant bird waded silently towards Hugh, cutting a new ripple across the other that continued from the moorings at the wharf.

The bird seemed at ease and peaceful and as it reached the edge where
the Bishop stood, it lifted its giant wings to propel itself to the bank, revealing its prodigious wingspan in all its majesty and beneath its large body its two orange webbed feet, one slightly twisted and bent in on itself.

The bird stood before him on his path, as though awaiting his instruction, an obedient servant.
And Hugh stood in awe of the animal, standing as it did almost his own full height.

The bird cocked her head from side to side, perhaps waiting for his response, perhaps hearing other sounds beyond them, inaudible
to Hugh. Then just as momentously as she had appeared, apparently to lift him from his thoughts, and as though her presence was merely a portent of something been or to come, the bird spread her great wings and turned back towards the pool, flapping a still wind beneath her as she rose across the water and into the trees. And then she was gone.

All thought
of Kings, crusades and wars momentarily scattered as Hugh watched her leave and wondered at her departure and when he would see her again. He stood a while, and when he turned back along the path, his thoughts invaded again. Wishing still that he could stop awhile with the workmen at the dock, he knew undoubtedly there would be something needing his attention atop the hill, and he hurried on.

Fulk had sat long enough. He realised he was perhaps a little too excited by this prey and possibly not yet mindful enough of the bird’s own instincts. But he decided that whatever may happen now was his moment
, as the bird sat contentedly below his branch. He breathed deeply and sprang from his observation spot, leaping upon the bird’s back. His hands instantly about the bird’s neck, he was surprised in that moment how thick it was, thicker than his own wrist, thicker even than his forearm, and he struggled more than he’d anticipated, to put his large hands about it. He had not imagined the power in that length, and he could feel as well, just beneath the bird’s down, two limbs of seeming brass.

The bird twisted and brought its powerful beak down on
to Fulk’s neck, but to Fulk, aroused as he was, this felt little, and he focused his mind and all his being on the white stem between his hands. The bird’s wings came up and beat at his body and legs and threatened to topple him from his position astride the animal, but with a great force of his legs, he pushed the bird from its feet, and he lay atop it as it sought to right itself.

Despite a furore of leaves and forest floor beneath himself and the
bird, Fulk differentiated a sound far off, and it alerted him to an even greater danger. Someone was approaching, and more than just one, as he heard a distant sound of voices nearing. With a great snap, his prey collapsed beneath him, but too late, Fulk knew, he must abandon his catch, and moved swiftly from astride the bird. He sprang silently away into the undergrowth, pausing quietly in a new hiding place, watching as two of the Thane’s men came upon the site of his erstwhile wrestling match, stopping in horror at the sight of the swan’s body amid strewn feathers and churned soil and leaves. Pallor whitened their countenance; Fulk watched and waited, his heartbeat slowly returning to a steady rhythm.

‘
Jesus Lord! What d’ ya think?’ one said to his companion.

‘Le’s get i’ back to manor. Lord’ll be fierce o’er this.’

‘I’s not me is gonna tell ’im.’

‘Don’ be coward
, man. I’s no’ our doin’. Best we get bird to ’im. We’ll scarper quick as we can after. C’mon then.’

‘I reckon there’s someone about still,’
one of them said, drawing a knife.

‘I’m no’ gettin’ caught in no scuffle.
Been enough bloodshed round here a’ late, and if’s to be any more, t’won’t be mine. Get a hold on this now.’

The men looked around briefly, knowing any attacker would most likely be alone and not so ready to take on two men of the manor.

‘Anyway, may ’as not been a man done this. May ’as been some other beast. We don’ know. Is no clue as to wha’ a’ all.’

They reached down slowly to heave the bird between them back to the manor.

‘’s heavy as hell!’

‘We’ll manage between us
.’

With difficulty they grappled with the ungainly body and loped away awkwardly. They would stop often to
re-handle their load and avoid notice from others who’d afford some gossip or telltale about the thing. The town and its surrounds were full already with enough tattle.

The housekeeper at the small manse next to the church in Torksey scurried into Father Taylor’s library, afluster at the arrival of a visitor from Lincoln. The squat woman wrung her hands on her filthy apron, annoyed as much that her morning routine was about to be interrupted by who knows what impositions to courtesy that she knew the Father’s own terseness and anxiety would render. It was not usual to receive visitors and certainly not those so unexpected as this. No doubt, she thought, the Father would delight in it and her own day would be disrupted with more orders than usual.

‘’E’s
’ere, Father,’ she said. ‘An’ I’m no’ ready for ’im, but I’ll do what I can. T’would be a help to know as ’e’s comin’.’

‘Who’s here, woman?’

‘Bishop, Father! Bishop’s ’ere! ’E’s waitin’ in vestibule for ye, an’ ’e’s no’ lookin’ so ’appy, I can tell ye.’

Father Taylor
’s eyes widened, and he leapt up from his armchair, causing it to nearly topple..

‘Lord, woman
! I had no idea he was coming!’ And he bolted from the room, leaving his housekeeper still wringing her hands and scurrying out behind him to attend to this new inconvenience.

‘
Your Grace,’ beseeched the priest, rounding into the vestibule to the Bishop, who appeared near collapsed in a waiting but clearly uncomfortable wooden pew.

‘Father. How kind of you,’
replied Hugh, a little breathless. ‘I’m wearying of the day and it’s barely begun. Pray, do sit a moment with me here while I find my strength to move.’

Father Taylor
, greatly relieved at this easy reception, took a seat next to the Bishop.

‘How goes the
Cathedral, Your Grace? What a burden this must be for you.’

‘Ah, indeed it is. But I have great faith. The sight of the reconstruction is a
wonder, Father. You must, if you can, travel to see it. We are watching a history being made there. A vast undertaking it is, a vast undertaking. It is a great thrill to see the workings of it all, the engineering, the tradesmen of all sorts, and their dedication and effort. It is quite something.’

Hugh put his head back and closed his eyes.

‘But I have not come to tell of that, alas. I have a tragedy to report and felt some stirring need to bring this news to you myself directly. Ah, such a misfortune, it breaks my heart to reveal it.’

Father Taylor
’s anxiety rose anew.

‘A mere
boy, Father. A mere boy. Fell this morning from a steeple. To his death below. I can barely conceive such a tragedy further afflicts your small diocese, not to mention that it mars the unfolding of this great epoch surrounding our beautiful cathedral.’

Father Taylor
had turned his head to wait the Bishop’s further revelation, not fully understanding the import of Hugh’s words
–
a death? Some young lad. Amongst so many workers, it was surely inevitable.

‘And one of his brothers,’ Hugh continued, ‘witnessed his own brother’s fall.’

And instantly Father Taylor knew of whom the Bishop spoke, and while he could not conceive of why, he
feared the telling of this to the boy’s family.

Perhaps reading
the priest’s thoughts, the Bishop continued, ‘I would speak to this boy’s family myself, Father. It is I that must bear some responsibility for this I feel. Such grief I cannot ask you to give news of yourself.’

Father
Taylor felt a relief, although he wondered whether he was expected to protest from courtesy that such a task was surely his.

‘I would ask you to convey me to this
family, Father. Do you know perhaps of whom I speak? Warriner, I believe is the name.’

‘
Yes, Your Grace. I guessed when you said of the brother. It is the family of the young boy that was attacked recently in the marketplace. There were three older sons went to the Cathedral from this one family. There are seven sons altogether, and three could surely be spared for this great task. It is an honour for any family to assume such a commitment, Bishop.’

‘Ah
no, Father. It is surely not. What does this cathedral, my own great undertaking, do for these poor, really? Surely nothing. Such a loss, such a loss. Three sons gone, and now one never to return.’

The Bishop
remained head back and eyes closed, and Father Taylor had no further word to add. He felt small and unworthy of this charitable figure before him, and wondered at how he continued always, despite his will, to think so poorly of the ragged and the peasantry where the Bishop seemed to understand their hearts and their lot.

The two men sat in silence, one in contemplation of the harshness of life, and the other
, thinking of the harshness of his own.

After some
minutes, Hugh asked, ‘What do you believe, Father, is the role of our beloved Church in this world?’

The small priest wondered at the bewilderment in
the Bishop’s tone, and what appeared almost an intimacy from the Bishop in expressing some apparent lack of assuredness at his own role, and perhaps even confiding in himself, a far lesser churchman, a lack of confidence, even a fear. He saw an opportunity to impress the Bishop with some pert wisdom, some comforting selflessness that recognised a brief moment of equal burden, man to man, one man of God to another. Could he presume to share the Bishop’s space in the world, presume to raise his smallness to some nobler, more humane level that could connect with Hugh’s greatness?