Angels in the Architecture (31 page)

As different numbers rolled groggily through her mind, her husband stirred. He rolled on
to her, and she felt his hand pulling at his tunic and then at hers, lifting it out of the way of his huge legs which pushed between her own. Their strength moved hers apart and a haze she’d been thankful for a moment ago left with her husband’s great weight full upon her. It would not have been her wont, but then neither was it something to deny.

She laid in her same place, less fearful as other times since she could scarcely breathe whenever he climbed on her and laid himself completely on her. It was never in his mind that he might bear his weight himself
, and she would never tell him so. She thought that perhaps it would not take so long, although as he’d grown older he was slower. Sometimes he couldn’t finish at all, and then he would always wake an hour or two later and get back on her.

An ache came into her shoulders and neck as he grunted and pushed at her harder, sweat falling from his head on
to her face. She could tell he was becoming frustrated, and she pushed her hips up into him and back again, since this sometimes stirred him more to finish. He pushed at her harder awhile, not making any sound except that he breathed heavier.

When it seemed his business would not finish in this manner
, he pulled out of her and back on to his knees, reaching under her hips and rolling her over in one strong movement on to her belly. He grabbed at her hips and pulled her up to him, entering her again, deeper now. She rested her head on the mat and bore his thrusts against her. She breathed easier now, until finally a roar and his weight came down on her again with his seizure. He laid a few moments longer on her and his breath was right at her ear. Then he groaned and heaved himself up and rolled off her. She knew he would sleep immediately.

Alice wished only for stillness now, but she stepped up quickly and deftly, thinking she would walk briefly, and if his spill seeped out of her
, she would be pleased not to have another child and likely suffer its loss.

Hugh felt a weighing up in his head between the pressure he might ease from the plight of ordinary folk such as he had just met, and the great task of
bringing Henry to a firmness of resolve in pursuing the security of the Holy City. He knew he must travel to France sooner to meet with Henry, for the King had forsaken his responsibility to his English kingdom, even in spite of the great need of his people here. Hugh was reluctant to leave even briefly the reconstruction of the cathedral though, the onus of which weighed even more heavily now with its recent casualty, so young.

The picture of the boy’s mother and young brother stayed
in Hugh’s mind’s eye and would not leave. He wanted to do something for this child, whose small soul shone so simply at him. There was a weaving together of the King’s mission and this small boy’s plight that reeled querulously about his brain, but its import eluded him. He felt at the turning point of an uncertain future, the unfolding of which lay just beyond his grasp, but nevertheless upon his shoulders.

Returning to the path along
the Lincoln pool, he hoped his winged confidante might return to listen to his ramblings and accompany his mind’s walk through these complex demands. He thought her loyal presence might provide him a mirror with the sum of his cogitations, an answer, a direction. But, alas, the pen did not find him there, if indeed she still looked for him.

At his return
to Torksey the day before, he and the priest were greeted with more fearful tidings that another swan had been found slaughtered in the Thane’s woods. No culprit had been found, although an earlier poacher’s life now hung in the balance as it was thought he must inhabit a web of hunters who preyed upon the Thane’s lands. Was this his own great bird, his own confidante? He felt sure it could not be. But the finding was some omen for him now, not any longer just for the gossips and doomsayers of around about.

Hugh turned back along the path again, back towards the dealings and industry of the wharf. He passed quickly by the dockworkers, acknowledging the customary courtesies offered him, as befitted both himself and those who noticed him. Any thought of revelling once more in their labours was past him now. And indeed the physical tasks before him, of rebuilding, were smaller. The moral tasks, to encourage a people and priesthood, were greater. But greatest of all was to
understand God’s will, and it seemed that this was to be found in the grace of a bird, the simplicity of a child and even the light glistening on the water, if one had just the right view to see and hear.

The dust and the clatter of the movement about him whispered to him the sincerity of the deed
, and he slowed his pace and looked up to a workman ahead of him, intent on his task to carefully lower a pallet of goods to the wharf. Hugh watched the man’s face, focused on his duty, observing and acknowledging others’ shouts to him, mindful of other movement about him that may disturb him in his goal. He was an ordinary-looking man, no different from others about him. Most likely he had a wife and children. Most likely he feared God and mostly observed His laws. Perhaps he would get drunk at times or beat his wife. But for now, this man’s purest thought focused on the job before him.

As Hugh
came closer and was about to walk by, the man turned his head and nodded to the Bishop, without for a moment withdrawing his awareness of the undertaking at his hands.

Hugh understood there was no greater obligation then, than to complete whatever lay before him, great or small, with purity, with sincerity,
and with an eye to perfection. To ease the plight of a stricken child was no lesser accomplishment for himself, for the world or for God, than it would be to secure Henry’s promise to take up the call to crusade. To protect the innocent and support even the wayward and foolish to come to God; whatever his task, it would be accomplished with purity and thankfulness.

Hugh continued on past the boats and their workmen, the sun beating hard on them. A carriage stood a short distance away to convey him back up to the cathedral, a
patient Brother Peter waiting at its door..

‘
No, Peter, I will walk. I have much to occupy my thoughts.’

‘
Yes, Your Grace.’ Peter motioned the driver on and remained to walk with his Master.

‘My dear young man, there is no need really.’

‘I could not in conscience leave you to walk here alone, sir. It isn’t safe.’

‘There is no
one about who would harm a Bishop I feel, Peter. More likely they would run away when they see me.’

‘Then even
so, Your Grace, I could certainly not ride when you walk. It would not be right.’

‘It’s entirely
right, Peter, if you should get to the top of the hill and have not the breath to go fetch me some water.’

‘I will have all the breath I need,
my Bishop. I promise.’

Hugh looked in the young priest’s eyes
, which were instantly lowered in a bowed head.

‘Then you will walk with
me, Peter.’

Hugh set off. Peter fell into step behind him,
as Hugh knew he would. Smiling, Hugh halted after a few yards, and Peter, looking down, walked to his side and stopped.

‘
With
me, Peter.’

He set off again,
with Peter almost by his side.

Some things are difficult to change.

A cart drew along near them, an old Jew and a younger man pulling a long handle each, their heads bowed and the long curls from their sideburns covering most of the view of their faces. The old man struggled and his companion, perhaps his son, looked with concern.

Hugh stopped. ‘Peter, help that old man.’

Peter stopped and took a moment to take in the instruction. The Bishop clearly gazed on the old Jew nearby.

Hugh turned his head and smiled
at Peter. ‘Please.’

Peter bowed and walked briskly to the old man. The cart stopped
, and with a small exchange and looks of both puzzlement and gratitude towards the Bishop, the exchange took place, and the cart moved away with the two younger men pulling more efficiently now. The old man looked around for a place to sit, and finding a low wall, propped himself upon it, hands on knees and concentrating on easing his own breathing. He looked up at the Bishop, nodding. Hugh smiled in acknowledgement and rejoined his own path to the top of the hill. Not a few passers-by had witnessed this small mercy.

The People
of the Book who inhabited these parts were the topic of moanings and grumblings of many a villager and lowly priest. Laws were enacted at times by local priests and aldermen that had ignorance and prejudice at their base. Hugh would make himself an advocate for the plight and innocence of these peaceful and unassuming peoples and their families.

Hugh looked up the hill and towards the steeple towers that should have been in his view. Would he be remembered for some excess in their rebuilding? He railed against the weakness of such ego, seeking to replace its drive with an equal ambition to relinquish his own immortality for the creation of a greater strength of human heart. It all fit together
.

13

Timothy Watson swam in light. More light than he’d ever been in. This day though, the light didn’t come from outside of him, towards him. It came
from
him. It was Tim’s light. He had been learning how to make it and to project it, and today was his best light day yet.

He had worked out how he could take a little bit of white gold and make it into a lot more white gold
, an ancient alchemy. The Holy Grail. The Philosopher’s Stone. Tim had calculated it out completely. Tim.

When one little bit of whiteness came
, he could take it into his body, via his heart, up through a space behind his forehead and down into his belly, and then from there it fanned out all through him. And as it went through his cells, it multiplied. Because light prefers to grow, not diminish.

It was very important that the first bit of white that started off the propagation was a really good bit of white. Tim had had trouble with this bit sometimes. Some of the white he’d seen lately was faded or stained, and this white did not, as it turned out, produce a quality spawn. In fact
, it wouldn’t produce any spawn at all often, which was why it had taken Timmy a while to figure out that he could make light himself.

He had learnt that the best light came from light itself, from the light that so often spoke to him. But living things also had light
, and there had been a few people and one animal that had given him good light. One person he spent most of his time with sometimes had good light and sometimes not, but lately it was consistently better, and this had helped. This came from Tim’s father. Tim knew his father was his father because anyway he just understood more than his father thought he did. His sister had very pure golden light, but he wasn’t supposed to borrow from her light because she had to use it herself, even though when you take from other people’s light, it doesn’t diminish how much they have left themselves. In fact, the opposite is the case, and the more people give their light away, the more light they have. This was a type of mathematics that Timmy understood very well. He had been experimenting with this mathematics and found he was quite good at it.

Today
was Tuesday. Tim knew that too. He knew all the days of the week, and he knew today was Tuesday. He had not yet been able to tell anyone that he knew this, but that didn’t matter to him. He hadn’t noticed whether it mattered to anyone else and so that didn’t matter either. Other things Tim knew were people’s names, and what they looked like, and how they liked to live. Tim lived differently because he had to deal with all the things he saw that other people didn’t see. They all thought he didn’t really see anything, but he saw a thousand times what anyone else did, and sometimes he thought his brain was going to explode with all that information and then he’d jump up and down and wave his arms around because that would settle it all down quite a lot. He could throw all the data around in his body, and when he stopped moving, it was more inclined to settle down into some sense. Sometimes he’d have to move around like this for quite a long time before things calmed down in his head.

Tim had been working on his light experiments because he knew more light had to go out into the world
, and if he knew how to do that, then he’d be able to help. Some of the light told him this. It didn’t come in messages like words or sentences, but it was as though he could hear it and see it and so it might as well have come that way. He could understand it if he lined himself up just right and didn’t look directly at the light. If he looked directly at it, then it would move just out of his sight, so he had to observe it out of the corner of his eye, in a kind of sneaky way that meant he was both looking at it and not looking at it.  It was
very
scientific.

Tim had an idea that he’d missed a few opportunities to make a useful contribution in this way already. He had taken longer to learn what he needed to and that was a bit disappointing for him now. When he got disappointed he would lose sight of the little impressions the light would leave in the space around him
, and he wouldn’t be able to pick up the trail, and consequently, also, not the source. And then he’d get more disappointed. And then he’d do all sorts of weird stuff to try and pick up the whiff of it again: straight lines were his main strategy. Light travels in straight lines. So he’d look around for some straight lines. Or he’d make his own. You could make your own lines to the light; you didn’t just have to find ones that were already there. He realised also that it was not useful to stay disappointed, or even to get disappointed at all. That got in the way. He’d figured out now pretty much all the things that got in the way, and getting angry was one of the worst. Tim never really got angry, but other people did and they’d block out his light if he let them. So he tried not to let them, but that was fairly hard to do too.