‘If he hadn’t been tongue-tied before,’ said Leon, amused, ‘he certainly is now. Bet you didn’t think to get me a pair.’
Dr Stone had warned us we might have some problems getting him to wear shoes. That he’d probably gone barefoot all his life and would refuse to wear them. We never had that problem. Our problem was getting him to take them off. We finally compromised with him agreeing to take them off to go to bed or have a bath. Otherwise, they were pretty much welded to his feet.
He slipped them on – Leon tied the laces for him – and we were good to go.
We packed up his stuff for him, pretending not to notice as he stumped up and down the ward in his new gear, admiring himself in the mirror. Leon took one hand – I took the other – and, at last, we were able to take him home.
Not that I was around for long. As part of my role as absent parent, I was off to Bayeux.
It was yet another dreary day in Normandy. Theoretically the sun had risen, although the sky was dark and overcast. The rain hammered down. Surely the sun must shine here sometimes. No wonder they all wanted to move to England. And it’s not as if we’re famous for our lack of rain.
Architecturally, the town had everything, from wattle and daub huts with scruffily thatched roofs, to the magnificent cathedral still under construction, and every type of building in between. The town was bigger than I had imagined and had spread out from beyond its walls in a series of small villages to the north-east.
Rainfall ran off the roofs and splashed into the streets below. Rivers of water gurgled along the gutters, such as they were, paused briefly to swirl around our feet – my hem was soaked in seconds and wet wool is very heavy – before running down to the river, itself swollen and brown with heavy rain.
People scurried along with us, heads down, heavily cloaked and hooded, all heading to the cathedral, that scaffolding-encased monster dominating the town. No one was working on the building itself today – nothing must distract from the approaching ceremony – but behind the scenes work had by no means ceased. Masons and their men swarmed everywhere. I could hear the incessant chink of metal tools on stone. Hefty horses were pulling great blocks of dressed stone.
As far as I could see, the building was intact – we wouldn’t be dodging any leaks in the roof – but there was still a way to go before it was finished.
We’d turned up early to be sure of getting in and it wasn’t much past dawn when we arrived outside the cathedral, but already the building was packed. I stared in dismay. No one ever mentions this in stories about time travel. You identify and locate your destination, defy the laws of physics to get there, somehow manage to avoid as many as possible of the huge number of hazards History has littered around the place, manage not to lose or break your very expensive equipment, you’re poised to record the History-changing event of your choice, and then you find you can’t bloody get in.
On the other hand, we have the Security Section who, just for once, could justify their presence. I said to Markham, ‘Get us in, if you please, Mr Markham.’
He nodded and we formed the traditional St Mary’s battering ram. Security at the front, historians at the rear, pushing. It works. People weren’t happy but we were well dressed and, in those days, people were perfectly accustomed to being shoved aside for their betters. We did it as gently as we could – eventually arriving, breathless, a little dishevelled, and probably hugely unpopular, at the entrance.
There was no sort of crowd control inside. The important people stood at the front – that was a given – so we historians split into our two teams and used our elbows.
We were just in time. We’d only been inside a few minutes when I heard raised voices. They were turning people away now and, although it was traditional to leave the doors open so the crowds outside could hear what was going on, if we hadn’t been able to get inside, we might as well have gone home and Dr Bairstow would not have been at all happy with us.
The place was huge. An echoing cavern. Huge and chilly. It smelled of damp stone, candle wax, incense and wet people. There were candles everywhere. In sconces, on tripods, impaled on what looked like wheels, hanging above our heads on chains that disappeared up into the gloom. The place was brilliant with light. It was vital that everyone present must see Harold perjure himself today. This was a very important occasion. Critical, you might say. From the moment he took the oath, Harold and William would be in direct conflict. From that moment on, only one could survive.
Unlike the gloomy hall at Beaurain, with its smoke-darkened tapestry, this place throbbed with colour. There were murals on the walls, their colours still fresh and sharp. Scenes from the Bible abounded. And there were images of the Virgin Mary in her blue robe everywhere. Every niche held a statue. Every corner had a full-sized representation of a saint, all exquisitely wrought and lovingly painted in glowing reds, blues, greens and gold. I thought I saw Saint Christopher, the patron saint of travellers, and always popular at St Mary’s. And St Catherine, on her wheel. I counted over thirty figures visible from just where I was standing. This colour and vibrancy in the main part of the church contrasted sharply with the unfinished side chapels, still closed off and covered, where building work was still in progress.
There were large numbers of ecclesiastical figures around. William wanted to make very sure of the Pope’s support. Quietly, in the background, I could hear chanting, but above all there was the murmur of people. The sounds of their movements echoed around this vast space. Pews hadn’t yet been invented and there were no chairs. Everyone stood. The weak and feeble stood, sat or leaned around the walls – hence the expression ‘the weak went to the wall’. Only one chair was visible – a magnificently ornate affair with carved arms, set under a canopy, bearing the lions of Duke William.
While I was keen to see him again – and Harold, of course, because they were becoming old friends to us – I was also eager to see the Bishop of Bayeux, William’s half-brother, Odo of Conteville, who was in his own way at least as remarkable as William.
Odo supported his brother throughout his life. Not just a clergyman, he was a warrior and statesman as well. In addition to providing ships for the crossing to England, he would fight at Hastings, albeit only with a wooden club, since clergymen weren’t supposed to wield a sword. Those who thought this might hold him back were wrong. Apparently he still managed to do a formidable amount of damage. It would be Odo who would commission the famous Bayeux Tapestry, and William, who valued personal loyalty above all things, would reward his war-like brother with enough land and property to make him the largest landowner in England – second only to William himself. In 1067, Odo would become Earl of Kent.
We spent an hour slowly working our way as far forward as we could get. Which wasn’t that far. We were still quite a long way back, but that’s what the close-up function is for.
And then, we waited. Because we’re historians, and if we’re not running – we’re waiting. And vice versa, of course.
I whiled away the time by looking around me. They’d pulled out all the stops for this one. I could see the altar. Gold and silver plate and candlesticks winked in the candlelight. An enormous golden cross, encrusted with what I took to be rubies stood in the centre. The contrast between the pristine white cloth and the brilliance of the rubies was breath-taking.