Company of Liars (14 page)

Though it was clear that Osmond would have to turn his hand to other work if we remained, things might still have been well had it not been for Jofre. The following night when he and Rodrigo were playing in the inn, three men burst in and before anyone could stop them, they were bundling Jofre out of the door. By the time we got outside, two big men had him pinned against the wall of the inn and a third, a small, ferret-faced man, was tickling his knife against Jofre's throat as he struggled in vain.

Rodrigo roared like a bull and rushed towards him, but Ferret-face did not flinch. He thrust the point of his knife up under the boy's chin until a tiny trickle of blood oozed out. Jofre gasped and instantly stopped struggling, not daring to move a muscle for fear the blade might sink deeper.

‘Stay back – one step closer and he's had it.’

Even in his fury Rodrigo could see the man was not bluffing. He took a step back, holding up his hands, palms open.

‘I take it you're the boy's master?’

Rodrigo nodded. ‘What is it… what do you want from him?’

‘Want?’ Ferret-face gave a high-pitched giggle. ‘I want my money, that's what I want. Your apprentice laid a wager on the fighting cocks. Thought he was man enough to play with the big boys, but then surprise, surprise, when he lost, he suddenly found his purse was empty. “Must have been robbed,” he said. Really upset he was at not being able to pay up, so me, being a soft-hearted man,’ and again he let
out his mirthless little giggle, ‘I said to him, I said, “That's a shame, lad. You can't trust anyone these days, terrible lot of villains about. Tell you what I'll do, my lad,” I said, “I'll give you two days to come up with the money.” That's the kind of generous man, I am, aren't I, boys? Too soft-hearted for my own good, aren't I? The boys here are always telling me so.’

The two henchmen holding Jofre by the wrists grinned broadly and ground Jofre's arms harder into the rough stone wall of the inn.

‘Our young friend here was supposed to bring me the money at noon today, only he didn't show up. So now my lads here are going to break his fingers, one by one, nice and slowly. See if he can play his lute so well then.’

Jofre had turned deathly pale; he was begging and pleading incoherently, which seemed to amuse Ferret-face all the more. Rodrigo had to be forcibly restrained from knocking him to the ground, but finally managed to get a grip on his anger and in a voice that was barely above a whisper, he asked how much Jofre owed. It was a princely sum even by Jofre's standards. The sum owed, as Ferret-face patiently explained, was naturally higher than the original wager because he had been forced to wait for his money.

‘Let's call it interest – my interest in getting my money.’ He giggled again.

There was no question of not paying it. Rodrigo and I pooled the contents of our purses, but it was not enough, and the henchmen looked on the point of carrying out their master's threat when Zophiel stepped forward and handed over the remaining money, saying savagely to Jofre, ‘You owe me, boy.’

The men left, Ferret-face clearly pleased with himself, but his two henchmen growling like frustrated wolfhounds who
have been called to heel before the kill. As soon as they were out of sight, the innkeeper stepped out of the shadows.

‘Right, I want you lot gone at first light. Those lads are trouble wherever they go; they come looking for their money and if they don't get it, they start smashing the place up. This is a respectable inn for decent folk and I'll not have that lowlife coming in here again.’

‘But they've no reason to be back,’ I said. ‘They got their money.’

‘This time,’ said the innkeeper darkly, ‘but what happens next time when your lad here lays another wager he can't pay? Besides, it looks to me as if you three got your purses cleaned out. How are you going to pay for your board? And word is that your friend's been upsetting the emblers with those toys of his. I don't need aggravation from them. They're good customers of mine. It's all very well for you, you're just passing through, but some of us have got to live here. So I want you all out before there's any more trouble. And I'll thank you to take that fish with you too,’ he added, turning to Zophiel. ‘Stinks the place out.’

‘That, you ignorant oaf, is not a fish, it's a mermaid,’ Zophiel said furiously. ‘It's an extremely rare and valuable creature and the only one you are ever likely to see in this rancid pigsty you call an inn.’

‘What I say is, if it stinks like a fish, it is a fish. And this may not be the smartest inn in the village, but as long as I own it, I say who sleeps in it. So if you and your company of vagabonds are not on the road by sunrise, I'll be breaking more than just a few fingers. And don't even think of trying to get lodgings elsewhere in these parts. Once word gets out, you'll not be welcome anywhere. I'll see to that.’

So with the blessings of the innkeeper ringing in our ears
we left the inn the following morning, as the cold, grey dawn oozed across the sodden fields. All our hopes of a safe dry haven had come to nothing. Osmond was blaming himself, distraught at the thought of taking Adela out on the road again, and Zophiel was blaming Jofre. I too was furious with the boy. Any hope I had of leaving the company behind and travelling northward alone was gone. But there was little point in getting angry with Jofre. Blame cannot undo the deed. And I couldn't just abandon them on the road, could I? So there was nothing for it but to take them with me.

I was saddled with a pregnant woman and a bunch of novices. We had no money. It was the worst possible weather in which to travel and the pestilence was rapidly closing in on three sides. It could not get any worse. Misery was written on every face as once more we hunched our shoulders against the chilling rain.

But there is no cloud so black that a glimmer of sun does not shine through it and I consoled myself with the thought that our hasty departure from North Marston meant that at least Narigorm would not be travelling with us. By the time Pleasance had searched for us and discovered we'd gone, we'd already be hours ahead on the road.

I tried my best to cheer the others. ‘There are other shrines north of here: St Robert's at Knaresborough and many shrines at York. If we could reach those, we'd be safe. They're well inland. They won't close their gates. Adela can have her child in comfort and you'll all earn good money there, better even than at North Marston.’

Rodrigo and Osmond nodded gratefully, but I knew that Zophiel would not be so easily swayed. I had to keep him with us. Adela was stronger, but her belly was swelling by the day and her strength would not last if she had to walk far in this mud. She'd never reach York on foot, and neither
would the rest of us if we had to slow our pace to hers, especially if we had to carry our food and packs.

I could see the agony of choice written across Zophiel's face. He desperately wanted to turn towards the coast and any chance of a ship, but between him and a port lay the ravaging monster that was the pestilence. For the first time since we met, I pitied the man, for whatever was driving him was merciless.

I took a deep breath. ‘Zophiel, you must see it would be madness to turn west from here. If you go west now you will be walking straight into it. We have to keep as far from the coasts as we can until we are further north. Then you can turn west with some chance of finding a port still open.’

Zophiel studied me carefully before he spoke. ‘Do you really believe that you can outstrip it?’

‘At least if we travel north we will be walking away from it, not running to meet it. If we can just keep clear of the places it has struck for a few more weeks until the winter freeze sets in, then the pestilence will die out and you can go to any port you please.’

Adela clutched at my arm. ‘It will die out when the frosts come, won't it?’

I tried to sound convincing. ‘Fevers always rage in the heat and foul air of summer, but come the winter frosts, they all die away.’

Zophiel gave a hollow laugh. ‘I have to admire your optimism, Camelot, but there is just one trifling point you seem to have overlooked. There has been no summer's heat this year. There has, in fact, been no summer and still the pestilence rages.’

Adela shook her head. ‘But everyone says it's the rain itself that spawns this pestilence, just as it spawns the biting flies and the midges.’ Her youthful eyes shone with conviction.
‘The frost kills pernicious flies and stinging creatures; I know it will stop this.’

‘Just as you
knew
it would only rain for forty days and forty nights, Adela. Perhaps you have a rhyme for this as well? Do share it with us.’

Adela flinched and Osmond, slipping his arm around her, led her away from us, glowering over his shoulder at Zophiel, though I noticed that he didn't rise to his wife's defence. But I, for one, was glad to let Zophiel have his little triumph. It was a small price to pay if we had succeeded in persuading him to come with us.

We fell into our accustomed places beside the wagon and trudged on, leaving the last of the cottages behind until we were once more among the trees. Then, as we rounded the corner of the road, I saw two figures standing at the crossroads. My stomach lurched. There was no mistaking the unnatural whiteness of that hair. Narigorm and Pleasance were patiently waiting by the side of the road, as if they were expecting us.

Adela's face brightened a little as she saw the child and she waved eagerly to her. ‘Look, Osmond, that's the little girl I told you about. Didn't I say she was a little poppet? Have you ever seen a child who looked so angelic?’

Osmond smiled and Rodrigo beamed fondly, like an indulgent uncle, as we drew closer to the waiting figures.

Only Zophiel seemed to find the sight of Narigorm as unwelcome as I did. ‘As if we didn't have enough liabilities already.’ He stared pointedly at Jofre who flushed a dull red. ‘Now I suppose I'm expected to allow that freakish little brat to ride on my wagon as well. What next, a performing bear?’

Adela suddenly turned back to me, an awestruck look on face. ‘Camelot, don't you remember, she said that we'd have
to leave today and that she'd travel with us. She really does have the gift.’

But before I could answer, Xanthus suddenly jerked up her head and shied. Her nostrils flared, her eyes rolled back and she reared up, trying, in her panic, to pull the wagon off the road. It took the combined strength of both Zophiel and Rodrigo to hold her head and bring her to a stop.

Zophiel glanced apprehensively into the trees. ‘She smells danger, a wild boar perhaps or fresh blood. Horses hate the smell of blood. Get the brat on the wagon quickly if you must bring her. I've no wish to loiter here any longer than I have to.’

So in the end there was no debate. There was nothing I could do. Narigorm and Pleasance had joined our company and no one had time to think about it, for Xanthus continued to be agitated for the rest of that day and Zophiel could not calm her. She fought us all the way along the road as though whatever she had sensed was keeping pace with us. Perhaps she did smell death on the air that day, but the stench of death did not come from the forest.

8. Swan-boy

The storyteller leaned forward. ‘In the morning, the servants found the baby's cradle empty and the queen asleep in her bed with blood smeared on her lips. But when the king begged her to explain what had happened to his infant son, his wife remained silent and not one word would she utter, not even to defend her innocence.’

There was a sizeable crowd gathered around the storyteller: children squatting on the ground in front of him and adults leaning against the wall of the church, their baskets and bales at their feet, buying and selling halted until the tale was finished. Even the glances of the town whores were drawn the storyteller's way though he was not a well-built young man. His boots were old and worn through, his clothes brown and threadbare, indistinguishable from the garb of those who crowded round to listen to him, except, that is, for the purple cloak fastened crossways over his shoulder covering his shirt and left arm.

You don't often see purple, not at a market. Generally only the nobility wear it, for only the nobility can afford to, and you don't get many of them coming to the back of beyond to buy a scrawny goose or a second-hand butter churn. But this was no royal cloak, not silk nor satin and
not lined with fur nor trimmed with gold thread. It was, like his breeches, worn and stained, made of coarse, homespun wool, oily and thick enough to keep off all but the heaviest rain. A serviceable cloak for a life on the road, made by a doting mother's hand no doubt. But what on earth had possessed the good woman to waste money on purple dye for it? Did she think her son a king-in-waiting? There's many a mother fondly believes that, just as there's many a son believes their mother is a virgin, but not even Mary was besotted enough to dress her carpenter's brat in purple.

‘And so the queen was condemned to death by fire, but even when the sentence was pronounced still she would not speak, not one word would she utter, not even to save her life. And all through the days and nights that she sat in her cell she continued to spin and sew the nettles to make the six shirts.’