Company of Liars (35 page)

Rodrigo and I were still struggling into our damp boots long after Osmond and Jofre had bounded upstairs. The others had followed, all except for Narigorm who was still sitting hunched beside the smouldering brazier, her doll in her lap.

‘You'd best stir yourself too, girl,’ I told her. ‘If the lads catch anything we'll need a good fire to cook it. You and I will search for kindling and wood. You take the town side of the river and I'll take the other.’

‘I don't want to collect wood. I want to hunt for birds.’

Rodrigo chuckled. ‘Leave that to Jofre and Osmond,
bambina.
The river is too fast. It is not safe for one as small as you.’ He patted her hair affectionately. ‘Come now, as you search you can think about a plump duck roasting on the wood you collect. Imagine how good that will taste,
si
?’ He took her gently by the hand, pulling her to her feet. Her wooden doll clattered to the floor.

Rodrigo bent down to pick it up. ‘I will put her safely…’

He was staring aghast at the doll in his hand. The rags were still wound around the doll's body, but they had been pulled back from its face. And now that they were removed, we could see that the doll no longer had a face. The brown wool hair had been ripped off; the carved nose and ears had been chipped away; the pretty eyes had been scratched out, the mouth obliterated. Rodrigo stared from the mutilated doll to Narigorm and back again as if he could not believe a child capable of such a thing.

‘Why have you done this? Osmond spent many hours carving and painting this for you. It will hurt him that you have destroyed it, Adela too.’

Any other child would have looked ashamed or tried to make excuses, but Narigorm neither blushed nor answered defiantly. She regarded Rodrigo calmly.

‘It's mine and I didn't like its face. Now it can be anyone I choose.’

As we emerged from the chantry, I noticed that for the first time in months the sky was lighter. The wind had turned, the clouds had rolled back and there was a patch of blue in the sky, just enough to make the Virgin a new cloak. I realized I had not looked up for months. You don't look up in the rain. I stood for a few moments gazing up at the bare branches of the trees waving in the breeze and the rooks flying overhead, their ragged wings tossed in the gusts of wind. A flock of starlings, the pale sun glinting iridescent from their purple feathers, wheeled towards the distant scarp and a single pigeon winged its way towards the town. I supposed birds must have taken to the wing through all those months of rain, but it was as if only that morning they had remembered how to fly.

I found Cygnus on the far bank, tethering Xanthus in a new patch of grass, her coat gleaming red-gold as the light caught it. Even she seemed to sense the weather was on the turn, lifting her head and flaring her nostrils as if to taste the wind. But I could see at once that Cygnus was not caught up in the mood of excitement. His face was drawn and there were dark circles around his eyes, making them appear blacker than ever. His movements were listless and everything seemed an effort for him. I hadn't noticed before how tired he looked. Xanthus nuzzled him gently and he rested his cheek against her flank and closed his eyes.

‘Are you unwell, Cygnus?’

He started at my voice and straightened up. He gave me a weak smile. ‘Have no fear, Camelot, it's not the pestilence.’

‘There are other kinds of sickness.’

‘I'm not sick, Camelot, just tired.’ He reached down, tore up a hank of grass and fed it to Xanthus.

He turned to stare at the water surging beneath the bridge and finally, after a long pause, he turned back to me. ‘I dream of the swans, Camelot. That's what disturbs my sleep every night. They're waiting for me. I see them swimming up the river, first a pair, then three, then four. I want to swim out to them, but I can't. I see them coming, more and more from every direction until the river is full of white bodies. Their wings arch, their necks bend and their dark eyes turn towards me, glittering in the darkness. They wait silently and I know they are waiting for me. Then suddenly they all begin to flap their wings. Their wings are beating me about the head. I have to crouch down to protect myself, the air is full of their feathers and I can't breathe. I'm gasping for air and all at once they are in the sky flying away from me. I call out to them to wait, but they can't hear me.’

Cygnus covered his face with his hand as if he was still protecting himself from the beating wings.

I moved closer and put my hand on his shoulder. ‘It's the crypt, Cygnus. It's too close to the river. The noise of the water crashing against the pillars is so loud it penetrates my dreams too.’ I tried to laugh. ‘You'll think me an old fool, but I have nightmares that the water is pouring in and I am drowning.’

Cygnus didn't smile.

‘Why don't you try sleeping up in the chapel for a night or two until you are rested, Cygnus? The dreams will stop then, I'm sure.’

He didn't reply. He hesitated for a minute, then turned to face me, stripping off his shirt until his folded wing was exposed. He unfurled his wing and as he did so, more feathers fell from it and were caught up by the wind. There were large gaps now in the wing, and in the bright winter sunshine, those feathers that remained were no longer smooth and white, but matted and grey. Cygnus held out his good arm and caught a falling feather in his hand before it was whisked away by the wind. He held it out to me, like a child offering a flower.

‘Why is this happening, Camelot? I thought all I had to do was believe in my wing, but I'm losing my faith and the swans sense it, they know I am betraying them. They come to make me believe again, but the new feathers do not grow. I can't believe in them any more. I can't believe enough to make them grow again.’

Osmond and Jofre tumbled through the door of the chantry, their arms linked and waving limp ducks in the air like favours at a tournament. Osmond was dripping wet and Jofre was caked in mud, but Jofre's eyes were sparkling
and his cheeks flushed with cold and exertion. Rodrigo and Zophiel followed behind them at a more sedate pace, carrying fish and nets. Between them they had caught three ducks and even a few small trout, despite Zophiel complaining that the river was too churned-up and fast-flowing for good fishing. But even so, among eight hungry people, the ducks and fish would not go far, especially as we had little else to add to them. Still, we had reason to be thankful for it was a better meal than many would have that day.

Osmond threw his birds on to the floor of the chapel and told, amid much laughter, how he had accidentally slipped down the bank into the water and had only been saved from a full ducking by Jofre grabbing him, before his head went under. Adela, once reassured that he had neither broken any bones, nor cracked his head, fretted that he would catch his death of cold. So she insisted he strip off his wet clothes while she fetched dry ones from their pack in the chamber below. Osmond meekly did as he was bid and stood naked waiting for her to return, shivering and hugging his arms around him. He had lost weight these past few weeks and gained muscles which sculpted his body. Beads of water glistened on the fine golden hairs of his chest and he slapped at his body to warm it, for Adela, encumbered by the great bulge of her baby, was taking a long time to find him some clothes.

His teeth chattering, Osmond picked up his wet shirt and chucked it at Jofre's head. ‘Don't just stand there staring, idiot. Fine friend you are, saving a man from the river only to let him freeze to death. For pity's sake, get me a blanket or something.’

Jofre seemed to come out of a trance and reaching for his own cloak held it out, but Osmond, numb with cold, fumbled and dropped it.

Zophiel looked up from sorting the nets and lines. ‘What's the matter with you, boy? Anyone would think he was a naked woman you were too scared to touch. Wrap the cloak round him and give him a good rub with it. Get his blood flowing to warm him. The last thing we need is him falling sick of ague.’

Jofre flushed scarlet and picked up the cloak from where it had fallen, but Rodrigo stepped quickly forward and took it out of his hands.

‘I will do it. You are as cold as he is. Go down to the brazier, get warm.’

Jofre stumbled towards the stairs without a word. Rodrigo wrapped the cloak around Osmond's shoulders and pummelled him vigorously, until Osmond laughingly protested that he'd rather die of cold than be beaten to death. At that moment Adela returned with dry clothes.

We ate in the chapel. None of us could bear to go down into the dark, damp crypt to eat our Christmas feast. The winter sun shining through the windows, though not warming, filled the chapel with a light that we had craved for so long, and we drank it in like hungry prisoners who have been kept for months in a dungeon. Dappled lights from the river below were reflected up on to the white wall of the chapel, sending an endless pattern rippling across its surface, like shoals of tiny rainbow fish.

In defiance of Osmond's warning, Adela went out of her way to include Cygnus in the light-hearted chatter and ensure that he received a good share of the meats. Cygnus had returned in a melancholic humour, but even he could not fail to be seduced by the irresistible aroma of roasted duck and trout and, recognizing Adela's efforts to include him, tried his best to conceal his melancholy thoughts.

We ate our food slowly to make it last, not easy when
you are hungry, washing each mouthful down with ale that was beginning to turn sour. We cracked open the ducks' skulls and scooped out the roasted brains, no more than a mouthful, but every mouthful counts, and sucked at the feet which had been set to boil with the last handful of beans. When every piece of flesh had been stripped from bird and fish, we tried to pretend to one another that we were full, though our stomachs told us we were lying, and sat chewing the ends of the duck bones to extract every last flavoursome mouthful.

Rodrigo wistfully began to describe the Christmas banquets he had enjoyed in his lord's employ: the dancing and singing, the gaming and cock fights and the lewd games played by the young men and women, in which all normal decorum was cast aside for the Christmas season. He told us, much to Adela's giggling embarrassment, how the men had fastened huge false cocks on themselves and chased the women. How men and women changed clothes and played at being the opposite sex, the men mincing and simpering in their kirtles, while women strode about belching and shouting orders. Then the women would climb on to the men's backs and ride them like horses in races around the hall and end in a great tangled tumble among the rushes, giggling and laughing.

Then, Rodrigo said, came the feast itself with its endless procession of pages and servants bearing in stews and breads, puddings and pies. There were swans, geese, partridges, larks and great haunches of venison. And to crown the feast, a succulent roasted boar would be carried by four servants staggering under the weight of it. It would be glazed so that its skin shone in the torchlight and garlanded with holly, ivy and mistletoe and set about with roasted crab apples and dried fruits.

Rodrigo's descriptions of the food were making us as hungry as if we had not eaten at all, and in the end, to stop him talking about food, Zophiel told him to do his duty as a musician and play something. Rodrigo smiled broadly as if he had just been waiting to be asked. He took up the pipes for once instead of his beloved lute and began to play the familiar strains of an old carol-dance. Cygnus, his dark mood pushed aside for the moment, got to his feet and gravely bowed to Adela.

‘Will you honour me with a dance, m'lady?’

Osmond started to his feet as if to protest, but Adela had already laughingly refused with a shake of her head and her hand on her swollen belly. ‘You do me great honour, m'lord, but I fear I could not waddle, never mind dance.’

Cygnus then turned to Narigorm and took her by the hand, pulling her to her feet. ‘Then, little mistress, I must beg a dance from you. Will you join us, m'lord Osmond, for we must have four at least?’

Osmond, already standing, looked as if he would refuse, but at Adela's urging he finally conceded, made a stiff bow, then looked round for a partner. A dark look from Zophiel was enough to warn all of us that while it might be Christmas, there were still some liberties that should not be taken, not if you valued your life. So, since he obviously considered that my dancing days were long over, Osmond marched across and grabbed Jofre by the hand.

‘Come, pretty maid, you shall dance with me. Now don't be shy,’ he added as Jofre tried to pull away.

‘Come on, Jofre,’ Adela called out. ‘You must or you'll spoil the fun.’ Jofre reluctantly allowed himself to be dragged into the ring. Rodrigo started up the carol again and the four of them pranced around, weaving round one another in a parody of a dance. Soon they were all laughing helplessly
as they repeatedly turned the wrong way and collided. They tried to shout out steps to one another which left them in worse confusion, until Adela, tears of merriment streaming down her face, begged them to stop for she had a stitch in her side from laughing too much. While little Narigorm, giggling louder than any of us, begged to do it all again.

Breathless and still laughing, they collapsed on to the floor of the chapel. Osmond, scarlet in the face, waggled a finger at Zophiel.

‘Come, we let you off the dance, so now it is your turn to entertain us.’

Zophiel smiled, not ungraciously. ‘I see, my friend, that you have appointed yourself King of the Feast, but it is the custom, is it not, that the one finding the bean in his pudding is the rightful lord. You must present your bean, if we are to obey you.’

Osmond laughed. ‘I fear we have eaten every bean in the place.’

‘Surely not, my lord.’ Zophiel leaned forward and, placing one cupped hand under Osmond's chin, tapped him smartly on the back. As Osmond opened his mouth in a gasp at the slap, a dry bean shot into Zophiel's cupped hand. The surprised look on Osmond's face made us all burst out laughing. It was an old trick, but neatly done.

‘Now that you have presented your bean, my lord, your wish is my command. What would you have me do?’