Company of Liars (12 page)

The night after we arrived, I made my way to the Angel, a tavern favoured by the more experienced travellers, where you could still get fried brawn and sharp sauce for an honest price. In the dim mustard fug of the smoking rushlights, it was hard to make out any man's features and those who frequented that particular tavern preferred it that way. But you can't spend a month on the road walking behind a man
without recognizing his shape, and I knew Zophiel at once, even though he had his back to me.

He was sitting at one of the corner tables, offering ale to the two men slouched opposite him. Not something Zophiel would do for a stranger, unless he wanted something. As it so happened, the bench behind Zophiel was empty.

One of the men was gesturing with his tankard. ‘A ship? You'll be lucky to find one anywhere on the west, not till you get well to the north of here anyhow. Pestilence has spread right up the coast.’

‘You're sure of that, my friend?’ Zophiel sounded tense. ‘There must be some small harbours that have escaped it.’

The man shrugged. ‘Happen there is, but who's to say they won't have fallen by the time you reach them?’

His companion nodded. ‘Even if you could find a ship putting in on that side, from what I've heard, the cost of passage is rising faster than the ports are closing. A man would have to be desperate to part with that kind of money.’

He and his friend exchanged knowing glances, obviously wondering just how desperate Zophiel was.

Zophiel nodded and rose abruptly. As he turned, he stumbled over a bone discarded in the rushes on the floor, and knocked into my table.

‘My apologies,’ he began, then jerked back. ‘Camelot… what brings you here?’

‘The same as you, I imagine, a decent meal and a little business.’ I pushed my flagon of ale towards him. He hesitated before sitting down and pouring himself a measure.

‘Knowing you, Camelot, I've no doubt you heard what we were discussing.’ His long white fingers slithered round the hard brown leather of the tankard.

‘That it's spreading up the west coast. I've heard others say as much, but we'll be safe enough here until the frosts
come. We're well inland. But then, being inland is no advantage to a man who wants a ship, is it?’ I watched his fingers tighten around the lip of the tankard. ‘Is your business in Ireland so pressing? Worth risking your life for?’

‘Life is a risk, Camelot. There is only one way to enter this world, but a million ways to leave it. Natural, accidental… deliberate.’

‘And which would you choose, Zophiel?’

‘I would choose the time and the place. The unexpected, that's what men fear most, not knowing where and when.’

‘May St Barbara protect us from a sudden death.’

He laughed. ‘Don't tell me, you just happen to have a scrap of her shift or a lock of her hair in your scrip.’

I spread my hands. ‘Naturally, but even I wouldn't be foolish enough to attempt to sell them to you.’

He laughed again. ‘You're no fool, Camelot. With your one eye I suspect you see more than most men do with two.’ He drained his tankard in one, then set it down on the greasy table. He leaned forward, his hard green eyes fixed on mine. ‘But a word of warning, my friend, don't try to see into my life or my business.’

‘I've watched your conjuring tricks. It would take a faster eye than mine to detect something you wished to conceal.’

He smiled and pushed himself to his feet. ‘For that, I shall buy you supper. You said the food was decent here, though that's hard to believe in such a midden, but I'll bow to your experience on this occasion.’

Zophiel could be surprisingly generous when the mood took him.

I watched him fight his way between the crowded tables in search of the serving girl. As usual, he'd deflected my questions neatly, but the urgency in his voice when he
questioned the men told me that if it really was business that took him to Ireland, the stakes must be worth a king's ransom. And if it was not business, well then, if a man is willing to risk plunging into a flood, it is usually because he has a fire at his back.

But if what the men said was correct, Zophiel would need to entice many pilgrims to see his mermaid if he wanted to earn his fare to Ireland. Still, if there was any place left in England to make money, this was it. The crowds, having come all this way, were determined to make the most of their excursion and were in the mood to be entertained. Zophiel worked every waking hour exhibiting his mermaid and performing his conjuring tricks for those who queued waiting their turn at the well. And while there was no call for Osmond's skill as a painter of church walls, since every inch of the shrine and church had already been newly painted, he turned his hand to making toys for children, which were beginning to sell even better than the official tin emblems from the shrine, for he carved wooden boots from which little tar-black devils with red eyes and sharp horns could be made to pop up, to the delight of children and adults alike.

I had to be more circumspect around the shrine. I couldn't display my holy relics openly, for priests and pardoners don't welcome competition and the law is on their side and against the honest peddler. Church law forbids the selling of relics which have not been certified as genuine by Rome, though most clerics turn a blind eye to it. They know that those who buy from me can't afford the authenticated relics which change hands for a king's ransom. Besides, the ordinary people have more faith in my scar than in the seals and documents of Rome, for they know only too well that any document can be forged for a price. If a man wants a nail
paring of St Walstan to protect his cattle or a woman wants a tooth of St Dympna to cure her child of the falling sickness, where will they come but to the likes of me?

So I found myself a sheltered spot on a bank under an ancient oak tree. It stood on the outskirts of the village, near the Boot Inn, well away from the shrine. The thick branches kept off the worst of the rain and the gnarled roots of the tree formed a natural seat, worn smooth and shiny by the hundreds of backsides of young and old who over the years had put them to that good use. Opposite was the village wash pool, a large tank fed by a small spring, covered over with a thatched roof supported by four pillars. It was a favourite meeting spot for the village women who came daily to gossip while they washed their clothes and hung them under the thatch to dry in the breeze that funnelled through the pillars.

The bank on which I sat ran alongside the main track through the village, a perfect vantage point to catch those entering and leaving North Marston. I displayed a few amulets and rings of amber, jacinth and sardonyx, known cures for deadly fevers, and for those who could not afford gemstones, genuine or otherwise, I sold spiders in walnut shells to hang round their necks. For, as I told them, even if you are armed with a flask of good St John Shorne's holy water, it does no harm to buy a little extra protection. A prudent man does not keep all his wealth in one purse, so a wise man does not put all his faith in one saint.

A few days after we arrived in North Marston I took my place as usual under the oak tree and Adela came to join me, occupying herself with repairing Osmond's hose which were full of rips and holes from weeks of ill-usage on the road. She was bored sitting alone in the sleeping barn of the inn day after day. Osmond had forbidden her to accompany
him to the shrine where he sold his toys, for fear that she might catch some sickness from the crowds.

I could understand why he was afraid for her. She was beginning to recover her strength. Her face was filling out a little and was starting to brighten into that glow of vitality which pregnant women often exhibit. But she was by no means fully recovered yet. At least in North Marston she could rest and build up her strength, and when the baby came, she'd be safe in a warm inn, with plenty of goodwives around to help her through the birth. If Osmond's jack-in-boot toys continued to sell well, they might one day be able to rent a small cottage of their own. This was no bad place to raise a child. It would never be hard to find work around a shrine as popular as this one.

Adela looked up and smiled as she saw Rodrigo hurrying towards us, but he didn't stop. Instead he stormed straight past us towards the Boot Inn. Judging by the grim expression on his face, he was not going to the inn in search of ale. I hoped for Jofre's sake he was not inside.

Jofre was the only one of us who did not seem relieved to have reached North Marston. Though his hand was healing, it had still to regain its full dexterity. Rodrigo was torn between fear that the boy might have done permanent damage to his hand and fury that he had got into the fight at the Cripples' Wedding. If Jofre had admitted his stupidity, Rodrigo might have cooled down sooner, but young lads seldom admit they're in the wrong, especially when they've been humiliated, so he stubbornly stood his ground, claiming that he'd been an innocent bystander, unwillingly caught up in the fight and forced to defend himself. But unfortunately for him, Rodrigo had seen only too plainly what had taken place.

Rodrigo bought salves and oils, and twice a day massaged
them into the boy's hand, accompanied by long lectures on how his hands were his talent and his livelihood; how even minor injuries could result in permanent stiffness and how drunkenness could lead to just this kind of recklessness. Any repentance Jofre might have felt had quickly turned to sullen resentment and even I began to feel sorry for the lad.

‘Ease up on the boy,’ I told Rodrigo. ‘What lad hasn't got into a foolish fight just to impress a girl? Did you ever stop to consider the consequences when you were his age?’

‘He has too much talent to waste, Camelot. Jofre could be a great musician, the best, if only he would set his heart to it.’

‘And if he doesn't want to be?’

‘Music is his life. You only have to look at his face when he plays.’

‘I can see it in yours, Rodrigo, but I'm not so sure about the boy's. He may have a great talent, but it doesn't seem to make him happy.’

Rodrigo had stared at the raindrops spinning across the puddles. ‘Then he must learn to live without happiness.’

‘As you have?’ I asked him, but he did not answer.

Rodrigo stalked back to where we sat beneath the oak, scowling more morosely than before. He threw himself down on the thick carpet of last year's leaves at Adela's feet and took a great swig of ale from his flask before passing it to me, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘Il sangue di Dio!
I swear I shall flay Jofre alive when I catch up with him. I have searched every tavern and alehouse in the village and he is nowhere to be found.’

‘And you need him now?’ I asked.

‘I need him to practise. He is my pupil, yet he thinks he has nothing left to learn. Did you hear his singing last night?’

‘The people liked it.’

‘The people would not know the difference between a well-sung tune and the yowling of an amorous tom-cat. It was…’ Words seemed to fail him. He pounded his fist into his hand in exasperation. ‘It was an abomination, an affront to the ears of God. To listen to him last night you would have thought he had learned nothing at all in the last five years. Yet the night before, he sang well. It was not perfect, but it was competent. If he can do it one night, why not the next?’

The boy had been more than competent the night before. He had sung like an angel, each note faultless and true, the clean, pure alto voice reaching so high to heaven that for once even the raucous drunks were silenced. He sang from the depths of his soul, any fool could hear that, and any fool could see why too. Adela and Osmond were in the inn that night and his every song was directed to the corner where they sat, Adela leaning upon Osmond, dreamily rubbing her belly and gazing into the firelight, her face, for once, serene and untroubled.

But they weren't there the following night. Adela had been tired and had retired early to the barn at the back of the inn and Osmond had gone to keep her company, keeping a watchful eye over her as he carved his wooden jack-in-boot toys. Jofre, forced by Rodrigo to stay in the inn and sing for the pilgrims, sulked throughout the entire evening, glancing up hopefully every time the door opened, only to sink into a worse temper as the evening wore on and there was no sign of his beloved.

Was it possible that Rodrigo had failed to notice Jofre's infatuation? Perhaps he was so used to the boy's sulks that he could not detect a difference. Still, I could hardly raise the matter then, not with Adela sitting beside me apparently equally ignorant of it.

Rodrigo's anger made him too restless to sit for long and he was soon off to resume his search, muttering another stream of threats under his breath.

Adela watched him stride away, mud splashing up round him. ‘He won't really thrash the boy, will he?’

‘He'll scold and threaten, but he won't do anything, more's the pity. Jofre will talk his way out of trouble as usual and Rodrigo will relent and forgive him.’

Adela's eyes opened wide. ‘You think Rodrigo should beat him? But you always stand up for Jofre. I've often heard you tell Rodrigo not to lecture him so much.’

‘Endless lectures only make the lad feel that he is permanently in disgrace, and as long as anyone remains in disgrace they know they are not forgiven. Punishment at least draws a line under the affair.’

Adela bit her lip. ‘There are some things that can never be undone, no matter how severely you are punished. Punishment doesn't always bring forgiveness, Camelot.’

I looked at her quizzically.

She reddened slightly, adding hastily, ‘But you said Rodrigo would forgive him.’

‘He will and he does with all his heart, but Jofre doesn't feel forgiven, and more to the point he can't forgive himself.’

‘For singing badly? It's only music. If he sings badly one night, where's the harm in that? It can easily be undone by singing better the next.’

‘Don't let Rodrigo hear you say it's only music. He once told me that to squander the gift of music is worse than murder. “Music,” he said, “is more precious than life itself for it lives on long after the composer is dust.” But then he is from the Latin races and they are passionate about everything; they hang themselves over an ill-fitting shirt or throw themselves off a cliff for a pair of beautiful eyes. The
only thing an Englishman gets passionate about is the merits of his ale or a pair of fighting cocks.’