Company of Liars (25 page)

‘How do we know you're not sending us into a den of thieves and cut-throats just like yourself?’

Leatherskin put on an injured air. ‘There's me trying to do a good turn and help folks…’

In the end, after Leatherskin had sworn on his mother's grave, his children's lives and upon the tears of the Virgin which I produced from my pack that the place was safe, and Zophiel had threatened to come back and personally cut him into little pieces if it wasn't, Zophiel finally handed over the small sum Leatherskin demanded for his directions. The coins disappeared inside Leatherskin's tunic so fast that even Zophiel, who was practised in sleight of hand, could not have bettered him.

That done, Leatherskin looked around the company and added slyly, ‘The old inn's a good place to hide out too, if you were trying to shake someone off. Ride right on by, they would, and never see it.’

He gulped as Zophiel grabbed him by the throat again. ‘If you're after money to keep your mouth shut, my friend, you're wasting your time. We're law-abiding people. We fear no pursuers.’

Leatherskin struggled out of Zophiel's grip, massaging his throat. ‘I'm only saying if you were… Folks come looking for people, ask me if I've seen owt.’ He shrugged. ‘Sometimes I have, sometimes I haven't.’

Zophiel hesitated and his eyes narrowed. Then he laughed and tossed another small coin to Leatherskin. ‘For your barefaced impudence, my friend.’

Pleasance bandaged both Osmond's neck and the boy's head, after rubbing a foul-smelling green ointment on both their wounds. She wasn't helped in her task by the boy's
mother who sat cradling her groaning son, alternately cursing Osmond and blessing Pleasance with equal vehemence. I pitied the woman, robber though she may have been and worse. She and her brood were forced to nest like birds under the bridge on a little platform fashioned from old bits of wood. They slept among the flotsam and jetsam they'd salvaged from the river. But the river is a capricious master; without warning it can take back all it gives and more besides.

We finally set off on the road again. Looking back, I saw old Leatherskin kicking his son back on to his feet, cursing him for a fool, while his wife, in turn, belaboured Leatherskin about the ears, more than outdoing him with her curses. Their daughter, the only one who seemed to notice our departure, stared vacantly after us from under the bridge, indifferent to the cries of the wailing infant clutched in her arms.

Leatherskin was right, we wouldn't have found the old place without his directions. The track was almost overgrown with weeds and without a sign to guide the traveller, no one would have known it was there. Leatherskin was also right about the widow. She was indeed as sour as he had predicted, but the sleeping barn at least had a roof and door, even if it had not been used for years except by a few moth-eaten chickens.

The widow was as scrawny as her fowls. Her cheeks were sunken and she had dark hollows around her eyes as if she had eaten little but herbs for months, but for all that she was a feisty gammer, ready to defend her property with a pitchfork in one hand and a dog-whip in the other. A couple of huge, hungry-looking dogs ran round the wagon, growling and barking. Only the crack of Zophiel's whip and our staves discouraged them from sinking their teeth into us.

We could hardly blame the widow for her suspicions. The sudden appearance of a wagon and nine strangers must have been an alarming sight, and it took a long time to convince her that all we wanted was a dry place to bed down for the night. Finally the coins tossed to her as a mark of good faith and the promise of a share in our supper won her over and she grudgingly called off the dogs – not, however, before she had tested each coin thoroughly by biting them with her few remaining blackened teeth.

The old bedding in the barn was mildewed, stinking and verminous. There was no sleeping on that, so we gathered it up and threw it outside into the overgrown yard. But the wooden bed bases were sound enough and, though hard, better than sleeping on a damp floor, and the partitions between them at least kept some of the draughts out. Zophiel unloaded his precious boxes and stacked them neatly in the corner of the barn, as far from the door as possible.

That done, while Cygnus went off to gather fodder for Xanthus, the rest of the company set about making preparations for supper in the big fireplace of the old ale room. It was the only stone fireplace remaining where a fire could be safely lit without fear of a spark catching the old wooden buildings around. We had promised the old woman a feast and since none of us had eaten that day, we were all looking forward to a good hot meal.

The ale room was in a worse state than the sleeping barn. The tables and benches that remained were piled high with a ragbag of broken and worn-out objects that the old widow had hoarded. Cracked pots, cooking vessels long burnt through, scraps of leather that might have come from old harnesses, rags and rope were all heaped together with sacks and empty kegs. In the corner was the widow's truckle bed
heaped with assorted coverings and old clothes, which was presently occupied by a tortoiseshell cat that hissed balefully at our entrance and dug its claws into the coverings, defying us to remove it.

‘People come stealing things,’ the widow said by way of explanation. ‘I keep all my belongings where I can keep an eye on them. They want me out, you know. But I'll not budge.’

She meant it. The air in the room was fetid, stinking of wet dog and cat piss, for the shutters on the windows were nailed shut and the heavy door was bolted. Two square props lay ready either side of it.

Osmond took Narigorm to search for more fuel for the fire while Adela and Pleasance set about preparing the food, after repeatedly reassuring the old widow that we had our own beans and mutton, so had no designs on her chickens.

‘Stop fussing, woman,’ Zophiel said. ‘What would we want with your lice-ridden birds? You'd have to boil those fowls for a month to be able to get your teeth into them.’

That set her off again, this time a long tirade about the quality of her chickens. Having lived alone for so long with no one to complain to, she seemed determined to make up for it now by keeping up a continuous stream of grumbling. Between the prior, the novice master, Zophiel and Leatherskin, I'd already had to listen to enough sourness in one day to pickle a barrel of pork. So I left the old widow moaning to Adela and slipped off to the barn, intending to take a little nap before supper. You know what they say about too many cooks.

As you get older, you find you can't sleep much at night, but perversely you can fall asleep in the daytime quicker than a pot boils and this had been a particularly long and wearisome day. But I was not the only one who needed a
nap. Jofre already lay curled up on one of the wooden sleeping platforms, his cloak over his face, snoring like a pig in mud. The excesses of the night before had clearly caught up with him. Doubtless he was also trying to avoid Rodrigo and thought the barn as good a place as any to lie low for a while until Rodrigo's temper had cooled.

Above the beds was a long wide hayloft, reached by a rickety ladder, which had once been used for storing food and fodder. There, as I hoped, I found a pile of old sacks and a little of last year's hay. The hay was blackened and stank of mice, but it was softer for my old bones than the hard wooden boards and Jofre's snores were not quite so loud up there. So I shook out the hay to ensure no mice still nested in it, covered it with the old sacks and settled myself down in the corner of the hayloft, prepared to follow Jofre's example.

I'd just begun to doze off when the barn door below me opened and Rodrigo strode in, carrying a lantern. He hung it carefully on the wall hook and swung the heavy beam across the door so that none could follow him. He walked across to the bed where Jofre lay snoring and stood looking down at him. I sighed; there was going to be no nap for either of us. Judging by Rodrigo's determined stance, the lecture that had been threatening all day was about to break over Jofre. Since I did not want to have to listen to it, there was nothing for it but to leave them to it and join the others outside. I began to heave myself up, then stopped as I glimpsed what Rodrigo grasped in his hand.

He bent down and pulled the cloak from Jofre. Jofre, his eyes still closed, muttered something, groped for the cloak and tried to turn over, but Rodrigo was not going to let him sleep.

‘Get up.’

Jofre eyes flew open, then all in one movement he had sprung to his feet and was backing away from Rodrigo into the gloom of the barn. It was easy to see what had alarmed him, for Rodrigo was holding a whip in his hand, the kind you'd use to school a dog.

Boy and master faced each other, tense and unmoving. Rodrigo's face was grim and determined.

‘I do not want to do this, Jofre, God knows I do not. But I cannot stand aside and watch you destroy yourself. You have such talent. I will not let you throw it away. Zophiel is right, that you behave like this is my fault. I am responsible for you.’ He shook his head as if he knew the words were again falling on deaf ears. ‘I have tried talking to you, but you will not listen. There are many who said I should have done this a long time ago.’ He swallowed hard and then in as stern a voice as he could summon said, ‘Take down your breeches,
ragazzo
.’

Jofre stood motionless, apparently unable to believe his ears.

‘You heard me, take them down.’ Rodrigo turned abruptly and seated himself on the low wooden bed, one leg stretched out.

So he was finally going to do it. But it was not to be a whipping on the back as a servant, felon or martyr might receive, which allows the dignity of stoicism and defiance. This was to be a child's chastisement, a humiliation. That was not wise. Much as I knew that Jofre deserved a whipping, it should not be done like this. No good could come of it.

‘Please,’ Jofre begged, ‘this is the last time, I swear on –’

‘No,’ Rodrigo roared, ‘I will not listen to any more of your promises. Do as you are told,
ragazzo
, or I swear I will take you outside and thrash you in front of the entire company which, God knows, you deserve.’

Jofre, scarlet in face, struggled to undo the knot in the drawstring around his waist, but his hands were trembling so hard that it seemed to take him an age. At last his breeches dropped to the floor. He stood, head hanging, as if he knew this time there was no escape and when Rodrigo beckoned, he stumbled towards him without looking at him and bent over his master's leg. Rodrigo held him down firmly by the back of the neck and pulled up his shirt with his whip hand.

The young man's buttocks gleamed round and firm in the lamplight, the pale brown skin stretched tight and flawless, so smooth that it made you long to reach out and stroke it. But for the nervous tightening of the muscles under the skin, they looked as if they belonged to the statue of a god. Rodrigo hesitated as if he could not bear to mar something so perfect. I think even then he might have relented had Jofre not whined, ‘No, please, I promise I'll…’

That sealed his fate. Rodrigo's knuckles whitened around the handle of the whip.

‘It will not work this time, Jofre,’ he said softly.

The whip descended and Jofre jerked violently, but only a gasp escaped him. A dark and rapidly swelling welt appeared across the trembling backside. The whip rose and fell again and again. The muscles in Rodrigo's arm were hard as iron from years of playing and the master beat his apprentice with a musician's precision. He whipped him grimly, slowly and thoroughly, pausing just long enough between the strokes to allow the pain of each one to register. Jofre was biting his own hand to stop himself from screaming out. But now that he had begun it, Rodrigo seemed determined that the thrashing would not be quickly forgotten. Blood glistened in the light of the lantern, but he not did waver.

Jofre was sobbing, a noisy, scalding gush of tears, too fierce for its cause to be merely physical pain. ‘I'm sorry,
I'm sorry.’ For once, it seemed to come from the heart, not the lips.

As if the words had broken the spell he was under, Rodrigo suddenly flung the whip away and caught the boy in his arms, cradling him fiercely and rocking him to and fro. Jofre sobbed uncontrollably, as if a dam had broken inside him and the pain and shame of his soul were bursting out.

‘Why do you do it,
ragazzo
?’ Rodrigo murmured. ‘You have so much beauty, so much life ahead of you.’

‘I'm so… so afraid. Can't… stop it. I've tried, but… but I can't. I can't.’

‘I know it, I know.’

The hand that had grimly wielded the whip stroked down the boy's arched neck, down his back tracing the curves and hollows, and gently over the bruised and bleeding flesh. A shudder convulsed Jofre's body. Rodrigo bent to kiss the back of his neck where tiny curls of chestnut hair clung drenched in sweat, and Jofre lifted his tear-stained face. He kissed Rodrigo on the lips, hesitatingly at first, then passionately, almost angrily. Rodrigo leaned back on the hard boards of the bed and Jofre wriggled until he was lying on top of him, fumbling at the older man's crotch. It was the master's turn to lie still as Jofre rubbed his groin against him, covering his face and neck with fierce hot kisses. Only Rodrigo's hands moved as he tenderly caressed the boy's back, like a mother soothing a distraught child.

As Jofre reached a climax, arching and groaning, his breath coming in short rhythmic gasps, Rodrigo clasped him tightly to him, containing Jofre's passion against his own body, as if he could hold him safe against his own self-destruction.

Jofre gave a single loud cry, rolled off and fell asleep
almost instantly. He lay on his belly, sprawled on the boards, one arm thrown above his head, his shirt pulled up, his back glistening with perspiration. The guttering yellow light from the lantern flickered across the curls plastered to his wet forehead, throwing the muscles of his body into sharp relief. His face was flushed and beaded with sweat, but relaxed and unfurrowed. His lips, slightly parted, held all the innocence of a sleeping angel, an angel not yet fallen from heaven.