Company of Liars Read online

  ‘Then you will make a poor living.’

  Osmond’s fists clenched again. ‘I can earn enough to –’

  ‘What’s that sound?’ Jofre was leaning forward, staring beyond the fire, all pretence of sleep abandoned.

  Zophiel was on his feet in an instant, staring out into the darkness beyond the cave. We listened, but heard nothing except for the crackling of the wood on the fire, and the thunder of water in the river below. After a few minutes, Zophiel shook his head and settled down by the fire once more, but his eyes darted restlessly around as he continued to peer out into the impenetrable blackness.

  Rodrigo, with a glance at Osmond’s still furious expression, broke the heavy silence that followed. ‘And where will you go, Zophiel? You have plans?’

  ‘I had planned to go to Bristol to find passage on a ship. I have business in Ireland.’

  ‘You’re too late,’ Osmond said. ‘If what they told us at the fair is right, you won’t find any of the ports open anywhere between Bristol and Gloucester.’ The knowledge that the great Zophiel’s plans had been thwarted seemed to have cheered him up enormously.

  Zophiel glared at him. ‘Bristol and Gloucester are not the only ports in England, or did your schoolmaster neglect to teach you that? I assume of course that you did have some kind of rudimentary schooling, though perhaps your poor master gave up on the attempt, and who can blame him?’

  Once again Adela had to grab Osmond’s arm. She glanced over at us with a timid smile. ‘Where will you all go now that they’ve closed the fair?’

  ‘The three of us are travelling north to the shrine of St John Shorne,’ Rodrigo told her before I could answer. ‘I have not been there myself, but Camelot says there are many inns there, many pilgrims. It is a good place to find work and lodgings. A good place to stay until the pestilence has burned itself out. And they will not close a shrine.’

  Osmond frowned. ‘I thought I knew most of the saints of England, but I haven’t heard of this St John.’

  ‘That’s because he is no saint,’ Zophiel said, his gaze flicking momentarily from the mouth of the cave.

  ‘It’s true he’s not actually been canonized,’ I told them. ‘Though don’t say that too loudly at his shrine; the local clergy and villagers are apt to take violent offence. But he’s only been dead these thirty years and the locals are so sure he will be recognized as a saint, they’ve given him the title already. And assayed saint or not, there’s no question that his miracles draw in the crowds.’

  ‘Miracles which have not been verified by the Holy Church,’ Zophiel said.

  I shrugged. ‘Nevertheless the crowds believe in them and where there are crowds, there’s money to be earned.’

  ‘What kind of miracles?’ Adela asked eagerly.

  ‘He was the rector of the parish of North Marston, that’s where his shrine now stands, and there was a great drought there. Crops, animals and people were all suffering. They say Rector John struck the ground with his rod, just like Moses, and a wellspring opened up on that spot, which never failed and never froze. And since, when he was alive, Rector John is also said to have cured colds, fevers, melancholia and the toothache, and even revived those who died from drowning, people now flock to his well to be cured of those same maladies. After all, who hasn’t suffered a fever or a toothache at some time?’

  ‘And where exactly would people have drowned in North Marston, if there was no water?’ Zophiel asked. ‘Or perhaps they were so desperate to be cured of a runny nose that they fell into his miraculous well.’

  He had a point. Zophiel was sharp, you had to admit that.

  ‘I make no claims. I can only tell you what they say. Besides, most pilgrims come out of curiosity to see the boot. That’s the miracle that really draws the crowds.’

  Zophiel snorted. ‘Ah yes, the famous boot. Proof, if any was needed, that the whole story is nothing but a sham to con money from the gullible.’

  ‘But if people believe in it, then it will cure them. The art, Zophiel, is to sell a man what he believes in, then you’re giving him the gift of hope. And hope itself is always genuine. It’s only what it’s placed in that can prove to be false.’

  ‘Hope is for the weak, Camelot.’

  ‘But what about the boot?’ Adela interrupted, reddening as Zophiel turned to stare contemptuously at her.

  ‘Apparently while he was exorcizing one poor man from the demon of gout, Rector John captured the devil himself inside the man’s boot. Many old people in the village swear they actually saw the devil trapped in the boot, but he made himself as small as a beetle and crept out through one of the lace-holes and flew away. And now that same boot is on display beside his shrine. They say anyone who puts the boot on will feel their gout fly away with the devil out of the very same lace-hole. The crowds –’

  ‘Listen!’ Jofre called out again urgently.

  We stiffened, motionless, straining to hear. And this time we heard the sound too. It was a long way off, but unmistakable, a howl, then another and another. Then nothing.

  Rodrigo drew his cloak more tightly around him. ‘Go back to sleep, ragazzo. It is only a dog.’

  ‘That’s no dog, that’s a wolf’s howl,’ Zophiel said sharply.

  Adela gasped and Osmond put his arms round her protectively. ‘Don’t joke; you’re upsetting Adela.’

  I shook my head. ‘He’s not jesting; it is a wolf. But it came from the other side of the hill, not the gorge. And even if it enters the gorge, the fire will keep it at bay.’

  ‘If the wolf is a beast, yes,’ said Zophiel, ‘but if it’s a human wolf then the fire will attract it towards us.’ He was staring intently out of the mouth of the cave into the darkness beyond. He had rocked forward into a crouching position, his hand fumbling for the knife in his belt. ‘There are bands of robbers and murderers who use the calls of wolves and owls to signal one another. Hills and gorges like this are infested with them.’

  Osmond looked stricken. He seemed torn between rushing out of the cave to attack the cut-throat band single-handed and holding Adela so tightly in his arms that he was in danger of crushing her.

  ‘That’s a relief, Zophiel,’ I said, trying to lighten the mood. ‘For a moment I thought you were talking about werewolves, but if we’re talking mere robbers and murderers, why, you four strapping lads are more than a match for them. Besides, as I said, the howl didn’t come from the gorge, so they’ll not see the fire, whatever they are.’

  Zophiel, as we were all to discover in time, was not a man who tolerated his words being dismissed lightly. His eyes, when he turned to me, had narrowed and the mouth curled into that mocking smile I was beginning to know only too well.

  ‘Werewolves, Camelot? Come now, you surely don’t believe those tales told to frighten women and children. I didn’t take you for a superstitious fool. Now, if young Osmond here had said such a thing…’

  Young Osmond, his anxiety temporarily forgotten, looked as if he was about to do more than simply say something.

  I feigned a look of surprise. ‘I’m shocked, Zophiel. Has the Church not declared it heresy to deny the existence of werewolves? Are they not just as real as mermaids?’ I touched my scar. ‘How do you think I came by this?’

  Adela opened her eyes wide. ‘A werewolf did that?’

  Rodrigo opened his mouth to say something, but I caught his eye and he contented himself with a knowing grin. Having gained their attention, I settled myself more comfortably and began my tale.

  ‘Many years ago, when I was a child, I lived with my mother and father in a remote, thickly wooded valley on the border between Scotland and England. My father worked in the woods as a board-hewer, cutting trees to make joists and beams. He worked hard for a living and we got by well enough. But one day, as he was at his work, his axe head worked loose from the shaft and flew off, embedding itself in his foot. The cut was deep; it festered and in less than a week, he died. My mother struggled on, but it was a hard, cruel life for a woman alone an
d there was little food on the table.

  ‘Then one summer’s day, we found a stranger, a traveller, lying gravely wounded in the forest. We took him home and tended his wounds, not knowing whether he would live or die. For many days he tossed and turned in a fever, but eventually the fever broke and he began to recover. He was a handsome man, strong and tall, and my mother began to fall in love with him, so that when the time came that he proposed to her, she did not hesitate to say yes.

  ‘I adored my stepfather. He was bold and brave and could run like the wind. And he was a good provider too, for once a month, when the moon was full enough for hunting, he would disappear into the forest before sunset and not return until dawn. When he did return he always had a good haul of birds and animals for the pot. Everyone remarked that he was an exceptionally skilled hunter, for he took with him neither dogs nor bow, but went out armed only with a knife. I wanted to become a hunter just like him and begged him to take me on his hunting trips, but he always refused, saying I was too young.

  ‘Then farmers round about began to complain that a wolf had taken up residence in the valley. Lambs went missing and pigs were found with their throats torn out. A lone wolf was heard in the night howling at the full moon. The farmers knew that if they didn’t kill the wolf, they wouldn’t have an animal left alive come spring, so they decided to form a hunting party to track the wolf down. They invited my stepfather to join them for he was by far the best hunter, but he refused. He told them that he had neither heard nor seen a wolf in the forest and, in that, he spoke the truth.

  ‘That night my stepfather set off alone as usual to hunt. Again I begged to go with him. He laughed, saying I was too slow to keep up with him. But I was determined to prove him wrong, so as the sun began to set, I slipped out of the cottage and followed my stepfather into the trees. I had to hurry to keep up with him. He didn’t stop to lay traps or follow a trail, but kept bounding on with great loping strides, so that eventually I lost sight of him.

  ‘By now it was dark and the moon was rising over the trees, and I realized there was nothing for it but to turn for home. But I’d not taken more than a few steps when I heard a sound which made my blood run cold. It was the cry of a wolf, and not just a cry, but a howl of pain as if the creature was in agony. I stood rooted to the spot. As the silver light of the moon shone full upon the forest floor, I saw it, the great shaggy head and yellow eyes of a wolf, except that this wolf was not crouched on all fours like a beast, it was standing upright like a man.

  ‘I screamed in fear and the wolf turned. It bared its great white fangs and snarled. But as it sprang at me, there came the sounds of men crashing through the undergrowth and the barking of dogs. As it caught sight of the blazing torches, the wolf fled. The farmers and the dogs took off after it. The wolf easily outstripped them, but the dogs followed its trail and the farmers followed the dogs.

  ‘But I knew where the wolf was going. When a creature is hunted it makes for its home. I reached our cottage before the farmers and their dogs, but not before the wolf. My mother lay on the floor, covered in blood, her throat torn out. The wolf was crouching over her. But as it turned to spring at me, I managed to roll under the bed where its snapping jaws couldn’t reach me. In a fury, the wolf pawed at me and its huge claws caught my face, ripping it open.

  ‘The farmers sent their dogs through the door to distract the wolf while they pulled me out through the tiny cottage window. But dogs are no match for a werewolf and no man would risk a bite from the creature, so they barricaded the werewolf in the cottage and burned it to the ground. The howls of the wolf rang through the forest and filled the valley, until at last it was consumed in the flames and howled no more.’

  There was silence as I finished the story. No one moved. Adela’s eyes were wide and Jofre’s mouth was open.

  Rodrigo suddenly gave a bellow of laughter, slapping me on the back. ‘A good tale, Camelot, but did I not hear you swear to that merchant at the fair you left your eye in the Holy Land?’

  ‘That my eye is lost is the truth, Rodrigo. And since it can no longer serve me by seeing, I may as well put it to good use to provide food for our bellies and a dry bed.’

  Rodrigo shook his head, smiling, then he suddenly turned to Osmond. ‘Speaking of shelter, I have been thinking. You and your wife should come with us to St John’s shrine. You paint holy scenes. If the shrine is rich, perhaps they will need a painter. And, for Adela, it will be a good place to rest over winter while she has the child. You will find lodgings there and a midwife to help Adela when her time comes, will he not, Camelot?’

  Osmond glanced at Adela and both beamed eagerly at me.

  I could feel the smile freeze on my face and silently cursed Rodrigo. Did he think this was some sort of a pilgrimage? As if things weren’t hard enough already, now he was making me responsible for getting a pregnant woman, who could barely walk, all the way to North Marston. I could not afford to be saddled with them too. I’d wager the skull of St Peter that our turtle doves had no more experience on the road than Rodrigo and Jofre. They would slow us down badly. The pestilence was closing in from the south and west. I didn’t have time to act as nursemaid to a pack of novices. Who did they think I was – Moses? But what could I do? I saw the hope in their faces and I could not bring myself to say no.

  There were no more wolf howls; only the steady beat of rain on leaves and the rushing torrent of the river broke the silence of the darkness outside. My body was aching with tiredness, but my mind was too full of the journey which lay before us to allow me to sleep, so I offered to take first watch, and the others made themselves as comfortable as they could for the long night ahead.

  Osmond unbuckled Adela’s shoes, then peeled off her sodden and filthy hose, tenderly massaging her cold wet feet. The pointed red shoes were light and shapely, patterned with daisies formed by punched holes in the leather. They’d been fashioned for duties about the house or strolling in cloistered walkways, but they were useless for trailing through puddles or tramping along cart tracks. It was sheer stupidity to set out on the road in them. This journey they were bound on had not been well planned; maybe it had not been planned at all.

  What would force a young couple like this on to the road in such haste? My throat suddenly grew dry. What if they had come from Bristol and had fled when the pestilence struck? What if the contagion already lay upon their clothes? I shook myself impatiently; I could not start jumping in fear every time I met a stranger, for everyone was a stranger on the road. There were not enough caves in England for us all to take to the hills and live like hermits. Besides, even hermits need someone to bring them food.

  ‘Here.’ I wrapped one of the hot stones in sacking and slid it towards Adela. ‘Warm your feet on this.’

  She smiled gratefully. ‘You’re kind. Thank you.’

  I picked up her shoes and set them to dry near the fire. Cordwain leather, the finest, you could tell that simply by touch despite the mud on them. It was many years since I’d indulged in shoes that were not made for walking and I’d never have that luxury again. The skin on my feet had grown so hard and callused from all the miles I had tramped, they’d make a pair of leather shoes themselves.

  Adela sat hunched, her arms wrapped around herself, her soft bare feet pressed tightly against the hot stone. She shivered. Her cloak was still too wet to wrap around her, but evidently neither of them had thought to bring anything else.

  I sighed and tossed her my blanket. ‘Wrap yourself in this before you catch your death.’

  ‘But I can’t take your blanket. You might catch a chill.’

  It was not politeness that made her say it. Despite her exhaustion, her eyes were full of genuine concern. Doubtless at her young age she saw me as some old dotard who should be wrapped up and fed slops, but for all that I was touched – most would put their own comfort before that of an old man.

  ‘It’s best I don’t get too warm if I’m to take first watch. At my great age I’m likely to nod off
if I get comfortable. But you should try and get as much rest as you can. You’ll need all your strength come morning.’

  I hardly needed to urge her to sleep; her eyelids were already drooping with weariness.

  ‘Why don’t you take off your veil and make yourself comfortable? Your husband won’t mind, I’m sure. You’ll stick yourself with the pins if you fall asleep with that on.’

  Her hand rapidly outlined the edges of the linen veil that framed her face, as if to reassure herself that it was still in place. It was pinned to a barbette beneath her chin, concealing all of her hair save for a flaxen wisp at the temple. It was a curiously old-fashioned style for such a beautiful young woman. These days you only saw old women still wearing the barbette, seeing no reason to forsake something they had worn all their lives. But most were only to glad to be free of such a chafing restraint.

  ‘I can’t… I don’t need to take it off. I don’t sleep lying down, because… of my baby. The bile rises if I lie flat,’ she added hastily.

  Osmond slipped his arm around her and she leaned back gratefully against his shoulder. Even if she didn’t feel the pins, he would by morning; it took nearly a dozen to fasten a veil like that. But it seemed he would put up with anything to protect his new bride.

  She was not used to sleeping among strangers, that much was plain. She’d had a sheltered upbringing, but neither shyness nor modesty was an asset on the road. Did she, did either of them have any idea what they were facing out there? Had I once really been as naïve as them? When you are in love and you are young, you think that nothing life can throw at you is insurmountable. You think that together you can overcome anything. I prayed they would never come to know how swiftly life can divide you.

  The dancing orange flames cast huge grey shadows of us on to the wall of the cave, our every movement parodied in a grotesque form, like a mummers’ play performed for our mockery. Our shadows poured into one another, so that monsters appeared with two shaggy heads. Humpbacked dragons curled in sleep and mermaids flicked their sinuous tails. Shadows are such insubstantial things, yet they are bigger than any of us.