Company of Liars Read online

‘You want to be careful, Camelot,’ Zophiel drawled in my ear. ‘They might choose you as the next groom.’

  ‘Camelot is no cripple,’ Rodrigo blazed angrily.

  ‘You think not?’ Zophiel reached over my shoulder to spear a succulent spicy mutton olive with the point of his knife. ‘He’s already carelessly mislaid one eye and doesn’t appear to remember where. If he loses the other, he’ll make a fine candidate, and with the pestilence spreading as fast as it is, they’ll need every cripple they can find.’

  ‘I’m counting on it, Zophiel,’ I said quickly, seeing Rodrigo’s fists clench. ‘How else are old dotards like me going to grease their pikes?’

  Zophiel laughed and wandered off in search of more food. I’d discovered that the best way to handle him was not to rise to his taunts. I wished Rodrigo would also realize that. I had an uneasy feeling there was going to be trouble between those two. The sooner we reached the shrine and we could all go our separate ways the better.

  As the afternoon darkened into evening, the rain eased and the lanterns and torches were lit. Trestles and benches were moved aside for dancing. Rodrigo and Jofre played, joined by a handful of villagers on drums, whistles, reed-pipes, pots and pans. Jofre had been drinking steadily all evening, but if he played a few bad notes, they were buried under the screeches of the villagers’ whistles and pipes. Rodrigo was not used to having cooking pots thumped in time with his music, but he accepted it with good grace and tried to match his rhythm to their beat, which was rewarded with grins and cries of ‘That’s better, lad, you’re getting it now.’

  It was not easy dancing in the graveyard. The dancers tripped over humps and banged into wooden crosses and stone markers, but by now everyone was so merry on the free ale, cider and mead that they roared with laughter every time someone fell over. In the dark corners under the graveyard walls, couples made love, giggling and groaning, pumping up and down, only to roll exhausted off each other and fall asleep where they lay on the ground. Children created their own chaos. As drunk as their parents, they played mad games of chase, threw stones at swinging garlands or ganged up to torment some other poor child.

  Zophiel was not dancing. He was still seated on the bench with his arm about the waist of a buxom village girl dressed in a bright yellow kirtle which was too light for the chill of the day. She shivered and, giggling, tried to wriggle under the folds of his cloak. She had that unsteady, bright-eyed look of someone not yet drunk, but well on the way to it. I’d never seen Zophiel with a woman before. I thought he despised them all, but it appeared he did have a use for some of them at least. I hoped for his sake that the girl was not betrothed or wed. Husbands and lovers don’t appreciate their goods being pawed, especially by strangers and by travellers least of all.

  Suddenly the girl yelped in pain and sprang away from him. A pinch too hard perhaps or a lock of her hair caught on the fastening of his cloak? She swore at him and, tossing her hair, flounced off to join friends on the other side of the graveyard, from where she threw furious glances back in his direction. Zophiel seemed quite unconcerned and made no attempt to go after her. He sat picking at the remains of a duck carcass and when he saw her looking across at him, he raised his tankard in a mocking salute.

  The music stopped. A groan went up, but was quickly hushed as the miller clambered unsteadily up on to one of the benches.

  ‘Good sirs.’ He hiccuped, tried to bow and nearly toppled headfirst from the bench. Several men standing below pushed him back upright again. ‘Good sirs ’n’ ladies, the time has come to bed the happy couple, for as we all know, it is no true marriage until it’s consum… consum… nimated… until the groom’s given her one.’ The crowd roared with laughter. ‘So let’s not keep the happy pair waiting. Lead the bashful bridegroom to his lovely bride.’

  ‘At your command, my lord,’ sang out a voice from behind him, and a figure, nimble as a cat, sprang out from the shadows, wrapped in a dark hooded cloak. He bowed low, then threw off his cloak. Several people screamed as the flickering torchlight revealed that under the hood was not a man’s face but a grinning white skull.

  ‘Death at your service, good sirs.’

  The figure capered before the crowd and the gasps gave way to drunken laughter. The dancing man was naked save for his skull mask. His body had been covered from head to toe in a thick black paste, over which someone had crudely painted white bones so that in the darkness he appeared as a living, cavorting skeleton. All at once the villagers struck up their instruments again, banging on pots and pans, blowing their whistles and pipes, and soon those who could still stand fell into step behind the prancing skeleton who began to lead them widdershins around the edge of the graveyard.

  At the centre of this macabre procession was the groom, carried shoulder-high by a group of sturdy lads. He had been half stripped and was now dressed only in a shirt, his bare arse gleaming under the torchlight. The grey wrinkled skin of his withered leg contrasted oddly with the firm muscles of his sound leg, as if the limb of an ancient old man had been sewn on to the body of the youth. He was still grinning, but nervously now, as if he thought that the crowd might turn on him at any moment. I couldn’t see the bride in the procession and I assumed that she had already been taken from the graveyard to some cottage where, in due course, the groom would also be carried to spend his wedding night, but there was to be no privacy for this consummation.

  After circling the walls three times, the groom was carried back to the centre of the graveyard where they set him down on the ground on all fours like a dog. A straw-filled pallet had been set on top of a grave, pushed hard against the cross at one end which stood as the headboard for this bridal bed. The bride, dressed only in a long white shift, had already been laid on top of it, as if she was a corpse stretched out on her deathbed. Her sightless eyes were wide open and she was moving her head from side to side as if trying to hear what was afoot.

  She didn’t see the silvery clouds streaming like flood waters across the face of the moon or the flickering torches casting giant shadows on the graveyard walls, or the white glittering eyes of the circle of villagers looking down on her. She didn’t see the figure of death lean over her, flicking water from his hyssop twigs as he parodied the blessing of the marriage bed. But she felt the drops fall on her naked face and feet and winced as if they were drops of boiling oil.

  The groom, encouraged by playful kicks to his bare backside, crawled towards the prone woman until he was straddling her. Feeling him above her, she raised her hands to try to push him off, but the gesture was useless. Even a woman sound in limb would have been hard put to push his weight off her. She, with her twisted hands and wasted body, stood no chance.

  One of the more sober village women took pity on her. ‘There, there, lay still, my duck, and it’ll soon be over,’ she crooned, catching the bride’s wrists and pinning them gently but firmly against the cross behind her head.

  ‘Is that what she says to you?’ one of the men called out to the woman’s husband. The crowd roared with laughter.

  ‘Go on, my son; give her all you’ve got. We’re all counting on you, so see you make a good job of it.’

  The bridegroom stared round, mouth hanging open, unable to believe that he was at last being given permission to do to a woman what had always been forbidden him. How many girls had he longed to do this to? Had he tried several times when he was younger and been repulsed? Perhaps he’d been given a sound thrashing into the bargain by the girls’ brothers or his own father. Now everyone in the village was urging him to do it. This might be a dream; he might wake up soon.

  After it was all over, the women helped the bride to a dark corner and pressed her hands round a beaker of hot spiced ale.

  ‘There, there, my duck, at least you didn’t have to look at him. Believe me, with a husband like mine, there’s many a night when I wish I was blind.’

  They left her crouching on the ground under the graveyard wall. She pressed her back hard against the sharp flinty s
tones as if pain was the only certainty she could trust in and then she wept. She wept silently, as she did everything; her eyes were sightless, but they could still make tears.

  She could console herself with the wedding gifts from the village though – a few pots and pans, an armful of rushlights, some blankets and a pallet, hens and a cockerel, a bag or two of flour and a single-roomed hut which had once been used to store salt, so at least it was dry and had a good stout door. It was a palace compared to what she had owned up until that morning and since the whole community had pitched in she was better set up than many a village girl could expect to be when she wed.

  So what if she had no choice in her bridegroom? In that, she was no different from any highborn lady in the land, even a merchant’s daughter. For if land, trade or money is entailed, then marriage is simply a business transaction to be negotiated by the parents. Many a bride on her wedding night has passed from girl to woman with her eyes tightly shut and her teeth clenched, praying it will soon be over. No, all things considered, you could argue that the crippled bride had been treated no worse than any royal princess. But then, the flames of a fire are not made less painful by the knowledge that others are burning with you.

  I had not yet given the bride a wedding gift myself. I took out of my scrip a little wisp of stiff coarse hair bound up with a white thread and placed it in her lap. She touched it tentatively, a puzzled expression on her face.

  ‘A wedding gift for you, a relic. A few hairs from St Uncumber’s beard. You know of St Uncumber?’

  She slowly shook her head.

  ‘Her real name was Wilgefortis. She was a princess of Portugal whose father tried to force her to marry the King of Sicily, but she’d taken a vow to remain a virgin, so she prayed that the Blessed Virgin would make her unattractive to her betrothed and her prayers were answered with a beard that sprouted on her face. The King of Sicily withdrew in horror when he saw it and immediately called off the wedding. But the princess didn’t have to live long with her beard, for her father, in a rage, had her crucified. Now women pray to her to be unencumbered from their husbands or any burden they bear. You could use this to pray for that too… if you wished.’

  As I turned to go, she pressed her two hands tightly against the relic, the tears coursing once more down her hollow cheeks. A wisp of hair is not much to pin your hopes upon, but sometimes a wisp is all the hope you can give and it can be enough.

  A woman standing near me settled herself back on to a bench and offered a flagon to her neighbour. ‘If she doesn’t get a bairn from this night’s work, it won’t be her husband’s fault. Did you see him? He was in there quicker than a ferret down a rabbit hole.’

  Her friend took a deep swig from the flagon. Cider trickled down her chin and she wiped it with the back of her hand. ‘Never mind a bairn. I didn’t part with a good cooking pot just to bring another useless cripple into this world. I want to know if it’s done the trick and saved us from the pestilence.’

  ‘If this doesn’t, nothing will. That rune reader’s been right about everything else. Her runes said the musicians would come to bless the wedding and it was her runes picked out the cripples to wed, so it’s bound to work if the runes chose them.’

  ‘Did you say a rune reader?’ I blurted out before I could stop myself.

  The two women stared at me, somewhat put out at having a stranger interrupt their gossip. Finally one said grudgingly: ‘Aye, no one in the village could agree who they should choose as bride and groom, let’s face it, it’s not as if we’ve a shortage of cripples to pick from, so they asked the rune reader to cast the runes to find the lucky couple.’

  ‘Is she here, the rune reader?’

  The woman shook her head. ‘If you want your fortune read, you’re too late. She was a traveller same as you, just passing through, left a week or more ago.’

  ‘Aye,’ the other woman joined in. ‘Queer thing she was. Those eyes of hers, give you the shivers just to look at them. It wouldn’t surprise me if she was one of the faerie folk; she certainly had the gift.’

  I did not ask more. I didn’t want to know. There were many diviners working the roads, most of them fey. They deliberately try to look as if they might be descended from faerie folk; it impresses the customers, convinces them the diviner has second sight. There was no reason in the world why the rune reader who came through here should be Narigorm, and even if it was, why should she not have taken this road? Anyone with any sense was heading north. And if it was her, then it meant she was at least a week ahead of us. She was long gone. It was almost a relief to believe that. If she was ahead of us, she couldn’t possibly be following me. Her message had been a simple greeting, nothing more, nothing more sinister than that.

  I suddenly felt a great weariness. The revels were still continuing, but I’d had enough. The promise of a dry bed, after so many nights sleeping rough, was more tempting than ale or food. I began to pick my way through the drinkers towards the inn. Osmond had already taken Adela back there. He’d seemed troubled all evening. He had taken Adela to sit as far away from the bridal table as he could get, and several times I’d caught him studying her, looking down at her swollen belly with a deep and anxious frown. I began to fear that something was amiss with her. Perhaps she’d complained of pain, but if she had, she showed no signs of it now, eating with relish everything that was offered to her and laughing with the villagers around her. Osmond in contrast had hardly eaten a thing and as soon as the meal was ended, he had led Adela away, though she clearly would have liked to stay. Maybe he was jealous of other men speaking to her, but he’d never shown any sign of that before.

  I couldn’t see any of the others except for Zophiel who was talking low and earnestly to a big, square-headed youth. Whatever Zophiel said evidently didn’t please the young man, for he broke away and strode across to the girl in the yellow kirtle who was now in the company of several lads and girls, laughing and drinking. He grabbed her arm, none too gently, and began to drag her away. The girl tried to wrest herself out of his grasp.

  I glanced across at Zophiel. He had retreated to safety and was lounging against the wall, watching the proceedings with amusement. I wondered what exactly he had said to the girl’s boyfriend or brother, whichever Square-head was, to make him so annoyed with her. Whatever it was, I was certain Zophiel had baited him deliberately. Perhaps Zophiel had not been as indifferent about the girl walking away as he had pretended to be.

  Sensing trouble, a group of about a dozen lads moved nearer, watching with evident interest. I spotted Jofre among them. His face was flushed and he was laughing with two of the young men beside him and ignoring a baby-faced girl who was entwining her arms about him, trying in vain to get him to take notice of her. He swayed, pulled off balance by the weight of the girl hanging on his arm. It was hard to tell just how drunk he was from a distance, but he was not sober, that was certain.

  Square-head was shouting at the girl in the yellow kirtle now and she was bawling back. She broke free from him and ran behind one of the other lads for protection, clinging on to him. Square-head drew back his fist and punched her protector hard on the nose. He staggered backwards, taking the girl down with him as he fell. All the lads standing around took this as their signal and entered the fray with a will. Fists and flagons flew through the air.

  I heard a familiar roar above the screams and shouts.

  ‘No, Jofre, your hands! Faccia attenzione!’

  But it was too late; Jofre had pushed forward with the rest and was already lost among the flailing fists and kicking feet.

  Bodies crashed down upon benches, tables were overturned and pots came clattering to the ground. Suddenly the screams redoubled. A smashed lantern had sent a snake of flame slithering up the ribbons and dried grain stalks decorating one of the poles and set fire to the canopy. The fire took hold rapidly, sending orange flames leaping into the night. Fragments of blazing cloth and dry grain stalks floated up into the black sky, hovering menacingly over t
he thatches of the nearby cottages and wooden byres. The lads were too engrossed in the fight even to notice, but those villagers still sober enough to realize the danger came running over, trying to push the wrestling lads aside and pull the blazing canopy to the ground. Others flung the food from dishes and pots, using them to scoop water from the nearby horse trough to throw over the blaze.

  The fire was finally doused. Fortunately, everything was so wet from the months of rain that the thatches on the cottages were not even scorched. The fight was extinguished too. Enough icy water had landed on the combatants to separate those who had not already been knocked out. One by one, the groaning lads were led or dragged away by scolding mothers, wives or girlfriends, their eyes and lips swelling rapidly. It was, you might say, a typical end to a wedding.

  Jofre’s exit was, if anything, more ignominious. He had thrown a couple of punches, but he was no street fighter. He’d done more damage to himself than his opponents and a vicious punch in his stomach finished him. Rodrigo found him winded and gasping, rolled in a ball, trying to protect his face from the trampling feet around him. His right hand was already purple and swelling. He would not be playing that night or for many nights to come.

  6. St John Shorne’s Shrine

  In early October of that year, amid a cacophony of barking dogs and the blasting horns and raucous cheering of the pilgrims, we finally trundled into North Marston, the home of St John Shorne. We arrived on St Faith’s Day, an auspicious day, even though that year there were few griddled Faith cakes on sale, for what little mildewed grain had been salvaged from the rain-sodden fields was already running out. We, like all the travellers arriving that day, gave thanks to St Faith, patron of pilgrims, for a safe conclusion to our journey. And, for once, even I lit a candle in sincere and heart-felt gratitude to her, for never was I more thankful to see a town. No more heaving the wagon out of water-filled ruts fifty times a day. No more trudging through mud and wading through puddles. No more sleeping in wet clothes. We would spend our nights warm and dry until the winter frosts came, bringing an end to the rain and with it, as everyone prayed fervently, an end to the pestilence.