Company of Liars

by Karen Maitland

  I was startled by the panic in his voice. ‘But you love Adela. Why should you not love your child?’

  He chewed agitatedly at his thumbnail before answering, ‘If the child is born cursed like that cripple at the wedding…’

  ‘Come now,’ I said soothingly. ‘Why should your child be cursed? And besides, in the end, whatever he is like, you’ll love him, because he is your child. You’ll see more and more of Adela in your baby’s face with every passing day. If you love him for no other reason, you will love him for that.’

  He shivered in the rain, drawing his cloak tighter around him. ‘That’s what I am most afraid of, Camelot. I am afraid of what I shall see in its face.’

  ‘Osmond?’ I laid my hand on his arm.

  He gave a wan smile. ‘Take no notice, Camelot. I’m just worried for Adela, the birth, everything. I’ll feel better when we reach York and we have a roof over our heads.’ He took a deep breath and glanced up at the corpses again. ‘And standing here, chewing the cud, won’t get us to York. I must sell some of these toys, otherwise I’ll have to start sheep-stealing myself soon, if I don’t make some money.’

  He was right. Despite the weather, all of us were desperately trying to earn what little money we could. This was the first market we had found open since we left North Marston nearly two weeks ago, and God alone knew if we would find another. We needed to buy food. Travelling cold and wet is bad enough, but no one can travel long when they are hungry. An aching belly drives you to work more smartly than any master’s curses. So believe me, we were all working hard that day.

  ‘This book, master? You’re obviously a man of great education and discernment for this is no ordinary book, as you can see. It once belonged to a Jew. Very rare. Impossible to come by since the Jews were driven out. People would pay a fortune to get their hands on a Jewish book. With this book and the right words you can make a clay golem and bring it to life. Think of it, master, a giant with the strength of fifty men to do your bidding and crush your enemies.

  ‘Does it work? Does it work, he asks me? Tell me this, would the King have banished the Jews from England if they had not had such dangerous powers? I tell you, it was only because he seized all their possessions first that he was able to do it at all. If they’d still had their books, there’d not have been a Christian soul left alive in this realm.

  ‘The spell to make the golem live? I couldn’t bring myself to tell you, master, such potent words, such malefic phrases. Golems conjured up with such words can turn and rend you into pieces if you can’t command them. If you lose control for an instant… well, look at me if you want proof of their strength, just a flick of its finger and my eye was gone. I tell you, I barely escaped with my life. If you should come to any harm, I’d never forgive myself. If I could be sure that you could command it…

  ‘Now you come to mention it, master, that purse does seem to have a certain weight of authority.’

  The merchant departed, the book, well wrapped, tucked under his arm, and the parchment with the spell on it hastily stuffed in the concealed money belt hidden deep inside his clothes. He seemed to stride out with a new confidence as if he already felt invincible.

  ‘So now it is a golem you have to thank for the loss of your eye, is it, Camelot? And I thought it was a werewolf or was it a Saracen?’ drawled Zophiel. ‘I can hardly keep up.’

  He was leaning against the back of his wagon, watching Adela and Pleasance stowing away the food they had bought for the company. ‘You’d better hope he doesn’t try that spell until the market is over. He’s not going to be a happy man when he discovers it won’t work.’

  ‘You’ve tried it then?’

  ‘Me use anything that had been touched by a Jew? I’d rather cut off my own hand. Their books are full of sorcery, any fool knows that. If I’d known you’d such a book in your pack…’

  ‘So you do believe their books can conjure golems then, Zophiel.’

  Zophiel scowled. ‘One day you’ll go too far and someone will cut out that lying tongue of yours, old man… Clear off, you little brat! Don’t you dare try that one on me.’

  I glanced up just in time to see Zophiel aim a cuff at the head of a young lad who had come limping up, palm outstretched for alms. The beggar ducked nimbly out of arm’s reach with an alacrity that was surprising from one with such a marked limp. The lad, though about twelve years old, was stark naked, and his body, limbs and face were caked in mud and covered with streaks of dried blood and livid purple bruises. He slipped round the side of the wagon to try his luck with Adela.

  ‘Please, mistress, for pity’s sake help me.’

  Adela, who had not seen him approach, gave a startled little cry.

  ‘You poor boy, whatever’s happened to you?’

  ‘Set upon by thieves on the road… beat me. Took my clothes. Everything. They killed my father. Would have done for me too, but…’ He broke off and began to wail piteously.

  Adela hastened to put her arm round the lad, her face full of concern. ‘There, there, you’re safe now. We’ll help you. We’ll…’

  ‘We will do no such thing,’ Zophiel cut in.

  Adela looked up, horrified. ‘But you heard what he said, Zophiel, he’s been robbed, his father killed. We have to help him.’

  Zophiel gave his mirthless laugh, ‘I know you’re a woman, Adela, but even you can’t be that codwitted. The lad’s avering, can’t you tell? It’s the oldest trick in the book. They strip themselves, leave their clothes concealed somewhere and then come into town pretending to have been robbed, in the hope of finding some muttonhead like you to take pity on them and give money or clothes they can sell.’

  The lad began to wail again, grabbing hold of Adela as if she was his mother, and blubbing out yet more details of his story. Adela wrapped her arms tightly about him, cradling his head to her chest. ‘But look at him, Zophiel. He’s covered in blood.’

  Zophiel snorted. ‘He’ll have got it from butcher’s row. Puddles of it there, isn’t that right, boy?’

  ‘How can you be so cruel?’ Adela was almost in tears herself now. ‘You’re wrong. Anyone can see he’s in pain.’

  ‘Wrong, am I?’ Zophiel suddenly strode forward and before Adela could stop him, he had grabbed the boy by the neck and was marching him away.

  ‘What are you doing? Leave him alone.’ Adela tried to follow, but clutched at her swollen belly and sank back, breathless, against the wheel of the wagon.

  Zophiel didn’t answer. He dragged the lad towards the horse trough. The boy, who could see plain enough what was coming, was wriggling and fighting with all his strength to get out of Zophiel’s grasp. His cries had turned to curses, but Zophiel took no notice. He picked up the boy and threw him into the horse trough, ducking him under the icy water. The boy thrashed helplessly. Zophiel pulled his head up by the hair long enough for him to take a gulp of air and then shoved him under again. It took two or three more duckings under the water before Zophiel was satisfied and finally hauled him out of the trough. Then he marched him, dripping and shivering, back towards Adela. The fight had gone out of the lad and although Zophiel still held him in a vice-like grip, he no longer put up any resistance.

  The water had done its job. Most of the blood had been washed off the boy’s body and what remained was now trickling down his legs as the water dripped off him. Apart from the odd bruise any boy might have collected through normal living, there were no signs of any wounds or injuries. Adela looked away.

  Zophiel, still gripping the lad firmly, looked smugly triumphant. ‘I’ve cured him. It’s a miracle, isn’t it, boy?’

  The boy cursed richly and got his head cuffed.

  ‘Come, boy, where’s your gratitude? That’s no way to thank me.’

  This time the lad didn’t risk a reply, but glowered as if he would dearly like to kill Zophiel.

  ‘At least he’s had the sense not to try the sickness trick. They used to roll themselves in nettles to give themselves a rash and stick on
fake boils with maggots crawling in them to try to get alms from the worshippers on the church steps. You daren’t try that trick any more, do you, boy, not now the pestilence is raging?’

  The lad looked mutinous, but didn’t answer.

  ‘But he must be in need to go to those lengths to beg,’ Pleasance said softly.

  ‘He’s just too idle to work; besides, he enjoys tricking people, don’t you, boy? Avering’s a good game, laughing at the fools who deserve to be parted from their purses. Well, maybe you’re right, boy, they do, but I’m not one of them, and you try that trick on me again and I’ll give you bruises that won’t wash off. Now clear off.’

  In one swift movement Zophiel spun the boy round and landed a good kick on his backside which sent him sprawling in the mud. He scrambled up and clutching his backside was off like a startled hare. Only when he reached a good safe distance did he pause to make obscene gestures in our direction, yelling curses until he was scarlet in the face, before he ran off into the crowd.

  As I turned away, I caught sight of Narigorm. The crowds had thinned now and most of the stallholders were packing up to go, but she was crouching on the ground in the corner of the market place. A young girl, her hair covered with a married woman’s fret and fillet, stood awkwardly in front of her, while the girl’s mother handed Narigorm a coin. Narigorm tucked it away and drew three concentric circles in the dirt. She fumbled at the neck of her shift and pulled out a small leather pouch which hung round her neck on a thong. She tipped the contents over the circles. Lozenges of wood tumbled out. Women paused in their shopping, peering at the slashed patterns on the pieces of wood, which were as meaningless to them as the Latin words in the church bible. Like them I drew closer, intrigued. I had not seen Narigorm work the runes before.

  She began rocking back and forth, whispering something under her breath, as her hand hovered over the runes like a bird of prey. Then she selected one of the runes and held it up. It resembled two triangles on their sides, facing each other, their points touching.

  ‘Daeg. It means day. Something is about to begin. Something is about to change and grow. Daeg stands for one. There is one to come before it can begin.’

  ‘Something about to grow and someone to come,’ beamed the girl’s mother. ‘There, I told you, my angel, you’re going to have a baby.’

  But Narigorm was not looking at the young girl as she spoke her words; she was looking past her and staring straight at me.

  Zophiel did not let Adela forget the episode of the averer in a hurry. He treated the company in the inn that night to a lively retelling of the story of how Adela had been taken in, and amid laughter and jokes the men agreed how easy it was to dupe a woman. Even Osmond did not rise to his wife’s defence, but patted her arm affectionately and told her what a kind-hearted, silly little goose she was, though I suspected he knew as little of the tricks of avering as she did. This last was too much for Adela and, with a tight little smile, she took herself off to bed, her cheeks flushed and her hands clenched.

  Osmond half-rose to follow her and probably would have done had Zophiel not met his eyes and grinned.

  ‘That’s right, you’d better go running after her and apologize, boy.’ He turned to the grinning faces. ‘He daren’t say boo to that little goose. If he does there’s no plucking her for a week. Isn’t that right, boy? Come to think of it, I’ve yet to see you share her bed.’

  ‘Keeps you on short rations, does she, m’lad?’ said another man. ‘You don’t want to stand for that, not with a new bride. Wives are like dogs, lad, got to show them who’s master from the first otherwise they’ll be snarling and snapping any time they please and you’ll never get the leash on them.’

  ‘I heard that, Tom,’ said a mature, buxom woman, gathering up the empty platters from the table behind him. ‘You wait till I tell your Ann, she’ll soon show you who’s wearing the leash. She’ll be tethering you by your balls, if I know Ann.’

  The man grinned sheepishly and reached across to slide his hand up her skirt. ‘Ah, but you won’t tell, will you, my sweet, because I wouldn’t be much use to you if I was damaged goods, now would I?’

  The banter and laughter continued. Adela was forgotten by all but Osmond who made another attempt to slip out, but this time it was Jofre who restrained him, putting out a hand to grasp his arm.

  ‘She’ll be all right. Please stay.’

  He looked up into Osmond’s face, his hand still resting on his arm. Something in the pleading tone of his voice or the expression in his eyes seemed to startle Osmond. For a moment neither of them moved. Then Pleasance, scraping the last of her pottage into her mouth, stood up.

  ‘Jofre’s right. Best you leave her for a while. You’ve said enough for one evening. I’ll sit with her.’

  Osmond nodded gratefully. ‘Perhaps that would be better. Tell her I didn’t mean…’

  ‘She doesn’t need upsetting in her condition,’ Pleasance scolded. ‘Women take things harder when they’re with child. But who listens to me?’

  Osmond flushed, but before he could reply, Pleasance had turned away and was making her way towards the door, muttering, ‘Men, they never think before they open their mouths. Brains of a donkey.’

  As she pulled the door open, someone burst in from outside. Thrown off balance by the unexpected opening of the door, the man staggered into the room, grabbing at Pleasance’s shoulder to stop himself sprawling headlong into the rushes.

  ‘Steady there, Giles,’ the landlord called out. ‘No need to flatten my customers. You that desperate for drink?’

  ‘They’ve raised the hue and cry.’

  Most of the occupants of the room pushed back their tankards and trenchers and scrambled to their feet. A hue and cry was not a summons you could ignore.

  ‘What’s to do, Giles? Robbery, a killing?’

  ‘How many of them?’

  ‘Which way did they go?’

  The men crowded round Giles, fastening cloaks and pulling up hoods against the rain outside.

  Giles looked as grim as a man can. ‘Little lass found dead, Odo the flesher’s youngest. Didn’t come home by nightfall. Not like her to stay out past suppertime, so her mam got a few of the neighbours to go looking. Her dog showed where she was. Her body was hidden behind some bales of wool in the warehouse down by the river. Well hidden she was too, we’d have not found her for days if it hadn’t been for her dog barking.’

  The men’s expressions became as grim as Giles’s.

  ‘No chance the little lass got trapped by accident, suffocated maybe?’ one asked.

  ‘You’d not ask that if you’d seen her neck. Purple marks clear as day. It was no accident, not unless she strangled herself.’

  An angry buzz filled the room.

  ‘What kind of bastard would do that to a little child?’

  Giles shook his head. ‘I dunno, but they reckon she was last seen talking to that storyteller. We’ll start with him.’

  ‘If he’s got aught to do with this, queens and witches won’t be the only thing burning on a fire. I’ll tie him to a spit and grill the scum myself. Come on, lads, I fancy a slice of roast swan.’

  9. Vampires and Jews

  It was already mid-morning and we had still not left the town of Northampton. We were not the only ones to be late on the road: since first light, a steady stream of carts and wagons had been trying to make their way to the town gates. But the gates were still firmly locked and now the streets and alleys of the town were jammed solid with carts, wagons, horses, oxen, dogs, sheep, geese, people on foot and people with handcarts, all trying to leave and all getting nowhere. The bleary-eyed drivers cursed those in front, though precious little good it did for no one could move forward or back. Their wives yelled at their children, trying in vain to prevent them from wandering off. And the local housewives and traders shouted at the travellers, as they tried to squeeze past the wagons with their baskets and loads, anxious to be about their own business.

  Ever
yone was wet, tired and irritable. It had been the early hours of the morning before we got to our beds and when we finally did, we were constantly woken by drunken revellers and gangs of men storming in and out of barns and outbuildings, searching for the storyteller. They stabbed at piles of hay with pitchforks and swept every dark corner with their blazing torches until the women screamed they’d set the whole town afire if they didn’t stop waving them about. No one in the town could have slept through the shouting and banging, but for all their noise, the only miscreants they flushed out were a few unfortunate couples who fled the scene half-clad or naked, surprised in their lovemaking by a pitchfork jabbed in their backsides or a light shone on to them in the corner of some dark alley.

  As for the storyteller, he was nowhere to be found. He’d probably slipped out of town long before the gates were shut for the night. The gatekeeper couldn’t recall seeing him leave, but since he couldn’t recall seeing him arrive either, not much store could be set by that. As the poor man protested, there had been throngs of travellers arriving and departing; how could he be expected to notice one among so many? And besides, no one could tell him for certain if the storyteller was on foot or travelling on horseback and if he was alone or in company.

  With their only lead vanished, no one knew what do next except inform the sheriff and coroner in the hope that one or other might dispatch soldiers to nearby towns and villages in case the storyteller turned up there. For if he did, he’d certainly be easy to identify, assuming, of course, that the swan’s wing was real and not as fake as an averer’s boil.

  Some of the townspeople were all for keeping the gates locked until the murderer was discovered for, they said, the killer might not be the storyteller after all, but one of the other outlanders come for the market. However, wiser heads reasoned that all those extra mouths would be a considerable drain on the town’s resources of food and ale, and the way the pestilence was spreading, they’d need every last scrap of food for themselves. Besides, what about the other children in the town? If there was a child-killer on the loose did they really want him to be trapped with their children? Better to risk letting the murderer walk free than have him strike again in their town. If he moved elsewhere and killed again, well, that wasn’t their problem, at least their children would be safe. ‘And who knows,’ they said cheerfully, ‘if we send him out on to the road, he might catch the pestilence and that would solve the problem once and for all.’ And while they argued back and forth, the gates remained shut.