Company of Liars

by Karen Maitland

  ‘Then, as the next wave rushed towards the rocks, he remembered the words of the old woman. “With the bone of his bone.” He quickly drew out his knife and cut off the third bone of his little finger and dropped it into the pool of tears. At once I lay whole again in the pool, but I did not breathe. I was like one drowned, for the wave had splashed into the pool and my spirit had already begun to float adrift out into the wide vast sea. But as Osmond reached out to touch my face, three drops of the blood from his bleeding finger dropped into my mouth and my eyes opened. And our tears then were tears of joy.’

  Adela reached over and drew Osmond’s paint-stained hand towards her, kissing it, before holding it up to show the missing top of his finger. Osmond blushed and hastily pulled his hand away.

  Cygnus clapped his hand enthusiastically against the stones of the floor. ‘Well done, Adela. That is a beautiful love story. It is you that should be the storyteller, not me.’

  Rodrigo slapped him lightly on the back. ‘Come, Cygnus. You must better it.’

  Cygnus protested he could not, but instead told us the comic tale of the fools who try to rescue the moon from the river. As he told the tale he gibbered and capered around the chapel, making such a mime of trying to rake out the moon from an imaginary river that we were all soon helpless with mirth again. Only Jofre did not join in the laughter, but sat lost in his own thoughts.

  It may not have been as grand as the Christmas festivities that Rodrigo had described, but for a few hours at least we had contrived to forget our own fears and the misery of what lay outside the chapel. But now the afternoon was drawing to a close and shadows were lengthening in the chapel. The merriment had died away and we sat reluctantly preparing ourselves for another cold night down in the crypt. I thought of Pleasance lying alone in the dark forest and felt guilty at laughing again so soon.

  Osmond sprawled on the floor, his head resting on Adela’s outstretched legs. He was lost in his own thoughts, gazing up at the painting at the far end of the chapel, as if he was itching to get back to it.

  ‘How goes the painting, Osmond, are you making progress?’ I asked.

  ‘Her face is finished and I have made a start on her hands. It’s usual to leave the face until last, but I don’t know how long we will be here and I wanted to complete that at least.’

  ‘Can I see?’ Narigorm asked suddenly.

  Osmond smiled indulgently. ‘Of course, you shall see it when it’s finished.’

  ‘But you said her face was finished. Why can’t I see her face now?’

  Osmond, laughing, shook his head. ‘Don’t be so impatient.’

  Adela joined in. ‘Please, Osmond. It would be such a comfort to me to know she can at last look down upon us. And as you say, if we have to leave before she is finished, we may never see it.’

  Osmond was visibly torn between his desire to show off his painting and his wish to keep it covered until it was complete. But Adela’s pleading won out and he rose and climbed up the scaffolding, pulling aside the cloth which hung down from the scaffolding plank. He leaped down from the scaffolding and stood aside.

  He hauled Adela to her feet and led her across to the sanctuary. We moved behind them and stood looking up. Adela gasped, her eyes bright with tears, and buried her head in Osmond’s shoulder. It was plain to see why she was moved. The face of the Madonna was beautiful and it was unmistakably that of Adela, even down to the wisp of flaxen hair which peeped out from underneath the white veil.

  Most artists take the face of the woman they love – their wife, daughter or mistress – as the model for the Madonna. There have been popes and bishops who have insisted the face of their whores should be used as the face of the Virgin, so we should not have been surprised that Osmond should take his own young wife as the model.

  Rodrigo broke the silence. ‘Bellissima, Osmond. She is lovely. The face, the eyes, such gentleness and compassion.’

  Osmond, beaming with pride, said modestly, ‘It is thanks to you, Rodrigo. It is the trick you taught me with the oil. The paint dries much more slowly than using egg tempera, so it is possible to work more slowly and carefully to blend the tones and shadows.’

  He was right. The face had a lifelike quality that I had never seen in a painting before, the skin so warm and the eyes so alive that it looked as if at any moment the smiling lips would part and speak.

  Rodrigo bowed. ‘Not my oil, but your talent. You have a great gift and you have a model beautiful enough to inspire any artist.’

  He kissed his fingertips to Adela. Smiling delightedly, she raised her face and kissed Osmond on the cheek.

  We all looked round as the heavy door to the chapel suddenly slammed behind us.

  Zophiel called out sharply, ‘Who’s there?’ He strode across to the door.

  ‘No one,’ Narigorm said. ‘Jofre went out. He slammed the door.’ Then, seeing our puzzled expressions, she gave her knowing little smile. ‘Jofre doesn’t like it that Osmond painted Adela.’

  Adela looked puzzled. ‘Why? Does it offend him that a pregnant woman is painted as the Virgin?’

  With a cold lump in the pit of my stomach, I suddenly realized what Narigorm was hinting at and tried to stop her saying it. How could the little brat have known, unless she had overheard Jofre and me talking in the barn that night after his whipping? But even if she had, nothing had actually been put into words. Was she really that astute?

  I broke in quickly, ‘Jofre quickly gets bored once he has nothing to entertain him and goes off on his own. He’s always done that. It’s nothing to do with the painting.’

  Narigorm fixed me with a wide, innocent stare. ‘But it has. Jofre is jealous. He wants Osmond to paint him, not her.’

  I glanced at Rodrigo who looked distraught.

  Zophiel too had seen the expression on Rodrigo’s face. A look of triumph spread slowly across Zophiel’s sharp features as if he had just discovered a great secret.

  ‘So that’s the way our young friend bends, is it? I’ve always wondered about men who choose to spend their life playing pretty tunes instead of earning their living in manly toil. Now it seems I was correct.’

  ‘I’d hardly call magical tricks and exhibiting mermaids manly toil, Zophiel,’ I said coldly.

  But before Zophiel could reply, Osmond broke in. ‘What are you trying to suggest, Zophiel?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious? Haven’t you noticed how he’s always watching you and Adela? It has been so ever since you joined us. I thought it was your wife he fancied, but now it seems you spoke truer than you know when you called him a pretty maid this afternoon. Haven’t you noticed how eager he is always to go out alone with you to hunt for the pot?’

  Osmond blushed furiously.

  ‘Of course he’s eager to go out hunting with Osmond. What could be more natural for a lad?’ I said firmly. ‘The two of them are closest in age. A young boy like Jofre doesn’t want to spend time in the company of old dotards like us; he wants to be around other young people.’

  Zophiel looked highly amused. ‘But most young men would prefer to spend their time flirting with a beautiful woman, than hunting with her husband. If I were you, Osmond, I’d keep my backside against the wall whenever he’s around.’

  Osmond was looking more angry and uncomfortable by the minute. ‘But I swear I’ve done nothing to encourage him. I’m not like that. How could he think I was one of those…’

  I glared at Zophiel who was smirking, thoroughly enjoying the look of panic and embarrassment on Osmond’s face.

  ‘He doesn’t think anything of the sort, Osmond,’ I said. ‘If Jofre seeks out your company it’s because he has come to regard you as an older brother. You can paint, hunt, swim, do all those things which any young lad would admire. Furthermore, you have a beautiful wife. What young lad wouldn’t hero-worship you? He wants to be like you and naturally he wants to win your approval, nothing more. Did you never feel the same at his age for someone you admired?’

  ‘No, I did not,’ h
e said firmly.

  Adela came and took him by the arm. ‘You did. Don’t you remember how you used to trail after Edward D’Fraenger when you were young? You’d try all kinds of tricks to get him to notice you and…’ She broke off abruptly and shot a scared glance at Zophiel. ‘I mean… that’s what you told me once.’

  Rodrigo, looking suddenly old and drawn, walked towards the door. ‘I must look for Jofre; it will be dark soon.’

  ‘Wait,’ Cygnus called after him. ‘I’ll come too. I need to check on Xanthus.’

  Zophiel watched the door close behind them. ‘Perhaps music is not the only thing Rodrigo has taught Jofre. It’s easy for a master to corrupt an innocent young pupil to his own perverted taste. It would explain why he is so indulgent with him. He has an unusual fondness for the boy, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘You see evil in everyone and everything, Zophiel.’

  ‘Because there is evil to see, Camelot.’

  17. The Stew

  Rodrigo and Cygnus searched for Jofre until well after dark, but it was futile to keep looking when he evidently did not want to be found. He could have run a mile or more in any direction or he could be sulking just a few yards away in the dark, ignoring their shouts. All we could do was wait for him to return whenever he was ready.

  Jofre did return, but not until the small hours of the morning. Zophiel had, of course, insisted on barring the chapel door as soon as it got dark, but Cygnus, Rodrigo and I had elected to sleep upstairs in the chapel, so were all awoken by his urgent hammering on the door.

  ‘Wake… up, wake the master of the house, I’m come a-wassailing,’ he sang out in a childish falsetto.

  Zophiel shouted to him that he wouldn’t be allowed into the chapel until he had sobered up and that a night in the cold would serve him right. But drunks seldom go away on being told to and Jofre continued to bang and sing until Rodrigo finally pushed Zophiel aside and unbarred the door. When he opened it, Jofre, who had evidently been leaning against it for support, tumbled straight into Rodrigo’s arms and thence to the floor where he lay giggling. A small barrel rolled out of his arms, making a loud rumble on the stone floor. Zophiel stopped it with his foot, took out the stopper and sniffed the contents.

  ‘Wine.’ He tipped a few drops of the red liquid into his cupped hand and tasted it. ‘Strong too. Where did he get this?’

  Rodrigo grabbed Jofre by the front of his shirt and dragged him to his feet. Jofre swayed unsteadily. ‘You heard him, ragazzo, where did you get this?’

  Jofre hiccuped. ‘My friend gave it… to me.’

  ‘What friend?’ Rodrigo shook him.

  Jofre flung his arms wide. ‘I have lots of friends… lots and lots. A dragon and knights and big, big Saracens with curved swords. There were lots of swords… and a dragon. Did I tell you about the dragon?’ He sank to his knees and closed his eyes, swaying.

  ‘Mummers,’ I said. ‘He must have run into a crowd of mummers and gone drinking with them. If there’s a drop of strong drink to be found anywhere in a town, you can be sure the mummers will sniff it out. Likely some of the taverns have been holding back a few barrels for the Christmas celebrations.’

  Rodrigo released his grasp on Jofre’s shirt and the lad crumpled on to the floor, curled up like a baby and instantly fell asleep.

  Rodrigo turned away in disgust and strode over to the window, looking out down into the dark, swirling river.

  He slapped the wall and turned back to face us, a mixture of anger and bewilderment on his face. ‘Why does he do this? He was behaving better these last few weeks. I thought he had learned his lesson.’

  ‘You can’t blame any young lad for getting drunk at Christmas,’ I told him. ‘I dare say anyone who can afford it is drunk tonight in the town.’

  ‘Which means,’ Zophiel said tartly, ‘that Jofre went into the town and has been drinking in some rat-hole where he could have picked up any contagion and brought it back here. And those drinking dens are teeming with thieves and cutpurses, anyone of whom could have got our young friend here to tell them where he was staying. Are you still going to excuse him, when they follow him out here to cut our throats and take whatever we have?’

  ‘And just what have we got that is worth stealing, Zophiel? What are you so anxious to protect?’ I snapped.

  But if I hoped to goad him into revealing anything about the contents of his precious boxes, I was wasting my time. Even when woken in the middle of the night, Zophiel’s wits were still scythe-sharp. He eyed me coolly.

  ‘The wagon, a horse, your genuine relics, Rodrigo’s instruments, why, even an old rag is worth the stealing to a man who is naked. We may not be rich, but still we have much that some might covet, don’t you agree, Camelot?’

  We had all longed for the rain to stop, but now that it had, the weather grew colder and the wind icier. The weak sun which shone through the clearing skies may have raised our spirits, but it did nothing to warm our chilled bones. Food was our biggest concern. Our stores were gone and we were reliant on what we could gather or catch and that was no easy task.

  But hunger was not the only thing which kept each of us locked in our own silent thoughts. Cygnus looked even more exhausted and wretched than before. Despite sleeping in the chapel, nightmares repeatedly disturbed his sleep, much to the irritation of Zophiel, who told him that if he couldn’t control his own mouth, he should sleep outside in the empty wagon where only Xanthus would be disturbed.

  Adela, now that Christmas had come and gone with no sign of the birth, was becoming more fretful and demanding by the hour. Torn between wanting the baby out of her body, and fear of the labour beginning, she was afraid to let Osmond out of her sight to go hunting in case the pains started and he wasn’t there. Osmond not only had Adela to fret over, now he could hardly bear to look Jofre in the face. He went out of his way to avoid being alone with him and made a point of asking Zophiel or Rodrigo to help him with the netting of birds or hunting, tasks neither of them was skilled at, but Narigorm eagerly offered to go in their stead. And Osmond, though reluctant to take her, had to admit that even experienced hunters would be hard put to match her persistence and patience when stalking prey. Any offers of help from Jofre were refused with some feeble excuse which both baffled and hurt him. Zophiel took every opportunity to goad him, but even so Jofre did not at first appear to see the connection between Zophiel’s taunts and Osmond’s coldness.

  It was on the feast of St John the Apostle, two days after Christmas, that matters came to a head. Jofre, Zophiel and I were alone in the chapel. We had woken to find our breath hanging like white mist in the air and a hard frost outside. Every blade of grass sparkled white in the watery sunshine and the ruts of mud were frozen into rock-hard ridges. The river was too fast-flowing to freeze over, but the puddles in the road had turned to glass. Xanthus stood under the trees, stamping her feet and snorting puffs of steam through her pink nostrils. Cygnus had already gone out to lead her to the river to drink, for her own bucket of water, put out the night before, was frozen solid.

  Osmond and Adela were jubilant when they saw the glittering branches of the trees. It was what we had been waiting for, what all England had been praying for. Surely the pestilence would now die away, as all summer fevers did, banished by the ice of winter. I fervently prayed it would be so, but as Zophiel had said, this summer we’d had no heat to breed the fever and still it had burned. But then, if the winter frosts did not kill it, what in heaven or earth could?

  I was about to set out to see what I could forage when Osmond came up from the crypt below, his fowling nets over his arm and Narigorm at his side. On catching sight of Jofre, he hesitated, but then recovered himself and strode purposefully towards the chapel door without glancing at him.

  ‘Wait, Osmond,’ Jofre called. ‘If you’re going fowling, I’ll come with you.’

  Osmond grabbed Narigorm by the shoulder and held her in front of him as if she was a human shield.

  ‘No, I can manage the nets
with Narigorm. Why don’t you take the sling into the woods? If we don’t find many ducks, we shall need some pigeons or partridge, and maybe you’ll catch some rabbits, that’ll be good eating.’

  Jofre did not appear to notice Osmond’s embarrassment. He picked up his cloak. ‘I can go sling-hunting later. The banks will be icy and the river’s in flood. Narigorm won’t be able to hold you if you slip. You could both be swept away. Better the two of us go, then we can look out for each other.’

  ‘I said no,’ Osmond snapped.

  Jofre recoiled at the vehemence of his tone.

  ‘We’ll get many more birds between us, Jofre, if we work separately from now on,’ Osmond muttered, and rushed Narigorm out of the door before another word could be said, leaving Jofre standing in the chapel looking like a puppy that’s been kicked and doesn’t know why.

  ‘It appears you have been jilted, my pretty maid,’ Zophiel drawled. Jofre gave no sign that he realized he was being addressed. He dropped his cloak and crossed to the window, where he stood looking out, lost in thought.

  ‘Leave him alone, Zophiel,’ I warned quietly. ‘We don’t need any more trouble.’

  Zophiel ignored me. ‘What a picture, a broken-hearted maiden standing at the window, watching her lover depart. You should write a song about it, Jofre.’

  Jofre turned at the mention of his name.

  ‘Did you say something, Zophiel?’

  ‘I was merely remarking on what a tragic picture you make; the jilted virgin waiting in vain for her lover. But then, you are not exactly a virgin, are you, Jofre? I imagine you have had numerous lovers already.’

  Jofre was too preoccupied to follow the subtleties of this conversation, but he reddened slightly at the mention of lovers.

  ‘Not as many as you’ve had, Zophiel,’ he replied insolently.