Company of Liars (30 page)

His real name, he told us, lowering his voice to a confidential boom, was Michelotto, but he called himself Michael, for in his experience the English did not trust foreigners. His father, a widower and a glassblower like himself, had brought him out of Venice before the glassmakers there were confined to the island of Murano.

‘These days,’ he spread his hands and shrugged, ‘they do not allow anyone to leave the island. The Doge, he worries that if they leave they will betray the secrets of glassmaking to other nations. So what if they are the finest glassmakers in the world and the best paid, what good is that when they are little better than slaves? My father, may he rest in peace, was wise to get out when he did. Me, I stay nowhere for long. As soon as the trees are used up around us we have to move to a new site. Glassmaking burns up so much wood, you see, every two or three years we must move on, but not like you,
ragazzo
, you move every day.’

He leaned forward and affectionately ruffled the hair of Jofre who sat on a low stool at his feet. He had insisted on keeping the boy at his side all through the meal, like a
favoured grandchild, feeding him with the choicest portions of meat from the tip of his own knife. Jofre revelled in the attention and could hardly take his eyes off Michelotto, drinking up every word he had to say about his life in Venice. Jofre asked eagerly if the glassblower knew his mother, but the old man shook his head sadly, knowing how much it meant to the boy. He had left Venice so long ago, he said, he hardly remembered any names now. The squares and the canals he still dreamt about, but like the faces of the people in his dreams, he could no longer remember their names either. He saw the disappointment in the faces of both Rodrigo and Jofre.

For a moment he sat despondently, then an idea seemed to occur to him, and excusing himself, he rose and slipped off into the darkness. A few minutes later he returned, something shining in his hand. It was a small, tear-shaped flask, such as a lady might use for perfumed oils. Cupped in his hand, it was dark and opaque, but when he held it up to the light of one of the torches, the glass glowed with rich blue and purple ripples and tiny flecks of gold sparkled all over it.

‘See, that is what I remember, the light of Venice is like glass itself. I remember the way the evening sun sent golden sparks dancing over the waters of the lagoon. I remember the pearl light of the winter's dawn and the hot, fierce red of the sun as it sets in summer, making the white marble blush pink under its heat. I remember at night when the waters of the canals turn dark as sable, how the moonlight glitters on the dark water like a silver fret on the black hair of a beautiful woman. That is what I try to make in my glass. I capture the light of Venice in my glass.’

He held out the little flask to Jofre, who took it carefully in both hands, holding it up to the light of the torches,
twisting it to every angle, a look of sheer wonderment on his face as every turn brought a new subtle shift of colour and pattern. With a sigh, Jofre made to hand the flask back to Michelotto, but the glassblower folded Jofre's fingers around the flask. ‘Take it. It is yours. You look at this and think of your mother, no? Maybe you think of me sometimes too.’

As the yawns multiplied around the group, we finally pushed aside the benches and stools and rolling ourselves up in our cloaks, lay down in the warmth of the furnaces to sleep. Michelotto and Rodrigo slipped off somewhere, I guessed back to Michelotto's own hut, where the two of them would doubtless continue to talk long into the night over a drink or two. Rodrigo was hungry for talk of home and it would not displease the old glassblower to remember the old times either. Jofre was already asleep, the beautiful little tear-shaped flask carefully wrapped and stowed safely in his pack, but not until after he had unwrapped it several times to hold it to the light once more.

In many ways Jofre's behaviour had improved since the whipping and for the past month he had not, so far as any of us knew, been gambling in the towns or villages, leastways he had not come back drunk and there were no angry locals demanding money that he owed them, but Rodrigo was still worried about him. Jofre had always withdrawn into himself on occasions, but since the whipping, the frequency of these silent moods had increased. He no longer displayed the outbursts of anger which used to make him storm off; instead he seemed frozen, as if trying to cut himself off from any feelings or emotions at all.

Jofre obediently practised when he was told to and with more concentration than he had shown for months. What he played was technically correct, but mechanical, as if he
was deliberately divorcing himself from the music, trying to play without being affected by it. Rodrigo was angry and frustrated. He could hear better than any of us how passionless the music was and treated this as one of Jofre's sulks, his revenge for the beating. But I sensed that Jofre was not trying to frustrate Rodrigo; he was genuinely afraid to let himself feel any emotion after the flood which had engulfed him that night in the barn. That evening as he listened to Michelotto speak of Venice, I saw the first glimmer of life I had seen in Jofre's eyes for weeks. As I lay down to sleep that night, I hoped that the evening might be the turning point and the boy who played and sang like an angel might be back with us again.

The sound of thundering hooves and screams woke me. It was still dark, but the clearing seemed to be full of riders weaving their horses in and out of the burning fires, scattering the terrified apprentices. I grabbed Adela's arm and, with Osmond on her other side, we hauled her bodily into the shelter of the trees behind the workshop, well away from the exposing light of fires and torches. We pushed her down behind a thick trunk and told her to keep still. I threw my cloak over her head, so that should anyone glance that way the whiteness of her skin would not betray her. Then I dragged the reluctant Osmond away from her. If there was going to be trouble, Adela's best hope was to lie still, a dark hump unnoticed in the shadows, and it was vital that we didn't draw attention to her whereabouts.

Zophiel too was crouching on the ground behind one of the huts. He had grabbed one of the apprentices by both arms and was shaking the cowering boy.

‘I know they're soldiers, idiot boy, but whose arms do they bear?’

‘I don't know, sir,’ the terrified boy wailed.

‘Then tell me what they look like,’ Zophiel hissed.

‘Two… two gold lions, sir, passant… guardant… on a red ground.’

‘Was there anything above them? Think, boy, think!’

‘A mitre, sir.’

‘A mitre, you're sure about that? And below the mitre, was there a Virgin and Child?’

The boy screwed his face up in concentration. ‘There was something, I don't know, sir, I didn't get a proper look.’

Zophiel groaned. ‘The Bishop of Lincoln's men.’

He released his grip on the boy who fled into the trees without a backward glance.

‘What do they want here? We're nowhere near Lincoln,’ Osmond whispered.

‘The See of Lincoln stretches down as far as London, they have lands everywhere,’ I told him. ‘Zophiel, we should…’

But Zophiel had vanished.

I heard a bellow of rage that I recognized. It was Rodrigo. Osmond and I hurried into the clearing.

In the centre of the clearing was Michelotto in the grip of two soldiers. His arms were twisted behind his back and one soldier had locked an arm around the struggling man's throat. Though the soldiers towered above him he was still putting up a good fight. Two other soldiers held Rodrigo, who was also struggling in their grip, and the rest of the soldiers, still on horseback, had corralled Hugh, three or four of the apprentices, Jofre, Pleasance and Narigorm against one of the huts. Of Cygnus and Zophiel there was no sign.

I didn't notice the man who sat quietly on a palfrey in the shadows until he trotted forward and dismounted. It was
plain from his broad-brimmed hat that he was a pardoner. He was a thin, spidery man, not much taller than Michelotto, and though his face was weather-beaten from his journeys, it still managed to retain an unhealthy pallor beneath the surface, as if he slept too little and brooded too much. It was probably as well he had chosen a life as a pardoner, for his physique suggested he would have fared badly at any profession that demanded physical labour. But he was clearly no ordinary pardoner, for he seemed to carry some authority over the Bishop's soldiers. At a nod from him, they dragged Michelotto forward.

He looked the glassmaker up and down before speaking. ‘Yes, this is the Jew. Well, well, pestilence breaks out in a village though there is none else for miles around, and what do you know, we just happen to find a Jew living on their doorstep. Now, isn't that a coincidence?’

Michelotto jerked violently, almost wresting one hand free. ‘I am no Jew, pardoner.’

The pardoner smiled as if he had made a joke. ‘A glassblower from Venice who is not a Jew, I find that hard to believe. The reason so many have died in Venice is thanks to the swarms of Jews they shelter.’

‘My family, they were Jews, but we converted when I was a child. I have papers to prove it.’

‘The worse for you then. They hang Jews, but they burn heretics… slowly.’

‘I am no heretic.’ Fear was beginning to show in Michelotto's face, as well it might.

‘Any Jew or Muslim who converts to the one true faith, then goes back to his old ways, like a dog returning to its vomit, is a heretic. A Christ-killing Jew is bad enough, but worse is a Jew who has been shown the mercy of our Lord and has spat on it.’

‘But I have not gone back. I am a good Christian. When I can, I attend mass. It is not easy in this job to go always when I should, but I go when I can. Ask the priest.’

‘The priest is dead of the pestilence. One of the first to fall sick, don't you find that significant? But then a heretic Jew would murder a good Christian first.’

‘But I did nothing to him. I have not seen him for weeks.’

‘But I thought you said you attended mass regularly. Now it seems you are saying you do not. And you prevent your apprentices from attending also, do you not? Trying to corrupt their innocent souls and make them as wicked as your own.’

Michelotto struggled against the hands that held him. ‘No, you are mistaken. I do not stop them. I would never –’

‘But you forbade them to go to the village last Sabbath, did you not?’ cut in the pardoner. ‘Just as you ordered your journeyman to prevent them from buying indulgences.’

‘Now look here.’ Hugh pushed his way forward from behind the horses. ‘It was me that ordered you off our works for frightening the lads with your talk of death. The master knew nothing about it, till I told him. You can't hold that against him.’

‘Can't I?’ the pardoner rejoined, smiling. ‘A master is responsible for all the actions of those he employs. And I trust you will not be so foolish as to deny that he forbade them to go to mass on Sunday.’

‘That's because there was pestilence in the village. He wanted to stop them catching it,’ Hugh said indignantly.

‘When they are in mortal peril it is all the more reason that they should go to mass to cleanse their souls. But you say your master would rather save their bodies and damn
their souls to hell. That sounds like Jewish logic to me. Perhaps he has corrupted you also.’

Michelotto shook his head at his journeyman. ‘Enough already, Hugh, no need to make trouble for yourself.’ A look of defeat had crept into his face. He turned wearily back to the pardoner. ‘What must I do to convince you that I am no Jew? You want me to swear on a cross, I will do it.’

Smiling, the pardoner shook his head. ‘And have you blasphemed our Lord? If you do not believe in Christ, then the oath would have no meaning. No, I have another test for you.’

He sauntered back to his horse and removed a wrapped parcel from the saddle bag. Slowly and dramatically he began to fold back the wrappings. Michelotto tensed in the grip of the soldiers, waiting to see what instrument of torture would be revealed. I glanced apprehensively around at the furnaces; there were too many places to heat a branding iron or pincers. Michelotto was used to burns, but how long could any man stand the irons?

The pardoner nodded to one of the mounted soldiers, who dismounted and came to stand beside him. He gave the parcel to the soldier who carried it across to Michelotto and waved the contents of the package under Michelotto's nose. We all let out our breath; inside was nothing more threatening than a rancid mound of pieces of meat. The flesh had a greenish tinge and stank, but it was not a branding iron.

‘Pork,’ the pardoner said with an evil grin. ‘All you have to do is eat a little pork. A Jew or a Muslim could not eat it, but to a Christian it is good wholesome fare. All you have to do is eat the pork, without vomiting, and I shall know you are a true Christian and let you go.’

‘But the meat is gone bad,’ said Hugh fiercely. ‘You cannot expect anyone to eat that.’

The pardoner gestured to the soldier. ‘Does this meat look good to you?’

The soldier grinned. ‘So fresh, I swear I heard it squealing just now.’

The pardoner turned back to Hugh. ‘Perhaps, my young fellow, you find it smells bad because you cannot stomach good Christian pork meat either. I wonder why that could be?’

‘I will eat it,’ Michelotto said, his voice flat and resigned.

‘No,’ Hugh pleaded.

‘What choice do I have?’

The two soldiers held his arms tightly while the third grasped his hair, dragging his head back, and thrust piece after piece into his mouth, scarcely giving him a chance to swallow before the next piece was crammed in. Pleasance, clutching Narigorm, buried her face in the child's hair. The rest of us were forced to turn away in the end too. He tried to hold the foul meat down as long as he could, but they would not let him rest or draw breath. He vomited as they knew he would.

The pardoner, smiling, turned away. ‘Bind him and tie him behind the horses.’

Michelotto sank to his knees, heaving over and over again. One of the apprentice boys, braver than the others, dashed forward and held a flask to his lips. A soldier aimed a kick at him, but the pardoner held up his hand.