Company of Liars (6 page)

His mouth twitched. ‘A fortune? Tell me truthfully, Camelot, how much did that Russian wolf's dung cost you, if it really was wolf's dung?’

‘It was a mulled ale you wagered, wasn't it?’ I slapped my tankard into his hand.

He bowed, and chuckling, squelched off through the rain in the direction of the tavern. Once his back was turned, I could not suppress a grin. My new apprentice was beginning to learn.

Jofre, though younger than Rodrigo, was finding his new life more difficult to adjust to, but unlike Rodrigo, he would accept advice from no one. Like most youths caught in that restless age between boy and man, he was moody and unpredictable. One minute he'd be in the thick of a crowd laughing and joking and the next skulking alone in a barn or on a riverbank.

But I believe he truly loved music, perhaps even more than Rodrigo. When Rodrigo gave him his daily lesson he would practise with great earnestness, studying Rodrigo's hands as if they were the hands of God. Sometimes Jofre would play for hours on end, while expressions of pain and joy, sorrow and passion beyond his years would pass across his eyes, like clouds blown by the wind. But then on other days, if he could not immediately master a difficult tune, he'd fly into a rage, throwing down his lute or pipes and storming off, not appearing again for several hours. He'd return eventually, swearing he'd never do it again, and quickly take up his lute. And as he played, the sharp reprimand Rodrigo had intended to deliver would be forgotten. And who can blame him, for when he was in the mood, Jofre's music could make you forgive him anything.

But although Jofre was kept busy in the evenings playing in the inns, for most of the day he had nothing to do, as the rain poured down relentlessly, except hang around in the taverns or the market place. Trouble was never far off. And at the Bartholomew Fair, it came in the guise of the great magician Zophiel, who, as Jofre soon discovered, had other tricks up his sleeve besides the mermaid.

By the third day of the fair, the flood of people waiting to see the creature had dried to a trickle. Those who wanted to see it had already done so, except for a few children who were still trying to sneak in under the tent flaps for free. But
those who did manage to wriggle in were sadly disappointed for the merchild had been put away and Zophiel had taken up his place outside the tent in front of a low table. The crowd that now surrounded him was smaller and composed mainly of men and young lads. They pressed in tightly. But however closely they watched his hands, Zophiel was too quick for them.

It was the old three cups trick: carefully place the dried pea under the upturned cup in plain view of everyone and shuffle the cups around. Then get some poor fool to bet on which cup contains the pea. The bet seems a certainty except that, of course, the pea is never under the cup the gambler has put his money on. You'd think the trick had been around for so long that no one would be taken in by it any more, but there's always one who fancies himself sharper than the trickster.

Jofre, on this occasion at least, was not one of the gullible. He'd seen the trick performed by jesters and court entertainers too many times to be taken in by it and was amusing himself by telling the crowd how the sleight of hand was being performed. Most didn't believe him though, for however closely they watched, they couldn't catch Zophiel palming the pea and Zophiel was still able to take a fair few bets before he finally wearied of Jofre's commentary.

Packing away his cups, he informed the crowd that he would now show them a feat of magic. He sent a boy to a neighbouring stall to buy a hardboiled egg, which he carefully peeled in front of the crowd, who watched the action with surprising fascination considering they had themselves peeled hundreds of eggs. They continued to watch as Zophiel sat the peeled egg on top of the neck of a glass flask. The neck of the flask was far too narrow to admit the egg whole, but Zophiel told the crowd he could make the
egg fall into the flask without touching the egg or crushing it. The crowd jeered, but it was a ritual jeer like booing the devil in a mummers' play. Most felt sure that something magical was about to happen, but you were supposed to show scepticism; it was part of the magician's game with his audience.

Zophiel turned his sharp green eyes upon Jofre. ‘You, boy, you had a lot to say for yourself before. Do you think I can cause the egg to fall into the flask?’

Jofre hesitated. He looked at the plump glistening egg resting securely on the narrow neck of the flask. He knew as well as the rest of the crowd did that Zophiel would not have presented the challenge if he couldn't do it; the trouble was that Jofre could not see how it could be done.

The shadow of a smile began to play around Zophiel's mouth. ‘Well now, you were swift enough to tell us all how the pea found its way under the cup, so tell us, boy, how will I make the egg enter the flask?’

Some of the other men who'd been irritated by Jofre's know-it-all comments began to grin and poke him in the back.

‘Yes, lad, go on, tell us how he's going to do this one, if you're so smart.’

Jofre flushed. ‘It can't be done,’ he said defiantly, with a good deal more bravado than he apparently felt.

‘Then perhaps you'd care to put a wager on it,’ Zophiel said.

Jofre shook his head and tried to back out of the crowd, but the men behind him were having none of it.

‘Put your money where your mouth is, lad, or are you all talk?’

Red-faced, Jofre fumbled for a coin and slapped it down.

Zophiel raised one eyebrow. ‘Is that the price of your
conviction, boy?’ He turned to the crowd. ‘It looks as if our clever young friend is not that sure of himself after all.’

Jofre's head snapped up and, blazing with fury and humiliation, he threw a handful of coins down on the table. It was all he had and Zophiel seemed to know it.

He smiled. ‘Well now, boy, shall we see if you are right?’

He lit a taper, removed the egg and dropped the burning taper inside the flask, quickly replacing the egg on the neck of the bottle, and stood well back. For a few long moments nothing happened. All gazed mesmerized as the taper burned inside the flask, then, in the same instant as the taper extinguished itself, there was a pop and the egg slid neatly through the neck of the flask, flopping undamaged on to the bottom.

I was thankful that Rodrigo was not with me to witness this. I couldn't bring myself to watch any more, but as I turned away something caught my eye, a child, standing a little way off in the shadow of a tree. The day was so dark and she was standing so still that I doubt I would even have noticed her there, but for the unnatural whiteness of her hair. I had seen that hair before. I recognized her at once. It was Narigorm, but she did not appear to have noticed me. All her attention was fixed on something else.

Her body was rigid with concentration. Only the index finger of her right hand moved as it repeatedly traced the outline of a tiny object she cradled in her other palm. She seemed to be muttering under her breath, her unblinking gaze fixed on something behind me. I turned to see what she was watching and realized she was staring at Zophiel, but when I turned back to look at her again, the shadow under the tree was empty. She had vanished.

∗

The fair had been set to run for a week. It was in the charter and it had done so for as long as anyone could remember. But as things turned out that year, the fair came to an abrupt halt on the afternoon of that same day. A messenger had arrived, mud-splattered and sweating nearly as much as his horse. He demanded to see the town's elders and the bell tolled out, summoning them from every quarter of the town. Since most of them were in the middle of buying or selling at the time, they were not best pleased to be dragged to a meeting and the bell continued to toll for quite some time until the last of them had arrived, grumbling that this had better be important, or someone would be spending the rest of the fair in the town's gaol. By this time everyone had heard the bell and they knew something was afoot. No one was under any illusion that it would be good news. Business gave way to gossip and speculation – had the Scots or the French or even the Turks invaded? Was the King coming on a royal visit, bringing with him his whole court and half his army, all to be fed at the town's expense? ‘May God bless and keep His Majesty – far away from us.’ Or, more likely, had His Majesty imposed yet another tax? And what was there left to tax that he hadn't taxed already?

When the town's dignitaries finally crowded on to the balcony, the chatter and laughter died in people's throats. They looked grave and suddenly old. The crier had no need to ring his bell or even strain his voice. The news was delivered into shocked silence.

Pestilence had broken out in Bristol. To save itself, Gloucester had closed its gates. No one would be allowed in or out. The villages all along the river were following Gloucester's example. Whilst we had all been looking to the south, the pestilence had crept round on our western flank. It was spreading, spreading inland.

Afterwards, no one expressed surprise that Bristol had fallen to the pestilence. It was a port and sooner or later an infected ship would be bound to call there. Besides, it was a ship from Bristol that had brought the infection to these shores, so it was a kind of justice that their own town should be infected. But what stunned them was Gloucester closing itself off. A mighty town like that, dependent on its trade, walling itself up alive. So fearful of the pestilence, the people were willing to ruin themselves, starve even, rather than risk it entering their gates. Whoever remained inside the walls would be trapped there as surely as if they were in a dungeon, for however long it took for the pestilence to burn itself out. And anyone from Gloucester who had the misfortune to find themselves away from home and family when the gates were locked would have to take their chances alone on the outside. Gloucester was miles up river from Bristol. If the people of Gloucester feared the pestilence could spread that far, that fast, then just how quickly was it spreading?

Even before the town declared the fair was to be cut short, most of the travellers had already made up their minds to leave, to begin the big migration north and east. It was like watching a high wave forming out at sea. At first everyone had simply stood and looked, mesmerized, but now it started to roll towards them, they suddenly turned tail and ran for higher ground. Except that higher ground would not save them from this wave of destruction. There was no place that could; the only hope was to try to outrun it and pray that a miracle would happen and somehow it would be stopped before it swept them away.

Getting out of the town that night wasn't easy; the townspeople may have wanted us to leave and we to go, but there were only three gates out of the town. Merchants and
peddlers had been arriving in a steady trickle for days before the fair, but now they were all trying to get out at once. Only a few who were desperate to get back to wives and families were taking roads leading south or west; the rest of us – wagons, carts, people, cattle, sheep, geese, pigs and horses – were squeezing and jostling through the one remaining gate. The roads, already waterlogged with all the rain, were becoming impassable as livestock and wagons churned up the mud, and every few yards the way was blocked by floundering carts and beasts.

Fortunately, I knew my way around those parts and, once we were clear of the gate, I led Rodrigo and Jofre off on a side path that connected to a parallel road which bypassed the town and so we were able to escape from the crowd. The road descended through a gorge. It was ancient, and though wide enough for carts, was seldom used any more. It had been dry once, but since winters had grown wetter, its low level meant that it flooded often, so the only people who used it were those on foot or horseback. No carter or herdsman would be foolish enough to attempt it unless the weather had been dry for weeks.

It had taken us so long to get out of the town that night was drawing in before we reached the road. We trudged along in silence, concentrating on keeping upright on the slippery track. Our clothes were soaked through and our boots were so heavy with mud, it felt as if we were wearing leg-irons. The rain drops beat down, drumming out their own psalms of contrition as if we were the condemned on the way to the gallows. We passed no one on the road and as darkness gathered around us, I hoped it would stay that way, for there are many kinds of traveller, human and worse, who stalk lonely roads after dark. And I had no desire to get acquainted with any of them.

Then, rounding a bend, we saw a solitary wagon ahead of us. It was stuck deep in a water-filled rut, listing heavily to one side. I recognized both the wagon and its owner immediately. Zophiel, the great magician, was up to his calves in glutinous mud, trying to hoist the wagon upright with his shoulder and push it forward at the same time, but the mud sucked on the wheel, pulling it down. The horse had long since given up trying to pull the wagon forward. It stood between the shafts, head down in the rain, trying to reach a solitary clump of grass that still remained upright in the mud. With Zophiel at the back of the wagon, there was no one to lead it forward, and none of his curses or threats was having the slightest effect on the beast.

Jofre's miserable expression melted into a grin of delight when he recognized the figure floundering in the mud. ‘Serves him right,’ he muttered.

Rodrigo, striding on ahead, didn't hear him and was not meant to either. I guessed Jofre, wisely, hadn't told Rodrigo about his wager with Zophiel.

Jofre nudged me. ‘I say we lean on the wagon as we go by and push it down even further into the mud.’

‘And I say it's better to help him. It puts him in our debt. You don't want to rush revenge, my lad; it always tastes sweeter if it's brewed slowly.’

But before we could draw level with the wagon a young man suddenly emerged from the shadows on the track ahead of us. Despite his preoccupation with the wagon, Zophiel sensed the movement and whirled around, whipping out a long thin dagger and jabbing it towards the young man's stomach. The man sprang back and held up his open hands in a gesture of surrender.