Company of Liars

by Karen Maitland

  ‘But she has a fine head of hair now, I wager.’

  The man nodded.

  ‘There you are then, her hair grew in. It’s the same with merpeople. They are born as smooth and hairless as you or I, and the hair and scales grow in later.’

  The man opened and closed his mouth, but seemed to have no answer.

  Zophiel smiled, though the smile didn’t reach his eyes. ‘You’re a wise man, my friend. People of lesser intelligence would not think to ask such questions and I’m not surprised that you didn’t know the answer. Many of the greatest scholars in our land are ignorant of such things because merbabies are seldom seen, only the adults. The infants are kept hidden far below the waves in deep sea caves until they are old enough to swim to the surface. It’s a rare thing to see one. Far more rare than seeing a mermaid, which is rare enough. Why, I doubt any merbabies have been seen for five hundred years, maybe more.’

  There was a moment’s hesitation as the crowd digested these momentous facts, then, as one, hands flew to purses, struggling to part with coins as fast as Zophiel could take them. Every man, woman and child who still had money to spend was desperate to part with their last penny to see this rarest of all rare creatures. Even old Onion-breath beamed as if he had personally discovered the merchild. Zophiel knew just how to work a crowd.

  As it happens, we’d all been doing pretty well that day. The Bartholomew Fair was busier than usual. With markets closing along the south coast, the merchants were pushing inland. After all, as they said, life goes on. We all have to eat until we die. So the merchants were shouting one another hoarse and the crowd was just as excited. Wine and spices, salt and oil, dyes and cloth fairly flew off the stalls. ‘Buy now,’ the merchants urged, ‘it may be months before we can get another shipment in. Stock up while you have the chance.’ And they bought as if they were preparing for a siege.

  I’d done all right too, sold half a dozen fragments of the bones of St Brigid, guaranteed to keep the cows in milk, and several ribs of St Ambrose to hang over the bee skeps to ensure that the combs would be bursting with honey come autumn. The farmers needed all the help they could get. The field beans were blackened with mildew and they’d be lucky to salvage enough to cover the bottom of a pot. The late hay crop had already been ruined by the rain and there was scarcely a sheaf of grain left standing. If it didn’t stop raining soon, honey and cheese would be all anyone would have in their winter stores.

  Prices were up, but that was to be expected. The buyers grumbled, but they bought anyway. No point saving a few pennies, if next week there’d be nothing to spend them on. Besides, if you had to pay more for a barrel of pickled pork, you charged more for your knives. Too bad for those who had nothing to sell, that was their problem.

  Yes, all things considered it was a profitable fair for the merchants and peddlers, and Rodrigo and Jofre were doing well enough too, considering they had only been a month on the road. At night, in front of a warm hearth in the inns, satisfied with their day’s shrewd bargaining and mellow from hot food and strong ale, people would pay generously for an evening’s entertainment. And Rodrigo and Jofre had talent, more than I’d seen in many a year, though talent is not enough on the road and they still had much to learn.

  They were used to playing to a lord’s command. Lords and ladies know what they want. They can put a name to a song or demand you write a new one. They will even tell you what the subject of that song should be. But a crowd doesn’t know what mood it’s in, or if it does, it won’t tell you. You have to be able to sense it. Is it in the mood for a love song or a rousing battle song, a story of daring adventure or a bawdy verse? Does the crowd want to sing along or sit and dream? It folds its arms and glowers as if to say, ‘Go on, lad, amuse us, and God help you if you don’t.’

  But Rodrigo was anxious to learn. He could have spent his days dry and warm in the inns, for there was little point in attempting to play in the open market place in the rain, but he preferred to spend his time outside watching me work, trying to understand the rules of the new world in which he found himself.

  ‘The trick,’ I told him, ‘is to know what a customer wants before they know themselves. Watch.

  ‘Your daughter nearing her birth pangs, mistress? A dangerous time. You must be sick with worry. See this amulet. It has the names of the holy angels Sanvi, Sansanvi and Semangelaf engraved upon it. Demons will flee from the room the moment they catch sight of it. Expensive? Come now, mistress, what price would you put on the life of your daughter and grandchild? Thank you, mistress, and may she be delivered of a fine boy.’

  As he watched me pocket the coins, Rodrigo shook his head in disbelief. ‘But how did you know her daughter was with child? Do you trade in fortunes as well as old bones?’

  ‘You must keep your eyes open if you want to survive on the road. I saw her earlier buying horehound, cinnamon and pennyroyal from that woman over there. What would she use that combination for, except to ease birth pains? She’s not pregnant herself and she’s too well dressed to be a servant, so it was a safe guess that it was for her own daughter. Now, take that man walking towards us, what do you think he’ll buy?’

  I nodded towards a portly, sallow-skinned man wearing an outrageous confection of green and yellow on his head, clearly under the impression it was the last word in stylish hats. He constantly gazed around as he picked his way through the mud, beaming at anyone whom he perceived to be of a higher station than himself as if hoping to be recognized as one of them.

  Rodrigo looked the man up and down. ‘Now, that is the kind of man I do know. I have met many like him at my lord’s court. He would only buy a relic if it came in a gold casket covered in jewels. You will never sell any of your wares to him.’

  ‘You’re certain of that, are you?’

  ‘I would wager a tankard of mulled ale on it,’ he grinned, slipping back a pace or two as the merchant approached, to give me space to work.

  ‘Feeling a touch bilious, master? I can see you’re suffering. You have a delicate constitution. Up all night with a bad stomach, I’ll be bound. His Majesty the King suffers exactly the same trouble and I’m sure you know what he uses – wolf’s dung. He wouldn’t be without it. As luck would have it, I happen to have a packet here. And not ordinary wolf’s dung, this is imported all the way from Russia, as used by the King himself. Would His Majesty use anything but the best? He always insists on Russian dung, for everyone knows they have the strongest wolves.’

  The man waved his hand dismissively. ‘I have no need of such stuff.’ But his gaze lingered just a little too long on the packet for a man who was indifferent, and I knew I had a sale.

  ‘My apologies, sir, but you’re looking so pale. I can’t bear to see any nobleman suffering unnecessarily, but no matter, I have a good customer in Gloucester, the sheriff there. Perhaps you know him. He’s desperate for all I can bring him. With the foreign ships not putting to sea and demand higher than ever, he’s stocking up –’

  ‘I’ll take it,’ the man broke in hastily. Then, recovering his business sense, added, ‘But you’ll have to take rosewater for it. I have no money left. The price the merchant charged for this was extortionate.’ He pulled out a flask. ‘My wife insisted I bring her some back for her baking, but I’ll tell her there was none to buy. It’s good quality.’ He pulled off the stopper and waved the flask in the air, allowing the smell to waft out.

  Rosewater is no use to me. On the road, you need coins to buy food or goods that will keep long enough to sell at the next fair or the one after that. Rosewater, once unsealed, quickly loses its pungency or turns bad. I was about to refuse, when I heard a deep sigh next to me. Rodrigo had inched forward and was breathing in the sweet perfume. ‘It is excellent.’

  In three words Rodrigo had managed to destroy any bargaining power I had. The man sauntered away with his wolf’s dung, confident that he had got the better of me.

  I rounded on Rodrigo. ‘Are you out to ruin me?’

  He gave a
sheepish grin. ‘But I could not resist. I smell this and suddenly I am a little boy in Venice again. Always for Christmas children were given little figures of the Christ child made of marzapane. For days before the air was filled with the smell of almonds and rosewater and we could not wait to taste it. We tried to creep into the kitchens to steal just a little piece, but we never could.’

  I shook my head. I’d never heard of it.

  ‘It is a paste made from sugar, eggs and almonds and flavoured with rosewater. Very costly, that is why it was so special. I have not tasted such a thing since I left Venice. It is…’ he kissed the tips of fingers, ‘squisito! To me it is the taste of Venice.’

  Annoyed though I was, I couldn’t help smiling at his ecstatic expression. ‘You miss Venice very much?’

  ‘Even more now that we live on the road.’ He raised his eyes miserably to the heavy grey clouds. ‘I never intended to stay away so long. When this pestilence is past I shall return to my homeland. Jofre too. I will take him back, no matter what his father says.’

  The day we’d met in the inn, Rodrigo had me told that Jofre’s father had sent him away. I’d thought nothing of the remark at the time; most boys are sent away to learn a trade or to serve in some great house. But most fathers would be overjoyed to see their sons again. Why would a father forbid his son’s return?’

  Rodrigo’s gaze was still resting on the flask of rosewater as if it was a magic potion which had the power to carry him home. He smiled wistfully. ‘Deo volente, as soon as the curse of this sickness is lifted from us, I will go back to the place of my childhood.’

  ‘But you can never return to that, Rodrigo. You can never again be what you were there. Just as a ewe rejects a lamb that has been separated from her, so your homeland will reject you as a stranger.’

  He flinched. ‘You would condemn me to be an exile all my life, Camelot?’

  ‘We are exiles from the past. Besides, what do you have to return to? Or are the stories true that minstrels have a girl in every town?’ I laughed, trying to dispel the melancholy that had settled on him. ‘Have you left a trail of broken hearts behind you in Venice?’

  ‘Have you not heard our songs? It is the poor minstrel’s heart that is broken.’ He smiled, pressing his hand dramatically to his chest and striking an exaggerated pose, like a lovesick swain in a mummers’ play. But the light-hearted gesture didn’t mask the shadow of pain I glimpsed in his eyes. That was real and deep.

  ‘Here, you may as well take this,’ I said, thrusting the flask of rosewater at him.

  His eyes widened in surprise. ‘But I cannot accept such a gift.’

  ‘No use to me,’ I said as gruffly as I could.

  He grasped my shoulder. ‘Thank you, thank you, my friend.’

  ‘You’ve cost me a fortune,’ I said severely, ‘but don’t think you can talk your way out of the wager.’

  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.