Company of Liars

by Karen Maitland

  ‘Don’t be a damn fool, Camelot,’ Zophiel shouted. ‘The road north lies straight through that village.’

  Pleasance put a protective arm about Narigorm. ‘If the runes say go east we should go. Just because the pestilence has come here doesn’t mean that it will touch every village. We have to go somewhere. We can’t stay here. Better to go on than back.’

  Though I didn’t want to admit it, I knew she was right. At this moment in time there were only two choices, east or west, and we could not retrace our steps.

  Zophiel had obviously reached the same conclusion for he gave a curt nod.

  I swallowed hard. ‘But then we must turn north at the next clear road, that will be the only safe thing to do.’

  Narigorm watched Zophiel walk back to Xanthus, then she slid her cold little hand into mine just as she had done at the Midsummer Fair, and whispered, ‘You won’t ever reach York, Camelot. We’re going east, you’ll see.’

  We skirted the village as rapidly as mud and rain would allow. Xanthus seemed as anxious as the rest of us to put the village behind us and pulled the wagon with an energy I had not seen in her for weeks. She kept rolling her eyes and pricking her ears as if she felt something was pursuing her. They say horses can smell death, but perhaps it was just the smoke which bothered her.

  The way grew more hazardous as darkness fell. We were in another stretch of forest which made the track seem darker still, but no one suggested stopping to make camp for the night. The sound of the bells haunted our steps long after we were out of sight of the houses, gradually growing fainter, masked by the roar of the wind in the canopy of trees. When, thankfully, we could no longer hear them, we finally halted long enough to light the lanterns on the wagon and walked alongside it, each of us with a hand on the wagon, tightly grasping the wet wood. It was a sensible precaution on the dark muddy track, but it was not fear of slipping that made us hold tight to the wagon, it was that more than ever it seemed like the only home we had, the only certainty we could grasp.

  We began to catch glimpses of red glowing fires between the trees and brighter yellow dots of what looked like lanterns. We looked at one another fearfully, but there was no stink of sulphur here, only the sweet, wholesome smell of wood smoke. We rounded a bend and found ourselves beside a long, low open-sided building, set in a wide clearing. The building was evidently a workshop of sorts for there were two furnaces inside, with fire trenches beneath. Each had a pair of great bellows operated by treadles. Obviously whatever they made here required great heat. A third furnace, this one shaped like a bread oven, had no door and it was glowing red-hot inside. A number of trestles stood about with long metal tubes resting on them, great long iron pincers and wooden boards charred black. Tubs of water stood by each trestle.

  Two young apprentices lay curled up asleep on the floor of the building, but four or five more were scurrying around outside in the clearing, tending fires over which stood big iron pots belching clouds of steam into the night. There were more furnaces dotted about the clearing, which was so thoroughly cleared and trampled that not even a blade of grass survived. Towering piles of logs were stacked at one end of the clearing and near them were a number of smaller huts. The place smelt of burning beech wood, a pure, clean smell after the cloying, sulphurous stink we had left behind.

  As Zophiel halted the wagon, a man in his early twenties came round the back of the building and started slightly as he saw us. The apprentices too caught sight of us at the same time and stopped their work. He waved a hand at them.

  ‘Back to work, lads. If that potash isn’t ready by first light, the master’ll have my guts for garters, and if he has mine, you can be sure I’ll have yours.’

  He hurried towards us, stopping a little way off.

  ‘Where are you from, good sirs?’

  Zophiel pointed back in the direction we’d come, then, seeing the look of panic on the man’s face, said, ‘We know the village has the pestilence, but don’t worry, my friend, we gave it a wide berth and we have no sick among us. And you, my friend, any sickness here?’

  The journeyman did not get a chance to answer.

  A deep voice boomed out of the shadows. ‘We are all well, the Blessed Virgin be praised.’

  A grey-haired man, face and arms covered with burn scars, stepped out of the shadows. ‘I am Michael, master glassmaker.’ He bowed. ‘This man is my journeyman, Hugh. Though I should say he is the master now, for he has the skill that my old fingers have forgotten. Still, that is how it should be, no?’

  I recognized his accent at once and so did Rodrigo.

  ‘È un fratello veneziano?’ he asked eagerly.

  ‘Si, si.’

  Both men, beaming from ear to ear, threw their arms wide and fell into a big bear hug as if they were long-lost brothers. They began introducing everyone in sight, pausing only to hug and slap each other on the back again.

  Finally Master Michael threw his arms wide as if he would embrace all of us at the same time. ‘Come, come, we must eat and drink. You spend the night here. I cannot give you a soft bed, but a warm one I can give you.’ He laughed, gesturing to all the fires. ‘Hugh,’ he said turning to the journeyman, ‘make our guests welcome. It is not every day I meet two of my countrymen, so let us eat while we can. Tonight we enjoy ourselves, but tomorrow we work, so do not let the boys neglect those fires, si?’

  The apprentices realized that the coming of the strangers had put their master in an exceptionally good mood and that extra food might be forthcoming, so they hurried to help us to set up camp. They stabled Xanthus in a lean-to with their two oxen which were used for pulling their own wagon to market and dragging logs from the forest. Cygnus was, for once, relieved of the duty of having to find fodder for the horse, and one of the boys slipped her an apple, which won him the eternal gratitude of both Xanthus and Cygnus.

  Michael was a good master, the boys confided in whispers, strict but kind, apt to fly into rages if a boy was careless, but quick to cool down and above all he was fair. I could understand his rages; lose concentration when throwing a clay pot and usually only the pot is spoiled, but get careless with a rod of molten glass and man could be burned so badly, his wounds might never heal. They were quick, eager lads and they needed to be. This was not a profession for dullards.

  Trestles, water tubs and such equipment as could be moved were rapidly cleared from the long workshop and stools, sacks and benches were brought in to make a place to eat and sleep out of the biting wind. One of the apprentices, shielding his arm with a thick leather gauntlet, stacked wood inside the red-hot gloryhole, the open furnace where glass was reheated between working. He was well practised at the art, leaping back as the sparks spat out, before covering the gloryhole to keep the heat in overnight. The heat from all the furnaces, though they were well insulated, made it the warmest place we had stayed for weeks and in testimony to this our clothes soon began to steam in the warmth, the smell of wet wool and sweat mingling with the wood smoke. It is only when you get truly warm that you realize how cold you have been. As I eased my sodden boots towards the warmth of the furnace, I felt as if I would never be persuaded to move from that spot again.

  Like those in the rest of the country they had long used up their flour, beans and peas, but they were more fortunate than those in towns for they could forage in the forest for fruits, herbs and fungi and the boys were all expert with the slingshot and catapult. They had set a large pot to bubble over a fire. Judging by the mutton bones in it which had been boiled so often they broke at a touch, the pot was never entirely emptied. At every meal they simply added to it, water and a few handfuls of whatever they could find – wild onions, wild garlic, sorrel, nettles, and anything they could bring down with their slings.

  Pleasance and Adela were soon supervising some of the boys in making extra food to supplement their pottage. Even Zophiel seemed caught up in the excitement and brought out our last remaining cask of flour and some salt butter to add to the provisions. With th
e help of Osmond and Jofre and one of the boy’s ferrets, several plump rabbits were soon being spit-roasted over the woodchip fires, while some pigeons were rolled in clay and left to bake on the edge of the fire in the embers, so that the meat would stay sweet and succulent inside.

  Pleasance had shown a couple of the lads how to make rastons in one of the cooling ovens, loaves sweetened with wild honey and scooped out to be stuffed with a mixture of breadcrumbs, butter, and onions, then heated again until the butter melts. I swear there is nothing so warming to the stomach on a cold winter’s night as sweet bread, hot from the oven, dripping with melted butter, truly a feast for St Barbara’s Day.

  After the meal the apprentice boys, stomachs stuffed to bursting, dozed off where they sat, until one or another was prodded awake by the journeyman Hugh, who sent them yawning and shuffling to stoke the fires under the iron pots in the clearings and stir the mixture of wood ash and water. The boys would take it in turns to tend the fires until the water had evaporated, leaving the potash behind to be used for melting the glass. Others took turns in stoking the furnaces and pumping the bellows, for the heat in the furnaces had to be kept up until they were required in the morning.

  Sheltered from the wind and made as drowsy as the apprentices by the warmth of the furnaces, the rest of us settled down to a long evening of gossip and drinking. Talk inevitably turned to the subject we had all tried so hard to forget. It was Hugh who told us about the village, staring morosely into the bottom of his tankard.

  ‘Started there ten days ago. Leastways, that’s when they found the first corpse, but God knows how long the poor soul had been dead. Neighbours noticed this terrible stench coming from one of the cottages. They banged on the door, but no one answered. No one could recall seeing anyone go in or out of the place for a couple of days. So in the end the neighbours broke the door down and found the wife lying dead in her bed. Died in agony she had, judging by grimace on her face and the way her body was all twisted up. No sign of the rest of the family. Seems as soon as they realized what it was that ailed her, they took off in the middle of the night and fled the village in secret. Likely, the poor soul was still alive when they left. Still, who can blame her husband? There was nothing he could do to save his wife. Perhaps he thought he was doing right, getting the children to safety before they caught it. Maybe she even told him to go and leave her.’

  ‘I imagine he was more concerned to save his own skin,’ Zophiel said. ‘He left without troubling to warn his neighbours, leaving them to find the body and risk the contagion.’

  Hugh glanced up. ‘Happen you’re right, but I don’t hold with judging a man till you’ve walked in his shoes. No man can put his hand on his heart and say for certain what he’d do if his life was threatened. The pestilence is a cruel death, so they say.’

  ‘Have many fallen to it in the village?’ Adela asked fearfully.

  ‘Near a dozen a day, we heard. Not that we’ve been near the place these last few days. Some of the lads are from there, but the master won’t allow them to go home. Says if they go, they’ll have to stay in the village. They can’t come back here for fear they bring the contagion with them.’

  ‘Poor boys,’ said Adela, gazing tenderly at the tousled heads, ‘they must be so worried.’

  ‘Aye, but it won’t do them any good to go home. If their families have got it, there’s nothing they can do. Time enough to find out who’s dead and who isn’t when it’s over. Did you see any signs when you came past?’

  Osmond was about to answer, but I nudged his foot. I could see several pairs of eyes watching us anxiously. It would not help them to know about the pit, nor that there looked to be many more than a dozen bodies being pulled off that haywain.

  ‘The light was too poor to see much,’ I told them. ‘And we kept our distance when we smelt the sulphur smoke and heard those bells ringing.’

  Hugh grimaced. ‘They’ll keep ringing till there’s not a man left standing to pull on a bell rope. They say noise drives the contagion out, especially the pealing of church bells. At least we don’t have to listen to it. Be enough to drive anyone mad, those bells ringing morning, noon and night. But I suppose anything’s worth a try. I’ll tell you this for nothing,’ he said, stretching and nudging another sleepy apprentice to his feet, ‘something’s got to work, because all those prayers the priests and the monks are sending up might as well be wood smoke for all the good they’re doing.’

  The master glassblower shook his head. ‘Enough already, Hugh. Our guests will think you have no respect.’

  ‘Aye well, ever since the summer we’ve had the pardoners through here in their droves, frightening the wits out of folk saying if they don’t buy their indulgences before it’s too late, not only will they die of the pestilence but they’ll be tormented in purgatory for years after. Not cheap either, those bits of paper they sell. And who knows what’s written on them in their Latin? Could be lists of the King’s whores for all we know.’

  One of the apprentices sniggered.

  ‘Think that’s funny, do you, my lad?’ Hugh dragged the boy outside by his ear, the grin on both their faces showing that they both knew Hugh was only in jest.

  Michael chuckled too. ‘You must please excuse him. He is a good man, like a father to the boys, but he has no time for those he thinks take advantage of the weak. A pardoner came through here just after the pestilence came to the village and started preaching to the boys, telling them that they could buy indulgences for their dead parents. The boys are young; naturally they were upset. Hugh threw the man out. He did not take kindly to that.’

  Rodrigo leaned forward impatiently. ‘Enough of the troubles now. Tell us of yourself. How does one of my countrymen come to be here?’

  The glassblower beamed and clapped his hands together in satisfaction. ‘It is a long time since anyone has asked me that.’ A hundred white and purple scars covered his hands and dark hairy arms. He was a small man, squat and out of proportion, with short, bandy legs, but a huge barrel chest from all the years of blowing and big, muscular arms, so that his top half looked as if it belonged to someone much taller and had been placed on the wrong legs. His face was wrinkled and pitted, but his brown eyes were dancing with life.

  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 a
nd 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.