Company of Liars

by Karen Maitland

  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 Jofre had always withdrawn into himself on occasions, but since the whipping, the frequency of these silent moods had increased.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.

  ‘No, let him drink. Wash the meat out of his stomach. I don’t want him vomiting all the way. It puts me off my breakfast. Besides, I want to bring him in alive. I don’t want him dying on the road, depriving the populace of their sport. Good for morale, a burning, let’s them know the Church has got everything under control.’

  The soldiers finally released Rodrigo and turned to mount their horses. Rodrigo ran across to the pardoner who was already in his saddle. He grabbed the pardoner’s arm.

  ‘This man has done nothing. You must give him a chance to defend himself. You are a man of God and you know in all conscience that was no fair test. Let him answer properly.’

  ‘Have no fear, good fellow, he will be heard. They will hear him all over the Bishop’s palace before we’ve finished with him. We do not burn men until they have confessed and by the time we have finished with him, he will be begging to confess.’

  ‘You would torture a man in the name of a merciful God?’ Rodrigo asked bitterly.

  The pardoner’s eyes glittered in the torchlight. ‘Just a moment, do I detect the same accent as Master Michael’s? Another Venetian? Could it be we have two Jews for the price of one? Well, well. It is my lucky night.’

  Michelotto looked up. ‘This man, a Venetian? He is a bastard Genoese. It is bad enough you call me a Jew, now you accuse me of being countryman to this whoremonger. Take me if you are going to; I’d rather burn than have to spend another minute in the company of a Genoese.’

  Michelotto spat at Rodrigo, and a glob of purple wine-stained spittle landed on his cheek and rolled slowly down his face.

  The soldiers laughed and turned their horses in the direction of the track.

  The pardoner swept his gaze round the clearing. ‘You may spread the word. We shall root out all Jews wherever we find them and believe me, we shall find them.’

  Within minutes they had gone, dragging Michelotto behind them on a long rope. We all stood, listening to the hoofbeats fade into the distance. One of the apprentices silently and mechanically began to straighten the overturned benches. One by one the others joined him as if they didn’t know what else to do.

  It had begun to rain again. I walked over to Rodrigo, who still stood staring down the track, though there was nothing to be seen or heard except the wind in the branches and the pattering of the raindrops.

  ‘He denied you to save your life, Rodrigo.’

  Rodrigo did not answer. There were tears in his eyes.

  Hugh stumbled across to us, his face wretched. ‘It is all my fault. If I hadn’t thrown the pardoner out, he’d not have come back here with the soldiers.’ He pounded his fist into the nearest tree trunk. ‘I am such a fool, a stupid, hot-headed fool.’

  ‘He’d have come back anyway,’ I assured him. ‘However much they cream off the sale of indulgences, pardoners are always greedy for more. They’re always on the lookout for something they can report to their masters for an extra purse and the Church makes good use of them as spies. As you said yourself, the prayers and masses haven’t stopped the pestilence. Catching a few Jews reassures the people that something is being done to keep them safe. But God help Michelotto, it will be better for him if he does die on the road.’

  We finished clearing up as best we could, then I lay down once again in the warmth of the workshop and closed my eyes. I was dimly aware of others stepping round me to find their own sleeping places, but I was too tired to open my eyes to see who they were.

  ∗

  For the second time that night I woke with a start. I thought I heard the distant howl of a wolf. Around me I could see Rodrigo, Jofre, Osmond and Adela all sitting up. The howl had woken them too. One of the apprentice boys whimpered in his sleep, but they slept on, huddled together in the corner of the workshop, too exhausted by the night’s events to be woken by anything. I heard Osmond murmuring to comfort Adela. I lay still and listened for a few moments, but heard nothing more. One by one the others lay down again. But I couldn’t settle.

  I got up as quietly as I could and slipped outside to relieve myself. It was still dark. The wind roared in the branches overhead and it was cold after the warmth of the workshop. In the clearing, fires glowed ruby-red under the iron pots, but the flames had died down. I was just slipping back to the workshop when a movement caught my eye. Narigorm sat near one of the potash fires, her runes scattered in front of her.

  ‘Too late for that now, Narigorm,’ I said. ‘We could have done with the warning before the soldiers came.’

  ‘Nine for knowledge. Nine for nine nights on the tree. Nine for the mothers of Heimdal. And so Morrigan begins it.’

  ‘Begins what?’ I asked her.

  She looked up and opened her eyes wide as if she had only just realized I was there. ‘One has gone. Now we are eight.’

  ‘What do you mean, one of us has gone?’ I was tired and irritable. ‘Zophiel? He’ll be back, I can promise you that. He’d not go anywhere without his precious boxes and he can’t carry those on foot.’

  ‘Not Zophiel.’

  Another thought struck me. Cygnus. I didn’t remember seeing him at all after the soldiers came. The sight of them must have frightened him out of his wits. It was hardly surprising if he had run off and if he had, there was no reason for him to come back.

  ‘You mean Cygnus?’

  She shook her head. I knew she wanted me to guess again, but I was in no mood to play childish games. I was cold and weary. I wanted to lie down again. I turned to go.

  ‘Pleasance.’

  I turned back to her. ‘Did you say Pleasance? Don’t talk nonsense. She was standing with you all the time the soldiers were here, why should she ha
ve run off now?’

  By way of an answer Narigorm pointed to a rune lying half-way across the line of one of the circles. The figure etched on to it was a straight line with two short lines coming down at an angle as if a child had drawn half a pine tree.

  ‘Ansuz, the ash tree, Odin’s sign. He hung on the tree for nine days to learn the meaning of the runes.’

  ‘What does this have to do with Pleasance?’ I asked, but Narigorm only looked down at the runes again.

  I searched the runes, trying to see if I was missing something. There was no shell or feather among them, but then I saw there was something else lying on the bare earth. In the dim light cast by the fires I had almost missed it, a little sprig of some plant. I picked it up and peered at it closely. The long spike of tiny yellow flowers, though dried, was unmistakable. It was the herb agrimony and it had been bound with a coarse red thread, the same thread that midwives use to bind agrimony to the mother’s thighs to help ease the passage of the baby.

  I crouched down and looked into Narigorm’s ice-blue eyes.

  ‘Narigorm, stop playing games, tell me where Pleasance has gone.’

  She looked at me for a long time, without blinking, before she finally spoke.

  ‘Pleasance is dead.’

  15. The First Death

  We found Pleasance early the following morning. Hugh had ordered the apprentices to help us search and in the end it was one of them who came back, white and trembling, to say he had found her body. He delivered his message in faltering tones and promptly vomited, but after a mug of ale was finally persuaded to lead us back to where she was.

  Hugh, Rodrigo, Osmond and I followed the boy through the trees, leaving Jofre at the glassworks to look after Adela and Narigorm. We walked for about a quarter of an hour, and I was beginning to think the boy had lost his way or imagined the whole thing when he suddenly stopped in his tracks and pointed. A body was dangling from the high branch of an ancient oak tree. Even though her back was towards us, I recognized her immediately. Her long skirts clung wetly to her legs. Her limp arms dangled uselessly by her sides, the hands purple where the blood had pooled. The thick veil she always wore to cover her hair was missing and her dark hair was loose. Long wet strands of it snaked down over her shoulders. Her head was lolling at a strange angle.