Those disciples who had proved their worthiness had been elevated from the cave floor and allowed to spread their bedding in long, smooth niches carved into the walls. Once, the dead had rested there, but their ancient and desiccated corpses had been burned to ashes on the cooking fire. Maybe that was why their ghosts still slithered about the cave, restlessly searching for their lost bodies. Luke took care always to lie down on his belly, his mouth pressed into the bracken. If you slept with your mouth open, the spirits could creep in.
There were other caves beyond the one they all lived and slept in, reached by a long, low tunnel. Luke had watched Raguel emerge from that tunnel with buckets of water, clear and sweet, but as cold as the sea in winter, so he guessed there must be a spring or even a stream back there.
What else lay in the caves further down the tunnel, Luke had not discovered, for the Prophet permitted only his trusted disciples and his three wives to follow him there. But Luke had heard muttered stories about what lay beyond. The cave was always humming with whispers. And he’d heard the distant cries of despair and pain echoing from that tunnel too. He’d seen the Chosen Ones glance nervously behind them, shuddering and lowering their heads, as if even to be caught listening might be a transgression. Not Uriel, though, Brother Praeco’s first wife: whenever she heard those wails of misery, she smiled in satisfaction. It was the only time Luke ever saw her smile.
Luke had never dreamed a man could have three wives. No one in Porlock Weir had ever had more than one at a time, but Brother Praeco was not like any man in the village. He was tall and thin, with a great nose, as hooked and shiny as a falcon’s beak, jutting over a wild black beard that hung halfway down his chest. His arms and chest, too, were covered with dense mats of black hair, but his pate was completely bald except for a long fringe at the back straggling below his shoulders.
He wore a coarse russet robe, tied by a knotted scourge at the waist. But whenever he left the cave to climb up to the world above, he would don a heavy cloak stitched from a ragbag of animal pelts – grey rabbit, red fox, dappled deer, nut-brown stoat and the black-and-white stripes of the badger. The badger’s head, with glittering red stones in place of its eyes, flopped over Brother Praeco’s shoulder, its sharp white teeth constantly bared at any who might approach him. Whatever Friar Tom said, Brother Praeco certainly did not resemble the picture of Jesus on His throne in Heaven, which was painted on the wall of the chapel in Porlock, but maybe you looked different when you got to Heaven.
Uriel, the oldest of the Prophet’s wives, was sour and pinch-mouthed, her faded eyes constantly darting about in search of the smallest speck of sin. His second wife, Phanuel, was a pale, anxious creature who, in contrast, barely looked anywhere except the ground and fluttered like a wild bird in a cage whenever her husband’s voice rang out. Raguel, Praeco’s third wife, could scarcely have been more than three or four years older than Luke, but her breasts rose, like two newly baked loaves of bread, over the top of her kirtle and her skirts strained tight over her rounded buttocks whenever she bent over the cooking pots. More than once as he watched her, Luke had imagined that gown splitting in two and falling away like the husk of a seed and her naked white body . . .
He felt a sharp elbow in his ribs. ‘Put your eyes back in their cages, lad,’ Friar Tom muttered. ‘Just you remember his wives are named for the seven angels of destruction and with good reason. That Raguel could suck the life from a dozen blacksmiths if she had her way with them, let alone a skinny little runt like you.’
‘Wasn’t even looking at her,’ Luke said, flushing scarlet. ‘’Sides it’s daft naming them after seven angels when he’s only got three.’
Friar Tom gave one of his twisted grins and tapped the side of his nose with the stumps of his fingers. ‘Maybe he reckons to take another four. Don’t want to run out of names.’
Having finished his bowl of pottage, Hob was staring covetously at the large chunk of meat Luke had speared on the tip of his knife and was raising to his mouth. In spite of Tom’s warning, Luke’s attention had been dragged back to Raguel’s breasts as she bent over the steaming cooking pot. She gave a little jiggle, tossing her hair back from her eyes. Luke seemed to forget what he was holding, but Hob didn’t. He snatched the meat and, in one swift movement, stuffed it into his mouth, grinning at the outrage on his brother’s face.
‘You little sneak thief!’ Luke yelled. ‘You wait—’ He broke off as all eyes turned to him.
The Prophet raised his head, peering through the mustard haze of smoke and fumes towards the sound. Luke shrank down, stuffing his mouth with pottage as if to prove it couldn’t possibly have been him who’d spoken.
‘Did someone say we have a thief among the Chosen?’ Brother Praeco rose to his feet.
In a flash Hob’s expression had changed from glee to terror. He grabbed at Luke’s jerkin, holding on to him as if he expected to be dragged from his side.
‘Let the one who spoke come to me!’
Friar Tom poked Luke in the back. ‘Best do as he says. Not a man you want to keep waiting.’
Hob stared up at Luke, his eyes wide with apprehension. Luke saw Uriel’s horny feet picking their way through the crowd of disciples. She was coming towards him. She was going to pounce and drag him out in front of everyone.
Somewhere above, a bell tolled. Everyone froze, staring upwards as stone grated over stone and a faint shaft of grey light and a sudden draught of chill air penetrated the stifling gloom of the cave. The smoke from the cooking fire and the tongues of flames in the dead gannets’ beaks guttered wildly. No one moved. No one uttered a sound.
Chapter 30
Will
Riddle me this: How many hoof prints does an ox leave in the last furrow when it has ploughed all the day?
I was asleep when the door at the base of the watchtower crashed open. There isn’t much else to do except sleep when you’re locked up. You soon get tired of juggling pebbles and balancing them on your nose and elbow when there is no audience to applaud. I could hear the voice of my first master, the one who created me. Practise every hour of your scrawny little life, Courtney, even practise in your sleep. I made the dwarf, but only you can make the jester.
We practised all right, he saw to that, every skill our future masters might ever require of us for their amusement – tumbling, inventing riddles, simpering in the parody of a coquettish lady or mimicking a boisterous hound by cocking our legs. He had us conjuring one day, and the next swinging from a minstrels’ gallery, like drunken squirrels.
‘Which is worth more – an ass or fool?’ my master used to say. ‘The ass, of course, for when he fails to carry his burden, he makes good meat for his lord’s hounds, but when a fool fails to entertain, he is good for nothing save food for the worms.’
So we always had to be ready to divert our lords and their guests with something new the moment the fancy took them – plucking eggs from the ears of their sulky children; teasing a bashful bridegroom with bawdy jokes; coaxing an old man from his melancholy humour . . .
. . . And falling in love? No, that was not a trick our master taught us. We invented riddles about love. We made the ladies cry with laughter as we sighed and swooned in wicked impersonation of their swains. We carried love tokens and kisses from man to maid, but we could never fall in love. We were the imitation, the parody, the mockery of love, but we must never be in love. The very idea was an outrage, a blasphemy against God and man, like a dirty little imp lusting after a holy angel. When God created man in His own image, it was a longshanks He created and set above all the beasts that crawl and creep and cavort. Dwarfs, real or fake, are not made in the image of their creators. I should know. For, unlike most men, I have seen the one who formed me, though, believe me, my master was no god.
Yet the imp did fall in love with the angel, though I tried to conceal it, like a murderer conceals a bloody knife. I took care never to look at her directly in the great hall, and if my gaze strayed unbidden to her, I would set my
self a penance. I would prance across to another woman and conjure a rose for her, or play at being a smitten lover insanely jealous of her knight. There were more beautiful, sophisticated ladies in that hall, made so by nature or by the skill of their tiring maids, and every man from aged knight to callow stable boy declared himself infatuated with those creatures, but none of those women possessed her mind. As an iron shoe is made to fit the hoof of only one horse, so our minds fitted each other’s as perfectly as if we had been crafted for one another before even the world itself was fashioned.
‘What is it that grows in a pouch, swells and stands up, lifting its covering? A proud bride grasps that boneless wonder. The daughter of a knight covers that swollen thing.’
It was the same every time I asked it. All the women blushed and giggled behind their hands. All the men raucously yelled out the crudest answer. But that night, the first night I ever laid eyes on her, a woman’s voice rang out bold as a jester and sharp as an arrow: ‘The answer is bread dough, of course.’
Of course it is, my love, my wonderful, enchanting love.
And from then on when I was forced to look at every woman but her, kiss every breast but hers, then we proclaimed our love, our fears, our secret to the whole world in our language.
‘I have no feet, but open my mouth to a flood of salt tears. With the point of his knife, a man will open me and swallow me. What am I?’ she asked
‘An oyster,’ I called, and the guests, blind and deaf, applauded us for our quick wit.
She was not an oyster. She was a rare pearl of great price, my pearl, and they prised my treasure from me as she knew they would.
But in my dreams I can still find her, hold her, look again into those gentle eyes. Hear her soft voice whisper her own name for me, Josse, Josse. Sleep is a wondrous eagle, which can carry you back to where you long to be. And I resented being torn from its grasp.
I squinted up to see Cador filling the doorway, though not quite as snugly as he had done a few weeks ago. His belly was less rotund. The skin of his double chin was as scrawny as a chicken’s wattle, and as he drew off his hood to wipe the sweat from his head, the sunlight bounced off a pate that I swear was balder than before. He had a black eye too.
I clambered painfully to my feet, wincing as the iron fetters on my ankles bit into the sores. My twisted back and neck have always ached. But my master’s whip taught me to ignore it, as a dancing bear must learn not to snarl at the smart of the chain through its nose. But since I had left my lord’s employ, my back had stiffened, and sleeping on the cold, hard floor of that watchtower had not improved it.
I expected to see a pail of water in Cador’s hands, with my meagre ration of stale bread, but he carried nothing except his stave. My belly lurched. Was the day finally come? Was he here to take me to the manor court? I could expect no mercy there. I had dreaded a whipping, or branding with a hot iron. Agonising though they were, I knew the pain and humiliation would pass and I had convinced myself that that was the very worst that could befall me. But as I saw Cador standing there I knew, with a sudden churning of my bowels, I had been deceiving myself, like the fool I was. Before the sun set that day, I could be choking at the end of a rope. Master Wallace would delight in watching me dance on the manor’s gallows, instead of in its great hall.
Like any pet dog, I’ve been forced to spend my life appeasing those who owned me. Cador was not my master, but I’d swallowed so much pride over the years that gulping down another cupful wasn’t going to kill me. On the other hand if I didn’t . . .
‘Master Bailiff, you’re a fair man. And you and I both know Sir Nigel’s steward is a greedy, malicious fellow. A good many coins that should be lying chastely in my lord’s coffers have been led astray and ended up in Master Wallace’s purse. I may have stolen a piglet or two, but if any man should be tried as a thief, it’s him.’
Cador grunted. ‘He’s skimmed the cream from my wages more times than I can count and left me with the whey. Fines, he calls them, for neglecting my duty, when you’d not find any bailiff in England more diligent than me. If the wind blows contrary, Wallace finds a way to make me pay for it. But who’s to stand against him? He’s the only man in these parts that has the ear of Sir Nigel.’
‘I know it better than most,’ I told him. ‘When I threatened to expose what he did, he had me flogged and kicked out into a ditch.’
That was only half the truth, of course. But half a mug of ale is still ale, so half a truth must still be truth.
‘Master Bailiff, if you deliver me into the hands of that man, I swear he’ll see me hanged just to silence me.’ It is hard to beg a man earnestly for your life when you know that your mouth is grinning. I turned my face to the wall, hoping my voice alone would move him to pity. ‘And how will my death serve Mistress Matilda? It won’t put flesh on the bones of those piglets again. But if I live, I swear I’ll find a way to pay what I owe her in time.’
I thought I heard Cador chuckling and my fear turned to fury. Thought it was funny to see a dwarf hanged, did he, just another entertainment for the longshanks? I suppose he fancied he could just stuff me in a sack and carry me to the manor all by himself. Well, just let him take one pace inside that door—
‘Don’t fret, sprat, you’ll not be going to Porlock.’
I was convinced I must have misheard him. ‘Where’s the manor court sitting, then?’
‘It’ll not be sitting anywhere, least not till the pestilence is over. Not a court in the land’ll be in session now, I reckon. ’Sides, I couldn’t fetch you there, even if I’d a mind to. Porlock Manor’s sealed its gates and they’ve blocked the cart track ’twixt us and the town with trees and rocks. Won’t let so much as a fart out or in. So there’s no sense me keeping you in here, wasting good food on you.’
I was tempted to tell him that half a loaf of stale horse bread barely warranted the title of food, let alone good, but I was not out of irons yet.
Cador tossed a key at me. ‘Go on, unfasten the chain.’ He sighed. ‘Matilda’ll be a wasp in my ear, wanting you arrested again soon as this is over. But I reckon many a tide’ll ebb and flow afore that day comes and you could both be dead by then, so you may as well go where you please for now. Though after a day out there, you’ll more than likely wish you’d stayed locked safe inside.’ He gingerly pressed his blackened eye and winced. ‘Womenfolk are running mad,’ he muttered. ‘A man’s not safe from any of ’em.’
He vanished from my sight and re-emerged leading a string of three shaggy packhorses. ‘Going to head up over the hill and across the moors to villages on the other side. They’re far enough away that news of our troubles will not have reached them and, please God, neither has the pestilence.’ He crossed himself fervently. ‘I’ve a small purse and a stick or two of dried eel and fish to trade. I’ll fetch back any grain they’ve for sale and ask what news they’ve heard from London. I dare say the fever’s already over in the city and ships’ll be sailing again back into our bay before the next new moon.’ He gave a lopsided grin, but the fear in his eyes told me he couldn’t convince even himself of that.
Once, when I was in Sir Nigel’s employ, a mad old beggar had come knocking for alms on the feast of St Stephen, claiming he was the true King of England and King Edward was an imposter. The young men, bored and in need of sport, made him a cloak of straw, pulled a fouled stick from the midden and stuck it into his hand for a sceptre, then sat him on a dung heap for a throne. They bowed and taunted that mockery of a king, though the old man’s wits had so far fled from him, he thought they were honouring him. I remembered him, as I waddled down through the village, for that was what Porlock Weir had become, a cruel mockery of itself.
The lanes and small square in front of the bake-house were deserted. Those who ventured out looked warily up and down the track and hesitated if they saw someone approaching, looking for any sign of sickness. All the doors were shut, but none was marked. It was impossible to tell the households that had been touched by t
he pestilence from those that were trying to keep it out. The bay was empty. No mud-horses skimmed across the wet sand. Only three women collected fish from the shallow trenches of the closest weirs, while the fish trapped behind the walls further out or caught in the wicker traps were left to flap and die unharvested. The women kept stopping, leaning against the dripping stones as if the small effort of picking the fish exhausted them. On the shore, a pack of hungry dogs snarled and snapped over the carcass of something that might have been a rotting seal.
My belly rumbled as I approached the bake-house. While I was grateful to Cador for releasing me, he might at least have brought me my breakfast first. The tide was out and my stomach was not prepared to wait for it to come back in, then for the hours it might take me to catch some fish and cook them. I stared out at the weirs where the fish lay ready for the taking, but I daren’t risk snatching one from there, not so soon after being let out, even if I could walk across the mud without getting stuck.
But the smell of the steam rising from the bake-house yard was not that of new bread or even roasting meat, but boiling fish. I found Sybil hunkered on the ground beside a fire in the yard, staring listlessly into the flames. I don’t think I’d ever seen her sitting before. She was always pounding dough, chopping meat, scrubbing pots with sand or pushing driftwood into the fire hole to stoke the oven. But the yard was unswept. Empty barrels lay abandoned, rolling back and forth on their sides in the sea breeze, like men with a bellyache. The oven was cold. Ash and charred fragments of wood spilled from the stoke hole.
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