Liars and Thieves (A Company of Liars short story)

by Karen Maitland

  Copyright © 2014 Karen Maitland

  The right of Karen Maitland to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This Ebook edition first published by Headline Publishing Group in 2014

  All characters – apart from the obvious historical ones – in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  eISBN: 978 1 4722 2289 3

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About Karen Maitland

  Praise

  About the Book

  Also By

  LIARS AND THIEVES

  Sampler of THE VANISHING WITCH

  Footnote

  About Karen Maitland

  © John C. Gibson.

  Karen Maitland travelled and worked in many parts of the United Kingdom before settling for many years in the beautiful medieval city of Lincoln, an inspiration for her writing. She is the author of The White Room, Company of Liars, The Owl Killers, The Gallows Curse and The Falcons of Fire and Ice. She has recently relocated to a life of rural bliss in Devon.

  Praise for Karen Maitland

  ‘Combines the storytelling traditions of The Canterbury Tales with the supernatural suspense of Mosse’s Sepulchre in this atmospheric tale of treachery and magic’ Marie Claire on Company of Liars

  ‘Passion and peril. A compelling blend of historical grit and supernatural twists’ Daily Mail on The Falcons of Fire and Ice

  ‘Glorious . . . a thrillingly horrible vision of the Dark Ages’ Metro on The Owl Killers

  ‘Bawdy and brutal’ Simon Mayo on The Gallows Curse

  ‘Scarily good. Imagine The Wicker Man crossed with The Birds’ Marie Claire on The Owl Killers

  About the Book

  Camelot and Narigorm the rune reader return to delight fans of Karen Maitland’s classic novel as the company – in their desperate bid to outrun the plague – encounter a band of outlaws, who are making the most of the breakdown in law and order to steal from the weak . . . and kill at leisure.

  But in the child Narigorm they might just have met their match – for plague is the lesser of those two evils.

  By Karen Maitland

  The White Room

  Company of Liars

  The Owl Killers

  The Gallows Curse

  The Falcons of Fire and Ice

  Anno Domini 1348

  Rockingham Forest, Northamptonshire

  There are many tales told about the year the Great Pestilence first swept across our land, of rivers turned to blood, fire falling from the sky, earthquakes swallowing churches and dragons fighting in the clouds. But the tales I know were of a strange, ragged company of travellers who together wandered the desolate roads, trying to stay one pace ahead of death.

  The townsfolk and villagers slammed their gates against strangers and huddled behind their doors, but we had no homes to hide in. For until the Great Mortality infected our shores we’d each earned our living on the road, coaxing a coin here or a loaf there from the crowds at markets and fairs the length and breadth of England. There was Zophiel, a magician who performed conjuring tricks; Rodrigo and his apprentice, Jofre, musicians from Venice; Cygnus, a storyteller, who’d been born with only one arm; Osmond, an artist travelling with his gentle wife, Adela; and Narigorm, a white-haired child who told fortunes with her runes. Then there was me, a camelot, a pedlar of relics and amulets, a seller of hope in a terrified world that was sorely in need of it.

  I was the oldest of our company, ancient some might say, missing one eye and with a great scar covering half my face. I was the creature that mothers threatened would snatch naughty children from their cottages if they did not lie quietly in their beds. But there is much truth spoken in lies, for there was a monster that was coming for them, a monster without a face or form that crept silently through the streets, devouring animals in their byres, children in their cots and parents in the taverns, and no one, neither noble knight nor holy bishop, could vanquish that dragon which would lay waste to all England.

  It was the winter of 1348, not that the season brought any great change in the weather for it had rained every day since the midsummer of that year. Xanthus, the mare who pulled Zophiel’s wagon, which carried all of our meagre possessions, had cast a shoe some time on the previous day; but the road had been so muddy, none of us had seen it fall. Missing a shoe, Xanthus couldn’t drag the wagon over the sodden ground without risking permanent lameness or worse, so there was no help for it but to hide the wagon under swathes of old bracken and branches while Zophiel led his horse through the forest to the next village in the hope of finding a blacksmith there.

  Adela and I had elected to go with him to try to buy flour or dried beans if the villagers had any they could spare, while Rodrigo, Jofre, Osmond and Narigorm would make good use of the time gathering kindling to burn and hunting for whatever birds or animals they could catch for the pot, for our supplies of food were exhausted and we had eaten nothing that morning. Cygnus was to remain with the wagon to guard it, though Zophiel protested that allowing a one-armed man to guard anything was like putting a leash on a rabbit and expecting it to hunt boar.

  A bitter wind howled its misery through the bare branches of the trees and the track that coiled between them was a stream of oozing mud. In several places, icy springs gushed across it, sweeping aside any stones that might have given purchase.

  Xanthus was an ill-tempered mare at the best of times, biting anyone careless enough to get within range of her teeth. She’d learned that whenever she was unharnessed from the wagon, she’d be set loose to graze, and was expressing her fury at being dragged along the track by constantly jerking her head to wrest the leading rein from Zophiel’s hand. Zophiel, equally frustrated, kept jerking her forward. The battle between them was not improving the temper of either one.

  Adela, who was heavily pregnant, waddled along on the other side of the mare. She was forced to cling to Xanthus’s mane to prevent herself slipping, which only added to the horse’s irritation. I had made Adela tie sacking over her hopelessly thin shoes, but the cloth was now so heavy and slippery with mud, she could scarcely lift her feet high enough to take a step. I could see she was exhausted, but was too afraid of Zophiel’s sharp tongue to admit it.

  ‘Wait, Zophiel. Adela needs to rest . . . and so do I,’ I added hastily, seeing his thin lips curling in contempt.

  ‘If she can’t even keep up with a lame horse, then she should rest here permanently. If we have to keep stopping for her, it’ll be dark long before we reach the next village, never mind get back to the wagon.’

  ‘We can’t leave her here alone in the forest. Besides, we all agreed if the villagers have any food left, they’re more likely to take pity on a woman heavy with child and sell it to her than to you or me,’ I told him.

  As we caught our breath, I stared along the track ahead of us. It sloped downwards between trees and thick tangles of brambles. It wasn’t a steep incline, but a large pool of water had accumulated in the dip. I hoped it wasn’t too deep for we’d have to go through it. We’d never coax Xanthus through those thorns.

  Zophiel jerked on Xanthus’s reins once more, but it took a whack from the switch
to get her to move. She was plainly no more eager to wade through that icy water than we were. Though it was barely midday, under the trees and leaden winter sky the forest was as gloomy as twilight in a graveyard.

  Without warning, Xanthus let out a shrill scream and one of her legs gave way beneath her. She jerked her head violently, tearing her reins from Zophiel’s hands, and kicked out. I twisted away from the flailing hoof and my feet slipped from under me. I must have shrieked louder than the poor horse as I hit the ground and felt an agonising pain shoot through my shoulder.

  Winded by the fall, it was several moments before I could even think of trying to move. I eased myself into a sitting position and gingerly touched my left shoulder. It was so painful, I was convinced I’d smashed the bone, but my fingers closed over a sharp spike of metal embedded in the flesh. Gritting my teeth, I wrenched it out and felt the hot gush of blood down my back.

  I stared uncomprehending at the lump of iron in my hand. My brain was fogged from the shock and pain, so it took several moments for me to register what I should have recognised instantly. It was a caltrop, a metal ball with four long sharp spikes pointing out from it at different angles, which meant that however it landed when thrown, three spikes would sit firmly on the ground while a fourth always pointed directly upwards, ready to sink deep into any hoof or foot that stepped on it.

  Xanthus was standing with her front leg bent, resting the edge of the hoof on the ground. She was trembling and whinnying in distress as Zophiel tried to calm her, running his hand down her leg. Evidently one of these foul things had been driven into her hoof. Wincing at the pain in my shoulder, I tried to summon the energy to get to my feet, but I was dizzy from the blood loss and a wave of nausea engulfed me every time I moved my head. Adela waddled round and tried to squat beside me in the mud, pressing the hem of her own skirts over the wound. Her face blanched at the sight of the blood.

  ‘God’s teeth, what kind of man would leave those things . . .?’ I began.

  Even as I said it, I realised that they had not been dropped on to the track by accident. I tried to scramble up, but it was already too late. Before I could prise myself up any further than my knees, a stinking sack had been thrown over my head and pulled down over my arms, pinning them to my sides. I heard both Adela and Zophiel cry out and guessed that they too had been caught.

  A length of cord was rapidly twisted around my arms and shoulders. I yelped as it was pulled tight, biting into the wound on my shoulder. Hands hauled me to my feet and I found myself being pushed face-down over the back of an animal; not Xanthus, a smaller beast, a pony or donkey. More rope was lashed around me, binding me tightly over the beast’s back. There had to be at least three men, probably more. But they clearly had no need to speak to each other. This was a well-practised kidnapping.

  Adela was yelling for her husband, Osmond, but he could have been anywhere in the forest and even if he heard his name above the howling wind, it would take some time for him to reach us. Adela’s cries were abruptly severed and a cold dread seized me. Had they knocked her unconscious or silenced her for ever?

  I heard Xanthus’s shrill whinny and guessed someone had pulled the caltrop from her hoof. At least they’d not abandoned her to suffer. My head thumped and jolted against the pony’s side as it was pulled forward. My ribs were being crushed against its back, and I was struggling to draw breath inside the suffocating sack. Thin whipping branches slashed across my head and legs. They were dragging us through dense vegetation. My head was pounding so violently that I began to fear the caltrop spike had been tipped with poison. It was not unknown.

  The pony stopped. Hands fumbled with the knots in the rope that tied me to its back. The rope gave way and I slid off. There was a moment of relief as the pressure on my ribs eased. But as my shoulder hit a rock, a shock of pain engulfed me and I passed out.

  The roar of the wind in my head grew louder and the burning pain in my shoulder surged back with it. Every bone in my body felt as if it had been pounded with a hammer. I opened my eyes, but could see nothing except a dim light filtering through the weave of the sack. I’d been propped up in a sitting position against a tree. I could feel the rough bark pressing into my back. When I tried to lift my hands, I found that both my wrists and ankles were tightly bound.

  ‘Nothing in his pack worth having either,’ a man’s voice growled, ‘save for a few teeth and bones. And the bones are that old and dried, can’t even use them to flavour the pot.’

  They’d found my saints’ relics. Pity they couldn’t feel holiness emanating from those bones, but that was hardly surprising considering they’d been purloined from a charnel house and might have belonged to any old sinner. Maybe I should’ve told them what I told the people in the marketplace – That scrap of cloth was cut from the very cloak of St Apollonia and is a certain cure for toothache. Wear that finger bone of St Hyacinth around your neck and you’ll never fear drowning. But there are some men even I cannot convince with my tales.

  ‘He must have the silver under his shirt.’

  Footsteps came towards me. I heard the rasp of a man’s breathing as he bent over me. Instinctively I drew my legs up, trying to protect my chest, bracing myself for the dagger thrust which I was sure was coming. My fear was made worse by not being able to see where he would strike.

  ‘If I’d silver or gold on me,’ I said, ‘I’d not be tramping through mud, carrying a sack of bones. I’m a piss-poor pedlar, nothing more.’

  A man grunted. ‘He’s awake then. What’s he saying?’

  Hands seized the front of my shirt, jerking me forward.

  ‘You try anything and I’ll cut your throat quicker than a kestrel can pounce on a mouse.’ The man’s voice had a peculiar whistle to it.

  I felt the sack being dragged upwards. The cold wet air hit my face like a slap. I greedily sucked it into my searing lungs. The world began to steady around me and I peered blearily upwards.

  We were in a forest clearing, surrounded by birch scrub, spindly saplings and the rotting stumps of ancient trees. The ruins of an ancient rough-stone building stood nearby. Its corners were covered over with frames fashioned from branches and woven through with reeds and bracken, in an effort to provide some shelter from the rain. Several tiny bothies made from a ragbag of fallen stones and rough-hewn wood huddled against the half-tumbled walls.

  Zophiel and Adela sat bound to the bases of trees a few yards away. Zophiel’s head and shoulders were covered with a sack, similar to the one that had been pulled from me. He was slumped forward against his bonds. It was impossible to see if he was merely unconscious or dead. There was no sack on Adela’s head, but a filthy rag had been tied tightly across her mouth as a gag. I could see her chest heaving in short, shallow breaths and her eyes were wide with fear.

  Inside the ruins of the building, two men, their hoods pulled low over their faces, sat around a fire pit, and a woman, clad like the men in coarse leggings and tunic, was deftly plucking a woodcock which was bloody and half-mauled as if she had wrested it from the teeth of some predator.

  The man who’d removed my sack was standing a couple of paces away from me. The long points of his hood were wound around his mouth and nose to disguise his face.

  ‘We found nowt in your scrip. So where’s the gold?’

  ‘I’ve nothing . . .’ My throat was so dry, I could hardly force the words out. ‘Told you, I’m a camelot. But between the pestilence and this rain, a one-legged tightrope walker could’ve earned more than I have on the roads these past months.’

  ‘Funny how they all tell us that, isn’t it, lads?’ the outlaw said. ‘Amazing how many men set out on a long journey and forget to bring so much as a bent penny with them.’ He looked round at his companions, who laughed mirthlessly.

  ‘But see, here’s the thing, I bet if I was to strip you, I’d find a purse you’d forgotten all about hidden away, just to keep it safe like. I know how it is. An old man like you can’t be too careful these days, so many wi
cked robbers about, isn’t that right, lads? Shocking it is. I don’t blame you for keeping your gold well out of sight. Thing is, though, Jack here does the searching and he’s not a patient man, isn’t our Jack. Can’t abide liars, can you, Jack? That comes from him having been in holy orders.’

  ‘There’s a place in hell specially made for roasting liars,’ the man by the fire said.

  ‘And if Holy Jack searches a man and finds he’s been lied to, he’s apt to send the sinner straight to that place himself, isn’t that right?’

  ‘“Vengeance is mine, says the Lord,”’ Jack recited cheerfully, waving a dagger so long it could have pierced the heart of an ox.

  ‘So you see, it’d be best if you told us the truth now, afore we ask old Holy Jack to discover it, ’cause he looks so comfy by that fire, we wouldn’t want to have him move for no good reason, would we? Doesn’t improve his temper any.’

  My tongue felt like a wad of dry wool in my mouth, but I tried to moisten my lips. I was desperate not to be searched.

  ‘I’ve a few coins sewn into the edge of my cloak, but there’s not much left in there.’

  The man bent towards me and I tried to bring my bound hands up to cover my face as I glimpsed the flash of a knife. But the blade didn’t touch my skin. It sliced through the fastening of my cloak and he wrenched it off. I gasped as the movement jerked my injured shoulder.

  ‘Go easy, Pecker,’ the woman murmured. ‘He’s an old man, and by the looks of his face he’s suffered more than most. ’Sides, you only got to see his clothes to know he’s worth nowt. I don’t know why you bothered with them. They none of them look as if they’ve a farthing to bless themselves with.’

  ‘Couldn’t see who they were in this stinking weather,’ Pecker said sulkily.

  He worked methodically over every inch of the cloak, cutting out coins whenever he felt them. But I think even he realised that I’d hardly be carrying anything of great value if I’d gone to such trouble to hide coins worth so little.