Company of Liars (2 page)

I've travelled for many years, so many that I have long since ceased to count them. Besides, it's of no consequence. The sun rises in the east and sinks in the west and we told ourselves it always would. I should have known better than to believe that. I am, after all, a camelot, a peddler, a hawker of hopes and crossed fingers, of piecrust promises and gilded stories. And believe me, there are plenty who will buy such things. I sell faith in a bottle: the water of the Jordan drawn from the very spot where the dove descended, the bones of the innocents slaughtered in Bethlehem and the shards of the lamps carried by the wise virgins. I offer them skeins of Mary Magdalene's hair, redder than a young boy's blushes, and the white milk of the Virgin Mary in tiny ampoules no
bigger than her nipples. I show them blackened fingers of St Joseph, palm leaves from the Promised Land and hair from the very ass that bore our blessed Lord into Jerusalem. And they believe me, they believe it all, for haven't I the scar to prove I've been all the way to the Holy Land to fight the heathen for these scraps?

You can't avoid my scar, purple and puckered as a hag's arsehole, spreading my nose half across my cheek. They sewed up the hole where my eye should have been and over the years the lid has shrunk and shrivelled into the socket, like the skin on a cold milk pudding. But I don't attempt to hide my face, for what better provenance can you want, what greater proof that every bone I sell is genuine, that every drop of blood splashed down upon the very stones of the Holy City itself? And I can tell them such stories – how I severed a Saracen's hand to wrest the strips of our Lord's swaddling clothes from his profaning grasp; how I had to slaughter five, nay a dozen, men, just to dip my flask in the Jordan. I charge extra for the stories, of course. I always charge.

We all have to make a living in this world and there are as many ways of getting by in this life as there are people in it. Compared to some, my trade might be considered respectable and it does no harm. You might say it even does good, for I sell hope and that's the most precious treasure of them all. Hope may be an illusion, but it's what keeps you from jumping in the river or swallowing hemlock. Hope is a beautiful lie and it requires talent to create it for others. And back then on that day when they say it first began, I truly believed that the creation of hope was the greatest of all the arts, the noblest of all the lies. I was wrong.

That day was counted a day of ill fortune by those who believe in such things. They like to have a day to fix it on,
as if death can have an hour of birth or destruction a moment of conception. So they pinned it upon Midsummer's Day 1348; a date that everyone can remember. That was the day on which humans and beasts alike became the wager in a divine game. That was the cusp upon which the scales of heaven and hell swung free.

That particular Midsummer's Day was born shivering and sickly, wrapped in a dense mist of fine rain. Ghosts of cottages, trees and byres hovered in the frail grey light, as if at cockcrow they'd vanish. But the cock did not crow. It did not recognize that dawn. The birds were silent. All who met as they hurried to milking and tending of livestock called out cheerfully that the rain would not last long and then it would be as fine a Midsummer's Day as any yet seen, but you could see they were not convinced. The silence of the birds unnerved them. They knew that silence was a bad omen on this day of all days, though none dared say so.

But, as they predicted, the drizzle did finally dry up. A sliver of sun, wan and weak, shone fitfully between the heavy clouds. It had no warmth in it, but the villagers of Kilmington were not to be downcast by that small matter. Waves of laughter rolled across the Green. Bad omen or not, this was their holiday and even in the teeth of a gale they would have sworn they were enjoying themselves. Outlanders had poured in from neighbouring villages to sell and to buy, barter and haggle, settle old quarrels and start new ones. There were servants looking for masters, girls looking for husbands, widowers looking for good strong wives and thieves looking for any purse they could cut.

Beside the pond, a gutted pig turned on a great spit and the smoke of sweet roasting meat hung in the damp air, making the mouth water. A small boy cranked the spit slowly, kicking at the dogs that jumped and snapped at the
carcass, but the poor brutes were driven to near frenzy by the smell and not even the spitting fire or the blows from a stout staff deterred them. The villagers cut juicy chunks from the sizzling loins, tearing at them with their teeth and licking the fat from greasy fingers. Even those whose teeth were long worn down to blackened stumps sucked greedily at wedges of fat and pork crackling as the juices ran down their chins. Such a rare extravagance of fresh meat was to be savoured down to the last succulent bone.

Small gangs of barefoot boys rushed through the gossiping adults, trying to distract the scarlet-clad jugglers and bring their clubs crashing to the ground. Lads and lasses made free, oblivious of the damp grass and the disapproving frowns of priest and clerk. Peddlers shouted their wares. Minstrels played upon fife and drum, and youngsters shouted loud enough to wake the demons in hell. It was the same every year. They made the most of their fair, for there was precious little else to make merry with for the rest of the year.

But even in the jostling, noisy crowd you could not fail to notice the child. It was her hair, not blonde but pure white, a silk-fine tumble of it like an old man's beard run wild, and beneath this snowcap, a face paler than a nun's thighs, white eyebrows, white lashes framing eyes translucent as a dawn sky. The fragile skin of her bony limbs glowed ice-blue against the nut-brown hides of the other market brats. But it wasn't just the absence of colour in her that drew my attention; it was the beating.

Nothing unusual in a child getting a thrashing; I'd probably seen half a dozen already that day – a switch across bare legs for a carelessly dropped basket of eggs, a tanned backside for running off without leave, a cuff around the ear for no good reason except that the brat was in the way. All
of the young sinners trying to dodge the blows and yell loudly enough to satisfy the chastisers that the punishment had been fully appreciated, all, that is, except her. She didn't yell or struggle, but was as silent as if the blows to her back were inflicted with a feather instead of a belt, and this only seemed to infuriate the beater more. I thought he'd whip her senseless, but finally, defeated, he let her go. She stumbled a few yards away from him, unsteady but with her chin held high, though her legs almost gave way beneath her. Then she turned her head and looked at me as if she sensed me watching. Her pale blue eyes were as dry and clear as a summer's day, and around her mouth was the merest trace of a smile.

The beater was not the only one who'd been enraged by her silence. A fat, beringed merchant was shaking his fist at him, demanding recompense, almost purple in the face with rage. I couldn't hear what passed between them for the shouts and chatter of the small crowd that had gathered around them, but at last some deal seemed to be struck and the merchant allowed himself to be led off in the direction of the tavern, with the onlookers bringing up the rear. The beater doubtless intended to pacify the outraged man with a soporific quantity of strong wine. Clutching him ingratiatingly by the elbow with one hand, he didn't waste the opportunity to cuff the girl with the other as he passed her, a practised blow, delivered without apparently glancing in her direction. It sent her sprawling face down on the ground and wisely, this time, she stayed there until he was safely inside the tavern. Then she crawled into a narrow gap between a tree trunk and the wheels of a wagon and crouched there, arms wrapped around her knees, staring at me with wide, expressionless eyes like a cat watching from the hearth.

She looked about twelve years old, barefoot and dressed in a grubby white woollen shift, with a blood-red band about the neck that intensified the whiteness of her hair. She continued to stare, but not at my scar, at my good eye, with an intensity that was more imperious than curious. I turned away. Whatever had transpired had nothing to do with me. The girl had been punished for some crime, thieving probably, and doubtless deserved what she got, though she was obviously well hardened to it, since it had had so little effect on her. So there was no reason for me to say anything to her.

I pulled a pastry from my scrip, broke it in two and tossed half to her, then hunkered down with my back resting on the tree trunk to eat my share. I was hungry and it was a quiet spot to eat now that the crowd had moved on. And I couldn't have eaten and not offered the child a bite, now could I? I gazed out at the bustle of the fair, chewing slowly. The pastry was as dry as the devil's hoof, but the salt mutton inside was sweet enough and well herbed. The girl was holding her pastry in both fists as if she feared someone might snatch it from her. She said nothing, not even a thank you.

I took a swig of ale to wash the dry mouthful down. ‘Do you have a name, girl?’

‘Narigorm.’

‘Well, Narigorm, if you're going to thieve from his sort you'll need to learn your trade better. You're fortunate he didn't send for the bailiff.’

‘Wasn't thieving.’ The words came out muffled from a well-stuffed mouth.

I shrugged and glanced sideways at her. She'd finished the pastry already and was licking her fingers with great concentration. I wondered when she'd last eaten. Given the
man's mood, I doubted he was going to feed her again that day. But I half believed her about the stealing. A girl who stood out so vividly from the crowd was not likely to survive long as a pickpocket and it occurred to me that with her looks her father or her master, whichever the man was, might well have found a good living renting her out by the hour to men whose taste runs to young virgins. But she'd clearly upset the customer this time. Maybe she'd refused the merchant, or else he'd tried her and discovered he was not the first to come banging on her door. She'd learn ways to conceal that in time. More experienced women would teach her the trick of it, and she'd doubtless earn a good living when she mastered the art. She'd a fair few years ahead of her in the trade, more than most I reckoned, for even when the bloom of her youth was gone there would still be plenty who'd pay handsomely for a woman who looked so different from the rest.

‘You want me to do it for you now, for the pastry?’ Her voice was as emotionless as her gaze. ‘We'll have to be quick before Master comes back, he'll not be best pleased if you don't pay in coins.’

Her small, cold hand tried to insinuate itself into mine. I put it back in her lap, gently but firmly, sad for her that she had already learned not to expect any gifts from life. Not even a crust comes free. Still, the younger you learn that lesson, the fewer disappointments you'll have.

‘I'm past such things now, child. Much too old. Besides, it was only a bite of food. Take it and welcome. You're a pretty girl, Narigorm. You don't need to sell yourself so cheaply. Take a tip from an old camelot, the more people pay for something, the more they think it’s worth.’

She frowned slightly and tilted her head, regarding me curiously. ‘I know why you don't want me to read the runes
for you. You don't want to know when you're going to die. Old men say they want to know, but they don't.’ She rocked back and forth on her bottom like a toddler. ‘I told the merchant he was going to lose all his money and his wife was going to run off and leave him. It's the truth, but he didn't like it. Master told him I was teasing and tried to make me give him a better fortune, but I wouldn't. I can't lie; if you lie you lose the gift. Morrigan destroys liars.’

So she was a diviner. A good trick if you can convince others of the truth of it. It's hard to tell with some of them if they believed in their own art or not. Was she convinced she had told the merchant the truth or had she taken a dislike to the fat toad and given him that ill fortune from devilment? If so, she'd paid for it and might well pay again if her master was forced to spend too much in the tavern appeasing him, but she probably thought it worth a hiding for the look on the merchant's face. I might have thought so too at her age. I chuckled.

‘I
did
tell him the truth,’ she hissed savagely. ‘I'll tell yours, then you'll see.’

Startled by the malice in her voice, I glanced down, but her pale blue eyes were as wide and emotionless as before and I realized I was being foolish. Children hate to be laughed at. It was natural enough for her to be indignant if she thought she was doubted.

‘I believe you, child, but I've no wish to have my fortune told. It's not that I doubt your skill,’ I added quickly, ‘but when you reach my age the future rushes towards you with too much haste as it is, without you running to meet it.’

I clambered slowly to my feet. I've no quarrel with any who make a living by divination, medicine or any other magic art they can use to con a few coins from people. Why should I? Don't I practise my art on the superstitious and the
credulous? But I see no reason to part with my hard-earned money for such services. Besides, if you can read the future, you can read the past, for they are but ends of the same thread and I always take great care that no one should know anything of me except my present.

The shadows were lengthening on the ground. The breeze, never warm, now had a sharp edge to it. The pig was bones. Some people were returning home, but others, most none too steady on their feet, were drifting towards the forest to continue the celebrations now that the business of the fair was over. I tidied my old bones away in my pack. There would be no more customers today. I heaved it on to my back and followed the raggle-taggle crowd towards the trees. I guessed there'd be some good sack swilled down in the woods that night and rich meats too for those who still had stomach for them, which I had.

I said nothing more to the girl. I'd done my Christian duty, shared a bite with her, and that was the end of it. And there was something about the way she looked at me that unnerved me. I've got used to being stared at over the years. I hardly notice it now. No, it wasn't that she was staring at my scar that bothered me, it was rather that she was
not
looking at it; she was staring at me as if she were trying to see beyond it.