Company of Liars (5 page)

The mermaid, if maid it was, was no bigger than an infant. Its face was wizened, shrunken in on itself so that the eyes were mere slits, but slanted upwards at the corners. The head was covered with a fine straw-coloured fluff that stood up straight from the skin or perhaps the skin had shrunk away from the hair. Eyebrows and lashes were startlingly blonde against the tanned flesh, though it was hard to tell whether this was its natural colour or some artifice of the preservation of the body. The creature's chest was as smooth and sexless as a child's. The arms were human enough. One tiny fist grasped a hand-mirror of polished silver; the other was clenched around a doll carved from whalebone. The doll was in the form of a mermaid, the kind you might see among the grotesques on a church, with swollen hips, pendulous breasts and a long serpent's tail.

But what was below the waist of this little creature? Now that's what we'd really come to see. It did not have legs, certainly. Instead there was a single long piece of flesh that tapered down from the waist to two curious projections at
the end, resembling the hind flippers of a seal. Like the rest of the body, the tail, if tail it could be called, was brown and wrinkled, but naked, devoid of either scales or fur.

‘That's no mermaid,’ sneered the man standing near me. ‘That's a…’ He trailed off, at a loss to find any name for the creature. He was sweating onions and the stench of his breath threatened to overpower even that of the creature's corpse.

‘I heard,’ his friend said, ‘that some charlatans sew the body of a human to the tail of a fish to make it look like a mermaid.’

The sweating man peered closer. ‘That's no fish's tail. It's not got scales.’

‘It'll be a seal, then. They've joined a human babe to a seal.’

‘It's got no fur neither,’ he said impatiently ‘and there's no join. If anyone could see a stitched-on tail, I could; after all, I've been stitching cloth since I were a babe myself.’

‘So what is it, then?’

They asked the same question of Zophiel outside, loudly, with the aggression that comes from uncertainty.

Zophiel looked down his pale thin nose at them, as if the question had been asked by a simpleton. ‘As I told you, it's one of the merpeople, a merchild.’

Onion-breath gave a mirthless guffaw as if he had been told such things many times before and didn't believe a word of it. ‘So how come it's got no scales on its tail?’ He glanced round at the small crowd with a smirk that said, answer that one, if you can. He was spurred on by many encouraging nods and winks. Townspeople are always eager to have a stranger confounded.

‘You admit it has a tail, then?’ Zophiel asked coolly.

The smile on Onion-breath's face waned. ‘But not a scaly
tail, and it's got no hair on its head neither. I thought mermaids were supposed to have hair, yards of it.’

‘Do you have any children, my friend?’

The man hesitated, uncertain where this line of argument was leading. ‘I do, for my sins, three fine lads and a bonny little lass.’

‘So, my friend, was your daughter born with hair?’

‘When she were a mite she were as bald as her grandfather is now.’

‘But she has a fine head of hair now, I wager.’

The man nodded.

‘There you are then, her hair grew in. It's the same with merpeople. They are born as smooth and hairless as you or I, and the hair and scales grow in later.’

The man opened and closed his mouth, but seemed to have no answer.

Zophiel smiled, though the smile didn't reach his eyes. ‘You're a wise man, my friend. People of lesser intelligence would not think to ask such questions and I'm not surprised that you didn't know the answer. Many of the greatest scholars in our land are ignorant of such things because merbabies are seldom seen, only the adults. The infants are kept hidden far below the waves in deep sea caves until they are old enough to swim to the surface. It's a rare thing to see one. Far more rare than seeing a mermaid, which is rare enough. Why, I doubt any merbabies have been seen for five hundred years, maybe more.’

There was a moment's hesitation as the crowd digested these momentous facts, then, as one, hands flew to purses, struggling to part with coins as fast as Zophiel could take them. Every man, woman and child who still had money to spend was desperate to part with their last penny to see this rarest of all rare creatures. Even old Onion-breath beamed
as if he had personally discovered the merchild. Zophiel knew just how to work a crowd.

As it happens, we'd all been doing pretty well that day. The Bartholomew Fair was busier than usual. With markets closing along the south coast, the merchants were pushing inland. After all, as they said, life goes on. We all have to eat until we die. So the merchants were shouting one another hoarse and the crowd was just as excited. Wine and spices, salt and oil, dyes and cloth fairly flew off the stalls. ‘Buy now,’ the merchants urged, ‘it may be months before we can get another shipment in. Stock up while you have the chance.’ And they bought as if they were preparing for a siege.

I'd done all right too, sold half a dozen fragments of the bones of St Brigid, guaranteed to keep the cows in milk, and several ribs of St Ambrose to hang over the bee skeps to ensure that the combs would be bursting with honey come autumn. The farmers needed all the help they could get. The field beans were blackened with mildew and they'd be lucky to salvage enough to cover the bottom of a pot. The late hay crop had already been ruined by the rain and there was scarcely a sheaf of grain left standing. If it didn't stop raining soon, honey and cheese would be all anyone would have in their winter stores.

Prices were up, but that was to be expected. The buyers grumbled, but they bought anyway. No point saving a few pennies, if next week there'd be nothing to spend them on. Besides, if you had to pay more for a barrel of pickled pork, you charged more for your knives. Too bad for those who had nothing to sell, that was their problem.

Yes, all things considered it was a profitable fair for the merchants and peddlers, and Rodrigo and Jofre were doing well enough too, considering they had only been a month
on the road. At night, in front of a warm hearth in the inns, satisfied with their day's shrewd bargaining and mellow from hot food and strong ale, people would pay generously for an evening's entertainment. And Rodrigo and Jofre had talent, more than I'd seen in many a year, though talent is not enough on the road and they still had much to learn.

They were used to playing to a lord's command. Lords and ladies know what they want. They can put a name to a song or demand you write a new one. They will even tell you what the subject of that song should be. But a crowd doesn't know what mood it's in, or if it does, it won't tell you. You have to be able to sense it. Is it in the mood for a love song or a rousing battle song, a story of daring adventure or a bawdy verse? Does the crowd want to sing along or sit and dream? It folds its arms and glowers as if to say, ‘Go on, lad, amuse us, and God help you if you don't.’

But Rodrigo was anxious to learn. He could have spent his days dry and warm in the inns, for there was little point in attempting to play in the open market place in the rain, but he preferred to spend his time outside watching me work, trying to understand the rules of the new world in which he found himself.

‘The trick,’ I told him, ‘is to know what a customer wants before they know themselves. Watch.

‘Your daughter nearing her birth pangs, mistress? A dangerous time. You must be sick with worry. See this amulet. It has the names of the holy angels
Sanvi, Sansanvi
and
Semangelaf
engraved upon it. Demons will flee from the room the moment they catch sight of it. Expensive? Come now, mistress, what price would you put on the life of your daughter and grandchild? Thank you, mistress, and may she be delivered of a fine boy.’

As he watched me pocket the coins, Rodrigo shook
his head in disbelief. ‘But how did you know her daughter was with child? Do you trade in fortunes as well as old bones?’

‘You must keep your eyes open if you want to survive on the road. I saw her earlier buying horehound, cinnamon and pennyroyal from that woman over there. What would she use that combination for, except to ease birth pains? She's not pregnant herself and she's too well dressed to be a servant, so it was a safe guess that it was for her own daughter. Now, take that man walking towards us, what do you think he'll buy?’

I nodded towards a portly, sallow-skinned man wearing an outrageous confection of green and yellow on his head, clearly under the impression it was the last word in stylish hats. He constantly gazed around as he picked his way through the mud, beaming at anyone whom he perceived to be of a higher station than himself as if hoping to be recognized as one of them.

Rodrigo looked the man up and down. ‘Now, that is the kind of man I do know. I have met many like him at my lord's court. He would only buy a relic if it came in a gold casket covered in jewels. You will never sell any of your wares to him.’

‘You're certain of that, are you?’

‘I would wager a tankard of mulled ale on it,’ he grinned, slipping back a pace or two as the merchant approached, to give me space to work.

‘Feeling a touch bilious, master? I can see you're suffering. You have a delicate constitution. Up all night with a bad stomach, I'll be bound. His Majesty the King suffers exactly the same trouble and I'm sure you know what he uses – wolf's dung. He wouldn't be without it. As luck would have it, I happen to have a packet here. And not ordinary wolf's
dung, this is imported all the way from Russia, as used by the King himself. Would His Majesty use anything but the best? He always insists on Russian dung, for everyone knows they have the strongest wolves.’

The man waved his hand dismissively. ‘I have no need of such stuff.’ But his gaze lingered just a little too long on the packet for a man who was indifferent, and I knew I had a sale.

‘My apologies, sir, but you're looking so pale. I can't bear to see any nobleman suffering unnecessarily, but no matter, I have a good customer in Gloucester, the sheriff there. Perhaps you know him. He's desperate for all I can bring him. With the foreign ships not putting to sea and demand higher than ever, he's stocking up –’

‘I'll take it,’ the man broke in hastily. Then, recovering his business sense, added, ‘But you'll have to take rosewater for it. I have no money left. The price the merchant charged for this was extortionate.’ He pulled out a flask. ‘My wife insisted I bring her some back for her baking, but I'll tell her there was none to buy. It's good quality.’ He pulled off the stopper and waved the flask in the air, allowing the smell to waft out.

Rosewater is no use to me. On the road, you need coins to buy food or goods that will keep long enough to sell at the next fair or the one after that. Rosewater, once unsealed, quickly loses its pungency or turns bad. I was about to refuse, when I heard a deep sigh next to me. Rodrigo had inched forward and was breathing in the sweet perfume. ‘It is excellent.’

In three words Rodrigo had managed to destroy any bargaining power I had. The man sauntered away with his wolf's dung, confident that he had got the better of me.

I rounded on Rodrigo. ‘Are you out to ruin me?’

He gave a sheepish grin. ‘But I could not resist. I smell this and suddenly I am a little boy in Venice again. Always for Christmas children were given little figures of the Christ child made of
marzapane.
For days before the air was filled with the smell of almonds and rosewater and we could not wait to taste it. We tried to creep into the kitchens to steal just a little piece, but we never could.’

I shook my head. I'd never heard of it.

‘It is a paste made from sugar, eggs and almonds and flavoured with rosewater. Very costly, that is why it was so special. I have not tasted such a thing since I left Venice. It is…’ he kissed the tips of fingers,
‘squisito
! To me it is the taste of Venice.’

Annoyed though I was, I couldn't help smiling at his ecstatic expression. ‘You miss Venice very much?’

‘Even more now that we live on the road.’ He raised his eyes miserably to the heavy grey clouds. ‘I never intended to stay away so long. When this pestilence is past I shall return to my homeland. Jofre too. I will take him back, no matter what his father says.’

The day we'd met in the inn, Rodrigo had me told that Jofre's father had sent him away. I'd thought nothing of the remark at the time; most boys are sent away to learn a trade or to serve in some great house. But most fathers would be overjoyed to see their sons again. Why would a father forbid his son's return?'

Rodrigo's gaze was still resting on the flask of rosewater as if it was a magic potion which had the power to carry him home. He smiled wistfully.
‘Deo volente
, as soon as the curse of this sickness is lifted from us, I will go back to the place of my childhood.’

‘But you can never return to that, Rodrigo. You can never again be what you were there. Just as a ewe rejects a lamb
that has been separated from her, so your homeland will reject you as a stranger.’

He flinched. ‘You would condemn me to be an exile all my life, Camelot?’

‘We are exiles from the past. Besides, what do you have to return to? Or are the stories true that minstrels have a girl in every town?’ I laughed, trying to dispel the melancholy that had settled on him. ‘Have you left a trail of broken hearts behind you in Venice?’

‘Have you not heard our songs? It is the poor minstrel's heart that is broken.’ He smiled, pressing his hand dramatically to his chest and striking an exaggerated pose, like a lovesick swain in a mummers' play. But the light-hearted gesture didn't mask the shadow of pain I glimpsed in his eyes. That was real and deep.

‘Here, you may as well take this,’ I said, thrusting the flask of rosewater at him.

His eyes widened in surprise. ‘But I cannot accept such a gift.’

‘No use to me,’ I said as gruffly as I could.

He grasped my shoulder. ‘Thank you, thank you, my friend.’

‘You've cost me a fortune,’ I said severely, ‘but don't think you can talk your way out of the wager.’