Liars and Thieves (A Company of Liars short story) by Karen Maitland
Authors: Karen Maitland
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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
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
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