Liars and Thieves (A Company of Liars short story) (8 page)

And so it is with people. The living are there, not yet ripe enough to fall from the bough of life into death. But they are not the only ones who pass along the streets and alleys or roam the forests and moors. There are others, like me, who have left life, but cannot enter death. Some stay where they lived, repeating a walk or a task, believing that if only they could complete it they might depart. They never will. Others wander the highways looking for a cave, a track or a door that will lead from this world to the one beyond, full of such wonders as they have only dreamed of.

Many, the saddest of all, try to rejoin the living. Sweethearts run in vain after their lovers, begging them turn and look at them. Children scrabble nightly at the doors of cottages, crying for a mother, any mother, to take them in and love them. Babies lurk down wells or lie under sods, awaiting their chance to creep inside a living woman’s womb and be born again as her child.

And me? I cannot depart, not yet. I was wrenched out of life before my time, hurled into death without warning, so I must tarry until I have seen my tale to its proper conclusion for there is someone I watch and someone I watch over. I will not leave them until I’ve brought their stories to an end.

Robert of Bassingham gazed at the eleven other members of the Common Council, slouching in their chairs, and sighed. It had been a long afternoon. The old guildhall chamber was built across the main thoroughfare of Lincoln city, and the bellows of pedlars, the rumble of carts and ox wagons, the chatter of people clacking over the stones in wooden pattens meant that the small windows of the chamber had to be kept shut, if the aged members were to hear the man next to them.

As a consequence, the air was stale with the sour breath of old men and the lingering odour of the mutton olives, goat chops and pork meatballs on which the councillors had been grazing. It being a warm day, they’d been compelled to wash down these morsels with flagons of costly hippocras, a spiced wine, which had already had worked its soporific magic on several. Three of the sleepers had carefully positioned a hand over their eyes so that they could pretend to be concentrating, while a fourth was lolling with his mouth open, snoring and farting almost as loudly as the hound at his feet.

Robert was inordinately fond of hippocras but had deliberately refrained from imbibing, knowing he, too, would doze off. He was painfully conscious of the heavy responsibilities he had now assumed as the newly elected master of the Guild of Merchants, the most powerful guild in Lincolnshire and still the wealthiest, even though it was not as prosperous as once it had been.

Robert was a cloth merchant of the city of Lincoln, well respected – at least, by those who measure a man’s worth by the size of his purse and influence. He made a good living selling wool and the red and green cloth for which Lincoln was justly famed. Having only recently been appointed to serve on the Common Council, he was one of its younger members, still in his early fifties.

He had acquired his wealth painstakingly over the years, for though he was a numbskull in matters of love, he was shrewd in business. He’d bought a stretch of the land on the bank of the river Witham from a widow after her husband’s death, having persuaded her it was worth little, which you could argue was the truth: the ground was too marshy even for sheep to thrive on it. But a Lincoln merchant must have boats to send his goods to the great port at Boston and boatmen must have somewhere to live close to the river: Robert had built a few cottages on the wasteland and earned a good sum renting them to those who carried his cargoes. If ‘earn’ is the right word for money that a man demands from others but never collects in person. And, believe me, there were many men in England that year who had cause to resent all such landlords  . . .

Robert banged his pewter beaker of small ale on the long table. The slumbering members jerked upright, glowering at him. Had not the newcomer the common courtesy to let a man sleep in peace?

‘I say again,’ Robert announced, ‘we must petition King Richard to give us leave to raise an additional tax in Lincoln to rebuild the guildhall.’ He gestured to the ominous cracks in the stone wall, which were almost wide enough to insert a finger in. ‘If another wagon should crash into the pillar below, it will bring us all tumbling down into the street.’

‘But the townspeople will never stand for it,’ Hugh de Garwell protested. ‘Thanks to John of Gaunt whispering in the young King’s ear, the commonality have already been bled dry to raise money for these pointless wars in France and Scotland.’

Several council members glanced uneasily at one another. It was hard to determine how far you could criticise the boy-king in public without being accused of treason, and while King Richard might yet forgive much, his uncle, John of Gaunt, had spies everywhere and was known to deal ruthlessly with any man who so much as muttered a complaint in his sleep. And since Gaunt was constable of Lincoln Castle, no one in that chamber could be certain that one of his fellow council members was not in that devil’s pay.

Robert regarded Hugh sourly. They were, for the most part, good friends, but it irritated him that Hugh seemed convinced a city could be run on pennies and pig-swill. He heaved himself from the chair and paced to the small window, trying to ease the cramp in his legs, as he stared down at the crowds milling below.

‘See there! Three carts trying to barge through the arch at the same time and none of them willing to give way to another. The people may not want to pay, but if this building collapses on top of them, dozens will be crushed in the rubble. Then they’ll be demanding to know why we didn’t do something sooner.’

‘So tax the guilds to pay for it, not the poor alewives and labourers,’ Hugh said. ‘The Guild of Merchants alone is wealthy enough to build a dozen new halls, if they were to sell some of the gold and silver they have locked away. They’ve grown as fat as maggots on the carcass of this city, so they  . . .’

But Robert wasn’t listening. His attention had been caught by a woman standing quite still among the bustle of the crowd, staring up at the window. She was clad in a dark blue gown, over which she wore a sleeveless surcoat of scarlet, embroidered with silver threads. Even at that distance, Robert could tell from the way the cloth hung, accentuating her slender figure, and from the vivid, even quality of the dye that it was of the best. His thumb and fingers twitched as if they itched to feel the weave.

Ever the merchant, Robert always took more notice of the cloth a woman wore than her face and he probably wouldn’t have taken another glance at her, except that she was gazing up at him intently. He stared back. He couldn’t distinguish her features clearly enough to determine her age, though the gleaming black hair beneath her silver fret suggested youth.

She seemed to make up her mind about something and, with a nod towards him, she threaded her way through the jostling pedlars to the door that led up to the council chamber and disappeared.

A merchant who prides himself on his calm and calculated reasoning is not a man to act on impulse but, to his surprise, Robert found himself striding rapidly to the door and out onto the staircase, leaving Hugh staring after him open-mouthed.

Robert, descending the steep spiral stairs with care, fully expected to encounter the woman on her way up, but he reached the bottom without passing anyone and found only the watchman squatting in the doorway, picking his teeth with the tip of his knife blade. On sensing Robert behind him, he hauled himself upwards against the wall, and made a clumsy half-bow.

Robert eyed him with disgust. His tunic was open and covered with the stains of ancient meals and his hairy belly was so large that it hung over his breeches. Robert was portly, but a wealthy man was expected to look sleek and well-fed. A watchman, on the other hand, was supposed to be as fit as a battle-hardened soldier, ready to defend his betters against danger. This blubber-arse looked as if he’d collapse if he was obliged even to lift his pike, never mind fight with it.

‘Did a woman come to the door a few moments ago?’ Robert demanded.

‘A woman, you say?’ The watchman scratched his navel, gazing absently at the passing crowd. ‘Aye, there was a woman. Matter of fact, she were asking for you, Master Robert. But I told her, I says, Master Robert’s an important man. He’s in council, and he’ll not thank you for disturbing him and the other gentlemen.’

Robert frowned. It was not unheard of for women to buy or sell in the cloth trade, especially if their husbands were absent, but why should she come to the guildhall, rather than his place of business? Robert’s son, Jan, who was also his steward, would still be hard at work in the warehouse at this hour, which was why Robert could afford to waste an afternoon on the city’s affairs.

‘Did this woman leave a message, her name? Where am I to find her?’

He had asked the man three questions at once, which was like throwing three sticks for a dog: it wouldn’t know which to chase first. The watchman pondered for an age, then admitted he couldn’t answer any.

‘You should have asked her business,’ Robert snapped.

The watchman gave Robert a resentful look. ‘They pay me to keep people out as shouldn’t be in there, not to ask their business, which is their own affair.’

Frustrated, Robert lumbered back up the stairs, steeling himself to re-enter the stuffy chamber.

The debate had not moved on by a jot or tittle since he’d left. He wondered, not for the first time, whether the Common Council ever managed to reach agreement about anything. He pictured them still sitting round that table in a hundred years, their beards grown to the floor, cobwebs hanging from their ears, wagging their gnarled fingers and repeating for the thousandth time what someone else had said not five minutes before.

Robert had never been accustomed to consulting others. Once he had made up his mind to do something, he began it at once. He’d no more patience for these endless discussions than he would have to stitch a tapestry. Perhaps that was why he found his thoughts constantly wandering to the still figure who’d stared up at him so intently. He couldn’t drive her image from his head.

If you fear that you are in the presence of a witch, clench both your hands into fists with the thumbs tucked under your fingers. Then she cannot enchant your mind.

I did not intend to fall in love. In truth, I had not set eyes on Master Robert before that hour when I stood outside the guildhall. I didn’t know then that he was the man looking down from the window. But on that sultry September afternoon, Robert of Bassingham and I were about to find ourselves both pieces and players in a game of romance, both slayer and sacrifice. But of all the players who were to be drawn with us into that dangerous game, none could have guessed who would finally call checkmate.

Although I did not know Master Robert, I knew well his reputation and had come to the guildhall that day for the sole purpose of speaking with him. My children and I were newly arrived in Lincoln and I had no kin in the city to whom I could turn. Many men, and women too, delight in seeking out the vulnerable to gain their trust, only to rob them of all they have. I was determined not to become their prey.

But if I had believed the gossip of my neighbours, as they waited for the butcher to slice a piece of cow’s tongue or the fishmonger to knock a live carp on the head, I would have concluded there was not a single man of sound character left within the city walls. A woman called Maud, who lived in the same street as I, was the worst of the tale-bearers, with a tongue as sharp and malicious as the devil’s pitchfork. Before long I knew which men drank, who beat their wives and who had a string of whores. I learned the name of every feckless husband who’d lost his money in wagers on the fighting cocks, and all the miserly fathers who made their children wear splintered barrel-staves on their feet to save on shoe-leather.

But I knew how to sift the words of others and so it was that, in spite of what the witch, Maud, had said about him and his little weaknesses, or perhaps
because
of what she had said, I came to believe that of all the men in Lincoln the one I should seek out was Robert of Bassingham.

I thought carefully about how I should approach him. A merchant like Master Robert would be pestered by all manner of people begging for his precious time and I feared I might be brushed aside. But if you want to capture the attention of a thief you flash a gold coin, if a scholar a rare book, so I had taken care to dress in a gown that would gladden the heart of any cloth merchant.

I’d meant to wait patiently outside until the meeting of the Common Council ended and ask someone to conduct me to him, so we might speak in the privacy of the empty chamber, but as I waited a man came to the window and stared down at me so fixedly that I was ashamed to be seen loitering and approached the watchman to ask if Robert was within. I was dismissed as though I were a stew-house whore.

A weaker woman might have given up. Not I. I’d already discovered that Robert of Bassingham had a warehouse on the Braytheforde harbour so I made my way there, hoping he might return.

The banks of the Braytheforde were crowded with warehouses and taverns, chandlers and boatyards. The screams of the gulls mingled with the shouts of the workers, the hammering and sawing of the boat builders. Men strode past, carrying long planks on their shoulders, and women hurried by, with panniers of fish on their backs. Everyone was scurrying about, so it was hard to find anyone who would stop long enough to point out Robert’s warehouse. Finally a boatman gestured towards the largest and busiest building on the quayside, a great wooden structure facing the jetty where little boats were moored.

A man with red-gold hair was standing with his back to me in the doorway, directing the men who were offloading bales from a nearby boat and hefting them into the warehouse. He turned as I approached and his mouth stretched into an easy smile, as if he was always ready to call any stranger ‘friend’. I realised he was far too young to be the man I sought.