Company of Liars by Karen Maitland Page B

with each day's downfall the mud grew deeper, the walking harder, our bellies emptier. The truth was, though none of us admitted as much, we had begun to depend on one another to survive. We shared all our food and ale which we bought with the little each of us earned from the villages we trundled through. We made makeshift shelters when we couldn't find an inn or a barn, and helped to gather fodder for the horse.
    The mare, as we soon discovered, had been well named. Her coat had a fiery red-gold sheen to it and for that she had been named Xanthus, after the immortal talking horse given to Achilles. But in temperament she took after that more infamous beast of the same name, the man-eating mare of King Diomedes, except that our Xanthus was an even greater misanthrope, for unlike the king's horse who only devoured his enemies, she took delight in savaging friend as well as foe. She had a nasty habit of biting, without warning, anyone who got within range of her teeth, and for no good cause except that it amused her. So we quickly learned to judge the reach of her neck and to keep a safe distance, unless we had a firm grip on her bridle.
    But Xanthus and the wagon she pulled became our ark, our covenant, the standard around which we rallied. We pulled them both out of ruts during the day and kept watch over them at night. The wagon carried our packs, our food, our ale; it even gave us shelter if we could find no other. All six of us now were headed towards the safety of St John's shrine to sit out the weather and the pestilence, and the thought of the dry beds that awaited us there, the easy money, the hot food and no more trudging in the mud and rain, was what kept us going when our bellies were achingand our feet so wet and numb we could have broken our toes off and sold them as relics.
    And something else was spurring me on, though I did not confide it to any of them. Once I had led our little company to North Marston, I would be able to leave them there. They'd be safe. No more acting nursemaid or having to put up with Zophiel's tongue or Jofre's sulks. I'd only have myself to worry about. At North Marston they'd be able to fend for themselves and I could leave them behind with a clear conscience.
    The need to reach the shrine was becoming more urgent by the day. Fear was creeping across the land. It rose silently, like the tide in a creek, a cold, grey fear that was seeping into everything. The country was full of the news that the pestilence had reached London. That shook even the most optimistic souls. True, London was a port; it was bound to succumb sooner or later, but it was not a southern port, it was not even a western port. It was on the east coast. The pestilence had crept up on three sides of the land and now it was reaching in to grasp the heart of England.
    No one here had actually seen anyone sick with the pestilence; most people knew little of what it did to a man, but that only made them more fearful, for every headache, every cough, every touch of fever might be the beginning. How could you tell? To make matters worse, rumours were spreading that it wasn't just humans who fell to the pestilence; it was animals and birds too. Herds of pigs, sheep, cattle, even horses had sickened and died in the south. Stockmen left their animals at night well and hearty, and by morning when they woke there would not be a beast left standing in the flock.
    ‘Maybe the flagellants will come,’ said Rodrigo. ‘I saw them once in Venice, marching from church to church. Menand women, naked to the waist save for their white hoods, flogging themselves bloody with metal-tipped whips. Now I hear there are whole armies of them right across Europe, screaming to one another to whip harder and pray louder.’
    ‘And if they do come to England, will you join them?’ I asked.
    Rodrigo grimaced and bent his head in mock shame. ‘You see before you an abject coward, Camelot. I do not relish pain, either giving or receiving it, even