Miriam Bibby - Mistress Meg 02 - Mistress Meg and the Silver Bell (10 page)

“Good,”
said Meg, shutting the box. “Human noses lack the subtlety of yours, my
Cornelius. Perfumes need to sleep in earth for a while and then they are quite
enchanting to those inferior human noses.”

She closed
the box and looked out of the window. Evening was coming on, a lovely cool
long-shadowed May evening that carried a tiny memory of winter into summer.
Children were playing in the street and shouting out to one another. Mothers
came to some of the doors and casements to call them in. The street grew
peaceful for a while. And then, out of nowhere, there was a sudden alert,
almost an alarm; and a group of men came trotting up towards the inn. They were
the focus of attention immediately. All passers by turned and stared; some
people pointed or nodded and fell into discussion. In the middle of the riders,
led on a rope, was a tall, rangy, chestnut horse. Its rolling eye, and the
awkward angle at which it was holding its head as it tried to see what was
going on around it suggested a restless, lively temperament. As Meg watched,
the riders came up to the front of the Hart and Hawthorn and dismounted. The
one who had led the chestnut was a tall, thin lad, probably not more than
twenty years old. It was a little more difficult now to see what was happening,
but she thought that someone had taken the chestnut horse around to the inn
stable. Some of the voices outside sounded agitated.

Meg waited.
Soon afterwards she heard a quick light step outside the room.

“Matthew,”
she said to Cornelius. He turned his head and gave a small sound, not quitea
whine or a bark. A happy sound.

Matthew
came in and scents of cool outdoors, street, common room and stable accompanied
him in a wonderful message for Cornelius. There was even a hint of inn yard cat
there, just to make it even more interesting. A pompous ginger tom. Cornelius
wished he could enliven its obviously dull existence. Just a little.

“You’ve
news,” said Meg, smiling mischievously. “To do with a horse?”

“You
already know,” said Matthew, deadpan. “Or if you do not, why not look
in that scrying
mirror of yours?” He
knelt down and added some fuel to the low fire with one hand, whilst rolling
Cornelius around on his back with the other. Cornelius grunted happily and his
tail thumped the floor.

“How
undignified, Brother Nose-all,” said Meg.

“But
if you didn’t know,” said Matthew, “or if - as sometimes happens -
there is a mysterious mist on the face of the scrying mirror that will let you
see nothing - then perhaps some generous soul would tell you that a party of
serving men has arrived in Marcaster with the horse belonging to Sir John
Widderis. The horse that is to be matched against that of Sir Richard Grasset.
They are rivals - and sometimes, perhaps - friends.”

The fire
began to spark back into life again. Cornelius began to think about his next
meal.

“So,
before our rivals match their horses, both animals are to be displayed in the
town to show there is no deception or substitution,” said Meg, gazing at
the wavering little flames.

“Yes.
That of Sir John here in the stables of the Hart and Hawthorn. That of Sir
Richard at the Blue Boar.”

“I
would like to see that horse.”

“You
mean, ‘Matthew, go and view that horse and come back and tell me about
it’.”

Meg
laughed. “You are starting to read me too well.”

“Never
well enough, it seems.”

“We
shall let that pass, eh, Brother Nose-all? I ask myself who will ride those
horses.”

“And
the answer you give yourself is?”

“I
know who I would choose, if I wanted the best.”

Matthew
nodded. “Sir George Paston; if he were here.”

* * * * *

Anne
Grasset was evidently as keen to display her new dining parlour as she was to
show off her daughters. The bright evening was overcast now and as they sat
down to sup, candlelight gleamed on silver and Venetian glass and lit up the
portraits of the Grasset ancestors in a slightly baleful fashion. It seemed a
little odd, but pleasant, to George to be supping with just the family and two
servants in attendance. He often ate alone in his study, or the great hall; but
he made sure that on high days and holidays his entire household, from the
steward and his wife to the kennel boy, ate together seated at trestles with
him in his place at the head of the board. The youngest servants waited on the
older ones and learned their skills that way.

George
remembered to pass an admiring comment on the table, which was laid with damask
cloth drawn up decoratively in parts to show the Turkey carpet underneath it.
Being more at home in riding clothes, he felt slightly uncomfortable in his
best suit of deep red velvet trimmed with silver. Sir Richard was finely
dressed in blue and silver whilst the simplicity of Anne’s black and gold gown
did not in any way traduce its obvious cost. Amabilis was pretty in her murray
with a French hood edged with Venetian pearls framing her demure face. Her ruff
and cuffs were set to perfection. Amelia had stomped grumpily into the room
wearing what was obviously her best gown but with just a coif on her head. Her
mother sent her back immediately to put on her hood. Now she was seated at the
table gazing about her, especially at George. Her mother attempted to send a
warning glance in her direction.

“Those
breeches that you d’wear, Sir George,” began Amelia. Her mother and sister
looked as though they would like to gag her. “Be they in the Venetian
style?”

George,
trying not to sound amused, was in the process of answering “I believe
they are, Mistress Amelia,” when both her parents cut in simultaneously.

“Give
me an opinion on this wine, Paston,” said Sir Richard, glancing at one of
the servants in attendance.

“Have
you tasted this, Sir George? My daughter Amabilis made it. I do believe she
makes excellent pastry.”

Amelia,
ignoring them both, carried on. “Father, why do you not wear that style?
It is very becoming. Ow!”

Amabilis,
head down and looking at the dish in front of her, had managed to land a good
kick on her sister, who was sitting next to her. Sir Richard, pretending he had
heard nothing, carried on his conversation with George.

“And
how is your dear Aunt Julia? I had heard that she was not well.”

“Aunt
Julia is hale and hearty as far as I know,” said George. “However, it
suits her to retire to the country away from court duties every now and then,
pleading age and infirmity. There she works away on her histories and looks after
her garden and dogs.”

“I
think you take after her, George.”

George
grinned. “So ‘tis said.”

“There
are not a few who believe that your father did not receive the preferment one
might have expected …”

“Perhaps
not. I am sure that it did not concern him over much.”

“But
his plans to build the new hall; that came to naught?”

“He
sold the land,” said George. “Oakenhall is still my home.”

Sir Richard
said nothing, but indicated that George’s glass should be refilled. George knew
what he was thinking. By modern standards, Oakenhall was old, small and rather
cramped; life still revolved around the central hall with its large fireplace
where George spent most of his time with a book and his dogs lying at his feet,
when not out with the horses or in his study or library, both small rooms that
he had adapted in the existing fabric of the house. Oakenhall was not grand,
nor convenient. It could not compare with the fine dwelling that the Grassets
had created. George did not tell Sir Richard that he felt his father had been
extremely wise to sell some of the land and its plans for a grand new building.
In any case it was not the best part of the Oakenhall estate. The money and
land he had left to George, along with the old hall, were substantial and had
enabled George to invest in two things that he loved: horses and books. He
lived modestly but comfortably at Oakenhall and that suited him.

Lady Anne
was now asking him about Oakenhall in the forensic manner of a woman in search
of husbands for her daughters. He knew it well. He replied as best he could,
hoping that she would not make that unanswerable comment about a woman making a
house a home, or suchlike. Yes, one day he would marry - of course. But for the
moment, he enjoyed his bachelor existence at Oakenhall. Fortunately, guessing
which way his wife was taking the conversation, Sir Richard began asking about
George’s cousin Sim and his sister Serena; and their father and mother.

“Aunt
Cat?” burst in Amelia, who had been following all this. “That’s a
strange name …”

“Catherine,
it would be, of course,” said her sister scornfully.

“Oh!”
said Amelia, as enlightenment dawned.

“All
well,” said George. Thinking of Sim reminded him of their recent encounter
with a horse thief; and when Lady Anne asked him at what he was smiling, he
found himself telling them the whole tale of Bayard’s abduction and its
outcome, deftly managing the facts to play down Meg’s part in it.

“Astonishing!”
said Sir Richard, filling George’s glass again.

“No,
Amelia, you may not have more wine,” murmured Anne to her daughter.
“Amabilis, you may take a little more.”

“But
Sir George!” burst forth Amelia, “Did father not show you my little
horse today? She is so much like your Pommely. Well, she is bay not grey of
course; and she is a mare. But other than that they could be brother and
sister. Why, just the other day she …”

“Not
now, Amelia,” said her mother, while Amabilis rolled her eyes and
muttered, “Horses - again!”

“Perhaps
I shall see her tomorrow,” said George gallantly, inclining forward.

“Oh
yes, Sir George! I would be so glad to show you her!”

“‘Show
her to you’,” corrected her mother. “And I am sure that Sir George
will have better things to do on the morrow.”

“I’m
sure he will, my dear. Such as assisting in preparing for the trial of a rogue
or two,” said her husband dryly.

“Oh
no, father! You will not truly be hanging any rogues, will you?” said
Amelia in an anguished tone.

“One
at least, I trust to God and our countrymen. One deserving of the rope. Don’t
worry thyself, daughter,” said her father, comfortingly. “It does not
concern thee.”

Amelia,
feeling herself put back into a child’s situation, sulked a little.

“And
in any case,” added Sir Richard, “Sir George will be doing us a great
and much more pleasurable service.” Lady Anne and her daughters all turned
their gazes on George. Was it his imagination, or did the Grasset womenfolk
suddenly look on him with greater favour?

Sir
Richard, savouring the moment, paused before saying, with relish, “Aye!
Paston has done me the very great honour of agreeing to ride Galingale in the
match against Jack Widderis’s horse, The Fly. He will try him tomorrow on the
mede alongside the Marcaster Road. It was agreed with the undersheriff that our
Galingale should exercise there in the morning and Sir John’s horse in the
afternoon.”

Amelia
clapped her hands with excitement. Lady Anne, looking slightly confused and
disappointed, murmured something neutral. Amabilis, sighing, muttered,
“Horses - yet again!”

The
following morning, the whole family rode out towards Marcaster. Amelia was able
to prove in no uncertain terms that her little mare was Pommely’s counterpart
in character, as the mare laid her ears back and snapped if any of the bigger
horses came near her. Amabilis had looked slightly sulky at the thought of
spending the morning on horseback, but she sat her horse well and cheered up as
they rode on. It was a bright May morning and her pale cheeks were soon filled with
colour that made her look very attractive indeed. Her mother was obviously
happy since she knew that a pretty woman on a fine horse was a great
attraction; and Sir George had paid Amabilis a compliment and Lissy had smiled
flirtatiously and seemed pleased.