Miriam Bibby - Mistress Meg 02 - Mistress Meg and the Silver Bell (15 page)

“And
with Clink in jail, and all,” continued the Frater. “Life’s short,
ain’t it? And not so sweet - but you don’t want to lose it any more’n me.”

The two men
did not move.

“Come
on, coves, let’s shake hands and have a drink on it, eh?” The Frater’s own
hand was trembling as he brought out the bottle and set it on the table.
“Come on now,” he added. “Come on, lads.” It was all he
found he could say and repeating it gave him some comfort even if it had no
effect on the other two.

The Jingler
gave a deep sigh. He was no longer smiling. His face had fallen into a sullen
frown, but he put the knife back into his sleeve, walked over to the trestle
and took a drink from the bottle.

“Ten
pounds. Ten pounds ye cheated me of. And there’s other matter besides, eh,
Jugg?” he said.

Jugg said
nothing.

“But -
I’m a fair man,” continued the Jingler. “I’m an honest man - after my
fashion. And a sporting man. So, Jugg, I’ll tell you how it’s to be. I’ll wager
you that ten pounds. Wager you on the match that’s to be run.”

The Frater
looked back and forth between the two men and opened his mouth to say
something, then thought better of it. Jugg was smiling now, his sleepy eyes
nearly closed and a smug expression on his face.

“Wager
on a match with the Jingler, the best nagsman in the country? Oh yes, that’s likely,
ain’t it.”

“Your
choice, Francis. Oh, no, it’s
Uriel
now, isn’t it.” The Jingler’s
voice was sneering. “Your choice. Whichever you choose to put the money
on, I’ll take the other. What’s it to be? Or have you lost your stomach for
gaming, now ye’re such a… a… now ye’ve found respectability?”

“Happy
to wager with an old -
friend,”
said Jugg, with deep sarcasm.
“If that’s how ye want it. My choice is Galingale.”

The Jingler
gave a short half-laugh. “You certain of that? That’s yer final choice?”
Jugg nodded. The Frater found he was watching with his mouth hanging open. The
two men held out their hands and shook, briefly, as though either hand might
turn out to have a weapon. Or
be
a weapon.

“You’ll
be our witness, Jack, and stand good for us both with the money after the
match. You’ll see it done fair and square.” It was not a request, rather
an order, from the Jingler; and Jugg did not dispute it.

The Frater
swallowed. “Aye,” he agreed, hoarsely. “D’you - d’you want me to
hold the wager for you now? To keep the money for ye?”

Jugg and
the Jingler looked at each other.

“No,”
said Jugg, finally. “We trust each other that much.”

“Enough,”
agreed the Jingler. “Ye’ll not get out of it this time. Your health,
Jack.”

When he had
gone, the Frater looked at Jugg in disbelief. He wanted to ask him about the
communion bread but there was a more pressing question.

.

“You
know he’s a place in the stable where the horse is? You surely don’t trust him,
F…Uriel?”

“Of
course not,” said Jugg. “But he ain’t the only one with a trick or
two in his sleeve. Give me that bottle.”

* * * * *

It took Meg
a long time to make out the list of requirements to send to her merchant in
Hull. The rare and costly items that she needed in her work were expensive and
the final decisions only came after careful thought and preparation. There were
so many considerations, including how much could be safely carried on the road;
her current finances; and the nature of her clients and their changing needs
and circumstances. Her circumstances changed too, as she moved around the
country. It required extensive knowledge and experience, both of which were
largely contained in her head and not written down.

As she made
out the list, each of the items on it came to life in her mind, creating
correspondences that meshed together to make a living fabric of information,
reminiscences and lore. Myrrh, for instance, evoked an image of Matthew’s face
after he had smelled it for the first time. Simultaneously she could hear the
recitation of verses from the Bible, teaching of three travellers who arrived
in Bethlehem bearing with them the material symbols of their mysteries. Chants
echoed from the walls of a cavern, at first in some unknown tongue and then in
Greek; then in some mysterious way the sound changed to smoke rising from
altars in ancient Egypt and Greece. As Time rolled on, she saw the same smoke
rising in communication with the gods of the Roman Empire. The smoke had
spiralled up to heaven from their temples here in Marcaster. At the uttermost
edges of Rome’s power, desert dwellers of lineage even older than that of the
empires of the east, sat in their flowing robes lapped in smoke. They had been
amongst the first to discover the power of the burning resins to ward off
illness and demons. Per fumum …

Meg moved
from place to place in her mind. Thinking of ambergris brought with it the
sound of oars and the lapping of warm sea water on wood. From this thought grew
the practical reminder that her merchant could provide the substance as liquid
or shavings, as well as in small pieces. Then, came a vision of a dancing goat,
much like the inn sign for the Goat in Chains; but
this
prancing animal
was the Goat and Comb. That was for Capricorn and for labdanum. Amongst the
costliest of substances, labdanum was combed from the coats of goats, which
gathered the material as they browsed amongst the rock-roses. The precious
commodity was then formed into cakes which were wrapped and stamped for her
merchant with the sign of a goat and a comb with a handle. She smiled to
herself as the next vision rose in her mind. Taurus, the bull; but a humorous
bull with a cat’s tail, ears and paws as well as horns. And a stink, a powerful
stench, of dung and tom cat. That was for civet, which was transported in
sealed ox-horns. Next, orris, which carried her to Florence. In her image the
city was all blue and white, a city of flowers fragmented into a scented
mosaic. The scenes moved around her in her own, deeply personal Zodiac. And
now, a starry figure was rising in the east; the outline of a man in flowing
robes with a glass vessel in one hand and the forefinger of the other held to
his lips for secrecy. Around him, the dawn was rosy; literally rosy, with the
perfume of roses. She could both see it and smell it. Meg bowed in gratitude to
the figure, for this was one of the greatest Masters of Perfumery. The vision
began to fade…

Meg put
down her quill, sighed and stretched. That would suffice for now. She had more
clients to see and she needed to rest and prepare herself.

The first
visitor was a young woman who was trying to rid herself of an unwelcome lover.
The second was a young woman who was hoping to gain one. Meg suppressed the
desire to introduce the second one to the first. A pity; for she was sure that
it could work to their mutual benefit. The third, arriving rather breathlessly
after climbing slowly up the stairs to Meg’s room, was an elderly - no, an old,
a very old, woman who was also somewhat stout. Probably not looking for a lover
- although it had been known. Meg helped her to a seat.

“Eeeh,
dear,” said the old woman, with a hand to her chest. Meg heard her
wheezing and gulping as she tried to catch her breath. Meg fetched her a glass
of wine and handed it to her, smiling encouragingly. “Thank ye, my
dear,” said the woman, taking a sip and then a larger swallow. She smacked
her lips. “Eh, that gives ye courage. Gi’s ye heart, that does.” Meg
took the hint and refilled the glass. It was probably a taste that the old
woman didn’t have very often.

After a
couple of glasses the woman confided to Meg quite cheerfully that she’d come
about her knees, which were giving her terrible trouble, though they seemed to
have temporarily improved since the glass of wine. “Didn’t know if I’d
arrive at top of the stairs, I didn’t!” She held out her glass again.
“Mother Garland’s my name, Mistress.”

“And I
am - called - Mistress Loveday,” said Meg, smiling.

“Someone
told me that ye’d be able t’help wi’ me knees,” said the woman.

“I
believe I can,” said Meg. “Tell me, when is the pain at its
worst?” With a few questions, she discovered that Mother Garland, despite
her great age, was in service. She was employed to clean and cook by more than
one of the town’s bachelors and it was the scrubbing of floors in some
establishments that “was a bit too nice”, that caused her the
greatest pain and trouble in rising afterwards.

“I do
wish that floors was all dirt, my dear, and then there’d be no need of scouring
and scrubbing.”

Meg nodded
sympathetically and fetched a jar of ointment from amongst her belongings. She
told Mother Garland, who was now quite perky, to use a very small amount on her
knees each night and rest as much as she could with her feet elevated.

“How
much, my dear?” said Mother Garland, fumbling for a coin. Meg shook her
head, but Mother Garland insisted and in the end Meg took a groat, but made
sure that the woman had a drop more wine before leaving.

“Mind
the stairs,” warned Meg as Mother Garland wove her way happily towards the
door. She paused in the doorway to give her thanks.

“Thank
ye, me dearie. I do wish that y’would help one of them that I serves, one of me
new gentlemen, but how I would make him consult ye, I do not know. That’s men
for ye, eh?”

“What
is his name - and what ails him?” said Meg, deciding that she had better
see the old lady safely down to the street. “There is perhaps something
amongst my wares that you could take for him.”

“He’s
greatly troubled in mind and heart,” said Mother Garland. “Greatly
troubled, but there, Master Goldspink has always been troubled in spirit over
one thing or another. ‘Tis his nature, I do believe.”

Meg took
Mother Garland’s arm firmly in her own. “I hope for an improvement in your
knees soon,” she said. “Send me word, if so. And as for Master
Goldspink - send him to me, an y’can, for I certainly have the wares to help
him. Simple wares that will provide a restful night and lift the spirit; but
‘tis best with a consultation. And I will prepare something else for ye, a rare
scented dust to help with your floor-scrubbing and laundering. ‘Tis a little
thing, but all helps to ease the labour.”

Mother
Garland smiled at her and then, with a conspiratorial glance around, beckoned
to Meg to draw closer to her.

“A last
thing, my dear,” she whispered, as Meg leaned down towards her. “A
word in your ear. Perhaps y’could tell me - some says y’have the power - ”
she glanced around furtively, “so perhaps ye can see which horse it might
be that will win the match? D’ye have some advice?” Her eyes gazed into
Meg’s with innocent trust as though Meg were the Oracle of Delphi itself.

Meg shook
her head and smiled wryly. “My best advice would be never to wager more
than y’can afford.”

As she
waved Mother Garland on her way, Meg was sure that
she
would have no
need of anything more to help her sleep well that night.

* * * * *

Amiot
Goldspink made his way nervously towards the Hart and Hawthorn, telling himself
that it was on the way to the goldsmith’s house and he was just passing by as
he went to see his old friend Zacharias. It was probably his state of mind that
had given him the courage to come this far, rather than Mother Garland’s
delighted praise of Meg’s knee rubbing remedy. He was impressed, though. Mother
Garland had arrived for her work in a perky mood. She liked the work at
Goldspink’s because he was not as picky as some of the others. The poor man was
in need of comfort and cheer, that’s what Mother Garland thought. She hoped
that the sudden improvement in her own health would encourage him to have more
care for his own.

Amiot
hesitated outside the Hart and Hawthorn. Glancing up, he thought he saw a face
at one of the casements, a face that quickly withdrew. This was the moment to
change his mind. He thought of Mother Garland, who had smiled at him and told
him how much improved her knees were. She’d almost danced a jig in proof. True,
the sight of her wrinkled stockings and her clattering pattens as she waved a
leg at him hadn’t been exactly inspiring, but there was no denying her physical
improvement. Also, the house had started to smell beautifully of lavender with
a hint of rose, scents that calmed and uplifted the spirit. Perhaps there was
something that this cunning-woman could provide that would help him sleep
better, because that was the worst time. The early hours of the morning. It
seemed a long time since he had rested well and woken refreshed. Could he even
remember that time?