Miriam Bibby - Mistress Meg 02 - Mistress Meg and the Silver Bell (2 page)

“If
you please,” said Matthew plaintively, “let’s have no more talk of
food. I am so hungry I could roast Cornelius.”

“Bread
and cheese,” said Meg, mischievously, offering Matthew some of the young
hawthorn leaves. “That’s what the scholars call it on their way to
lessons.”

Matthew
groaned and Cornelius whined. “I’m in agreement with Brother
Nose-all,” said Matthew. “Very poor fare for man and dog. As soon as
it’s safe, let us find somewhere to start a fire.”

“It’s
safe enough now. Fetch the packs and … ” Meg paused for so long that
Matthew looked over at her enquiringly.

“What
is it?”

“I was
thinking - speculating … ” Meg looked back at Matthew. “D’you think
- is it possible - the rogue was following us?”

* * * * *

A little
hard trotting nag was making its way from west to east over the hilly stretch
of the Marcaster Road. The man was tall and his nag so small that the man’s
legs dangled to its knees as he rode. They were making fast progress. The man
had straight, light hair and shifting, dancing eyes. He was wearing a battered
leather jerkin and good boots that looked like hand-me-downs from a wealthy
patron. The Jingler, as the man was known to his acquaintances on the road, was
a horse courser by trade, although that was applying the term very loosely
indeed. And if some of the horses he dealt in were, so to speak, not entirely
his own; well, a man had to find his way in the world somehow. As he rode he
laughed to himself about the dealings he had recently done. Firstly, he’d found
a buyer for the post horse he’d - acquired; no qualms there, they had plenty
more horses at the inn. Then he had made his way to Preston and bought himself
a saddle, one small enough to carry in a pack on his back. That was where the
others had caught him up. And that was where Frater John had told him that the
woman who, the Jingler was certain, had thwarted him in a recent piece of
business, had taken to the road that led, eventually, to Marcaster. The
Jingler, having more business to settle - business of the cards and dice type -
set the Frater to follow Mistress Meg, her servant, whom they knew as Moses,
and their dog.

As the
Jingler rode, his thoughts turned to what opportunities Marcaster might offer.
The Jingler was a great believer in opportunity and knew that the best
opportunities came to those who looked for them. Those who took their chances.
He thought that he had found himself a chance, no,
created
a chance for
himself just a short time ago. It had offered him the means to finally make the
sort of wealth that would free him from life on the road and set him up in the
way that he deserved. At night the golden angels that had so nearly come his
way in the most perfect cozenage he had ever dreamed up, melted mockingly in
front of him as he tried to grasp them. It was so close - so close. Somehow,
though, the Jingler had been thwarted; and it had been due to that interfering
woman - bitch - and her smirking servant.

The
Jingler’s world was driven by few imperatives but desire for revenge when
thwarted was one of the most powerful. Tit for tat; an eye for an eye;
balancing the scales; even the Bible agreed. Whilst the Jingler thought
religion and the Bible were nothing more than children’s tales and tools for
manipulating fools, he knew that one way or another the opportunity would come
to balance those scales.

“Giddap!”
He urged on the little brown nag with the coarse black mane and it flew along
the road. He’d picked it off a hill at the start of the Marcaster Road. Just a
little nondescript nag with a hard mouth and good feet. It probably wouldn’t be
missed, at least not for a while. When he approached Marcaster, he would slip
it into some farmer’s field along with the rest of his stock. That would be his
good deed.

The Jingler
laughed soundlessly. Aye. That would be his good deed!

* * * * *

The Frater
panted on at his fastest pace for some time before it occurred to him that he
might have somehow lost his quarry. The sun was climbing in the sky and it was
getting warm. He stopped and caught his breath. Then he looked around, his eyes
narrowed. Overhanging boughs made it difficult to see too far down the road,
which was little more than a lane. He examined its dusty surface. Impossible -
it was so rutted and dry and the dust must have been blowing about readily in
days past. One set of feet could not be distinguished from another. Feet had
certainly passed this way, and horses, and perhaps a cart or two. Both Meg and
Matthew had been right; he
was
following them, but that was not what had
driven him to take to the road so early in the morning. It was hunger.

The Frater
considered. He might have had a try at catching a rabbit or two, but his
hunting skills were not the best and he had nothing for snares. Encountering
the warrener had set him on his guard as well. His stomach rumbled loudly and
he decided to sit down and eat the few crumbs that he had left. His hunger was
only slightly appeased. The highway could not be far away now - and Marcaster
itself. Visions of food, drink and all the comforts that a town could offer
were beckoning to him. He licked his lips. What did the others expect of an old
man like him? How was he expected to keep an eye on that woman, Mistress Meg,
aye, and her uncanny associates? If not a witch, then she was the nearest thing
to it; and somehow she must have cast a spell on that poor Moorish boy, Moses,
who now accompanied her. He, Frater John, knew that Moses was a good lad, not a
turncoat. After that business with the prancer, it had seemed certain to the
Jingler and the others that Moses had something to do with tricking them of the
prize from which they had hoped to gain so much. Or rather, the Jingler had
hoped to gain so much. He, Frater John, had never liked that plan anyway. The
horse was too valuable.

Well, there
was nothing for it. Either they were on the road to Marcaster or they were not.
If they were, he would be sure to find them out. There’d be good pickings in
Marcaster and the woman might stay a while to practise her trade in fortunes.
And then he would have a word with the Moorish lad and he’d soon know what was
what. Good lad, that boy had been - good at lifting and curbing, as well. A
smile spread over the Frater’s face as he remembered the pies, drink and
sausages that Moses had acquired for them all. Sausages. The Frater’s nose
twitched as though the memory of the sausages wafted a spectral smell
temptingly in his direction. Then he set off at his fastest trot, almost a run,
down the lane. As he went along, there was only one thing on his mind - his
belly. He and his complaining stomach carried out a dialogue all the way until
the lane joined the main highway, where the discussion became querulous, then
quarrelsome. And finally it was held out loud.

“What
d’they expect of an old man? What d’they think I am? A belly needs food, that’s
what! Can’t do what’s needed wi’out it. Quiet, quiet, you old nuisance!”
(This from the Frater to his belly.) “Aren’t I going as fast as I
can?” And so on, with the Frater sometimes talking to his recalcitrant stomach
as though it were a child or an invalid, and sometimes as though it were a
stubborn animal.

Marcaster
beckoned to him. The Norman keep, visible from a distance, seemed to draw no
closer for a while but then gradually the remnants of the town walls came into
view. Before arriving at the main gate in the wall, the Frater met the usual
scatter of hamlets and cottages that drew closer together as he approached the
town. He paused. Turning away from the road that led to the gate, he made his
way into Marcaster by one of the drove roads. The road led through back lanes
and clusters of poor dwellings that seemed to have seeped out of the tumbled
walls, before finally arriving in the market and butchers’ district. At one
point he found himself in a street of good properties, timbered, gilded and
fine, with overhanging upper stories that almost met in the middle; and there
was even a row of paving along each side. And the smell. Of course there was
the usual midden stink from the dung in the streets and the ordure from the
backs of some of the houses, potent enough to waft out even into the street at
the front. But the Frater scarcely noticed that, because, his nose finely tuned
by hunger, what he could smell was food. The blissful cooking smells of meat
larded with fat, a waft of ale from the open door of a tavern, oh, and just a
hint of onions and cheese. It made the mouth water.

The Frater
considered. He had enough coin for a drink, and a bite, if he could find a
suitable hostelry. Nothing too dear of course. He had put the half groat piece
he had been given by the warrener into the bladder he used as a purse. It
chinked against the few coins given him by the Jingler for his journey. With
unerring instinct he took to one of the back lanes and soon found what he was
looking for. It was an alehouse; not one of the most disreputable ones, but
certainly not the best either. Entering cautiously, he found himself in a room
with a low ceiling. The floor was half-flagged and there was a scattering of
lady’s bedstraw and rosemary on the part that was unflagged. The benches were
shining and smelled of polish. No, not a bad establishment at all. He looked
round, conscious of his dusty feet and clothing. The drinkers mostly looked
cleaner than he did, but shabby. He would pass here; and was not his money as
good as the next man’s? Of course it was. Just - he could do with some more of
it.

The alewife
glanced at him indifferently. The Frater smiled ingratiatingly at her.

“Ale’s
a ha’penny,” she said sceptically.

The Frater found
the half groat piece and held it out. “Enough there for a blackjack or
two, I think?” he said loftily.

She took it
from him and examined it.

“Bah,
this is a copperneb!” she said. “I’ll gi’ ye a farthing’s worth for
it.” She handed it back to him. The Frater looked at it closely. The image
of Henry VIII was worn and the copper showed through on his nose, giving him a
boozy, leering look. Frater John was deeply offended. These coins were a jest,
containing so little silver that they were almost worthless. They’d given King
Henry the nickname “Coppernose” as a consequence! Why, the old King
would never have stood for it if he’d realised they would make him a
laughing-stock, but he was already in his grave when the nasty things were
issued. And now that rat of a coney catcher had got one over on him, on Frater
John. It made him want to weep. Why, he wished he had taken some of his coneys.
If he could, he would take half the town up there and positively encourage ‘em
to help themselves to Sir Richard’s coneys and …

“Penny?”
said Frater John. He looked winningly at the alewife. She sniffed.

“Ha’penny.”

“Three
farthen?”

“Ha’penny.”

“Ha’penny
then,” sighed the Frater.

Looking
round for a place to settle himself, he saw a group sitting at cards at one of
the tables. Whether or not there was a licence to play in this establishment
was not his concern. Cards. Now there was a way to make some silver. But -
would they accept him? The Frater prepared a suitable expression to approach
the group and dusted off his robe as well as he could, almost tutting to
himself. These disreputable duds would do for the road or the countryside, but
he needed a gown or a cloak for town. Perhaps he could ‘acquire’ some new togs
whilst he was in Marcaster. Whilst attempting to tidy himself unobtrusively, he
glanced as keenly as he dared at the group of card players, to see if he could
gauge their worth.

There was
one player, sitting with his back to the room, who drew his attention. The
fellow had a smooth head with short black, almost tonsured hair. The Frater
especially noticed the parallel with his own wiry white hair, which had
developed into a natural tonsure as he aged. This helpedto give him, he
thought, a saintly air in his (usually criminal) activities. The smooth headed
man was holding his cards in such a way that the Frater couldn’t read them;
they were tipped forward towards his chest so that no-one standing behind him
would be able to make them out. His body was held very still and upright, but
there was no tension in him. Far from it. He was one of the most relaxed card
players the Frater had ever seen and he had a stack of coins in front of him.
The long dark gown he wore, along with the tonsured effect of his hair, gave
him a clerical appearance. A lawyer’s clerk perhaps, thought the Frater.

As though
he had spoken, the card player shifted slightly, feeling someone’s eyes on him.
He turned slowly round, revealing a long oval face with sleepy, heavy-lidded
brown eyes. His cheeks were little rosy mounds with a little round chin to
balance them. Below that, the jaw was starting to become jowly. In time, with
the application of plenty more ale and wine, it might become a dewlap. The sleepy
brown eyes suddenly looked wide awake, but quickly became composed again. The
hands remained firmly fixed in place with the cards hidden. He looked the
Frater up and down.