Miriam Bibby - Mistress Meg 02 - Mistress Meg and the Silver Bell (20 page)

If the
Jingler had an Achilles heel, it was horses. His regard for them was genuine,
if pragmatic. It went against his nature to do them harm in any way, but he had
a trick or two that bordered on the unscrupulous but did the horse no lasting
injury. This was what he was mulling over as he worked and watched. It was
almost a wrestling match, his thoughts veering from wanting to get even with
Jugg, to wanting to see Galingale win, for he could be a winner. Thoughts of
revenging himself on Meg had faded, for the moment. His thoughts were entirely
on the match - and Jugg.

The stable
lad, Harry, was trying to catch his eye. He was up and about early, for once.
The Jingler glanced across at him, frowning.

“A
word with ye, Will?” The boy looked furtive, almost embarrassed. And -
scared?

“What
is it, lad?”

“Not
here,” said the lad. They stepped outside into the street. Harry looked up
and down to see if all was clear. “Well - it’s like this, Will. I might be
able to help you - earn a bit of money, like? Ten shillings, maybe?”

The Jingler
was almost amused. To think of this puppy trying to involve him, the Jingler,
in some side dealing. This he must hear.

“Interesting,
Harry. Tell me,” he said blandly, “what did y’have in mind?”

“Well,”
said the lad, emboldened now, “it’s Galingale, like; the servants trust
ye; and you perhaps wouldn’t find it difficult to get something to t’horse -
nothing that would do him harm, o’ course, but … “

The Jingler
moved fast. Before Harry could think or speak, he found himself pinned to the
ground behind the water cask with the Jingler’s hand at his throat. The Jingler
was holding a knife in his other hand and the knife was pressed just under
Harry’s ear. Harry hadn’t been expecting this and he was frozen with terror.

“What
in hell are you up to, y’little … ” snarled the Jingler, almost spitting
the words into Harry’s face.

“Nowt,
nowt, Will! Don’t kill me!” Rather than trying to fight back, the lad was
just snivelling and trying to cover his face with his hands, as though blocking
out the Jingler from his view would prevent him from being stabbed. Then he
started to whine, like a small boy. “Forgive me, Will, please, please,
Will, I meant no harm.”

The Jingler
eased off the pressure on his throat and Harry coughed and choked. The Jingler
picked the boy up roughly and, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck, hustled
him round the corner to a quiet back lane.

“Now,”
he said. “Tell me everything, you little turd.”

“It’s
like this, Will,” said Harry miserably. “There was a few people I
knew needing Galingale to win and one of ‘em, knowing a sure and certain charm
to get ‘im to run like a hare, they asked me to help and I said I would …
“

“What
charm?” said the Jingler, irritably. The devil knew what rubbish the
hatchers of this plan had used.

“Well,”
sobbed the boy, “it’s got hare bones ground up fine in it and - and - the
Host - and holy water that’s been in the silver basin - and some other things
…”

“Y’stupid
little … ” The Jingler was disgusted.

“There’s
no harm in it, Will,” said Harry, rubbing his hand over his eyes. “We
gave it to a Grasset ‘orse another time and it won. And we got some good vails
as a result.” A lowly servant’s wages were always the better for a few
tips from satisfied customers.

The Jingler
was suddenly struck by something.

“The
Host? Y’mean, consecrated bread?”

Harry
nodded.

“It’s
naught but bread, lad. And where in hell … ” The Jingler paused. He
suddenly saw it all. Jugg. It had to be Jugg. He looked at the boy. “And
how much did y’pay for that?”

“Forty
shillings, Will.”

“Forty
shillings!” The Jingler’s brows shot up. “Where the devil did you get
forty shillings?”

“‘Twasn’t
just me. There was a fair few of us put money into the pot for it. I only gave
sixpence. And we had to pay for the other things as well; and to get it made. I
don’t know everyone who paid in. Some of ‘em was secret. I think they might be
too well-known hereabouts t’say.”

A good
little income for Jugg. Something else occurred to the Jingler. He looked
fiercely at Harry. “And last year y’fed something like it to the horse?
You hand that - charm - over. Now. And never ye say a word to anyone of what’s
passed between us. And tell me, now, you little rat. Who d’ye know who works in
the stables of the Hart and Hawthorn?”

Because there
was one thing for certain. Jugg wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to sell to the
rival side. And what might he put into that charm? While he had been planning
ways to put Galingale out of the race, had Jugg been working secretly to do the
same to The Fly? The Jingler needed to find the Frater - and fast.

* * * * *

Within a
day, Marcaster was full to bursting and many of the people that thronged the
inns and streets were connected to the Assizes. This did not concern the
Jingler too much. He knew that there was safety in numbers and very few of the
self-important characters who huffed and puffed about the place would bother
themselves with what went on in any of the stables in the town. In fact,
official activity always provided useful cover for all sorts of illegal
dealings and so he quite relished the coming and going. For, all being well,
two of his plans were about to come to fruition.

The Jingler
was not one to leave anything to chance and, wherever possible, he liked to
handle matters himself. A shame; but really there was but one person he trusted
to get any job done to his satisfaction. He needed to find a way into the
stables of the Hart and Hawthorn to reassure himself about The Fly; and he - or
someone trusted - needed to get his hands on the lad who was intending to feed
the charm to the horse. After much deliberation, the Jingler decided to use the
Frater, who had already provided some information regarding the charms.

The Frater
had done his best to reassure the Jingler that, according to Jugg, the bread
he’d provided for the two charms was identical and he was not intending The Fly
harm. What the Frater had not told the Jingler was that Jugg had no intention
of handing over ten pounds to him, whichever horse won. That Jugg had said he
would starve his belly and see the Jingler damned to hell first and that the
next time they met he, Jugg, would make sure he had a weapon to hand, even if
the devil himself said to give the money over. All of this the Frater kept to
himself.

“Jugg
says ‘e don’t care whether the horses get fed the charms or not,” hissed
the Frater, to the Jingler. The Frater looked around furtively even though they
were meeting in an old overgrown burial ground - not the one attached to Jugg’s
church, of course - which few people visited any longer. “He says, e’s got
‘is money and don’t care any more!”

“And
you believe him?” The Jingler tutted sarcastically.

“Aye,
he says may the best horse win. And he just gave the lads the communion wafer,
well, the bread, I should say. Naught else. He didn’t make the charms.”

“And
Holy Water? Where’d that come from? Some renegade priest, eh?”

“I
don’t know anything about that,” said the Frater. “One of his
acquaintances, maybe?”

“I
could say much about Master Jugg and the company he keeps but I’ll spare my
breath,” said the Jingler. “Which lad’s he been dealing with at the
Hart and Hawthorn?” The Jingler had tried to get this information out of
Harry, but Harry had genuinely not known. He had appeared to be shocked at the
idea that Jugg might have been selling consecrated material for charms to the
other side as well. The Frater had found out, though.

“The
one with freckles and a shoulder higher than the other. Bit humpitty-backed.
He’s a relative of one of Sir John’s servants, one that’s keeping watch on the
horse. Distant cousin …”

“But
close enough for a blind eye to be turned if needs be. Let’s trust Sir John’s
manservant’s put a wager on ‘is master’s nag. That way he’ll make sure he gets
fed naught that’ll harm him.”

If an
opportunity to go to the Hart and Hawthorn did not arise as a matter of course,
then the Jingler would have to manufacture it. Invent a message to be taken, if
needs be. He toyed with the idea of telling the old ostler, Tom, about the
charms, and suggesting that he, the Jingler, went to warn the Widderis servants
as well; but there was always the possibility that Tom already knew. The
Jingler didn’t know the full extent of the group who had put money into the pot
for that charm. From what he knew of the old ostler it seemed an unlikely thing
for him to do, but superstition was a curious thing and it swirled around any
dealings with horses like an impenetrable fog. It wasn’t impenetrable to the
Jingler, of course. He could separate the rational from the pointless. He was
just as certain that grinding hare bones with some communion bread and feeding
it to a horse would not make it faster, as he was that feeding it the best oats
would make it buck out of its glossy skin and run like the devil. In his
younger days he had tried many, many of the recipes and tricks that were the
horsemen’s currency. Then he’d discarded those that obviously did not work.

Jugg, like
the Jingler, had been finding the Frater a useful messenger and spy, not to
mention a handy stooge in card games and the like. The Frater didn’t resent
this. He was happy to have a roof over his head, food in his belly, more than
enough to drink and a few coins to share with the Egyptian Mort, the Sad Mort
and the Frog. He had also been to see Clink again. Now that Jugg had gained the
Frater access to the jail, Jugg had no further interest in Clink and the Frater
had been making his recent visits alone. He had always felt a certain paternal
responsibility for them all and if Clink was about to die, well, he, the
Frater, would make sure that his final days were as comfortable as they could
be. Comfortable materially and spiritually. That was his role as - a sort of
spiritual advisor to them all. Aye, that was it.

The idea of
himself as a spiritual comforter and helper was so appealing to the Frater that
he was ready and primed to help out when the Jingler asked him to go down to
the Hart and Hawthorn and find out if they had a little nag for hire. He had no
idea why the Jingler was enquiring, but God worked in mysterious ways. Anything
that would take the Jingler’s mind off Jugg and keep the peace between them.

“Take
a look about ye while yer there, Jack,” said the Jingler. “Get the
lie o’ the land and see if ye can cast an eye over the Widderis horse. And the
lad with the charm. I reckon they won’t be feeding it ‘till the morning of the
match. Not from what Harry said they did with the Grasset horse another year,
anyhow.”

The Frater
came huffing and puffing back to the deserted burying ground at an appointed
time.

“Aye,
there’s three Widderis servants that takes turns to take the horse out and
guards him close, Jingler. And the Widderis lad has come to town some days to
ride ‘im out as well.”

“And
what about the lad with the charm?”

“Did
well there, Jingler,” the Frater was smug. “I saw him and said I was
collecting for the poor captives of the Turk. Made up a tale about a missing
lad that could have been his cousin. Affecting, it was. When he fetched his
purse to get me a coin, I saw the charm in there whilst I was - helping - him
choose a coin. Leastways, I think that’s what it was. A little piece of cloth
holding something ‘bout the size of an Agnus Dei.” As he said this, the
Frater’s voice dropped to a whisper and he looked around.

“Like
this’n?” said the Jingler. He showed the Frater the charm he had taken
from Harry. It was a little hard baked circle with a cross on it.

“Aye!”
agreed the Frater. Then he continued, “Generous souls, they were at the
Hart and Hawthorn. Odd thing, though - this’ll make ye laugh, Jingler - there’s
a horse in the Hart and Hawthorn stables that’s the living spit of Sir Richard
Grasset’s horse, the one that’s to be in the match. All but the star on his
head. This’n’s all black, not a white mark on ‘im; but other than that, ‘e
could be Galingale’s brother!” The Frater had seen the servants riding
Galingale through Marcaster and he knew the horse well by now.