Miriam Bibby - Mistress Meg 02 - Mistress Meg and the Silver Bell (21 page)

The Jingler
had been about to hand the Frater the little cake that he’d taken from Harry,
with instructions to somehow exchange it with the one in the Hart and Hawthorn
lad’s possession. That way, if Jugg
had
put something into the charm
intended for The Fly, the Jingler would ensure it was fed to the rival horse
instead. However, he stopped and looked at the Frater. Coincidence? A black
horse in a stable that looked exactly like Galingale, but for the star? In the
inn where Meg and her servant were staying? That pulled the Jingler up in his
tracks. And something else occurred to him. The two charms would be as like as
two peas in a pod, he suspected. Hard, round little disks with a rough cross
shaped on them. If Jugg hadn’t made them - who had?

“Here,”
he said to the Frater. “Set the Frog onto the lad from the Hart. See if he
c’n get this swapped without the lad knowing. The purse was round his neck, was
it?” The Frog was an expert in pickpocketing and purse cutting and this
would be no difficult thing for him to achieve. The Jingler was brooding.
Supposing Jugg - or whoever had made the charms - had put something harmful in
the one for The Fly, knowing, somehow that the Jingler would exchange them?
This was pointless speculation unless you were dealing with a known
double-dealer; but the Jingler was beginning to suspect that he was. “And
this horse,” said the Jingler, “the black ‘un at the Hart and
Hawthorn - find out who owns it.”

“Oh, I
know
that
,” said the Frater. “It’s to the charge of Sir John
Widderis and under the care of his men. Strange, that, ain’t it?”

Strange
indeed, thought the Jingler; but he simply said, “Aye, well; get the Frog
to see where it goes, if it goes out.”

Not long
afterwards, Saul, the freckle-faced stable lad from the Hart and Hawthorn, was
making his way back from an errand to the saddler’s when a smallish wiry man
walked towards him on the street. As he moved alongside he bumped against Saul,
grabbed at his shoulder momentarily and then apologised quickly.

“My
pardon, I stumbled.” Saul grunted something and carried on. A few seconds
later, he heard the man call from behind him, “I think this might be
yours?” in a questioning tone. He was trotting along the street with a
purse in his hand.

Saul looked
at it with shock.

“Aye,
it is! Where’d ye find it?” his tone was accusing and even as he spoke, he
was opening the purse that usually hung round his neck to check that nothing
had been taken. His look of suspicion disappeared. All was in order, but the
string had snapped and looked frayed. He must replace that. “My - my
thanks, master!”

The Frog
gave his wide grin and bowed. “My pleasure to reunite it with its
owner.” And he was gone in an instant. Saul reflected that it was good
that there were still honest men in these dishonest times - he hadn’t even
asked for a reward!

The second
part of the Frog’s task was slightly more difficult. He could have done with
the help of Ruby or the Sad Mort to keep an eye on the Hart and Hawthorn stable
and let him know the comings and goings there. But Ruby was less than useful
these days. She seemed to be either moping or elated but not much in between.
Hatching something there, thought the Frog. And Moll was not so well and had
instructions from the Jingler not to show herself about the place. He was funny
like that, the Jingler. He needed to control Moll and if he wasn’t there to
watch her, which he wasn’t most of the time, then he never liked her to show
herself in public without one of the other men there to keep an eye on her. The
Frog remembered a time, afew years back, when that smooth cove Jugg had
propositioned the Sad Mort and the Jingler had threatened to kill the both of
them. He’d given Jugg a beating, all right. So, in the absence of his
companions, the Frog would have to do what needed to be done by himself.

The Frog’s
senses were sharp and when, eventually, one of the Widderis servants came out
of the Hart and Hawthorn stable yard riding the black horse, he was instantly
ready to follow him. The servant rode to the gate in the walls of Marcaster. It
was one of the main thoroughfares and it was so busy that the Frog temporarily lost
sight of the black horse as its rider increased speed and headed off towards
the River Mar and the junction that led in one direction to Marfield Hall and
the other, eventually, to Calness. The Frog, assuming that the servant was on
an errand to Sir John, began to make his way in a more leisurely fashion
towards the junction, intending to follow a little way to see if he could catch
him returning. It was bare, open country; it took him a while to find somewhere
he could sit comfortably and see the road. The best he could do was get in
amongst some furze bushes and sit down, grateful that he had brought a bottle
and his pipe.

The Frog
didn’t know how far it was to Sir John’s home but he wasn’t expecting to see
the rider returning in a hurry. It was with some surprise, then, that he saw a
different servant riding towards the junction from the direction of Calness, on
a black horse almost identical to the one that he had seen; but this one had a
star on its forehead. The horse and rider carried on parallel to the river in
the direction of Marfield Hall. The Frog sat and frowned for some time.
Sensitive though he was to danger, he was no thinker. Something told him this
might be more than mere coincidence, though. He puzzled over whether to stay
where he was or move. Eventually he got up and started to walk cautiously down
towards the junction of the roads, looking about him warily as he walked.

The sound
of a horse snorting and the sight of a rider coming back down towards the
junction caused him to panic momentarily and leap for the only cover that was
available, which was a ditch. The Frog glanced up, his eyes wide with apprehension
and curiosity as the horse and rider approached. The same black horse - well,
the same servant - but this horse had no star on its forehead. The horse shied
a little but the rider did not spot the Frog as he dropped down further into
his hiding place. The Frog, by now thoroughly confused and unhappy, wondered
whether he should wait for any more black horses - and what the hell the
Jingler would make of this.

When the
Jingler heard a familiar whistle from the corner of one of the lanes, he knew
immediately who it was. Glancing around, he temporarily left the horse he was
grooming and went over to the Frog.

“I
told yer, not
here
,” hissed the Jingler warningly.

“I
know, but Jingler …”

“Not
here,” said the Jingler through gritted teeth. The Frog knew that look and
took the hint, running off swiftly towards the overgrown burial ground that was
their agreed meeting place.

When the
Jingler finally arrived, he enjoyed himself berating the Frog soundly for a
time. Then he said, “Well - let’s hear it then.” The Frog, subdued
and sullen, recounted what he had seen in a few brief sentences.

The
Jingler, frowning, said: “So ye saw one black horse go out on the road to
Widderis’s house and another come back …”

“It
looked like the same ‘un to me, Jingler. But then I haven’t your eye for a
horse.”

“There’s
naught wrong with yer eyes. Ye can see as well as I can and y’know horses. And
then - another horse - or the same one - came back the other way?”

“Aye,”
said the Frog. “But with no star and the same servant. I can make naught
of it, Jingler.”

“No,
ye can’t,” said the Jingler. “But I can. Maybe.” The Frog looked
at him blankly. “It don’t take much to put a star on a horse - or take it
away.” continued the Jingler. “D’ye see it now?”

Light was
dawning on the Frog’s face. Then he frowned, looked puzzled and shook his head.

“Easier
to take it away - and bring it back,” mused the Jingler. “A bit o’
soot and grease will do the job, if y’want to cover it up. And ye can make one
with chalk and grease. But if y’want to do it permanent, like, ye have to use a
wire under the skin. Work it under, bit by bit, over time. And put a certain
substance on it. That’ll give ye a star, or a snip, or a white spot, anywhere
you like.”

“But
why, Jingler? And - who?”

“As
for the why, I don’t know - yet. As for the who - who d’ye know who can change
the look of a horse as well as I can, by all accounts; and who is here in
Marcaster; who is currently residing at the very inn where this other black
horse is stabled, eh? I ask y’that. The cunning-woman and her man! Now - find
me the Frater and bring him here. I need him to write - a letter - wait …
” The Jingler’s voice tailed off. “Aye. Aye. That would be it. O’
course, now I see it …”

“What,
Jingler?”

“The
cunning-woman. It would work to her advantage if she could say which horse was
going to win, eh? That’d help her reputation all right; and bring her a lot of
gold.”

“But
the servants? They was real enough. The horse is in the name of Sir John
Widderis, ain’t it?”

“There
ain’t a servant alive but can be bribed. And there’s many a master trusts to
‘em to pay the bills and such and don’t notice an addition or two. He might
know naught about it.”

“But -
I don’t see how t’would be done. Sir Richard knows his own nag, don’t he? How
could she exchange it for another?”

“She
hasn’t acquainted me with the whole of her plan, has she!” said the
Jingler with exasperated sarcasm. “But there’s something going off there,
all right. She’ll have the grooms in the palm of her hand, I’ll wager.”
His eyes narrowed. Could she have got word of his - agreement - with Jugg?
Could she - even be working with him? The Jingler turned to the Frog, who was
standing beside him, open-mouthed and with a confused expression on his face.
“Now run and get the Frater for me.”

The Frog
ran off, still confused; but with the uneasy sensation, one with which he was
familiar, that things were about to get nasty. The Jingler rested himself
against a cracked stone monument to wait and consider. A blackbird regarded him
from the branches of a twisted old tree, putting its head to one side and then
the other. He leaned there for so long that coneys hopped and rustled in the
long grass next to the tomb. The Jingler was thinking, hard, about what he
needed to get the Frater to put into a letter directed to the undersheriff; a
letter that would implicate both the cunning-woman and Jugg. He no longer cared
whether the woman was involved or not. He simply knew that time was pressing and
this was a sure way to get even with both of them.

The Jingler
frowned as he picked away at a piece of loose stone. He shifted uncomfortably.
Dealing with authority didn’t come easily to any of the rogues. He hoped the
Frater was not going to turn soft about pointing the finger at Jugg - or the
woman, come to that. He could just hear Jack spouting sanctimoniously about
honour amongst thieves, or saying he was in Jugg’s debt and this was an act of
betrayal. The Jingler didn’t want to admit his own discomfort about it, even to
himself.

The
blackbird flew off with an alarm call and the coneys scattered as the Jingler
suddenly shied the piece of broken stone at them. He smiled to himself. To hell
with it. Two birds with one stone.

* * * * *

The Jingler
was just finishing giving Galingale’s feet a brush with some oily liquid to
make them shining and strong. The Grasset servants permitted him to do this
task because neither of them liked to do it. They trusted him because he had
provided the liquid and there was no doubt that since they had been applying it
the condition of the horse’s hooves had improved. They were now in excellent
condition. The Jingler glanced quickly round. The unpleasant servant was
sitting just on the edge of his sight and the friendly one had his back to the
Jingler and was combing his hair. This servant was having a dalliance with one
of the maids at the inn and evidently thought himself good-looking. His mind
was definitely no longer on the horse.

In an
instant, the Jingler had snipped off the clenches securing two of the nails in
the horse’s front shoe on the near side. To do this, he used a tiny, strong
pincer tool that he had concealed in his palm. Then he inserted a thin v-shaped
piece of metal between the hoof and shoe, pressed the pincer handle into it and
forced it slightly. The horse shifted uncomfortably. As soon as the Jingler
felt a slight movement of the shoe, he stopped. He straightened up and stroked
the horse’s neck.

“Good
lad,” said the Jingler.

“All
done?” said the servant turning round. He preened himself.

“All
done,” said the Jingler. He knew that the Grasset servant would be hoping
that the maidservant would see him riding out on his master’s fine horse.
“He’s ready for you.”

“My
thanks, Aitchison,” said the servant, as though he were the master
himself. “Fine job you’ve done there, if I may say so.”

“I
thank ye!” grinned the Jingler, bowing in a servile fashion. Oh yes, he’d
certainly done a fine job there, as the servant was about to find out.

An hour
later and the servant returned, with an anxious look on his face, leading the
horse. The shoe had flown off as he cantered along the riverside. An old tree
root perhaps? He had not seen anything, but something must have caused it.
Galingale was not lame but he was definitely tender-footed. The smith was
called for and it was decided that it would be left until the morning to put
the shoe back on. In the meantime, the Jingler was to treat the leg and foot
with compresses and do anything he could to ensure that the horse would be
sound on the morning of the match. When he pointed out that a small part of the
hoof had been taken away when the shoe came off, the servant broke into a
sweating panic. The Jingler observed him with interest.

“Do
something, Aitchison!”

“Aye,
well, I’ll do me best,” said the Jingler. “‘Tis naught, really, all
will be well with the nag, of that I’m certain.”

But all was
not well with the nag. When the Jingler brought Galingale out for inspection
early the following morning, with the smith standing by ready to put the shoe
back on, the horse was definitely lame. Not just tender-footed, but distinctly
lame with a slight nod to the head and a classic dot and carry one movement of
the front legs. The servants were beside themselves and putty in the hands of
the Jingler. The Jingler thought it quite strange; after all accidents did
happen. Why should they fear their master so much?

Not that it
was an accident, of course. When the Jingler, apparently full of concern for
the horse, had been treating it late the previous evening, he had wrapped the
leg in a tight linen cloth. It was just for show. The horse didn’t really need
bandaging, but it concealed the fact that under the cloth he had twisted a
strong horse tail hair tightly below Galingale’s fetlock, the joint at the base
of the leg above the pastern. It was a certain sure way of producing temporary
lameness in a nag. And abracadabra - all he had to do was secretly break the
tail hair before the horse came out and it walked up lame. It would wear off
after a time, but would Sir Richard let his horse run in this state? Almost
certainly not. And they had to get the shoe back on, which they couldn’t do
whilst Galingale showed lameness. And if he did become sound again, the Jingler
intended to do the same thing on the morning of the race if he could. Because
he had made it damn clear to Jugg that if for whatever reason Sir Richard’s
horse did not run, then the wager would go in the favour of the Jingler. And
Jugg - the fool - had accepted it.

The
servants, after much muttered consultation, agreed that there was only one
thing to be done. It was unfortunate, but Sir Richard must be advised - and
sent for. This did not suit the Jingler - not yet, anyway. He intended to carry
on playing the two servants like fish on a line for the moment. Apart from
anything else, they might be good for some additional payment for his skills.

“No
need for that, gentlemen,” said the Jingler, suavely. “Let me try a
trick or two on ‘im before you do that.” He instructed the servants to
take Galingale to the pond and stand him in it for an hour or two; and for
certain the horse would be sound again when he came out. So said the Jingler.
Which was true; and Galingale remained sound until the Jingler played the same
trickwith the tail hair again the following night. The same thing in the
morning; the horse went to stand in the pond and came back sound. This time
they risked putting the shoe back on and then the horse was bedded down and
given the best of attention.

“Trust
me,” said the Jingler to the anxious servants. “I’ve a special salve
made for him and by the morning he’ll be right again.”

The Jingler
was whistling as he went about his work the following day. As he went to
Galingale’s stall he smiled, knowing that the horse would walk out lame again.
He removed the wrapping and snapped the tightly fastened hair round the leg. It
was invisible to the casual observer, and that was how it did its work so well.
And, whatever puzzle lay behind the strange incidents regarding the black
horses, the Jingler was sure this was Galingale. The star was real enough and
everyone knew the horse had a white star. The servants were adamant that it was
Galingale. There was another thing that was sure, as far as the Jingler was
concerned. This horse would not be running in any match if he could help it.

Someone was
calling him from outside. Still whistling, the Jingler walked out into the
stable yard.

* * * * *

Richard and
George, both good horsemen, rode at a fast pace across the parkland towards
Marcaster. They were followed by George’s servant Hal, who had accompanied
George to Marfield Hall.

“I
wish you were meeting the undersheriff under better circumstances,”
shouted Richard.

George,
finding the speed a little too great for conversation, nodded. Eventually they
slowed down.

“Over
here,” said Richard, indicating to the right, where there were some hummocks
in the ground, “was where we found the broken piece, part of a dedication
stone to Mars, whilst my men were digging a ditch. And a fragment which might
have come from a statue to him. A piece from his mighty fist, perhaps. Those
pieces that are now in the library. Devil of a task it was, getting them there.
I believe there may have been a temple here.”