Miriam Bibby - Mistress Meg 02 - Mistress Meg and the Silver Bell (27 page)

In a couple
of hours, Richard arrived and the group prepared to set off for the course.
Galingale was to be led there, rather than ridden and as if by some unspoken
understanding, the Widderis grooms stayed behind with The Fly whilst the
Grasset party got underway. There was no sign of either Philip Widderis or Sir
John.

“They
will be at the course already,” said Richard. “And my family will
meet us there later this morning.”

As they
rode out into a beautiful May morning, George felt his usual spirits returning.
Over the past few days, the course had mushroomed with little growths, booths
selling food, drink and entertainment. There were gingerbread and roasts and
various potions, alcoholic and non-alcoholic for sale; and games and
performers. Justice looked benignly on all but the worst of market abuses on
days such as this. George was thankful that for once this was not his
responsibility and all he had to do was concern himself with Galingale. He was
impressed by the horse’s condition. It had taken some sleight-of-hand on
Richard’s part to assure that, whilst attention was focussed on Gallus,
Galingale quietly and unobtrusively received even better care. He had received
his exercise mostly secretly on the Grasset estate, and occasionally in public
whilst Gallus was hidden elsewhere. The similarity between the two horses was
remarkable, but even so, Richard had needed to take only his most trusted
stable staff into his complete confidence as to what he was about - and why.
The servants Mark and Jack had most certainly not been included in that.

By the time
the rest of the Marfield Hall contingent arrived, there was a gratifying crowd
and the field had divided naturally into Grasset, Widderis and Davison camps,
with a great deal of knowing commentary, nodding and nose-tapping going on
around them. Anne and Amelia arrived on horseback with maid and menservants and
food and drink in a little cart. There was no sign of Amabilis.

“Lissy
did not feel well this morning,” said Amelia. “She will miss it all,
Sir George. Poor Lissy.”

Richard
glanced across at his wife.

“She
was very pale and said her head ached,” said Anne. “She seemed
spiritless and tired. Truly she was not well enough to appear.”

“Is
she well attended?” said Richard. “I do not want her to be left alone
at any time.”

“Yes,
all is well, my dear,” said his wife. “She has her maid with her; and
there are still three menservants, the steward, the warrener and the
kennelmaster and their men. I have said that all should have special care for
the house and estate whilst we are from home. I offered her the services of
Judith my maid but she would not have it. I gave her a draught and she intends
to sleep, I believe …”

Richard
still looked slightly worried, but there was plenty to take his attention that
morning. In a short time, no-one was interested any more in the booths or their
sellers. The crowd was currently completely mesmerised by the antics of Jerome
the Stone Eater, who was steadily swallowing his way through a pile of small
stones and flints. This wasn’t the first time that Jerome had shown his skills
in Marcaster and he was a popular attraction. As the stones went down, helped
by an occasional gulp of ale, the crowd’s initial humour and excitement turned
to an awed silence. Several men, women and children, clutching half eaten
goodies in their hands, were watching open-mouthed. Jerome began to sweat and
groan a little and those who could count, began to keep tally in a low chant.

“Three
and twenty, four and twenty …” At last Jerome stopped, wiped the sweat
from his brow and turned to his assistant, who silenced the crowd with his
hand.

“Listen
now, to the stones in the belly of the magnificent, the unique, Jerome the
Stone Eater!”

Clattering
was distinctly audible as Jerome moved about and his assistant invited a couple
of crowd members to come out and put a hand on his stomach, where the lumps
could be felt. The crowd applauded and whilst Jerome went into a booth to
recover (and regurgitate the stones), the assistant took a collection. The
assistant went into the booth and came back shortly with a pail.

“Now,
the magnificent Jerome the Stone Eater will show you his greatest skill - frog
eating!” The assistant shook the pail a little and some of the little
frogs started croaking. The assistant showed the crowd that they were all
alive. “And then, when he has eaten them all, Jerome will return them all,
alive, alive-oh!”

“How
shall we know they are the same frogs?” shouted one wit. “One frog
looks the same as the next, eh?” The crowd roared with laughter.

George did
his best to ignore the distractions. He walked Galingale about, occasionally
glancing over at The Fly and his entourage. Now that the first trial was about
to start, the rivalry between the Widderis and Grasset camps had arisen to
separate them once more. The Sheriff’s lad, currently sitting on his horse and
staring about him indifferently, did not concern George. If the way that he sat
on a horse was any indication of the way that he rode, it was unlikely that he
would stay the course. The horse was decent enough but no match for either
Galingale or The Fly, in George’s opinion.

A boy with
a hurdy-gurdy struck up a rousing tune too close to The Fly and the horse
erupted into a series of high kicks with his ears laid back flat against his
head. One of the grooms bellowed “Get that away from t’horse, y’stupid
…” and the lad was quickly sent packing to a far corner of the field.

About ten
minutes before the start, George mounted Galingale and rode him gently about to
warm him up. He felt the horse’s power and spoke to it, setting his mind on the
task ahead. It was so difficult, impossible, he thought, to describe to anyone
how this communication worked. It was in part the preparation that the horse
had received, but there was more to it than that, a subtle transfer of thought
or feeling or both. He also tried to remain calm and collected and to convey
that to the horse as well. Nothing to concern yourself about, Galingale; just
another run, my lad. George picked up a lock of the horse’s mane and pulled it
through his fingers, gently. Then he leaned forward to feel the muscles of the
neck, strong and hard, but not too tense.

“George?
I think we are ready to start.” Richard was waving him over to the
starting point. The crowd, losing interest in Jerome and his antics, gathered
nearby.

“Godspeed,
Sir George!” called Amelia, anxiously. She waved to the horse and rider.

“Quiet,
daughter!” said her mother. “Don’t make a show of yourself.”

The three
horses moved steadily up all abreast, with the Fly under strong control and as
they reached the line, the white starting cloth was dropped suddenly. As the
horses started, the gathering of people let out a shout that seemed to be
involuntary. George realised with some surprise that he was following the chestnut
tail of The Fly as the horse surged ahead of him, despite the good start he
thought that he and Galingale had made. The Fly had power, and his legs, finer
than Galingale’s, were stretching over the grass at an astonishing rate. It put
Galingale on his mettle, though, and George felt the horse move into a speed
that he hadn’t yet experienced. As they headed towards the woodland track, a
mile and a half from the start, The Fly began to slow a little and Galingale
was only a length or so behind him as Widderis took the gentle corner into the
wood. George noted this; he thought The Fly was slightly winded by then. The
Fly plunged on as the track narrowed and began to descend to the stream. George
kept as close to his heels as he dared, sensing uncertainty in the chestnut as
the trees moved in closer on either side. George, keeping his eyes on the horse
and man in front as they sped downhill, could see that Philip Widderis was a
courageous and skilful rider. He noted the sweat on The Fly’s flanks and realised
that Galingale was dripping with sweat as well. So was he, probably, but he had
lost all sense of individual sensation; he was seeing as Galingale saw and
feeling as the horse felt; he was conscious of the softer ground underneath and
the slight shortening of Galingale’s stride to compensate for it.

He steadied
Galingale and fell back as they approached the stream. If The Fly balked at the
jump, George wanted to avoid colliding with him. He had a plan ready; if The
Fly refused or floundered the jump, George had noted another place just
downstream where he could cross. It would mean coming up on the outside of the
stump and the crossing place was much boggier, but it could be used. He hoped
he wouldn’t have to do that.

Ahead of
him he saw The Fly throw up his head and slip as he approached the bank.
Galingale’s more equable temper would show at a place like this. He heard
Philip grunt something to the horse and saw him raise his whip as the horse
hesitated momentarily on the edge.

“Get
on!” The whip hand descended and the horse flung himself awkwardly into
space. As he landed on the sloping ground on the other side, he stumbled and
pecked. George held his breath for a second wondering if the horse would go
down. Philip, who had simply settled harder into the saddle as the horse’s legs
went under him, kept his head and the horse recovered, gained the top of the
slope and quickly galloped onwards. George gathered Galingale under him and
felt the horse leap from the bank, almost reaching the top of the slope on the
far side. No time to be impressed, though. Galingale’s valiant leap had helped
gain some ground and George pushed the horse up as hard as he could behind The
Fly. He had nearly drawn up alongside Widderis by the time they left the
woodland. At this point George intended to keep on the inside of The Fly as
they curved back to the left towards the start again, but he found that
Widderis still had a trick or two in his sleeve; as Galingale put in an extra
surge to take the inside, Widderis raised the whip in his right hand and The
Fly, moving to the left away from it, cut slightly across Galingale’s track.
George was not sure whether the horses had touched or not, but Galingale lost a
stride and Widderis, coolly taking advantage of the situation, gained a length
and held off Galingale. George had lost his best opportunity to take the lead
and could no longer manage it on the inside. Well. He wouldn’t forget that.

The Fly won
the first trial by several lengths, but towards the finish Widderis was driving
him hard. George eased up on Galingale as they approached the posts that marked
the end of the course. Already he was planning how to ride the next heat. He
had learned a lot about himself, Galingale and their rivals. Now he needed to
use that knowledge to good effect. The undersheriff’s lad arrived so tardily
that he scarcely gave him a thought.

George
spent the interval tending to Galingale and was only vaguely conscious of the
other runners’ heats - there were three other very minor matches being run -
and the crowds that thronged the common. There was an occasional roar from the
wrestling match and applause or derisive laughter from the scratch archery
contest going on at the butts.

George
wiped the horse down and scraped off the sweat. Galingale lay down and rolled
vigorously and then got to his feet and shook himself thoroughly. George
supervised the groom as he put a blanket on the horse and then walked him
gently up and down. They allowed the horse to take a small drink at intervals
and George was pleased to see that he nibbled at grass in a relaxed way.
Galingale’s breathing quickly eased and he snorted several times, shaking his
head and clearing his nostrils. Then he rubbed his head on George’s shoulder.

One thing
was certain, George decided; if he planned on participating in any more matches
like this, he would have to be better prepared. He’d thought that the hours he
spent in the saddle every day would be enough to ready him. After all, it was
only four miles each time. He realised now that he was wrong; it required a
different way of riding and thinking, especially if the horse and the course
were unfamiliar. The next heat would be as much about strategy as anything
else.

He glanced
across at The Fly, in the care of Philip Widderis and the grooms. The horse had
not settled, but was still sweating and moving around. George decided that this
time he must take the lead and stay there. The first part, across the common
and part of the parkland, would be the most difficult. He planned the route in
his mind, glad that he had spent so much time examining the course. Every
slight camber that might slow the horse infinitesimally, every piece of uneven
ground; he had to take as much account of them as he reasonably could. Then -
the woodland. His strategy here would be to keep the lead and block The Fly.
The track narrowed so much in the middle section that there was not room for
two horses side by side. The Widderis boy had taken advantage of that last
time. This time, George would do everything in his power to keep him back. This
wouldn’t suit The Fly, nor the Widderis lad, he thought; they were both young
and impatient and the horse would waste energy in trying to get past. Philip
Widderis would attempt to hold The Fly back and that would mean fighting with
him; which would put both the boy and horse at a disadvantage.