Miriam Bibby - Mistress Meg 02 - Mistress Meg and the Silver Bell (5 page)

“That
I do,” said Meg. Matthew fetched an item wrapped in cloth that was about
the size of a small jar. Meg held it out to the maid and then suddenly stopped,
looking at her keenly.

“Do
you perhaps …” she began, then paused. Then, as though something had
just come to her, she commenced again: “Do ye perhaps know of one who -
” she wriggled her shoulder and winced, as though in pain ” - one who
suffers - here?” And she pointed at her own shoulder.

The
maidservant’s eyes were round with surprise and interest.

“Aye,
that ah do!” she said eagerly. “Ah do, mam, I mean, ‘tis me what
suffers wi’ me shoulder. Such pain ah’m in, in t’morning, I can hardly rise out
o’ bed.”

“Ah,”
said Meg, sympathetically. “Well, it might be I can help there.” She
glanced at Matthew. Matthew rose swiftly to his feet, and, hand on heart, bowed
elegantly to Meg and the maidservant.

“Madam,”
he said to Meg, “an it please you, I will attend to those messages …”
Meg inclined her head slightly. Cornelius snuffled and wriggled a bit and then
snored on. The maidservant, still round-eyed, thought to herself what a
fine-looking man Matthew was, although a bit foreign-looking with it.
Fascination and curiosity showed clearly on her face.

As he left,
Matthew heard Meg say, in a low, confidential voice, “In a moment, I will
find you a remedy that will help with your shoulder. First though - is there
aught else in life troubles you?” The maidservant murmured something in
response and Meg added, “Tell me about him - andif you’re delayed about
your duties, I’ll say it was to help me and all will be well.”

Matthew
smiled as he closed the door. It still surprised him that most people were so
ready to slip into animated conversation about themselves with a stranger; and
then, he considered, that
was
the point, it was about themselves. Who
else would have shown an interest in a serving wench? Well, he’d better prove
that he was just as good at seeking information as Meg was. He headed off to
the common room for a drink.

Zacharias
Kane had broad shoulders and powerful arms like those of his father, Zenithal
Kane the smith. The elder Kane’s fame lived on ten years after his death, not
only in Marcaster but throughout three counties around it. Zenithal had been a
black-haired giant whose exploits included lifting a hog’s carcass in each hand
and striding around the fair as easily as if he held a couple of pups in his
fists. When he roared with laughter, people turned to look at the man whose
sharp strong teeth showed through his black beard under the split upper lip
created by an untamed young colt. Another horse had broken Zenithal’s nose
whilst he was still an apprentice. As he grew older and his fame spread, his
strange appearance only added to the legends about Zenithal Kane. Zacharias
adored his father and feared him. Zenithal loved his son, but it was clear that
the name he had been given by his own parents was prophetic. Zenithal was the
zenith of his tribe, as far as shoeing horses was concerned.

Zacharias
was over a foot smaller than his father and one of his legs was crippled and
twisted. It had been clear from birth that he would never walk properly and
would not take over his father’s trade. But as soon as he could move he had
half crawled, half dragged himself into the forge and watched, entranced, as
his father, frowning with concentration, brought the hammer down onto the
glowing metal on the anvil. He remembered so clearly the time that his father,
for a wager, lay down with an anvil on his chest whilst a farrier struck
horseshoes on it.

Tied up in
these memories was another, more an impression than a memory. Zacharias was
never quite sure whether it was real or not. He had a sense of being carried,
high in the air, and he was certain that it was on his father’s shoulder. He
could see something glowing and felt its warmth; and then a rough cloth like a
sack was placed under him as he lay on something cold: cold like the anvil. He
saw the outline of his father’s chest and arms rising above him and high above
that, on the barrel roof of the forge, the shadow of the hammer in his hands.
The shape moved as the hammer descended, swiftly. Zacharias was sure that he
felt the breath of its movement and its cold face against his naked belly as it
just touched his flesh, once, twice, three times. Zacharias felt no fear. It
was a strange and entertaining experience and it concerned his father, so he
knew all was well. Zacharias seemed to remember chuckling as he lay on the
anvil. Then his father caught him up laughing, and he saw the ruddy, creased
face, the battered nose, the split lip with the white teeth showing through the
beard. It was an intense, strong impression but it must have happened when he
was tiny, if it happened at all.

“My
son,” said his father, hugging him. Zacharias felt Zenithal’s beard rub
roughly against his face and experienced pride for the first, but not the last,
time.

Now both
mother and father were in the grave and Zacharias lived alone in Marcaster. He
had not been able to work with iron or create horseshoes as his father had done
but he
was
a smith. He considered himself his father’s heir but his
skills were different. His father had come to admire and respect them and to
find an apprenticeship for him. The metals that Zacharias understood were not
cold, unrelenting warrior iron that had to be beaten and burned by forge and
hammer. They were soft, malleable and intriguing gold, silver and copper that
could be charmed and coaxed into shape, needing to be approached with
gentleness that bordered on affection and seduction. Silver, particularly, with
its play of fire and water in the annealing process, appealed to him. He saw
the nature of the metals and recognised them. He acknowledged them. And then he
hammered, shaped, rounded and formed them into intricate curving shapes to hold
a polished stone. Gems for the gold and silver, glass for the copper. Sometimes
it would be a ring; or a necklace or a pretty bracelet; or a tiny silver cup or
spoon for a christening.

Today,
though, he was working on something different as he bent over the bench. Now
that it had been to the engraver and the burnisher, it was in the final stages.
As he fitted the pieces together, it jingled, lightly and brightly. He held it
up to examine it closely before rolling it about on his palm. A silver bell,
the two halves plated with gold, with an inscription in flowing script set
along its silver centre like an equatorial belt: “The Swyftest Runnyng
Horse, Marcaster 1589, VINCIT”.

He rolled
the bell, savouring its music and the way the light played on the gold and
silver of its decorated surface. He was so absorbed in this that he might not
have noticed anyone knocking, but the two mastiffs that he kept were on their
feet in an instant. Side by side, hackles raised terrifyingly, they gazed fixedly
at the door, ready to leap on whatever might be beyond it. The younger of the
two, lips drawn back from white teeth, snarled and slavered. The older dog, his
eyes two burning points of danger, gave a deep, menacing rumble. His eyes never
left the stout piece of timber that barred the door on the inside. Zacharias
took every precaution that he could to keep his house and workshop secure,
because of the valuable metals that he used. The mastiffs were two of the
precautions. Others were bars and shutters on every opening; a bar, lock and
two chains on the door; and several weapons, from some of his father’s old
forge tools to a horse pistol that he kept in excellent condition.

“Off!”
he said to the dogs. The older obeyed immediately. The younger glanced at him
and back at the door, hackles still raised. Then, slowly taking its cue from
the older dog, it lay down.

Zacharias
went to the door and cautiously lifted the piece of leather that covered the
peep-hole. Then, even though he was not a tall man, he lowered his head,
because the peep-hole was constructed so that he could peer slightly upwards in
comparative safety. With the leather flap in place it was impossible to tell
from the outside that there was a small hole in the door. Anyone bothering to lean
down and look at it from the outside would just see an apparent knothole in the
wood. By that point, he was certain that the dogs, who mostly lay at the foot
of the door, would have erupted into life.

He
recognised the sober and well-tended clothing of his visitor, his lean shanks
and anxious face. Just before the knocking started again, Zacharias grunted
“Wait!” and went to remove the bar. There was one other precautionary
measure that he had as a last resort. Set into the ceiling above the door was a
lump of lead suspended on a rope that could be released instantly on unwanted
callers, if they posed a serious threat. Zacharias did not think it would be
required, but as he opened the door, he kept his hand on the lever that, with a
quick twist, would set the lead plummeting down.

“Zacharias!
I need to talk to you.” The visitor’s voice, like his face, was anxious.
This was Amiot Goldspink, a former town clerk who now made a modest, but
adequate, living as a lawyer. Zacharias sometimes wondered whether the constant
state of anxiety in which he lived was created for professional purposes. It
impressed most people, but not Zacharias, who knew Goldspink well.

“Come
in,” mumbled Zacharias.

“Thank
ye,” said Amiot, with relief. As he came in, Zacharias observed that he
seemed slightly bulkier than usual under the loose outer garment. And as well
as the anxiety, he seemed - almost furtive. Zacharias indicated a seat on the
bench under the window, but Amiot shook his head.

“Bar
the door again,” he said. Zacharias tried not to let surprise show in his
face as he did so, ordering the two dogs to lie just inside it.

Amiot
glanced at the small window in the room that overlooked a yard at the back of
the house. Surprised, but taking his cue from Goldspink, Zacharias gestured him
silently through up some steps into the workshop, with its barred window set
high in the wall. They could not be overseen. There was an eight foot drop on
the outside wall below the window.

“I can
put the shutters up …” began Zacharias, but Amiot shook his head.

“This
will be secure enough,” he said. Then he brought out something that made
the reason for his apparent bulk clear - two leather bags fastened up tightly
with strong, twisted cords. They were obviously heavy. He laid them on the work
bench and looked at Zacharias expectantly.

“What
is in them?” said Zacharias, although he was already certain he knew.

“Gold,
Zacharias. Gold - and silver - coins.”

* * * * *

The trouble
began, as usual, in an alehouse. As she considered what had happened later,
Ruby blamed the alehouse.

Clink had
quickly caught her up and they crammed food into their mouths as they hurried
along. When not eating, they congratulated each other and chuckled over their
success. There was still plenty left for the Sad Mort and the Frog and when
they found them, they discovered that the Frog had caught and cooked a
pheasant. This was life; famine turned to feast and they made the most of it
while they could. They decided to make camp for a day or two and found a
suitable spot in the middle of a wood with some running water nearby. As they
knelt by the fire or sat on the grass whilst the men lay about smoking, Ruby
and Moll talked about Moll’s kinchins - her children - and wondered whether
they would meet up soon with Doll, who was looking after them.

Moll was
often without her children because she could not bear to be separated from the
Jingler for too long. The Jingler was a restless rover, always on the move as
he searched out opportunities. He acknowledged his children by Moll and
tolerated their company when he and Moll were together, but that was not often.
Not often enough for Moll. Ruby, full of food, enjoyed the sun, the soft grass,
the wind on her face and the brief respite from the hard slog of life on the
road. She scarcely listened to what Moll was saying, simply nodding and
agreeing at intervals. She had heard it all before anyway. The Jingler’ll never
change, she thought, but she kept that thought to herself.

Clink sat
up suddenly.

“Thirst’s
got a hold on me,” he said. Ruby knew what he meant. She offered him some
water from a bottle that they carried with them. He refused. “Salt cheese
and bacon; always goes down better with ale, eh?” Ruby knew that, in this
mood, nothing would do for him but ale. Something, some foreknowledge, made her
offer to go with him when he said he would go to find an alehouse. They scraped
together the few farthings they had, augmented by the two that Ruby had been
given, and she and Clink set off down a different lane from the one that led to
the farmhouse. The Frog and Moll followed slowly on behind.

It didn’t
take them long to find a wayside cottage that would sell them some ale. Clink
said he would bring some out for them all and Ruby waited a little way off on a
broken down wall, swinging her heels and wondering if she would find some new
shoes - stampers, they called them - to wear when they got to Marcaster. Her
shoes were broken down, like the wall, she thought. Clink was taking his time,
but she had expected that. He wouldn’t come out until the money had gone and
he’d make it stretch as far as he could, but he wouldn’t forget the others.
He’d bring something out for ‘em, thought Ruby. Full and happy, she began to
sing under her breath.

It took
Clink a while to adjust to the darkness inside the alehouse and so he scarcely
noticed that one of the drinkers had taken a good look at him before slipping
out of another door. The Frog, with his greater sensitivity to danger, would
have been out of there in an instant. Clink settled onto a bench with a sigh
and took a long, long drink. It was good. Cool and flavoursome. He wondered
what they used to make it taste so good and then decided that it was probably
his thirst. He was still sitting there, blissfully content, when the local
constable and two other men walked in and seized him. The galling thing was, he
hadn’t finished his drink.

Ruby,
sitting on the broken wall in the sun, was suddenly aware of a disturbance at
the front of the alehouse. She hoped Clink hadn’t got into a fight - or worse,
tried to cut a purse. That’s what had got them into trouble the last time. The
rickety door of the alehouse burst open and Clink was pushed out into the lane.
Ruby instantly dropped down behind the wall. Her eyes widened as she peeped
over it. She was hardly aware of the constable with his staff or the man that
accompanied them. No; it was the third man, whose face was so familiar to her,
that drew her attention. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been helping to get
them all set in the stocks. She’d never forget his laughing face as he heaved
turnips at them. A little earlier, she’d been telling him his fortune - and a
grand fortune it had been, rot him.