Miriam Bibby - Mistress Meg 02 - Mistress Meg and the Silver Bell (6 page)

It was the
pigman from Guildern.

* * * * *

The Jingler
knew it was time to lose the nag. Marcaster was close enough now. He put the
little horse through a gate by the road and slapped it on the rump, which set
it cantering and bucking towards some cows. The cows snorted and jumped, with
their eyes popping, as it approached. He had some regret; it had been a good
enough little nag, but he was taking no chances of being picked up as a prigger
of prancers, not for that ‘un, anyway! He set off towards Marcaster with the
saddle and bridle stowed in his bag.

Marcaster
had seen many, many Jinglers in its two thousand year history. From a little
huddle of huts where hunters and herders came down from the hills to trade -
and occasionally fight - with local farmers in the days before the Romans,
Marcaster had developed into a strategic centre under Roman rule, with a
cavalry barracks, town walls and a small arena where there were some wild
animal fights and gladiatorial contests. It had also gained a reputation for
food, drink and diversion. The cavalry barracks were now just some hillocks on
a common where stock was grazed and the stone and timber of the circus had long
since disappeared, but some of the walls remained. They had been rebuilt and
extended occasionally over the years, mostly whenever there was a rumour about
an invasion by the Scots. At one end, the town was dominated by a square tower,
the grim Norman keep that now served as Marcaster Jail. The moat that
surrounded it had been filled in to provide land for the courthouse, the
undersheriff’s house, the town hall and some fine new dwellings for merchants.
Marcaster was now known for its livestock and grain markets; and horses, not
unlike that ridden lately by the Jingler, still came jogging down from the
hills just as they had done in ancient times. Market days continued to be a
riot of thundering hooves as the horses and cattle ran through parts of the
town, but the local council was moving to bring this to an end.

The
Jingler, whom Meg and Matthew had also known under the alias of James Jostler,
ignored the brooding tower that cast its shadow and a warning across the town
and made his way, inevitably, to a stable. Horses and stables always drew him
as a lodestone draws iron. In a lifetime around horses he had learned a thing
or two and some of these could be usefully be applied in legitimate service
that would earn him a few coins. The other, more dubious skills - well, they
just awaited an opportunity to be applied. The right opportunity. And so, finding
himself here, in Marcaster, in the knowledge that the Frater was keeping an eye
on the woman and her servant, the Jingler settled into his natural element. In
his experience, information, knowledge and that most important quality,
opportunity, were always to be found in a stable. And the best opportunities of
all were found in the stables of an inn. This one smelled good, in every sense
of the word.

The Blue
Boar was a fine house: Marcaster’s best, in fact. It was also a busy one, with
its regular local and passing trade augmented by the occasional sporting match,
fair, or execution. The Jingler savoured the bustle around the stable yard that
accompanied the anticipation of some forthcoming event and it invigorated him.
And there was something especially lively in the air of the Blue Boar and its
yard; the ostlers and kitchen staff had a self-important air as they went about
their work. Some especially significant duty lay on them, the Jingler was sure.

It wasn’t
long before the opportunity to hold a traveller’s horse arrived and the Jingler
was given a groat for his pains. “Thank ye!” he said, smiling
gratefully and touching his forelock. “If there’s aught more that I can
do?” He made sure that he was spotted by one of the older ostlers, a
harassed little man, with a crab-like walk, weighed down by some water buckets
that he carried. Eventually the ostler gestured at him with his head.

 “Thoo,
aye, thoo, man, don’t just stand there doing nowt - tak’ these pails.” The
Jingler complied. “Th’oss in stall, aye, there - ” The little man
indicated with another jerk of his head, because he had already picked up a
pitchfork and begun to lift hay into a rack for another of the stable’s
inmates. “When tha’s done, fetch more watter.”

The Jingler
gave the nondescript brown horse a drink, noting the near-dried dusty sweat on
it. “Give this’un a rub down after?” he said, keeping his speech as
clipped and economical as the ostler, who nodded, flinging some curt
instruction over his shoulder as he went after another task. The Jingler
frowned as he caught what had been said. The little man had a local accent with
some other variations - perhaps he’d travelled - and it was hard to follow.

For the
next two hours the Jingler worked as hard as, or harder than, the rest of them.
Afterwards, the little man came up to him and looked him up and down.
“Knows tha trade, does,” he said. “Be thoo looking for
place?” The Jingler nodded. “Name?”

“Will
Aitchison,” said the Jingler, without hesitation. It was not his name. The
old ostler pursed his lips and regarded him with one eye half closed. He saw a
tall thin man, with straight yellow hair and light-coloured eyes that were hard
to read as he gave the ostler his most ingenuous smile. The ostler was not
convinced, but he knew he was dealing with a man who knew horses. Eventually he
nodded. This man would have to prove his reliability through his work. That was
the way of it.

“Aye,
well, ah’ll fix it wi’ maister. Had a lad run aht on uz afore year was up. Next
hiring fair’s not till Martinmas.” This explanation was obviously a lot of
words for the ostler and he turned swiftly away, muttering “Tak’ thysen up
kitchen door, man.”

As the
Jingler ate, sitting on a sack stuffed with straw, he listened. The little
ostler gave nothing away, of course, but a couple of the younger lads, full of
their own self-importance - without reason - tended to boasting and gossip.
When they strayed too far the ostler shut them up with a look or a sharp
derogatory “puh!” of breath. After quickly cramming the food down,
there was more work; more horses came in and one or two went out, although it
was growing late. When the work was finally at an end, the Jingler found
himself a space in the loft and fell asleep immediately.

He woke
very early in the morning and stretched his aching muscles. The work here was
hard, fast and unrelenting. No wonder the lad who’d been working for them had
sloped off. He listened to the other men snoring in the loft around him and
quietly eased himself out of the ragged horse blanket and straw that he was
wrapped in. The old ladder creaked a little as he descended. He found some
water and sluiced his face, slapping it on his skin to wake himself up. Then he
stepped outside to sniff the air. There was a strip of gold on the eastern
horizon, but it was still dark and warm inside the stable, with only the sound
of horses munching the few scraps of remaining forage, shifting their weight or
groaning or relieving themselves. The Jingler found a lantern and a candle stub
and set to work by its dim light. He intended to be well ahead in his chores by
the time the others woke to the day. He had an inkling that the little ostler
would be up and about early and if he found the Jingler already working it
would be noted to the Jingler’s credit. He had another reason, though.

The Jingler
skipped out the already immaculate stalls which had received their last
cleaning just before the lads turned in. Then he filled pails and started to
sluice down the drainage channel. As he worked, he looked over the stable’s
inhabitants carefully. Nothing to speak of - but there had been a horse brought
in late and in a hurry which had been put into a far stall that he thought
might be worth his glance. He’d tried to catch what they said about it, but
whenever he was within hearing distance, he found the other lads shut up
quickly. He now made his way slowly and methodically towards that corner of the
stable .

From time
to time he glanced briefly up towards the corner, but kept on sweeping, pushing
any remaining scraps of dirty straw and hay into a couple of heaps that could
be quickly shovelled up, moving the lantern along as he swept. Finally he was
at the far stall, flicking an interested glance at the restive black horse that
was in it. He noted that the horse turned its head - a fine one, all right -
and attempted to look at him, the lantern light glancing on its eye as it
rolled back towards him. What happened next took him completely by surprise.

* * * * *

Amiot
Goldspink was a worried man as he lay awake in the early hours of the morning.
He was always worried, but this present state of anxiety was exceptional even
for him. His nails were bitten and torn and he had lost weight. Sometimes he
felt that the weight he had lost approximated to the weight of the gold in the
bags that he had left with Zacharias. He could still feel the weight of those
bags. He dreamed about them. Sometimes he saw them sitting side by side on a
trestle. Then there was a chinking of coins and suddenly they were two sinister
beings, not bags, rocking towards him across the board with their tightly
fastened necks flopping backwards and forwards like fat waddling - what?
Nothing friendly, nothing homely like a hen or a duck or a puppy. Nothing like
that.

It had been
the obvious thing to do, to take them to Zacharias, whose entire home was a
strong box. He knew they would be safe there. He entirely trusted Zacharias, as
much as the people who had handed over the gold trusted Goldspink. Everyone
knew the lawyer was honest and totally dependable.

It had
started last year, when a few people, mainly well-to-do Marcaster worthies, had
asked Goldspink to hold their wager money on the Widderis-Grasset match in the
spring. This year, he had been asked again, but it was quite alarming the way
the word had spread so quickly that he was holding the money. Others had
approached him, secretly and confidentially. They had placed a little wager and
would he mind holding the money for them? And so it had gone on until it had
grown like the giant snowballs created by the town lads in winter. He was not
concerned about the accounting; he had it all accounted for, in a ledger, in
his meticulous way.

This year
was different, though. He had made some wagers on his own behalf, with less
consequential people. It had been so easy to do. Little wagers, of course,
nothing that would cause him any difficulty. None at all; especially if he won,
which he hoped to do. It had provided him with a sense of excitement and
pleasure, to begin with. Now though - doubts were creeping in.

He was
concerned by the thought of how many people knew he was entrusted with the
gold. And how many of those should not know about it? He might still end up
with a bash on the head even though he did not have it any more. Desperate
rogues didn’t care about that. If they got a whiff of the wealth contained in
those sacks, they would not think twice about beating its whereabouts out of
him. For this reason, he was temporarily avoiding quiet places, deserted alleys
and lonely lanes. His house was inside the town and well known and he felt
reasonably secure whilst he was there. On one side of him lived an elderly
woman and her sons, strong lads who would scare off a robber. On the other
side, in a substantial, half-timbered gilded property, was a wool broker with
several servants. People who would keep an eye out for him and come to his aid
if he needed it.

Also,
people saw him coming and going there all the time. They would call a greeting
or ask him how he was. “How are you, Amiot?” “How goes it,
Amiot?” “Be ye well, Goldspink?” It was all very friendly and
warming and he found himself truly appreciating it for the first time.
Sometimes in the past he had found his visibility and the calls on his time
irritating. No longer. He just thought how fortunate he was to have good
neighbours and to live in so friendly a place. Mostly friendly, anyhow. He
would be glad when this match was over.

He had also
avoided Zacharias, for a few days at least. Then he encountered Kane in the
street and pretended not to see him. Zacharias had looked at him in a quizzical
fashion and then grinned at him with those sharp white teeth, exactly the same
as his father’s.

“Good
day, Amiot,” he said, in an ironic voice. “Naught ails thee, I
trust.”

Goldspink
shook his head. “N…no, Zacharias, naught.”

Zacharias
had laughed then, saying in a low voice that all was safe, he had nothing to
fear regarding the money.

“But,
man,” he continued, half whispering, “by the look on your face the
day of judgement approaches. Be of better cheer. D’ye want to draw attention to
yourself?”

So Amiot
tried to act as though all was well.