Miriam Bibby - Mistress Meg 02 - Mistress Meg and the Silver Bell (8 page)

The Jingler
noted this comment but did not let anything show in his face other than
confused inferiority. Got that one right on the nose, he had; he had reckoned
the friendlier servant was too conscious of his place and he’d been right.
Grooming a horse would be beneath him, now that he wore household livery. The
Jingler vowed he would never allow himself such airs and graces. Never miss an
opportunity to handle a horse, especially a good’un. Looking at the two
servants glaring at each other, he realised he wasn’t going to learn anything
more from them. But he had all the information he needed now to seek out what
was going on here.

* * * * *

Some time
later, the Jingler was seated in an alehouse.

“And
what did y’say they called him?” he asked idly, watching the wreaths of
smoke rising into the air. A hint of a smile was on his lips but it was hidden
by the corner of his mouth that was drawn down by the pipe he was smoking.

“Galingale,”
said the young stable lad, coughing as he drew inexpertly on the pipe of
tobacco the Jingler had just given him. He hadn’t needed much persuasion when
the Jingler suggested taking a glass or two when they had finished their work.
“Gahahaha - ” he coughed some more - “Galingale.” He took a
sip of ale and coughed again.

“Galingale,”
said the Jingler, thoughtfully.

“Aye,”
said the lad, still wheezing. He wiped a tear from his eye.

“Good
bacca, this,” said the Jingler.

“Aye,”
said the lad, but he sounded uncertain. Picking up the thread again, he said,
“Out of Sir Richard’s Galloway mare - she’s famous hereabouts for her
speed - and by his foreign stallion, Galleon, is it? No … Galleyhead, or some
such.”

“Galliard?”
suggested the Jingler.

“Aye,
that’s it!” said the lad eagerly. “Have y’heard of him?” The
Jingler thought.

“Perhaps
I have, now I come to think on it. And he - this Galingale - is to be matched
against a horse belonging to another one o’ the gentry round here?”

“Aye,
belongs to Sir John Widderis. The Fly, he’s called. T’horse, I mean.”

“Seen
‘im?”

“T’horse?
Nah.”

“Whose
d’ye think will win?”

The lad
looked cunning. “Couldn’t say. The Fly’s a tall lean ‘orse that can run
all right, they say but t’other’s got the heart. ‘Tis said.”

Staying
power counted. There’d be more than one heat and the race wasn’t always to the
swiftest.

“And
the horses are here in Marcaster for all to see, so there’s no chance of
changing ‘em? That’s what’s agreed?” continued the Jingler.

“Aye,”
said the lad. “And it’s the undersheriff who sees that all’s carried out
properly.”

“Ah.
Match often, do they? This Widderis and Grasset.”

“Not
often. Fall in and out with each other. Natural rivals.”

“Over
what? Horses?”

The lad
shook his head. “Religion.”

“Grasset?”

The lad
shook his head again. “Widderis.”

That was
all he needed to say. The Jingler inferred, correctly, that the Widderis family
were Catholics and probably recusants. Their religious beliefs were an open
secret. But - Sir John would need to be a wealthy man, if he was a recusant,
because the recusancy fees for non-attendance of the new services were twenty
pounds a month! Twenty pounds - aye, he’d need to be a very wealthy man indeed.
And if he was hearing mass in secret - well, he could have most of his estate
confiscated and spend a year in jail if it became known.

The
Jingler, who was seated so that he could see out of the window bay on the
street side of the inn, moved slightly. The lad, struggling with ale and
tobacco, which he had rarely taken before, didn’t notice. The Jingler’s light
coloured eyes moved almost imperceptibly to follow the two figures who crossed
his vision. That woman. That man. Even that blasted dog, trotting ahead with a
tiny basket in his mouth. As he watched, Matthew half halted and glanced round.
The Jingler sniffed. As if he knew …

The figures
walked on. The woman was veiled and wore a round pleated bonnet on her head.
Matthew was bare-headed and carried a stout stick. Apparently, he knew how to
use it, or so the Jingler had been reliably informed by his companions. The
Jingler narrowed his eyes. The day would come when he would deal with that one
as he deserved. The pair and the dog disappeared from his view.

“Come
on lad, we’d best be going back,” said the Jingler. He swiftly downed his
drink and knocked the dottle out of his pipe onto the floor. The lad looked
relieved.

“Owd
Tom’d have me guts if he knew,” he said.

The Jingler
tapped his nose. “Well, y’say - nowt - and I’ll say nowt. Eh?” he
said, slipping into local dialect.

“Aye!”

As they
left, they almost bumped into a rotund, red-faced man with a fringe of white
hair and beard. Startled, his eyes met the Jingler’s, but before he could say
anything, the Jingler spoke gruffly. “My pardon, I didn’t see you
there”. Turning to the stable lad, the Jingler added, “Get on back,
Harry lad, I’ve just remembered a task Tom set me.” He watched the lad’s
thin, hunched back as he set off in the direction of the Blue Boar, and then
turned to the Frater.

“Jingler!”
said Frater John. “I’m glad to see ‘ee. Never will ye guess who I’ve met
with here.”

The Jingler
looked at him in an exasperated fashion. “Seeing as you was set to
following ‘em, not meeting ‘em, I don’t see that’s anything to boast
about.”

“Who?”
said the Frater, bemused. “Oh, you mean the woman and that boy Moses and
the dog? Oh, aye, they’ve set up in the Hart and Hawthorn, they have. Nay,
Jingler, not them.”

“Who,
then?”

The Frater
paused for effect and then hissed, “Francis Jugg! Except he don’t call
himself Francis any more - it’s Uriel now.”

“Uriel?”
said the Jingler in a tone of utter disgust. “That’d be Master Jugg.
Incense-stinking, swindling, double-faced whoreson dog …” He swore
violently. Then, “No time to talk now, Jack. I’ll meet ye later. Where are
you couched of a night?” While they were talking, the Jingler was
assessing the Frater, who was looking spruce in some new garments. The Frater
looked embarrassed.

“Jugg’s
found a place for me. He’s sexton of …” began the Frater.

“Sexton!
Jugg! A sexton!” The Jingler whooped with laughter.

“Aye,
Jingler. He’s a house on the parish and that’s where I couch me hogshead of a
night.”

“Near
the boneyard, eh? Does that not trouble your sleep?”

“Nay,
Jingler; y’know me, it’s the living we have to fear, not the dead ones!”

“Aye,
well. That’s true. Got work for ye, has he?”

“He
has, Jingler.” The Frater did not enlighten him further, for if he knew
what he and Jugg were up to with the cards he might want to join in; and the
last time that had happened, things had turned very ugly between the Jingler
and Jugg. Very nasty indeed.

The Jingler
was thinking.

“Best
not be seen together too much, Jack. D’ye know of somewhere quiet, like?”

.

“Aye,”
said the Frater. He gave the Jingler directions.

“Thought
ye would know of somewhere, ” said the Jingler, with a wink. “I’ll
make my way, you make yours. See y’there, Jack!”

The Frater
was just trotting off to his meeting with the Jingler when he saw some poor
wretch being marched along with his hands tied in front of him. He felt for the
fellow - there but for the grace of God … The Frater sent up a quick prayer
for the poor lad as he was pushed along by one fellow on foot and pulled along
by another on a horse. Then he recognised the man and his heart began to race.

“Mother
of God,” said the Frater, with genuine feeling. He was overcome by
faintness and stepped into the shadows where he secretly crossed himself.
“Clink.”

The mare
had struggled and sweated for hours while one of the men watched, soothed and
encouraged. As often as not, it was Sir George Paston himself who was there,
feeling wretched and helpless. About midnight, she lay on her side and her legs
scrabbled in the air, catching on the wall with a sickening sound. Then she
sighed, as though she was about to give up. Her eyes became fixed and her breathing
seemed to halt.

“Don’t
die, lass,” muttered George. For a while he was convinced that she had
gone, he had lost both his mare and her foal, and then breath seemed to whoosh
into her lungs again. She rolled over and half sat up. He encouraged her to get
up with a hand on her mane, tugging, half pleading with her. She stood,
sweating and looking round at her belly again; then shook herself slightly and
pawed the ground. The wandering and struggling began once more.

As dawn
came, the mare gave one last heaving, groaning push, and the foal slithered
into the churned-up straw. A big strong foal - no wonder the mare had struggled
so hard - and a filly. George waited until the foal was up on its feet and
drinking, and the mare had taken a sip of water and was acquainting herself
with her new daughter. Then he left them together. Standing outside, feeling
the fresh dawn wind on his skin, he took deep breaths of the air, watching the
light growing on the line of hills on the eastern horizon. The birds were starting
to greet the sun. This was his land and he loved it, never more so than in this
space between night and morning. It was cool now, but he knew instinctively
that it would be a glorious day, probably as warm as the heights of summer.
This was good, since there was a lot of work to do and it would give them the
opportunity to get the mare and foal outside as soon as possible. There was
nothing more miserable than young creatures coming into a world of cold,
lashing rain, or worse, snow and hail. George went inside, cleaned himself up
and fell asleep in the hall in front of the cold fireplace.

When he
woke up, his house steward John was standing beside him holding out a note
apologetically. It was from George’s cousin Sim. George rubbed his eyes and
tried to focus on the words.

The message
began with the usual greeting that managed to be cousinly and formal at the
same time. “To Sir George Paston at Oakenhall from Simon Cantle Esquire,
sent from Whitrishes and in our own hand: Greetings. Cousin, I hope all is well
with you …” and then turned quickly to business.

“It
seems that one of our rogues from the Guildern Fair: you’ll recall the one who
cut the purse: has been taken up by a brother Justice in another county and
sent directly to jail in Marcaster; there are certain matters that need
attention, not least on points of law …” George smiled as he read this.
They were both Justices of the Peace but of the two, Sim had the legal mind.
Sim was usually several steps ahead of him in any legal argument. Just
occasionally though, George remembered something that Sim had overlooked. Sim’s
mind ran on mercurially, taking in point after point, restructuring and
reassessing them; George’s knowledge tended to be practical and deeply lodged,
and mostly - even he would have admitted - devoted to horses and farming
topics. Occasionally though, some useful nugget emerged in a court room.

He had to
read and re-read the note before it began to have any reality for him. What he
needed was a wash, some fresh clothes and a large platter of ham collops and
coddled eggs. And morning ale. Once that was done, his horse was brought round
for him.

The ride
cleared his head. As he rode Bayard over to Whitrishes, he considered Sim’s
note. It seemed a simple enough matter; a known rogue had been picked up by a
justice and remanded to prison; but Sim’s note had indicated that there was
more to it than that. Leaving his Aunt Catherine, a keen horsewoman, admiring
Bayard in the stable, George went into the library where Sim and old Simon,
Sim’s father, were waiting. Sim’s father had long been a semi-invalid and
George was sorry to see that this was not one of his good days. Despite the
glorious weather, old Simon was sitting near the fire with a blanket around
him.

“Touch
of ague, George my boy,” he said by way of explanation. “Naught of
consequence.” He coughed raspingly.

“Read
this,” said Sim, handing George the note. It had been sent two days
previously from one Justice Brough, and described how a hog drover had spotted
a rogue, who had nipped his purse earlier in Guildern, drinking in a Marcaster
alehouse. The constable had been called and the rogue taken to Justice Brough
who had committed him to Marcaster jail to await trial. As George reached this
point, he raised his eyebrows and looked at Sim.

Sim said,
“This - ‘hog drover’ - would be the pigman whose stolen purse started the
riot at the fair - you recall?”

“Of
course,” said George. “The rogue, though; has he committed a crime in
Marcaster as well?”

“Justice
Brough mentions none,” said Sim impatiently, “but read on!”

The note
said that the assizes were due at Marcaster and that the prisoner could be
tried soon. Justice Brough asked for a copy of the original deposition made by
the man who had lost his purse, as evidence in a trial; this to be sent to the
Clerk of the Assize at Marcaster.

“But -
” said George, “has he committed him to the Marcaster Assizes?”

Sim
shrugged. “It’s unclear. This message tells us little or nothing. This
matter requires discussion with the Clerk of the Assizes at Marcaster. And that
requires a knowledgeable messenger.”

“Marcaster
is on the same circuit as Guildern; it would be the same judge, whichever
assize …”

“That’s
likely. But - ‘twould have been better to have some discussion between
ourselves and Justice Brough to ensure a sound trial - is that not so,
Father?” Sim glanced at his father for agreement and old Simon nodded,
happy to still be able to use his own experience as a justice although he was
no longer able to carry out the role formally. “And if he has committed
him for trial at Marcaster, it would have been simple courtesy to ask us
whether we wanted the rogue returned or not,” concluded Sim.

“Does
it matter?”

“In
the general scheme of things, perhaps not. But in the name of justice, yes. I’d
not have anyone say that we did not do all that was expected of us. All that
was correct. The form of it …”

George
glanced at old Simon, who was hunched over and looking into the fire. Sim
nodded and shrugged, but he was obviously concerned. George knew his cousin
almost as well as himself. Sim’s inquisitive nature would urge him to go over
there and find out exactly what was happening; and he’d waste no sympathy on
anyone who was not following correct legal procedure, whoever they were. But
then there was old Simon to consider. There was also the mare and her new foal,
who might need his help. It was difficult.

George made
his decision.

“I’ll
ride over, Sim. Brief me on what is to be done, as much as you can.”

Sim was
both relieved and disappointed.

“Well
- if you are sure; and of course, you are a valuable witness to what resulted
… but the expense?”

“I am
content to go,” said George. “If you will have an occasional glance
for what is happening at Oakenhall?”

“Of
course. I will spend a night or two there whenever needed. I am sure that this
Justice Brough will find lodging for you.”

“Indeed,”
said George, “but if not, I have a standing invitation with another of
which I can avail myself …”

“Is
that so?” said Sim, with just a hint of suspicion in his voice. “Of
course, Marcaster has a great reputation for raising horses, has it not? And
did I not hear a whisper of a forthcoming match between two of the gentry? That
wouldn’t be the reason for your generosity in taking this task on yourself,
would it, though, cousin?”

“Has
it such a reputation?” said George in mock surprise, ignoring the second
part of Sim’s comment. “Now I consider it, I think you might be right
…”

“Hmph,”
said Sim. “Well, let’s have a glass on that and I can begin to educate you
in how to question our counterpart. Father? Some wine?”

* * * * *

Clink sat
in shackles on a hard board in Marcaster jail. The cell he was in measured
about ten feet by six and up until that morning it had contained two other
prisoners. There was a barred window - not much more than a slit - and a hole
in the floor that led into a stinking drain that emptied - eventually, after
trickling down the exterior wall - into an open sewer outside. This side of the
keep faced away from the town and the ground where the moat had once existed in
this direction was now a malodorous polluted bog. He had known worse; and
better. He had spent time in several jails, usually in London. The Counter and
the Clink were well known to him. Fortunately, he had always escaped serious
punishment - so far. The last time, four years ago, he had been sent off to
fight in the Low Countries. The authorities had wanted men to serve and they
didn’t care who they were or what they’d done. Along with many others he’d
taken to the road when he came back.

This time
it had all happened so quickly. That was life, he reflected. One moment a man’s
sitting taking his ease with a drink in an alehouse; the next he’s in the grip
of a constable, being marched off to the local justice. Justice Brough had
seemed distracted, somehow. From the lop-sided swelling in his face and the way
he kept dabbing it with a cloth that stank of some vaporous mixture, Clink
deduced he had toothache. Very bad toothache. The swelling seemed to be
extending up his face and by the end of the interview, one eye was half shut
too. It hadn’t taken too long for the pigman to convince Justice Brough that
Clink needed committing to jail. Word was to be sent to the Guilden justices
that one who had committed a crime in their locality had been captured; and a
Mittimus, based on the pigman’s evidence, was quickly drafted up and sent off,
with Clink himself, to the Keeper of Marcaster Jail, so that the law could
argue over who had a right to him. Habeas corpus. Or corpsus, as the Frater
always used to jest. It was no longer a jest though, since the assizes were
close at hand.

Clink
stretched out on the board and attempted to put his hands behind his head; the
shackles didn’t permit him to do that. He gazed up at the low smoke-blackened
ceiling which was covered in small irregular blobs. It looked as though some
previous inmates had been indulging in an explosive spitting contest, or worse.
At least it was unlikely to consist of the jail food, which was slops: broth or
stew in which a meat bone and turnips might have been dunked and quickly
removed. There were doles of bread each morning. Clink supposed that the chewed
up bread would make quite an effective pellet to glue to the ceiling. It was
not a very interesting thought, but he found it less melancholy than thinking
about the others: Ruby, Moll, the Frog, the Frater and even that bastard the
Jingler. Especially he didn’t want to think about Ruby, her warm arms and body,
her laugh, her common sense, her wit, her optimism, the very smell of her. What
were they all doing now, he wondered, hating himself for doing so. Sitting in
the woods around a fire with rabbits or game birds roasting on it? He found his
mouth watering. He could almost smell the woodsmoke, breathe the fresh air and
hear the sound of the wind in the trees, feel it on his face …

How in hell
was he to know that he would be spotted by that nasty hog of a countryman from
whom he’d cut the purse in Guildern? Why had the bastard suddenly reappeared in
that alehouse miles away, where he, Clink, and Ruby happened to be? What rotten
stinking star in the heavens had put him and Clink into the same place at the
same time? And why was Ruby not there to help when hog-face and the constable
collared him? Perhaps that was as well.

Surely,
thought Clink, he had never been more miserable or felt more unlucky. He rolled
over and stared at the wall. Obscene and banal scratchings stared back at him
as they had done since he was put in here. He took no pleasure in them, nor
wished to add to them. Pulling the ragged blanket over him, he closed his eyes
and awaited his fate.

* * * * *

In the last
few years, Sir Richard Grasset had embarked on a programme of refurbishment at
Marfield Hall that almost amounted to reconstruction. The result was an elegant
building with two new wings and many mullioned windows. The front of the house
overlooked his park and woodland, with a fine formal garden to the south. The
great hall remained, but life increasingly turned around the dining parlour
and, in Richard’s case, his new library. In summer, his wife and daughters preferred
the many windowed gallery in one of the new wings, where they sewed or played
musical instruments. In winter they no longer huddled against the drafts round
the fire in the great hall but sat in a cosy room called the little parlour
where they played cards, sang and told stories.