Mistress Meg and the Prigger of Prancers

by Miriam Bibby

  Peter was becoming amused by this man's insistence, the open eyed ingenuity, the winning smile.

  "Certainly, if ever I needed a horse, I'd seek your advice," he said dryly. The other chose to take the comment at face value and bowed. The swinging pail made the gesture comical.

  "You could do worse than ask Jemmy Jostler. Worse, indeed! Why, when I was in the employ of one of the relatives of my Lord Essex ... but ... ah?" he looked at Peter enquiringly.

  "Peter Siskin," responded Peter, reluctantly.

  "Your servant," said Jostler. "Well, if I had but realised then what I would come to ... that my fortune should bring me to this ..." he gestured at the stable yard, the pail, the trough. "Jostler an hostler! I would never ha' thought it possible, once." He aspirated the 'h' in hostler comically and Peter almost smiled despite himself.

  "It's a good inn, with a good host," he replied neutrally.

  "Oh, it is, it is that!" replied Jostler quickly. "There's naught ails it ... but when you have worked in the livery of the highest in the land ..." he nodded, closed one eye and tapped his nose - "well, there are tales I could tell ..."

  Peter waited.

  "... in exchange for a glass or two."

  Peter had to suppress a definite smile that time. It might almost be worth it. Who knew whether this character was telling the truth or not; but the boots were certainly good, and might have been a hand me down from a wealthy master.

  "Not here though," said Jostler, furtively. "There's an alehouse I know of, the Widow Patterson. It's good ale, and cheap too."

  Peter knew this alehouse. It was not disreputable but it was not the kind of place he would have visited, ordinarily. He hesitated.

  "I have business here though," he began.

  "What business?" asked Jostler quickly.

  Peter paused once more and Jostler spoke again, rapidly.

  "If it's information you need perhaps I can help."

  Perhaps he could. Peter looked at Jostler, thinking as quickly as he could. This might be the easiest way to find out more about the mysterious woman and her servant, without drawing attention to himself. He glanced up at the inn. No-one was watching them as far as he could see. He nodded agreement.

  "I'll see ye there ... when the sun is here," said Jostler, pointing at the sky to indicate an hour or so hence. "Widow Patterson. You can find it?"

  "I know it," said Peter. They parted. Peter set off. He was curious; but something nagged at him. He knew the feeling. It was a warning - a warning to the curious. Something told him that there might be more than he'd bargained for in this meeting and yet he felt a compulsion to go. Without realising it, he had been seen, and noted; but the person who'd seen the whole exchange was not about to tell anyone. He had been seen by Davey, the kitchen boy; and who would be interested in anything a kitchen boy had to say?

  Guildern was not a large town and was mostly prosperous, but it had its alleyways and back lanes where it was easy to quickly lose one's bearings. Widow Patterson's alehouse was not so far from the Goat in Chains Inn geographically: less than a quarter of a mile. The Goat in Chains, with its beautiful timbering and brickwork, gilded sign and wrought iron, was relatively modestly constructed but it was noble compared with the Patterson establishment. However, there were worse alehouses. Patterson's was reasonably clean. At least the beer was good and not doctored; it was bought in from a respectable brewer; and any unpleasantness that broke out was dealt with promptly by a massive, silent servant, whose name no one really knew. He responded to a screech from the Widow Patterson. Some said he was her illegitimate son and that the "Widow" was just an honorific title. Some said he was her lover. Others maintained he had served time in one of the Spanish galleys. His mighty wrists were certainly scarred and there were also scars on his neck and cheekbones. A small gold ring hung from one ear. He could pick up two men, one in each hand, knock skulls together, and heave them out into the filth and water of the alleyway without changing expression.

  Peter had to duck under the doorway above which was mounted a green bush to show that ale was sold here. He looked around with as much composure as he could. He knew with his sober dress and serious face he stood out amongst the usual clientele of the Widow's house and he was pleased to see that the few drinkers already in there looked respectable; probably carriers or agricultural workers. He eased himself onto a bench by the wall behind a trestle and wondered what to do next. Some inner voice still warned him that there was time to leave; that this was not the sort of place that would do his reputation or his purse any good. Curiosity though ... and despite himself, he found he was examining the other occupants of the room as secretly as he could, reading their clothes, their faces, the movement of their hands and the amount they were drinking. Then the Widow Patterson was bearing down on him with a bright and terrifying smile. She was dressed in what she considered to be the height of fashion. It was somewhat colourful for a widow but effective in its way. There were old rings on several of her fingers. In an attempt to convey respectability and substance she wore a small blue starched ruff that was only slightly grubby. It was hard to tell whether her cheeks were naturally so pink, or the result of too much time in the kitchen, or the glow brought on by the bottle, or the application of coloured paper.

  "And what can I get 'ee, m'dear?" She was leaning over him with her bright smile. Her gown was rather tight and low cut for a widow, it seemed to him.

  Peter said, stumbling over his words as he realised that it was now too late to leave, "Ahhh ... I ... what ..."

  The Widow Patterson nodded understandingly and confidentially. "Summat to make the day better, eh? Summat special?"

  Before Peter could reply to this - whilst he was still wondering what an appropriate response would be - she gave him a wink and a dig in the ribs, and left. Soon she was back with a wooden cup of ale and a bottle. Glancing around, she uncorked the bottle, leaned close again and splashed some of its liquid into the ale. Peter understood that this was beyond the license of her alehouse ... some spirituous addition, aqua vita or brandy or similar. With another knowing wink, she went, taking the bottle with her. Peter felt that he had never in one day received quite so many nods and winks. This was certainly new company for him. Reminding himself that he could always learn things useful to his trade, he took a sip of the drink and coughed. What he hardly admitted to himself was that, as a man who spent much time alone, there was simply a need for company occasionally, even for the company of an obvious rogue such as Jostler. If Peter's wife had lived, things might have been different. That, though, was not something he would permit himself to think about.

  Peter was surprised to find, when Jostler appeared with his knowing grin, that he had drunk half the cup in front of him. He had hardly been aware that he was drinking it. Jostler slid onto a bench opposite him. The Widow Patterson appeared again, looking only slightly more dishevelled, to be greeted by Jostler with loud smacking noises of approval. He grabbed her round the waist in a familiar fashion and said, "What cheer, vixen" (Peter didn't think this an entirely appropriate comparison), which prompted the Widow to produce a huge belly laugh and dig Jostler extremely hard in the ribs.

  "Wicked boy," she said, and went off, still giggling, to come back with the tray, another cup, a jug and the bottle. When she left them this time, Jostler attempted to swipe her rear, which prompted more joviality.

  "Any friend of his is a friend of mine," said the Widow over her shoulder. Jostler poured out the drink.

  "And a pipeful o' baccy, Tabbie my love," he called after her.

  Peter attempted to restrict the amount of drink he took, but it was difficult even though he was aware that this was often how cozeners began to soften up their prey. The drink was stronger than he expected, even without the addition of spirit from the bottle. He had made several attempts to lead Jostler round to the matter of the woman at the inn, and had almost noosed the subject. Every time, though, Jostler would somehow perform a circle and take it back to his
own topic, whether that was how to temporarily conceal lameness in a horse, the bawdy talk of Queen Elizabeth (was this treasonable, Peter wondered vaguely), the wildness of my Lord Essex or how to choose a good fighting cock.

  He tried again. "I have heard that this woman, this Mistress Meg, is accounted to find lost items ..."

  "Oh, ah, she seems to have plenty of trade going her way. Did I tell ye that I had an old aunt who was a cunning-woman? Oh, she had the power and no mistake. I remember once there was a man in my Lord Essex's train, the old lord that is, who loved a wench and he wanted to know if she was true, see, so he went to my aunt and she said that he should make a string of seven knots and ..."

  And so on. Much of this was of little or no use to Peter Siskin, but occasionally he would note something of interest and hope to draw attention to it later in the conversation. Curiously though, the moment never seemed to arise.

  "Tabbie dearest!" bawled Jostler suddenly, and yet another jug appeared. Peter decided that he had drunk enough and was preparing himself to leave. As though he sensed this, Jostler became more business-like. He took a slurp directly out of the jug.

  "Well, to go back to this Mistress Meg; seems to me that she knows the host passing well. She's in one of the best chambers. She's close to that servant though. Some say he's a Spaniard, and others that he's one of those Egyptians; but I say no, he's no Egyptian. Something different. Foreigner though, for sure. Doesn't say much."

  Peter ruminated. Was that helpful? He didn't know. He looked around, suddenly realising that he would probably have to pay for all this drink. The room had grown hotter and smokier. He wanted to leave. There was a gnawing at his stomach as he thought of his dwindling coins and dwindling clientele.

  "Thought any more about a horse? Know a man has a good little nag. Cheap. Easy to keep. Little grey nag."

  Peter smiled ruefully and shook his head. "No, no need."

  "A man of business, though! You need to impress. Arriving on a little horse, that makes them sit up!"

  "I've no need," said Peter firmly, half rising. "They come to me, mostly."

  "You've a clerkly air," said Jostler, looking at him through half closed eyes. "You've a confidence about you. Find things out for people, don't you? You're a cunning-man. Like my old aunt. See things, don't ye?"

  Well, perhaps Jostler was a good judge of character; perhaps he, Peter Siskin, gave away his trade; or, much more likely, perhaps Jostler had taken the opportunity to find out something about him, somehow, before he arrived at the alehouse. Peter didn't really know or care; he just wanted to get home before all his money disappeared into the bottom of an ale cup.

  "That's my trade," he conceded. "Now, let me pay my share ... I have things to do."

  "Wait," said Jostler. He drained his cup and looked at Siskin, his eyes serious and focussed for once. Usually they were moving, dancing, never still, in a mobile face that moved from subject to subject with speed and facility. He was like a glittering surface of water that reflected light to conceal its murkier depths. The seriousness could be just a mask, Peter thought; it was hard to tell.

  "What's this woman to you? Why do you want to know about her?" asked Jostler, his eyes still focussed on Peter.

  Peter shrugged. Jostler leaned forward and looked at him more intently.

  "Stealing trade, is she? Oh, she is good. She is good."

  "How do you know that?"

  Jostler leaned back again and shrugged. “Common knowledge," he said. "All the wenches are going to her. She tells 'em what they want to hear."

  Peter felt exasperated and amused.

  "It's one thing to tell folk what they want to hear; another to tell them what's true," he said.

  "And often they don't want to hear what's true, do they?" said Jostler. He carried on looking at Peter whilst he drained his cup. "D'ye always tell them what's true?"

  "I help people," said Peter simply.

  "And do they always pay for that?" pressed Jostler.

  "Certainly," said Peter. He was conscious that sometimes people paid less than he asked; sometimes people paid him in small amounts, when they could; sometimes they deferred payment or paid in kind with rabbits, cheese or malt, which he could use or exchange.

  "Educated man, aren't you?" said Jostler. "Perhaps I could set up as a cunning-man. Perhaps I've got my aunt's gifts. But I'm not educated, like. Know the stars, do you?"

  "I have studied astrology, yes," said Peter.

  "Clever," said Jostler. "but perhaps I'm clever in other things." He seemed to have lost interest in Peter.

  "I'm sure that's the case," said Peter, without a trace of irony. He made to leave.

  Jostler said, almost to himself, "I hear the woman at the inn is planning on staying. I hear she's found it a good enough stable. She's going to be there for a while, that's for certain. Wonder what that will do to trade? Tabbie!"

  The bawling of her name brought forth the Widow in an instant with a fresh jug which she set down on the trestle. Peter shook his head and began to unlace the purse at his belt. The Widow looked sad.

  "No more for ee, deary? Well now, ee'll be wanting the reckoning then."

  Peter thought suddenly how sinister that word could sound. Reckoning.

  "Now then," said the Widow as though counting. "Was it three or four jugs?"

  "Three," said Jostler.

  "Nay, my dear," said the Widow gently. "I think ee'll find it was four. Four of the best." She stressed the word "best". "Four jugs. And a drop 'o the hard stuff. More than a drop. That'll be fourpence in all, gentlemen.“ Jostler had his nose deep in his cup.

  Fourpence! That was outrageous. Peter knew that if he wanted, he could cause trouble for the Widow. It wouldn't take much. A complaint about pricing; or the illicit sale of spirituous liquor; or even inappropriate dress on the Widow's part. He also knew that he would do no such thing. Apart from anything else, there was the giant, silent servant now hovering by the door with his arms folded. Then there was the scandal. Even knowing he was in the right, there would be a very unpleasant scene; and the news would travel.

  "Fourpence?" asked Peter, allowing a little astonishment into his voice. The Widow looked at him, frowning and then her face cleared.

  "Ah, no, you're right my dear. The gentleman is right. Fourpence ha'penny, of course. I forgot the first cup. That'll be fourpence h'apenny."

  The brazenness of it astonished Peter. It must be said that he was not a regular frequenter of alehouses. The Widow gazed back at him.

  "And that covers the serving and the coals for the fire." She was not smiling so much now. "Terrible price, coal, these days, ain’t it?"

  Peter felt like asking whether she would charge for the banter and the company. There was nothing for it. His fingers felt the few coins in his purse. He had enough to cover it, but that would leave a big hole in his resources. And for what? What had he really learned? Nothing. Nothing useful. Peter experienced something that felt like despair. He knew that feeling well and he did not want it to return.

  Slowly he drew out four pennies and a halfpenny. Jostler was still drinking in an unconcerned sort of way, as though this was nothing to do with him. Although nothing had been agreed, Peter realised he had left the matter of who would pay too unsettled. He imagined the sort of response that he would get if he asked Jostler to contribute.

  Slowly he held out the money and the Widow was reaching for it when Jostler, still apparently unconcerned, said: "Put it on my scot, Tabbie."

  The Widow looked at Jostler and frowned. "To yer charge, ye mean?"

  Jostler looked back at her and something indefinable passed between them. "Aye. On my scot," he repeated, with authority in his voice.

  "Oh," said the Widow Patterson, smiling again. "On your account. I see."

  Peter took in the scene, relieved, but confused. Jostler did not strike him as being the kind of man who had money or reputation to have an account, even in a place like this. Besides which, Peter had never seen him in Guil
dern or at the Goat in Chains previously. Who was he, and where had he come from?

  "Put your money away, Master Siskin," said Jostler, with the same authority. "All's well. My guest."

  "Any friend o' his is a friend of mine," repeated the Widow, "And this is on the house, gentlemen." She gestured at the jug on the table. Still smiling, she backed off towards the curtain which evidently hid a scullery. "Enjoy your drink, my dears."

  The giant servant, apparently slightly disappointed, cracked his knuckles, sniffed and followed her.

  Peter felt uncomfortably in Jostler's debt. "Thank ye," he began awkwardly. Jostler swept it aside with a gesture.

  "Nothing, nothing. Will ye have one with me for the road?" Peter wanted to say no, but he felt, wretchedly, that it would be discourteous.

  "I will, thank you."

  The cups were filled again. Jostler said, conversationally, "I see the bottle's not returned. These cups ... somewhat rough, but they hold enough. No pewter in the Widow Patterson's house." Peter attempted to smile at the jest but he was increasingly uncomfortable.

  "Glad to stand ye a drink," continued Jostler. "I know what it is to be wondering where the next penny will roll from."

  "Things are not so bad," protested Peter.

  "Come now, your face was easy to read when you felt for your purse. Think ye that there's enough trade about for you and this Mistress Meg at the Goat in Chains Inn?"

  Peter was reluctant to answer but the need to confide pressed him as well.

  "In truth, no." For some reason he felt better once he had said it.

  Jostler refilled their cups. "Hey well, 'tis a difficult thing when someone comes along and steals your livelihood like that. A sad thing, after you've built it up."

  Peter had not considered it before, but he supposed there was something in it. After all, she had not been long in Guildern; she had spent no time in finding clients as he and his uncle had done. She had no long acquaintance with the people and yet she seemed to satisfy their needs. It was truly maddening, when he thought about it; and he brooded briefly on the fickleness of people. Jostler seemed sympathetic. Although Peter still felt wary, he was encouraged by some of the instances of similar treatment that Jostler had experienced. Perhaps the man had just had hard luck, bad treatment.