by Miriam Bibby
"The Egyptian," said Matthew, coming back to life, "'cept, she's not Egyptian."
Meg was thinking.
"Where did they come from?" she asked.
"On the road," said Matthew. "With some others ... Meg, what is a ... jingler? They talked of 'the Jingler". Jingle ... like a bell? But this ... seemed to be a person."
"A jingler? A man who sells trained horses. Sometimes ..." Meg was thinking of something appropriate, "... a man who might sell you a horse with three legs and convince you that it was a bargain, that he'd intended it for his grandmother, but as a very special favour, he was going to allow you to buy it, at a price that would send him and his family begging in the street."
"I see," said Matthew. He yawned. "The Sad Mort is in love with this Jingler. Very sad." He sniffed, then thought of something and raised his finger. "Oh. Have to tell you. I'm a Moor."
"Oh," smiled Meg. "What else?"
"Confession," said Matthew, finally giving in to Cornelius, who had been pawing at his leg. Matthew picked him up and the dog licked his face. "Not just pie and tart ..." He yawned again. "Took sausages as well, on the way back."
"Sausages?" said Meg. "Where are they?"
"The Frater's got them," said Matthew, closing his eyes. "Back in the forest ..." At his feet, Cornelius was eating the remains of the mutton pasty, with a great deal of snuffling relish.
Meg regarded her fellow traveller, now snoozing in the chair, with affection, amusement and a degree of responsibility. Matthew ... taken from his home and society, educated in the ways of two hardly compatible Christian cultures before taking to life on the English road; Matthew had emerged from all of this entirely his own man. He accepted all that life threw at him, with curiosity and spirit. Meg admired that.
* * * * *
George found Jostler's commendations very impressive. The first was a letter from the senior horse master of one Lord Edlington, commending Jostler. George searched his memory and remembered that the Edlingtons were related to the Earls of Essex. The letter was undersigned by Lord Edlington himself, which didn't necessarily mean that he had read it fully of course. It stated that Jostler had proved himself an exemplary servant and that only family circumstances meant that he had to leave this employment. A corner was somewhat damaged and the ink had been washed away from it, leaving an illegible blur in that section.
Jostler explained, "I was caught in a storm on the road - didn't know the corner was sticking up. Got wet."
The other was a commendation from an earlier employer for Jostler's work as both general servant and groom. The man was a minor Essex knight whom George didn't know.
In fact, the commendations were so full of praise - and Jostler handled the horses so well - that George found it all too good to be true. However, he also knew it would take some time to write and confirm these documents and in the meantime a good worker was a good worker. Jostler was certainly that. He was quick, efficient and helpful. George had expected there to be trouble in one particular area - the relationship between Lukas and Jostler. After all, Jostler was older than Lukas and, in theory at least, more knowledgeable and experienced. From George's perspective, Lukas had gained equal, if diverse experience, through his devotion to the horses in his care as they travelled over land and water, but Jostler might view it differently. However, there had been no tension. Jostler deferred to Lukas in all things and only rarely made an alternative suggestion to any orders given to him. Again, it seemed too good to be true. Jostler's real commendation, as far as George was concerned, was that the horses liked him and Jostler treated them with respect. That was all he required.
It was true that some of the horses he had taken out for exercise had been out longer and worked harder than usual, but they were quickly cleaned and settled and, if anything, their muscles were harder and their coats gleaming with health afterwards. And they had returned to the stable. George knew of instances where that certainly hadn't been the case. Just last year, one of his neighbours had hired a groom who had all but destroyed one of his horses through ill-treatment; and another had hired a stablehand who disappeared one night with a valuable ambler. So, all was well so far, in comparison.
Lady Day, the start of the new year, had come and gone. It was a time of bustling activity, when new tenants moved into their farms and holdings, and it always had the feel of spring about it. Life was on the move again, whatever the weather and there was a sense of promise. Most of the mares were preparing to foal in April and May and there were already lambs running on the sheep pasture. Oakenhall worked in the rhythm of the year and this was one of its busiest times. George, working alongside his servants, found he had little time to think about anything. Jostler was just another member of his household and a much needed worker. He was a good rider who could usefully be sent on errands and his evident skill with horses was of great value.
Only at harvest time were they busier than they were at this time of year; and, George thought one evening, dropping into his study chair and gratefully lifting a glass of wine, perhaps spring lambing and foaling were even more taxing than harvest. He suddenly realised he had not even removed his boots. He sighed and pulled the boots off against a log that was lying on the hearth. He had spent little time with Bayard in the past few days and that was irritating. George was planning a secure enclosure for Bayard, where he could enjoy some hours at grass safely away from other horses and the distractions of the farm. This would continue until George was satisfied that Bayard was ready to go to the mares, which would not be until after foaling. George was also considering some companionship for the stallion. No horse wanted to spend its life alone, away from others of its kind. It might even have been easier, George thought, if he had other stoned horses. He had been doubly careful around the stallion now that the mares were likely to be coming into season but the stallion's equable temperament never ceased to impress him.
"Pommely?" mused George, pouring another glass. "We might put him a neighbouring plot, to begin ..." He suddenly visualised his little childhood horse, ears back, reversing towards the stallion, and letting fly with one of his famous kicks. He could almost see the horrified look on Bayard's face, the look of a Roman patrician when one of the mob has let fly a handful of mud at him.
"Perhaps not," thought George, shaking his head slightly at the image. Then he chuckled, tiredly. He felt light headed and slightly hysterical. Hungry, probably.
More irritating, though, was the fact that the Quarter Sessions were coming up and that would take him away from his work. He had even resented visiting church that morning. He and his servants had visited their local chapel-of-ease, only half changing their work clothes by replacing their sweaty shirts and any garments that were splattered with mud or worse. It had all seemed perfunctory and George was glad to get home and back to work again, Sabbath or not. Most of his servants were of the same mind. Lukas, however, was an extremely devout Lutheran and had found a sympathetic home in English Protestantism.
At least George would not have to travel far for the sessions. The courts at the county town were undergoing renovation and the sessions were being divided between Guildern and one of the other towns. Sim and some of the other Justices had suggested that Guildern's old Market House could be used. It was not the first time that the building had been used as a court house and it was a fine old hall with rooms decorated with money from various guilds. The Quarter Sessions was welcome, for it brought status and wealth to Guildern. It was good for the inns and for the market that would take place at about the same time. Since this was the Easter Sessions, there would probably be grumbles from some of the Puritan flank of the corporation at the inevitable ungodly activities that would accompany the sessions and the market. Mostly though, the additional activity, the flow of people and money through the town would be welcome.
George was hoping to introduce a slightly contentious proposal to business at some point. There was a fine flat piece of land down by the River Dern that would be suitable for
racing. It had certainly been used for that, in informal ways. He had watched and participated in a few wagers there himself. Now, having seen the success of the institution of race meetings at towns further north and east, he was going to propose that Guildern consider holding an annual meeting of its own, probably in conjunction with the horse fair. He could just about see the popping eyes of the Surveyor of Highways. He knew a few people who might be sympathetic to the idea of the financial benefits of racing, though.
George leaned forward to rub the ears of the old hound leaning against his legs. The terrier was twitching as it ran in its sleep. George drained his glass and went to change from his work clothes. By the time he had done that, it should be time to eat. And then, sleep, sleep.
* * * * *
Jostler was aware that there was a stallion of quality on the premises but it was some time before he had the opportunity to see Bayard. It was only one day when he had taken out one of the old geldings on an errand to a tenant that he passed by the barn which was the stallion's home. Curiosity getting the better of him, and being fairly secure that the rest of the household would be busy, he stopped at the back of the barn where he would not be visible and found a gap by one of the beams where the daub had shrunk and crumbled a little. Bayard was standing quietly, resting, head down, but something - perhaps just the presence of another horse - put him on the alert and he began to walk, and then trot, around the barn, with dust flying up into the sunlight as he moved. He whinnied, that strong, imperious sound that a stallion makes. The horse outside with Jostler nickered a little uncertainly, cautious and slightly fearful. Jostler whistled appreciatively as he watched the stallion turn and paw, circling, breaking into a run, head up and nostrils widening as he sought information about the horse nearby. Then Jostler had made his way back to the stable yard, put up the old gelding, and cleaned and stored his harness. That was a prancer!
* * * * *
George was dreaming that there was a riot on market day. Down the street there was a horse race but for some reason the Surveyor of Highways had piled up every bench he could find and the resulting obstacle was much too high for any horse to jump. Someone then said they were going to burn the Market House and set the benches alight; some of the market stall holders tried to stop them and a fight broke out in the street. George could see that Bayard was leading the race and Sim, riding Pommely, was far, far behind - he couldn't catch up now. He would never win the silver bell. With his heart in his mouth George saw the golden horse approaching the benches, but he knew he couldn't jump them - at the last minute, Bayard sprouted wings and soared, soared through the rising smoke and an army of drummers drummed their approval ... or was that the beating of his heart?
Someone was hammering on his bedroom door and shouting for him with an urgency that he had rarely heard before. He knew that it was very late. He had simply fallen onto the bed in his shirt and dropped into sleep. How long ago was that? An hour, two hours?
"Sir George! Sir George! It's Lukas, sir, you must come quickly, now, sir!"
George shook his head and tried to clear it. Lukas was calling him with fear and authority in his voice. Awake at last, George was out of bed and getting into his clothes as he shouted back through the door.
"What in hell is this, Lukas? Yes, I will be with you as soon as I can dress ..."
"Sir, it's Bayard!"
The horrible uncontrolled feeling of the dream came back to George. He flung open the door, now in breeches and shirt, still fastening sleeves to his doublet.
"My god, what's happened?" He tumbled out of his bedroom and headed for the stairs towards the hall where he had left his boots and jerkin, Lukas talking all the time.
"Sir, we went to attend him late this night ... Evening I mean ... and he was not, I mean he was not there!"
"Gone? Bayard? But ..." George pulled his boots on savagely.
"Sir, the barn is damaged and Bayard is gone and ..."
George was heading towards the barn at a run. In the distance he saw lanterns flickering. Feelings of horror and anger were seizing him and so was a sickening thought.
"Jostler?" he demanded breathlessly, over his shoulder.
"Sir," said Lukas, running up alongside, "Jostler is there ..."
George felt relief and curiosity. "At the manege?" he flung at Lukas, still running.
"Yes, sir, his head is broken and there is blood and he is ... he is ... not awake."
Chapter 7: The Constable Calls
George ran his fingers repeatedly through his hair. It didn't relieve the anxiety and almost violent rage that possessed him. At his feet lay Jostler, unconscious, his face covered in blood that had dripped down from his temple. There was a bruise clearly visible across his face, even though the only light was that of the flickering lanterns and the reddish rays of the waxing moon, setting into cloud to the west. One of Jostler's eyes was black and swelling. He wasn't dead. His heart was beating, faint and racing like a straining horse.
The barn doors were both open and one of them was damaged, hanging loose. How that had happened was unclear. George was not convinced that the stallion could have done it but there was nothing else to indicate the cause. Of Bayard, there was no sign. The blood on Jostler's face was partly crusted, suggesting that he had been there for less than an hour. He had bled, a lot, but it seemed to have stopped now.
George knew that Jostler was his immediate priority. Had it been daylight, or even if the moon had been older and giving more light, he would have seen that his servant received the best of care and then taken the hounds out and begun a search for Bayard. As it was, that was an uncertain game at best. Trampling up and down the riverbank and closes near Oakenhall, there was more likelihood that he and his servants would simply destroy any hoof prints or scent. There was, of course, just a chance that Bayard would return home himself. He was not familiar with his new surroundings, having been either in the barn or grazing occasionally on relatively small areas. He had also been walked out for an hour or more each day and George had long reined him, inside and outside the manege. The horse hadn't been taken further away than two miles from Oakenhall at any time since his purchase.
The thing was, that George was almost certain of foul play. It was impossible to read the situation correctly as it was; only Jostler could enlighten them.
"Contrive a litter," he ordered one of his servants. The man ran. There had been an authority in George's voice that he had not heard before. Up at the house, rooms were flickering into light and life. The house steward and housekeeper had been woken and were setting things into motion. Lukas watched George with concern.
"Sir," he said, finally. "Bayard ..."
"I know, I know," said George, quietly. "Perhaps ... he has not gone far. Perhaps he will come back. For now though, we must deal with this injured man. Take a couple of hounds on the leash to see what you can find - but try not to disturb any ground where there might be marks of feet or hooves."
Jostler was taken up to the house and placed on a bed in a small chamber near the housekeeper's room. He was still unconscious but occasionally groaned and muttered something. Susan, the housekeeper, began to search through her remedies.
"Sir," she said to George, who was looking on, "this is a serious injury. I've never dealt with its like before."
"Thank God," said George, with a certain dark humour, "that's so. We've not put you to a trial like this, any of us, yet."
Susan was wincing sympathetically as she attempted to clean the wound on Jostler's temple to assess the damage further. Her husband, John, came into the room and asked if he could be of service. George thought quickly.
"Set a watch on the barn, John, in case the stallion returns," he said. "Ask Lukas to send one of the lads - oh wait, he will be fetching the hounds. Will is there too, I think. He can help. Let him take the hounds and ..."
"He is there, Sir George," said John. "The hounds are awake and making a din."
So they were. George had not even notic
ed it, so much had been his focus on Jostler and carrying him safely to the house.
The housekeeper had phials and jars on the bench beside her. "Comfrey, yarrow; allheal ... this will have to do but if the swelling does not go down and should turn to brain fever ..."
As if he heard her, Jostler moved slightly and groaned.
George thought of the remedies that they grew in the physic garden. At this time of year there was nothing fresh of course, but there had been a good stock of tinctures and ointments at the start of the winter.
"What does he require?" he said to the housekeeper. He was trying to remember the plants and their virtues but nothing was making sense in his head.
Susan was frowning. "Queen of the Meadow, Sir, for certain. That will help with pain and fever. And I recall ... Valerian, for feverish restlessness, if that should overtake him."
"And we have those?" asked George. "Queen of the Meadow...Meadowsweet, is it not also known?"
"Aye, sir. We have a little, Sir George. Some tincture and the dried flower head and leaves. Valerian, no, we have not needed it, until now."
"Well, do your best," said George. "A compress of flowers and some tincture ... try what you can with it. I'll leave you to prepare and minister that, Susan. Send word to my study if he should awaken. I will likely be there ..." He found that he had an overwhelming desire to go back to the barn, to his much prized manege, such as it was. But without the horse, what was it? Nothing but an old empty barn, desolate under the stars. The living dream had flown.
Work, George knew, would be the solution for now. He ordered John to light candles and started writing feverishly, a note to Sim, and a general warrant to be circulated to the Sheriff, Justices, High Constable and Constables of the County and Hundred. He would need many copies of these, since he was intending to search for Bayard high and low throughout the county and beyond, if need be. John was a reasonable amanuensis, but slow, and George knew he would make as good progress on his own. Besides, it would keep his mind off what had happened and help him to convince himself that he could actually do something to bring the horse back. At heart, George hoped that his work was in vain; if Bayard should return, or be found nearby, then he would have no need of warrants. In the meantime, it gave his mind much needed activity.
