Mistress Meg and the Prigger of Prancers

by Miriam Bibby

  Within the hour, John tapped on the door of George's study.

  "Sir George!"

  "Come in," said George, already on his feet and heading for the door.

  John entered, looking slightly embarrassed.

  "It's Jostler, sir, he is ... much worse, feverish and rambling."

  "I'll come and see him now."

  George looked at Jostler by the light of the candles burning in the small room. Susan, or John, had removed his boots and jerkin. Jostler was lying in his shirt with a large cloth bandaged over the splitting and bruising on his head. It was neatly done and there was a strong smell of cleanliness and wholesomeness from the herbs. Jostler's face was pallid and his undamaged eye was surrounded by a dark, sunken ring. He muttered and flung up an arm across that side of his face, as though the light bothered him. Susan tucked the arm back under the cover. She had also packed some hot wrapped stones alongside him, since when they had found him, he was chilled through lying on the ground.

  George gestured to Susan to go into her housekeeper's room.

  "It does not look promising," he said.

  Susan agreed. "No, sir."

  "I know of no chirurgeon nearby - there may be in Guildern, I suppose."

  Susan wrinkled her forehead.

  "I don't know, Sir George. There used to be an old woman at Malton Cross. She had some skill and reputation with broken bones and heads."

  "That's further than Guildern."

  "Yes, Sir. And she was an old woman five years or more ago. She might be dead by now."

  "Anyone else?"

  "There was Jonathan Siskin, this side of Guildern. He had skill with simples and such like. I know of his skill. He is a good man. Oh ..." Susan paused. "... I did hear tell that he was deceased, not so long ago ..."

  For a moment, a hint of George's usual humour returned. "Well, if this old woman and Jonathan Siskin are both dead, it's not much of a recommendation for their skills." He meant it as a jest, but suddenly realised this probably was not the time for it.

  Susan looked slightly shocked, and George apologised, feeling the ghost of a smile rising in him. Suddenly, for no reason, he felt more optimistic. Bayard was there, somewhere, and somehow he would find him. The question was, would the horse come to grief before he could be found? The rational part of his brain reminded him that Bayard was an animal, a horse, but also an individual of courage and intelligence. He could not imagine that the stallion had simply run off into the darkness. However, whatever had happened, he would find him and bring him back. And if there had been foul play ... the muscles in George's jaw tightened.

  Susan was talking. He had to ask her to repeat it, for he hadn't been listening.

  "Sir, I remember now, there was a nephew of Jonathan Siskin. I can't remember his name. I think he may be living in his uncle's cottage now. I seem to recall that he was learning his trade."

  George hesitated. "Susan, it's a rare condition in this house that you can't treat - or that one of us of the household can't treat. That goes for hounds and horses too ... who's to say that anybody else could do better? In most of these matters, I defer to you. If we send for someone, there's no proof they can improve on what's already been done."

  His praise pleased Susan. "Sir, I thank you. I do believe that Jonathan Siskin had greater skill than I, but I cannot speak for his nephew. He was not a chirurgeon, but I do recall that Jonathon was known as a bone-setter and prober of wounds. He had skill as a healer. Perhaps his nephew does too?"

  "Susan," said George, "to send a rider to Guildern and back ... that will take at least two hours. In the dark. And I'm not convinced I can spare someone. There'll be little sleep for the servants this night and they'll need all their wits about them tomorrow, especially if I need to alert the county to a missing horse."

  "I understand sir." She glanced back at the room where Jostler was lying. "I do understand. It ... Is hard, though, Sir George, to do nothing."

  "You've done more than nothing!" said George. "You've done better than most apothecaries or physicians, with their pills and poison."

  "I know Sir, but ..."

  George did not have the energy to argue. "Well, as you will, Susan. I'll send one of the lads - Hal, he's the youngest. I can't spare the others. You do know where this man lives?"

  * * * * *

  Hal, sent on his first real errand of importance, was given firm instructions to ride carefully and not to risk himself or the horse for anything. The night was clear and he carried a lantern on a short pole and a tinder box with a spare candle on a belt under his jerkin. Over the top of everything he wore one of George's thickest riding cloaks. Some coins and a note were safe in a purse on a leather cord round his neck. The horse was steady but a little startled as it clattered out of the yard over the cobbles and onto soft ground. George watched the wavering light head out into the darkness onto the track that led to the Guildern road. As the light faded, George felt the first light drops of rain on his face as the clouds that had hidden the moon earlier now moved up from the west. By the time he was back in his study the rain was beating more heavily on the casement. George cursed, hard. He was convinced that the rain would pass quickly, but that would make the signs harder to read in the morning, and could mean no scent for the hounds. One of the other lads set off up the road the other way, with a lantern, on the chance that he might find signs of the stallion. He was told if he saw no sign of the stallion within a mile, to return home.

  George poured himself a glass of wine. Jostler and now Hal ... those were his immediate concerns. Bayard ... no, he could not think about Bayard now.

  * * * * *

  When Peter Siskin heard a loud hammering on the lop-sided timbers of the door, his mind immediately jumped to one conclusion. Sitting upright on the narrow bed, he felt his whole body shaking with fear in time with the beating of his heart. Then he heard a voice, a young lad's voice, cracking and sliding up as it called out loudly, "Is this the home of one Siskin? Master Siskin?" The voice had the uncertainty of a youth who was unsure of Peter's status.

  Composing himself, Peter cried, "Who is it, at this hour? Yes, I'm Peter Siskin."

  "Peter Siskin, I need your help. I have a note for you, it's about an injured man."

  Peter felt relief flooding him. The youth's voice sounded genuinely anxious and Peter was certain that if it had been connected with Jostler, the caller would not have been so loud. It wasn't unknown for people to come calling for help in the middle of the night, but it happened very rarely. Nonetheless, Peter was taking no chances. He had locked the geese up for the evening, as he always did; now he was beginning to think perhaps he should have left them loose.

  "One moment." Peter put his robe on and walked towards the door, breathing deeply. He could see, through one of the horn windows, that there was a faint light like that of a lantern just in front of his home. Some of the light filtered in through a chink at the side of the door. He could hear the sound of a horse moving uneasily about. Taking a last deep breath, he opened the door.

  Peter saw a young lad, probably not yet fifteen, looking at him by the light of a lantern, with fear and a certain pride and excitement in his eyes. Hal saw a man in a gown, with a three legged stool raised in his right hand as though to bring it down on his head. He stepped back in alarm. Peter lowered the stool and gave a half smile.

  "My apologies, lad," he said, "I did not know your voice. What is this all about?"

  Hal began to explain, the words tumbling out, jumping from one part of the story to another.

  "... so you see, the horse is gone, and we don't know if his head is broken, and Susan, she's the housekeeper, she said that your uncle had skill as a bone setter but he's dead, and she didn't know if you were, I mean, a bone setter, not dead, that is, but that you might have remedies ..."

  Peter held up his hand to stop the flow. "Did you not say they sent a note with you?"

  "Oh," said Hal, subsiding, "yes, of course, here it is."

  "Wa
it here," said Peter.

  The note made all clear. One of Sir George Paston's servants had been injured in some accident, somehow relating to a horse - Peter drew a breath - and they were in some fear that it might turn to brain fever ...

  Peter opened the chest in which he kept some of his most precious remedies. Many had been prepared by his uncle, but they would be none the worse for the time that had elapsed since then. No, not at all; some would be the better for it. There was a good sedative in case of fever and derangement; and a salve of his own making, that would help close wounds and dry them. These he took to the waiting boy.

  "Here," he said. "Can you remember the instructions or must I write them?" Hal looked anxious.

  "I'll write them," said Peter. "Give me your lantern."

  He wrote the number of drops that were required, to be given in wine, or preferably, aquavit, on the tongue; but that the injured man should also be fed drops of milk or similar at other intervals to dilute the intake of liquor, if possible. He told the boy anyway, just in case the note should be lost. Hal had never heard of aquavit. "Brandy, then, if not," said Peter.

  When all was ready, the boy gave Peter a shilling and a sixpence in payment for the remedies, and then a half crown.

  "Sir George said, for your trouble."

  A half crown! Well, that was generous. Hal led the horse outside Peter's ground and prepared to mount. He called his farewell and thanks.

  "Boy!" said Peter, preparing to close the gate behind him. "What is your name?"

  "Hal, they call me."

  "Hal, if possible, ask them to send me word of the progress of this man ... what is his name?"

  "Jostler. I will ask them to do that, Peter Siskin. Farewell."

  Peter stood, open-mouthed, watching the lantern moving through the dark. He went back inside, stirred up the fire and added a log, although there was still an hour or more until daylight. He sat in front of the fire wrapped in an old cloak and watched the flames grow and flicker. Suddenly he felt cold and he pulled the cloak more tightly round him. Tyger came to his feet, purring and rubbing. He petted her absent mindedly.

  How had this come about? Had Jostler been in the process of stealing the horse? Had something frightened it? Was it just an accident? Had someone else taken the horse and Jostler had somehow witnessed it, and been bludgeoned for seeing it? But ... Hal had told him it was a valuable stallion that had escaped and surely Jostler had mentioned stealing a mare?

  The possibilities went round and round in Peter's mind. Finally, he told himself to get some rest. After all, if Jostler were lying unconscious at Oakenhall, then he was not about to be sending word to Peter about a hidden horse. Whatever had happened there, it had released Peter from his ... agreement. Peter allowed some tiny embers of hope to grow in his heart.

  * * * * *

  Sim arrived at Oakenhall just before dawn. Lukas had taken the note George had written over to Whitrishes, without George being aware of it. Even better, Sim had brought one of the servants to Oakenhall with him, to provide much needed support in the aftermath.

  Sim found George still in his study, itemising what needed to be done. There was an empty wineglass on a table and George was looking very much as he had done in their university days after a wild night, with his hair uncombed and eyes red and unfocussed.

  "I'm not drunk, Sim," was the first thing George said. "I've only had that glassful. Thanks for riding over, cousin."

  "I've brought Nathaniel," said Sim. "We thought you might be in need of some aid."

  "Thanks again," said George, with genuine relief in his voice. "I need to make sure the servants get some rest today. They've all worked through the night."

  "And my mother sent this, amongst other things ..." Sim was holding a small flask. George looked puzzled.

  "What is it?"

  "Oh, one of her concoctions," said Sim casually. "You know ... a sedative ... did she say it had Valerian or some such?"

  George's puzzled expression turned to genuine astonishment.

  "But ... how on earth did she know that we might need that for Jostler? Did Lukas mention it?"

  Sim looked at his unkempt cousin and frowned.

  "Are you sure it wasn't you who had the crack on the head? It wasn't for Jostler, it was for you! Mother said that you would undoubtedly have been up all night, and intending to stay up all day, and at some point you should take some rest and this would help calm you. You know how she is."

  George smiled. "God bless Aunt Cat," he said, but there was a slight catch in his throat and his eyes gleamed.

  "Yes, well," said Sim, ignoring this, "if only she can catch us a brace of heiresses she will die content."

  He was pleased to see his cousin's expression almost return to its usual cheerfulness, and to hear him laugh.

  "And the two of us descend into middle years, both sharing a footstool to rest our gouty feet whilst our wives shepherd a brood of infants around us?"

  "It might not be so bad ... d'you fear the loss of your youth? Wild oats still not sown?"

  "Not that, no. Age comes to all of us ... but yes, I'm not yet ready to give up the things of youth entirely. Sim, let's talk of other things. I have weight enough on my mind without adding philosophy to the burden."

  "I understand. And ... I don't wish to add to the load, but the Quarter Sessions ..."

  "Hellfire!' said George, staring at Sim, then reaching for the decanter. He poured them both a glass.

  "No harm in another, I think," said Sim. "George, I am sure our brother justices will understand the situation, if the horse has not returned ..."

  "That reminds me. Read this, please." George handed Sim a sheet.

  "Oakenhall, the __ day of this month of March, Anno Domini __ , in the reign of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth.

  "Sir George Paston, Knight, Justice of the Queen's Peace for the county of __ , to the Sheriff, Queen's Justices, High Constable, Constables and all other Officers of her Majesty in the said county, greetings.

  "Inasmuch as this night has disappeared from Oakenhall, seat of Sir George Paston, Bayard, a stoned horse of value ..."

  Sim read it through twice. George waited, thinking how odd it had seemed to have his name appearing as Queen's Justice at the top of the warrant, and as the owner of the missing horse further down.

  Sim read aloud, "'And that all aforesaid Constables and Officers of Her Majesty should have the right of search of any and all barns, closes, stables or any other place wherein the missing stallion might be held or hidden, or have taken himself in flight, and any and all dwellings wherein anyone knowing of this horse might be resident, and if the horse be found, to bring it or bring word to Sir George Paston at his residence of Oakenhall ..." George, do you think that the horse is strayed, or stolen?"

  George lifted his shoulders. "I do not know. Does the warrant serve, Sim?"

  Sim nodded. "Aye, it serves well." He picked up a quill and lifted the inkwell lid. He scratched something on the document and handed it back to George, who looked at it closely. Sim had inserted his own name with George's at the top, added an 's' to "Justice" to make it plural and had signed the warrant below George's signature at the bottom.

  "Thanks, Sim." George took a sip of wine.

  "So," said Sim, taking a drink from his own glass, "the horse is gone, but we do not know how it happened ..."

  "... and only Jostler can enlighten us ... perhaps."

  "How is he?"

  "Still unconscious, though quieter, I believe." George looked out of the window, where the light of dawn was in the sky, with flying black tatters of clouds, the remnant of the rain showers of the previous night, now disappearing on the eastern horizon. "We should find out what progress he makes."

  "We'll finish this wine first," said Sim. "Then, after we've seen Jostler, something to break fast, I think; had you thought to take the hounds out?"

  "Yes," said George.

  "I'll come with you," said Sim. "Have you someone to ride with these
warrants? If not, Nathaniel can take them for you. The one thing that pleases me is that our Guildern Constable shall find himself with work to do, for a change ..." They touched glasses.

  * * * * *

  Peter felt as though he had only just fallen into sleep when the knocking began, for a second time, on his door. Once again he found himself sitting upright, shaking, wondering for an instant whether he had dreamed that he had answered the door, or was now dreaming that he was sitting up about to answer it. No, he remembered now, he had received a visitor in the middle of the night; and now it was daylight, and someone was rapping on his door.

  "One moment!" he called, with the peculiar sense of having lived through all this before. He put on his gown and smoothed his hair, placing a cap on it. At the door was a smallish man with a round, red, cheery face. His eyes were blue and guileless, wide, with an impressionable look about them.

  "Peter Siskin?" asked the man.

  "I am," said Peter.

  "I am Constable Follett. I wonder, if I might speak with you this morning?"

  Peter looked surprised. "Why of course. Come in."

  "I am making enquiries on behalf of the Justices, Sir George Paston and Master Simon Cantle, Esquire. I have here a general warrant signed by those two gentlemen. A very valuable horse has recently disappeared from Oakenhall, the seat of Sir George Paston ..."

  "I know," said Peter, without thinking. "How may I help?"

  A peculiar expression came over the Constable's face and Peter thought his grin was sly.

  "There now," he said, "I knew that you would be a good man to call upon."

  "How so?" said Peter, trying to wake up properly. He offered the Constable a cup of morning ale and found some wheat cakes, a bit stale, which he offered with cheese.