by Miriam Bibby
The Constable was determined to be seen to be busy and it did not take Peter long to locate him. His self-importance, in front of the small group of people who were gossiping about Sir George's loss, did not allow him to acknowledge Peter in any particular way. Once back at his house, though, it was a different matter.
"I know you can help us find the missing horse," said the Constable. He didn't quite rub his hands together, but he was now treating Peter like a long lost relative, one who had just told him he had come into a fortune and was willing to share it. At least there was no more nose tapping, but there was a jug of the best ale and some very rich cake brought out for his guest.
"I have cast some figures," said Peter, trying to sound convincing. He had decided that it might be best to rely on the stars as the source of his information, with other means if he needed them. His knowledge of the heavens was more likely to impress Sir George, or at least the Constable, on whom his meeting with Sir George depended. "I think it is possible, that with a little more observation, I may be able to find out where Sir George's horse is hidden."
"Well now," said the delighted Constable. "You think it's hidden then? So someone has taken it?"
"So the heavens are leading me," said Peter cautiously, "but I have more work to do first."
"I knew you had skill, Peter Siskin," said the Constable. "What it is to have an education. You may not be one of those Oxford doctors, but you are as good as one, to our town."
"Thank you," said Peter, managing a smile. It was a compliment after all and it was important to make an impression. "And ... you are sure that Sir George will grant me an audience?" It had occurred to him that perhaps the Constable was a little sanguine about his relationship with the knight. This had seemed the likeliest way to get a meeting; but supposing he was wrong?
"Leave that to me, Peter," said the Constable, tapping his nose. "I have the ear of Sir George."
Peter smiled again and hoped that it did not look too sickly.
* * * * *
Matthew heard the sound of angry voices as he approached the camp and quickly melted off towards the best cover he could find. Approaching silently, he peered through a tangle of hawthorn but could see nothing useful. He hunkered down, listening as hard as he could.
One of the voices was certainly that of Clink. Matthew recognised both anger and fear in his tone. The other was low and hoarse, and dangerous. It spoke of a man who was bearing a grudge so violent that he was restraining himself with difficulty. Matthew understood that level of rage. It was a rage so strong that the speaker was spitting his words through gritted teeth and taut lips.
"I'll pluck this crow with you now," said the stranger. "This score will be settled with your blood. An eye for an eye, ain't that how it goes?"
Matthew heard a scream from one of the women, the Sad Mort, he thought, who then confirmed it by an agonising wail of "No, Jingler, no!" He wriggled further under the hawthorn's branches. The old tree offered a decent hiding place. He could see the legs and lower body of one man, and most of the other, who was Clink. Further over, he could see the Frater, looking more serious than he had ever seen him before. Gone was the jovial fat pseudo-priest who boasted of his time at Lepanto and in the galleys. Now he was conciliatory and the alarmed expression on his face showed that he was in fear of real violence. A swift movement caught Matthew's attention, and he saw the Frog glancing over his shoulder with a look of terror as he disappeared into the forest at speed.
Clink was moving, half crouched, as though he feared a sudden rush from the other. He started to speak.
"It was an accident, Jingler. I didn't do it."
"You expect me to believe that? Been waiting for yer chance, haven't yer?"
The two men started to circle one another. Matthew watched the back of the Jingler's legs stepping sideways past the hawthorn tree in front of him. Clink came into view, moving the other way, his eyes evidently intent on the Jingler's face.
"I didn't do it, I tell you! It wasn't me."
The two men kept moving around each other.
"Oh, yes, next thing ye'll be telling me it was the horse that did it."
"It was, Jingler! It was the horse - it reared up and I couldn't hold it! It was the blasted horse."
"Yer lying. Lying like the dog you are. When I've finished, yer won't be able to lie ... I'll cut yer blasted tongue out."
Still circling, the men were now being watched by an interested crowd. The Sad Mort and the Egyptian Mort were standing side by side, holding one another as they watched. The Sad Mort's children were at her skirts. They were wide-eyed and silent. Matthew thought it was not the first time that they had witnessed a scene like this.
It was Clink, perhaps with a desperation borne of fear, who lunged first. The other was waiting for him as he ran across the clearing. The Jingler brushed Clink's clenched fists aside and swiftly and savagely brought a knee up to Clink's groin. Clink, as though ready for the move, twisted his calf around the uplifted leg and tipped the Jingler to the ground. The Jingler, just as swiftly, had grabbed Clink's arms as he was going down and now rolled over, with the other man pinned underneath him with his hands on the ground above his head. There was incredible strength in the Jingler. Matthew flinched as he saw him shift both of Clink's arms into a single hold and begin to pound at Clink with his free fist. Clink's voice came to him, muffled and anguished as each word came out on the end of a forced breath.
"I didn't do it, Jingler! It was the horse! It reared up and ..."
The Jingler growled, "When I said make it genuine, I didn't intend you should kill me, you bastard! What did you intend, to cut me out ..."
"No, Jingler, never! Never would I do that!"
The Frater, making some attempt to break up the fight, came over and caught at the Jingler's upraised arm.
"No, Jingler, I'm telling you he never would - oooof!" The Jingler's fist had turned on him and knocked the wind out of his belly. The Frater stumbled backwards and sat down hard.
"Keep out of this, yer ..."
Clink took advantage of the momentary distraction to attempt to wriggle away.
"Wait, Jingler, let me explain ..."
"Nothing to explain, yer double crossing bastard ..." The Jingler began to pound him again. Clink fought back and together the two men rolled across the clearing, grunting and snarling at one another, locked close together. At one point they approached the tree where Matthew was concealed and they were close enough to smell their sweat and anger. Then they rolled back again towards the embers of the fire. Clink was underneath, and then in the fire, and he roared with anger and pain as the Jingler held him there.
At that moment the Egyptian Mort leaped across the clearing and, landing on the Jingler's back, began to pound his head with her own fist, accompanying it with screeches and the ripest of Wapping oaths. The Jingler instinctively reached behind him, grabbed her arm and began to twist hard. She jumped back but carried on pounding with the other hand, then grabbed his hair and pulled it, kicking him in the back as she did so.
Eventually the Jingler, having to turn his attention entirely to her, stood up and threw her backwards, growling at the Sad Mort as he did so, "Hold this bitch!" This gave Clink the opportunity to roll clear across the ground, leaping quickly to his feet and backing away, brushing at his hair and back as though he feared to find himself alight. One of the men standing watching threw a knife at Clink with a grin. It stuck in the ground and Clink grabbed it quickly.
The Sad Mort, seeing this, yelled "Ow, Jingler, he's got a cuttle!" The Egyptian Mort stood up and went to stand beside her with a triumphant smile. They linked arms and carried on watching. Neither of them bore any grudge towards the other. This was between their men and they stood by them - but it did not affect their own relationship. And if one of the men should die, then whichever one was bereaved, would be comforted by the other.
Clink stood, his breath heaving, blood spattered over his nose, mouth and ear.
"Now,
" he said between breaths, "will yer listen! It wasn't me who downed yer, it was the horse! It reared up and kicked yer in the head before I could do anything. What could I do, Jingler? I checked yer heart and yer were still breathing; ye'd told me to knock you out good and so ..."
The Jingler, his own breath heaving, turned his head and Matthew, hardly breathing, saw the livid bruise on his face and the newly opened bleeding wound on his temple. On the ground lay something white and stained, perhaps the remnant of a cloth or bandage. Matthew saw, finally, who it was; it was the man he knew as Jostler from the Goat in Chains.
The two men stared at each other, blood dripping from their wounds. Their breaths rasped harsh and loud, but their heads were lowered and their postures showed that tension was draining from their bodies.
"Satisfied now?" said Clink. The Jingler nodded.
"I believe yer." He took in a few more breaths. "Where's the horse?"
"It's hid. Somewhere no-one could find it. It's safe, Jingler. Trust us for that."
Jostler, The Jingler, made a noise like a small snort of laughter. "I believe yer," he said again and his voice was nearly back to normal. "It's to be tonight as we first agreed. Done yer part, Frater? Sent word to Siskin as I told you?"
The Frater nodded, watching the Jingler warily. "The barn, tonight. Should be a moon, Jingler. Easy to find."
"Where's the Frog?"
They all looked round.
"Gone - you know what he is - runs at the first sign of trouble. He's been caring for the horse. Has to be moving all the time." That was the Frater speaking.
Clink, trying to be conciliatory, said, "Jingler, why not make something better of this? It's a good horse, the best I've ever seen. You always did have an eye for a good 'un, Jingler. No one has an eye like you."
The Jingler laughed, ironically. "That's true," he said, with a gesture at his blackened eye. Some of the other men laughed as well but Clink pursued his thought.
"Ye know what I mean, Jingler. And why not see if we can sell this horse? We - you - would get a good price for it. We've got friends, like, who can give us a hand. And there's no-one like you for changing the look of a horse ..."
The Jingler looked at him and his expression darkened again. "You touched? You want to go back in chains again?" He took a step towards Clink, who shrank backwards.
"No, Jingler, not that! I just thought ... there'd be more money in it if we sold it, like, that's all ..." Clink's voice died away.
"No. We take the reward. You'll get yer share. You, the Frog and the Frater. I'll spend mine the way I've planned." There was a silence. One of the other men spat and he and the others who had been watching, walked off.
The Sad Mort was watching him closely.
As if to no-one in particular, but knowing the Sad Mort was listening, the Jingler said, "Why should it only be the gentry like Sir Georgie Boy who get the best horses, eh? Why should they have all the pleasure? As you say, Clink, I've a way with horses. Why shouldn't it be me who buys and sells and gets the reputation? Why shouldn't it be me who gets the money and the admiration? And me woman gets the fine clothing like a lady?"
Clink looked at him, bemused.
"What yer meaning, Jingler?"
"I'm intending to set up as a horse courser when I get the money," said the Jingler. "I'll start with a couple of young horses and sell 'em on. Then I'll buy some more with the takings ..."
Clink gave a half snort of disbelief and quickly suppressed it when he saw the look the Jingler gave him.
"You, Jingler?" he said incredulously. "Settling down? Getting a trade?"
"Might be," said the Jingler.
Clink looked as though the sky had fallen in. "Well," he said finally, and turned and walked away.
* * * * *
By Thursday morning Peter and the Constable had met once again and Peter put on a great show of confidence that by various means he was certain that he had found the place where the horse could be found. Sir George had been busy all week and it had been hard for the Constable to make him commit to a meeting; he had managed to convince him finally that Peter might have some knowledge and was worth talking to.
"Sir George being somewhat ... sceptical .. is that the word?" said Constable Follett, "I did not speak in depth about your skills, but managed to persuade him that I had found someone who might have some knowledge."
What Peter did not know was that George had spent most of the past three days in the saddle, and had spoken to numerous people as he rode about the countryside. In one day alone he had covered over fifty miles. Word had been sent to any neighbouring counties with forthcoming horse fairs, to be even more vigilant than normal with anyone who was vouching for a seller. The Constable and Peter would be just two more people to see. It was probably fortunate for Peter that this was the case, because usually George would have dismissed out of hand anyone professing to have special powers that would help him find his horse, or would at least have viewed him with suspicion.
As it was, it was only when Peter and the Constable, riding on horses hired from the Angel Inn - at the Constable's expense - arrived at Oakenhall late on Thursday afternoon, that Peter realised that the Constable's influence was not quite as great as he had made out. Constable Follett, in Sir George's presence, was far more deferential than suggested by his earlier words to Peter. Sir George, who was out on his stable yard, seemed to look at him without recognition at first. Then he realised who it was. He nodded at Peter and said to Follett:
"Well? Have you brought news?" Sir George both looked and sounded weary, but there was a slightly expectant note in his question. Peter thought that he supposed that the Constable would not have ridden all the way from Guildern without reason.
"Indeed, Sir George," said the Constable, who had dismounted. He was almost bowing. "May we speak with you privately?"
Peter slid gratefully out of his saddle. He was not much of a horseman and preferred to walk, but in this case obviously had no choice in the matter. Sir George called to one of the lads to take the two horses and the three entered the house. Peter, who had never seen Oakenhall, was impressed by it. There was a central hall with a fine staircase and gallery above it. Sir George led them to the fireplace in the hall, where there was a log burning. His house steward came out of his room immediately and brought them wine and cakes. This was beyond Peter's usual experience but he kept his composure and behaved as though this was an everyday occurrence. Sir George, seated at ease in a chair with arms and two dogs lying at his feet, struck Peter as being the model of a country gentleman as he motioned them to seats opposite him. Even George's travel-stained riding clothes and dirty boots spoke volumes of a man who was not afraid of the hard work necessary to maintain his estate. He also had that indefinable air, which all recognised, of one who knew his station and his status in society.
"May I introduce Peter Siskin, Sir George?" said the Constable. "He ..."
George was frowning. "Siskin ... Siskin; I know that name but ..." suddenly he snapped his fingers. "Peter Siskin. Are you the man to whom we sent our lad Hal the other night? He rode over and returned with a salve and a draught for an injured man?"
Peter nodded. Uncertainty assailed him. He felt that he should be pleased that Sir George remembered him. Perhaps that stood him in good stead for what he must do. But then, Peter being Peter, he felt the urge to confess all and his stomach contracted. He must keep his composure at all costs. Ignoring the twists and turns in his belly, he said, "Yes, I am glad that I was able to help. That is ...I hope I was able to help?"
"You were," said George, leaning forward to pull the ears of his old hound, which had lifted its head up against his knees. "Indeed you were. So much so that our injured serving man found himself much improved by Tuesday, and so far on the way to recovery this morning that he has been able to assist in our search for the missing horse. You know of that? The missing horse?"
Peter was confused. What was Jostler up to? Did he detect a note of suspicion in
Sir George's voice?
"Yes, I do, of course," he managed to reply.
"In fact, Sir George," interjected the Constable, "it's about that matter that we've come to see you. Perhaps you recall, I mentioned it to you? This man, Peter Siskin ..." and Peter had to listen whilst the Constable listed Peter's skills and achievements, most of which he only knew of at second or third hand. If I was hearing this of another, thought Peter, I would be impressed.
Sir George listened attentively for a minute or so and then held up his hand. The Constable's effusive descriptions died away. "Let him speak for himself," said George, and Peter was certain this time that there was scepticism in his voice.
Peter took a deep breath. In as simple words as he could, he explained to Sir George that he had some knowledge of reading the heavens and casting charts and that by doing this, and using other means, he believed he knew where the horse was hidden, though not how it had come to be there. This was difficult, but he was not afraid that Sir George would take against his divining activities on religious grounds. It was George's scepticism that worried Peter more.
"And so, sir, you see that the moon now passing into Virgo, which governs harvest, must also govern barns and granaries ..."
George looked at Peter long and hard. He saw a man with a studious and honest face, but there was something more there. However hard Peter had tried to hide it, there was a hint of fear in his expression and particularly about the eyes. The pupils were enlarged and dark. Peter's language was slow and deliberate. George, who had years of experience in witnessing fear in men and in horses, and had known the twist of it in his own guts when he first faced another man with a sword, knew what he was seeing and hearing. Quite deliberately, he turned away from Peter as he listened to him, and tended to the fire, which didn't need tending. Then he poured some more wine for himself, hesitated, and poured some for the others. Follett, he knew, was credulous and his wits were not the sharpest. But ...there was possibly something here ... he didn't quite know what it was, yet. Peter fell silent.
