Mistress Meg and the Prigger of Prancers

by Miriam Bibby

  "Peter Siskin, I do not know quite what to make of your ... tale," said George, finding it hard to keep humour out of his voice. The Constable tried to say something but George quelled him with a look. "I have ridden the length and breadth of this county - and into some neighbouring ones - sending word of my missing horse, and making enquiry and as yet I have heard nothing. Now, you come to me, and weary as I am with riding, I find it hard to see why your story should convince me to get back into the saddle again and ride to this lonely barn that you describe." There was a slight pause and the Constable, seeing that he was losing his opportunity, tried to say something again.

  "Quiet, man," said George, but he did not sound ill-humoured. He leaped to his feet. "On the other hand," he said cheerfully, "I do not see any reason not to do that. We might be chasing wild geese, but I have been doing that for three days now. A few hours more is neither here nor there."

  In fact, his visitors had restored a certain amount of George's natural good humour. He was a man of action, and the idea of another evening spent sitting about wondering where his horse might be had filled him with dread. Now, he had a good excuse - if not reason, to set out again and he could feel himself becoming reinvigorated.

  "Your horses ..." he began.

  "Hired from the posting inn, sir," said the Constable. He looked at George expectantly.

  "I'll reimburse you," said George. He glanced at Peter. "We'll not ride hard, either. The moon was full on Tuesday and it's clear enough without lanterns on the road. No need to hurry."

  Peter felt his stomach begin to turn again, but said nothing, and simply nodded. Was it his imagination, or was there something in Sir George's glance that said he suspected something? Miserable and uncomfortable, he wondered where this would end, trying to cheer himself with the thought that Sir George and his horse would soon be reunited. But ... Jostler's dancing, sharp and piercing eyes, his unstable smile, kept rising up in front of Peter's face, in his mind's eye. What other tricks did he have to come? Had the message indeed come from him, or from whom? Peter did not know any more.

  Somehow, within half an hour, Peter was back in the saddle. His muscles ached. His garments were not really suitable for riding and it was only with difficulty that he found some sort of comfort while he rode. Sir George brought out a tall roan gelding which he now mounted. He wore a cloak and sword. The horse looked fresh and fast. His stable man, a foreigner, Peter thought, was coming as well. He carried two unlit lanterns fastened to his saddle, and two short staves to fasten them to if required. Peter suspected that one or both of them also carried pistols.

  George exchanged some words with Lukas about Jostler.

  "He is asleep, Sir," said Lukas. "At least, he was about an hour ago. He looked ill when he returned. I think he might have fallen from his horse. The wound perhaps had bled again."

  "We'll leave him there, then," said George. "I don't think he is recovered as he thinks he is. And ... well ... " George didn't finish the sentence. It hung in the air, a dark thought, at least in Peter's brain.

  At first, it was hard to keep up as the Oakenhall horses set a fast pace down the road Peter had indicated. However, after a while, the horses settled and Sir George waved Peter up by his side.

  "From here, do you know the way?"

  Peter had been watching the road for the signs he had been given. It was difficult as the evening light was giving way to moonlight. A sharp cold wind had arisen and rags of clouds were occasionally blowing across the moon's face. The forest to the side of the road was dark and featureless. Where one stand of trees and clearings ended and the Hanging Wood began would be hard to tell. He wished he had been given the opportunity to ride this route in daylight. Distances were hard to judge by night.

  "By my reckoning, we have come about four miles," said George, helpfully. "Taking into account the distance from my home to the Guildern road, that might leave us another three miles or so."

  Peter had been watching for and counting the gateways on the left that he had been told about. There had also been the knot of cottages, as described, which he knew; the final sign would be another track to the left after a lonely alehouse had been passed on the right hand side. At the foot of the track there were two ancient upright stones to mark it and at the base of one of these would be set a white stone that should be visible in the moonlight. It had been quite an assumption that there would be moonlight, of course. The party passed the alehouse, which was quiet, with just one small light like a rushlight visible in a window and George made a jocular comment about licensing. The moonlight, the ride, the fresh horse and the cool air had made his spirits rise. Peter said nothing, and a couple of seconds later the Constable, who suddenly understood George's comment, guffawed.

  The moon, the clouds, the silence and the loneliness of the road began to eat into Peter's soul. Whilst George was almost cheerful, throwing the occasional word to Lukas, whose replies Peter could not hear properly, Peter felt alone, despite the presence of other men. This was now a wild and lonely stretch of road, with the ground rising to the east. There were no more houses and Peter missed even the glimmer of a rushlight. Along the top of the ridge the tops of trees cut darker shapes against the sky. This must be the Hanging Wood, thought Peter, watching out for upright stones marking the end of a track, with a white stone at their foot. In the end, it was George who found the marker, or rather his horse, which shied away from either the white stone or the two uprights, which did give the impression of two gloomy cloaked figures standing by the roadside with heads bowed.

  George's horse was quickly settled, but for an instance all the horses had taken alarm; they had thrown their heads up and snorted. Peter was bounced forward slightly and struggled to regain his seat.

  "We turn to the left here," he said, slightly breathlessly, and swallowed. The moon, still rising, just lit a gloomy track that had vegetation on either side.

  "This is Richardson land, I think?" said George.

  This was evidently a question to the Constable, who answered after a slight pause, "I think so, sir," but his voice was not confident. This remote corner, despite being quite close to Guildern, was a wild and lonely spot.

  "Hmmm," said George, for he was uncertain too. "Well, let us ride on whilst the moon's still with us."

  In single file, they followed Peter who tried to remember the instructions he'd been given. There were now trees crowding the track on either side. After a few minutes George suggested that they light the lanterns. Once lit, they revealed an eery scene of overhanging trees that blocked the night sky. The lower edge of the Hanging Wood pressed closer towards them. They rode on for a few suffocating minutes with brambles and old sticks occasionally catching at their boots and clothing. Peter, who was the worst dressed for riding, felt his robe catch and tear slightly on something.

  Then, ahead, there was the glimmer of moonlight on water and they saw that it was the surface of a pond. As they drew closer, they could make out the occasional ripple on its surface as the wind, which was light here because of the sheltering trees, blew across the water. On the further side of the pond, set back a little from the pond in the centre of some long grass loomed the dark bulk of a building. The track opened out into a wide area of grass that might once have been cultivated.

  "An old granary, it seems," murmured George, almost to himself. Then, a little louder, "Well, Peter Siskin, you have certainly led us somewhere - but where?"

  Peter, feeling as though his throat were gripped by some invisible hand, swallowed again but found no relief.

  "This is the place, Sir George," he said, but his voice came out thick and half choked.

  "Where is the entrance?" asked George.

  "I ..." began Peter, but before he could get any further, George had ridden ahead impatiently. He skirted round the pond and the others followed him. George reined in at a distance and waited. The moon, with a bite out of its side, but shining clearly, showed by its light that the barn was long disused. There were mis
sing timbers in the walls and roof and gaping holes where the thatch had fallen. George trying to remember whether he knew anything of the history of this place from his childhood, seemed to recall stories of a fire in an old grange.

  He dismounted and saw that the doors, such as they were, lay directly ahead of him. Only fragments remained but they were in place, as though the spirits of farm labourers had shut them after the last spectral harvest. Leading his horse, George went up to the rotted and ancient timbers and tried them. There was a scuffling in the darkness - rats, or other rodents, and a barn owl suddenly took flight, its hoot and ghostly flight causing a sudden panic amongst both men and horses. Even George, although he had half expected it, felt his heart thudding harder. His horse reared up and nearly pulled the reins out of his hands, but quieted again as he spoke to it.

  Inside, something larger than a rat or an owl scuffled in the darkness and there was a sound that might have been a snort. They looked at one another.

  "You, Peter Siskin, come with me. Lukas, Follett, wait here for the moment - but be ready to come if I call." George unsheathed his sword and climbed through the biggest gap in the doors, Peter following him.

  Inside they found a jumble of ancient and useless belongings such as tattered baskets and broken winnowing flails, covered with dust and cobwebs. George noticed, however, that there seemed to be a passage through the middle that was more recent. He paused, looking all around and straining his ears. Towards the far end it seemed to him that there were some partitions. There was more scuffling and a sound like a small whistling groan. Suddenly angry at the idea of his horse trapped amongst this heap of rotten stuff, George strode forward and Peter followed him. Moonbeams shone in through holes in the side and roof of the building, but they lit nothing useful.

  "Hold the lantern higher, man!" ordered George, and Peter did so. As they came to the end of the barn, George saw that there was a sort of barrier, or partition, made of the fragments of an old vehicle, now wheel-less and lying on its side. It looked like some old travelling chariot of the previous century. Scraps of ancient silk were still hanging on it and the floor beside it was scratched clear as though it had been moved around and dragged into place. Behind this they could both now hear the breathing of an animal and something that could be the scraping of hooves.

  George grabbed the lantern from Peter and rounded the tail of the vehicle quickly. Then he stopped and Peter, almost scared to know, wondered if the horse was injured, or sick. There was a sound - almost like a chuckle - and George reappeared, beckoning to Peter.

  "You had better see what has become of my horse, Siskin. And I think you might have some explaining to do." It was hard to read his voice. There was coldness there ... but something else. What humour could there possibly be in this situation?

  Peter, sweating with anxiety, came round to view what was there. The moon cast cracked, crazy patterns of light into the makeshift stall, and by these as well as the lantern, he looked at what was there.

  Trapped behind some old horse-litter poles that were criss-crossed over each other to make a gate, was a small ass. It looked at them with a resigned air, chewing at the remnants of something. Peter took in the pile of hay and - possibly some vegetables - that lay in front of it. It regarded them without much surprise, as though they were as much as it expected; and that it thought its luck had been too good to last. Then it sucked in a lung full of air and uttered a gentle, sad and quiet bray.

  As Peter viewed this apparition with absolute horror, he was surprised to hear the sound of laughter beside him. George sheathed his sword and carried on laughing.

  After a few seconds, George, recovering himself, said, "S'blood, as my cousin would say, if it weren't for the fact that my horse is still lost, I would find this the most amusing ..." He started laughing again.

  "Sir George, please. I am distraught that your horse is not here. Please believe me. " Peter's tone was anguished.

  George looked at Peter. "I do believe you." He sounded sympathetic, now. "But I also think that I require further explanation from you about tonight's events. I believe you know more than you have admitted so far."

  Peter wrung his hands. "I do, Sir. But ... forgive me, I do not think I can tell you everything ... here."

  "No," said George, suddenly sober again. He looked around. The tumbledown old barn, the bulging humped moon peeping in through the hole in the roof, the munching ass and Peter's horror; it was as though they were all in a scene from some ridiculous comedy. He shouted for the Constable.

  Follett fought his way in through the timbers and made his way up to the end of the barn by following the light of the lantern that George was holding. When he saw the ass he said nothing for a moment.

  Then, with a look of anger, he said, "Sir George, believe me, I know naught of this - only that this man Siskin told me that your horse was here and I was so foolish as to believe him ..." He cast Peter a venomous look.

  "Never mind that for now," said George. "We'll look into the wherefores of this when we have more comfortable surroundings. I cannot leave Lukas with four horses to hold for much longer."

  A few brief words enlightened Lukas and they mounted and rode away from the barn. As they did so, they did not see a dark shadow that headed off in the opposite direction, into the sheltering depths of the Hanging Wood. None of the riders looked behind them as they departed. Sir George led the way.

  It was a miserable ride back and there was not much conversation. Lights were glowing at Oakenhall and despite knowing what he was going to need to do, they looked welcoming to Peter. They dismounted in the yard and George sent Peter and Follett into the hall ahead of him. Peter warmed himself gratefully at the hall fire, but the cold feeling that lingered was more than just chill from the ride.

  George entered shortly afterwards. His habit was to make sure the horses were settled after any unusual exertion and it was a habit he was not about to break, however futile the ride had been.

  They were settled again with wine. Peter couldn't help but contrast the small sense of hope he had felt earlier in the night with the dull sense of hopelessness that invaded him now. There was nothing for it. He would confess all. Sir George seemed to him to be remarkably sanguine and even kindly. He didn't say anything, but simply looked at Peter.

  "I am sorry, Sir George," said Peter, finally. "I have so much to tell you that I scarcely know how to begin."

  "Well," said George, "I suggest we begin here. You expected to find my horse in the barn?"

  "I ... did," said Peter, but his voice trembled. "At least ... I hoped to find your horse in the barn."

  "Now we get to the heart of the matter," said George. "Why did you think the horse would be there? And - please, no more of planets or charts, or visions or angels or what you will."

  "This does concern you very closely, Sir George - and one of your servants." There was nothing for it. This was the neck or nothing moment for Peter. "A man by the name of Jostler - James Jostler. I believe he was the man who was injured when your horse was lost."

  Before Peter could go any further, George had leaped to his feet, spilling wine on the floor and over the old hound, which got slowly to its feet. The terrier, which had been lying in front of the fire, jumped up and started barking loudly.

  "Jostler! Wait, before you go further ..." And George was out of the room at a run, taking up the sword he had just unfastened earlier.

  Back at the stables, he found Lukas and the stable boys still finishing the evening's work by lantern light. The men's quarters were above the stables and next to the grain store and were accessed by a wooden staircase. George took this at a run with the others after him. The upper room was deserted and one of the small casements under the eaves was open and blowing in the night air. George cursed. He scarcely thought it possible that a man could squeeze through there, but that was what Jostler appeared to have done. George noticed that some of the wooden frame had been broken away to facilitate his escape. He supposed Jostle
r had been able to overhear what was being discussed below, and undoubtedly that would have been about the night's wild goose chase. From the window he would have dropped down into bushes that would have broken his fall.

  This time George did turn out the hounds, on leashes. He and Will followed them as they made their way down to the stream, and then it was exactly as before. They cast up and down without success.

  "He will surely have gone downstream, towards the Dern," said George. The audacity and tenacity of the man astonished him. "But in the water ... Will, you continue here. Look under the banks, when you can. I need a word with our Peter Siskin."

  If Jostler had leaped from the window just after their return, then he might have a half hour or more as a start. George thought that in the cold water, and with his wound, he would hardly have got far; but there was something about the man that spoke of endurance beyond the usual. He might be able to run across country as well. George had also known of rogues who could stay in the water for hours, using a reed for breathing. He would leave it to Will and the hounds, for he was determined to get what truth he could out of Peter Siskin.

  He encountered one of the lads on the way back to Oakenhall.

  "Sir - look - we found this on the floor in the sleeping quarters." He held out a piece of paper. It was one of Jostler's commendations. A counterfeit; he was sure now that it must be forged.

  "Thanks - I'll keep that safe."

  Back in the hall, he called for hot ale.

  "Now," he said to Peter. "Tell me how you know of this rogue - for rogue I now know him to be - Jostler."

  Peter said, "I encountered him at the Goat in Chains ..." and stopped. He suddenly realised that what he was about to tell George might implicate others too. Jacob and his family, for one. The woman at the inn, for another. Even the Widow Patterson - and her fearsome servant.