by Miriam Bibby
"A little," said the Frater with a pleasant smile. "Enough to serve, I believe."
"Very well then." They went into the Constable's house. He wasn't there, but one of his lads found pen and ink and the Frater wrote down his story, very slowly and laboriously, adopting a semi-literate, blotchy hand that was not his own. He occasionally asked for help just to add colour to his newly adopted character. This was the sort of situation that he enjoyed and so he made the most of it, occasionally sticking his tongue into his cheek as though struggling to write, but in fact for an entirely different reason. It gave him great pleasure to think of misleading Sir George. He began his final sentence with great relish.
"I went Sr Gorg Pastn seekn news of me ass an sr Gog espalin, xplan - " The Frater enjoyed striking through these attempts at "explain", " - tel me his hors is los to and that thur is theeves who has takn me as and his ors."
George read it with raised brows, but eventually made sense of it.
"Very well," he said. "Now, please sign it, if you will."
This time the Frater put his tongue between his teeth and frowned very hard. He managed to restrain himself from gripping his right hand with his left to assist with the writing, but by the time he had finished writing an illegible signature, very, very slowly, his nose was close to the paper and his face completely screwed into an expression that would have done service to a stonemason carving a gargoyle. George took the paper from him without looking at it. The Frater carried on looking at him expectantly, like a dog who has run a particularly useful errand.
"Oh," said George, realising with amusement what the Frater was waiting for. He found a coin and gave it to him. Somewhat higher in value than he would normally have given, but the Frater was equally good value in terms of amusement. "Well, here you are. And I hope that if we have further news of the thief, to return your ass to you in due course."
"Thank ye, your lordship," said the Frater, instantly elevating George's standing in gratitude for his generosity. His eyes gleamed. This would be just about enough to make him and his comrades roaring drunk. Well, himself and the women, maybe. He was no longer thinking about the loss of his donkey at all.
George returned to the fair, which had become enlivened by the arrival of more people and horses. He glanced quickly round the animals on sale on the ground; there was nothing of interest and certainly nothing that approached the quality of Bayard. Eventually he met Sim and the rest of the Justices on a tour of the stalls and horse lines. People were moving aside to let them pass and watching them with deference and awe. The Justices began to examine the food and drink that was on sale, looking at the stalls not in a judicial way, but with the air of men who had been up and about early in the morning and who were looking forward to a good dinner.
One of them, Julius Bailey, a tall, rotund man with a reputation for jollity and mischief, sniffed the air. "I swear, Brother Cantle, the smell of meat cooking hereabouts is making me hungry." He snapped his fingers at a servant and gestured at one of the cheeses on a nearby stall. A large piece of cheese was duly cut and delivered by the servant to the waiting Bailey to sample.
"Not long to wait now, Brother Justice," said Sim smoothly. "They'll probably be sending the roast over to the Market House for you to dine upon any time now." He nodded at a slightly disreputable looking roast meat stall. The Justices broke into guffaws, even Sir Humphrey, who was in a good humour at the thought of the coming feast. He had even been affable with George and had commiserated with him on the loss of his horse. He had not offered any help in finding it though, although most of the others had promised their assistance.
As the Justices and their train of servants continued their circuit of the market stalls, George caught a glimpse of the Frater. Some special sense alerted the Frater to the presence of officers of the Queen's peace but when he spotted George, the look of shock on his face changed. He smiled and waved like an old friend. George was amused by his audacity. Not far off the Frater there was a small group of people - mostly men - gathered around something - or someone - that was obviously of great interest to them. George caught sight of a ribbon flying up into the air, and then a hand waving a drum of some kind. Then he realised that the someone was singing, a little breathlessly, due to the energetic jumping required by her dancing. For it was a woman, and as he watched a small cheer rang out for a particularly impressive leap.
As if on cue, Cowbury arrived, pushing some of the crowd out of the way.
"And I hope your honours are going to do something about that!" he said, loudly.
"Well," said Julius Bailey, "if we can just see what that is ..."
"Lewd and outrageous dancing, Justice Bailey," snorted Cowbury.
"Really?" said Bailey, interestedly, starting to push his way through the crowd, which melted away as the Justices approached.
George watched the Egyptian Mort. Dressed in all her finery, she was now singing a lusty song in a passable Spanish accent. Most of the crowd didn't understand it, but its meaning was made clear by her expression and gestures. The few who hadn't noticed the Justices hooted with laughter and roared their pleasure. Seeing the Justices didn't put her off - far from it. She exerted herself even more in the dance, spinning around, skirts flying, bare feet treading quickly in a close circle.
"Stop that this instant, you lewd woman!" bawled Cowbury. The crowd nudged one another, pointed at him and mumbled. This evidently wasn't the first time he had spoiled their fun somewhere today.
The Egyptian Mort stuck her tongue out at him and carried on to the end of her song.
"Lewd?" said George, as though appraising the performance critically. "Oh, I wouldn't call it lewd ..."
"Perhaps we'd need to see a little more of the dance before we could judge, Brother Justice?" said Bailey.
The Egyptian Mort, now that the crowd had thinned, grew tired of dancing. No-one was throwing money any more and she hastily scraped up what was still lying on the ground, flipped the back of her skirt up towards the Justices - and Cowbury - and ran off.
"Disgraceful! Ungodly!" said Cowbury. "Action should be taken against this woman. The stocks are ready and ..."
"It's time we dined," said Bailey, with finality. The Justices turned and walked away, leaving Cowbury fuming alone.
* * * * *
In Widow Patterson's, the Egyptian Mort was berating the Frater for not warning her of the arrival of the Justices.
"What was I supposed to do?" he responded, irritated. "By the time I saw 'em it was too late. I saw Sir George in amongst 'em and gave him a smile, like..."
"Ho, bosom friends ye are now," snorted the Egyptian Mort. "Y'and Sir George, like that!" and she twisted her fingers together and aimed them at the Frater's eyes. He brushed her linked hands aside.
"Stow it, Ruby," he said amicably. "Perk up, my lovely, see what the fine gentleman gave me." He showed her the coin.
"Now yer talking, Jack!"
The drinks were ordered and arrived. The Widow, who had viewed them with suspicion as returning rogues who had already caused trouble once, was mollified at the sight of George's money added to that thrown for the Egyptian Mort's dancing. The Sad Mort, sitting silently with the Frater and Ruby, was ill at ease.
"What ails you, dear?" said her friend, the Egyptian Mort. "Come on me dearie, have a drink. Jack's payin', after all!"
"What if someone sees us?" sniffed the Sad Mort.
"So what?" said the Frater, overhearing this. "We wasn't involved in any of that business with the horse, was we? That was all the Jingler, and Clink and the Frog."
At the name of the Jingler, the Sad Mort's face began to crumple in a familiar way. The Frater and the Egyptian Mort did their best to cheer her up, with sips of ale, pats on the shoulder, hugs and encouragement.
"If only I knew when I'd see him again," wailed the Sad Mort, but quietly, so that only they could hear. "He said he'd be better away from these parts ..."
"Aw, ye know what the Jingler's like!" said Ruby. "He'll
turn up again for sure, ye never go without him for long."
"It seems long," sniffed the Sad Mort. "He said he'd kill Clink. Then he said he'd kill the Frog; then he said t'wasn't neither of them, it must have bin that Ned who sloped off quickly after he had the fight with Clink."
"T'wasn't Ned," said the Frater. "He wouldn't have the guts for that, neither."
"Then who was it?"
"How do I know?" said the Frater, munching on some pastries he'd acquired at the fair. "All for the best, if you ask me. Never liked the business. Too risky."
"Reckon it was the Moorish feller," said Ruby. "Scoured quick enough, didn't he? The Frog and Clink said they left everything as it should be, what Jingler said. The horse was safe in the barn all right." There was a pause, then Ruby added maliciously, "Clink said he thought you knew more than you was letting on."
"Me!" expostulated the Frater, blowing crumbs everywhere in disgust. "How'd they reckon that?"
"Well, whose ass was it got put in the barn, eh? That's all I'm saying."
The Frater swore and carried on eating.
"Yer not sayin' the Jingler thought I'd had aught to do with it?" he said eventually.
"Naw, don't think so really, Jack," said the Egyptian Mort and the Sad Mort shook her head. There was a pause. Then Ruby added maliciously, "After all, if he really thought yer'd had aught to do with it, he'd ha' slit yer guts open, wouldn't 'e?"
The Frater gave her a black look and drank deeply from the leatherjack in which his ale had been served, the Widow apparently not trusting them even with her wooden cups or earthenware.
"After all we bin through together, how could he think I would deceive 'im?"
"Well, there was only you to speak for the Moorish feller, wasn't there?" said the Sad Mort. "Should have been two spoke for 'im really."
"You could have spoken for 'im!" expostulated the Frater. "Anyway, what he brought, that spoke for 'im, didn't it? What 'e took for us? What 'e brung us?" As he grew more indignant and the drink started to fire him, his vocabulary slid more and more into that of the road, following that of Ruby. "It can't have been the Moorish lad. What would it benefit 'im? 'E didn't know anything 'bout it until 'e arrived. Nah, nah, not the Moorish boy."
There was some half-hearted wrangling about who might or might not have been the filthy dog who played such a trick on the Jingler - the Jingler of all people! That cunning-man, Peter what'sisname, he must surely have had a hand in it? However, after a while, the relief they were all secretly feeling came to the surface. They amicably agreed that as it had turned out it was all for the best; that whilst the Jingler had come up with some certain sure schemes in the past, dealing with the cunning-man in taking Sir George's horse was not his greatest.
* * * * *
Trade could hardly be called brisk. Lewin Briggs, nephew of Samuel, who kept the toll books for the horse fair, found himself kicking his heels without much to do. He didn't mind that. He yawned and tipped his hat down over his eyes. Folding his arms and stretching out his legs in front of him, he prepared for a nap. It was the lurcher at his feet that awoke him a short time later, by the gentle whipping of its tail against his leg. He heard it whine a greeting and became aware that he was now sitting in the shade cast by someone outside the booth. He opened his eyes and saw four men standing there with a good looking russet mare with a star on her forehead.
Lewin reached for the book. "Who is selling this horse?"
"I am," said one, tapping himself on the chest. He nodded at the man standing next to him. "He's the buyer."
"Where are you from?" The seller told him.
Lewin glanced at the other two men. "These your vouchers?" The man nodded. The two men looked respectable. "Y'can write your names?" They nodded. Lewin took down the details of the mare and her current owner, the price, and the purchaser's details. Then he asked the two men to sign the toll book, indicating the pen and ink on the board in front of him. They signed it and he turned it around to blot and dry the book with sand. He read what they had written. His eyes opened wide with astonishment and he looked up at them.
"This you?" he said to one of the men who had vouched for the sale, pointing at the second signature. He nodded. Lewin stood up. It had been hard to tell when he was sitting inside the booth, but Lewin was a very tall lad with extremely broad shoulders. He spoke directly to the second man who had vouched for the sale.
"I want you to accompany me to the Market House."
"Why?" said the man. "There's nothing wrong here, is there?" He did not seem overly concerned.
"To see the Justices," said Lewin, firmly. "And if you won't come along ..." He stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled, and four or five men gathered and looked at him enquiringly.
"I believe I know what this concerns," said the man. "I can explain ..."
"To the Justices," said Lewin, nodding at the others. He came out of the booth and grasped the man by the shoulder.
* * * * *
Under the elaborately carved and gilded ceiling of the Guild Room in the Market House, the Justices were warming themselves in front of an excellent fire and sampling some of the town's store of wines in anticipation of a good dinner. There was much laughter and discussion. They were in no hurry to dine. George and Sim moved around from group to group, keeping an eye on proceedings. So far all was well; they were merry, but not boisterous. The cousins were drinking little themselves. Partly this was because, as hosts, they had too much to do.
A messenger from the Clerk of the Market came into the room, looking for one or both of them. Spotting George, he came straight over.
"Sir George," he began, deferentially, "there is someone who wishes to speak to you."
"Is it urgent?" said George, with a little impatience in his voice, because Sir Humphrey had just beckoned him over in a cheerful fashion and he felt this would be a good point to build some bridges.
"Yes, sir," said the messenger a little uncertainly. "It is Lewin Briggs, who keeps the toll book for the horse fair. He says it's important."
"I am extremely busy," said George. "Why cannot the Clerk of the Market deal with this matter?"
"He says he has apprehended one James Jostler, sir."
George's eyes widened and he glanced across at Sim, who looked back in puzzlement, with an expression that clearly said, "What now?"
"Where is he?" said George. Beckoning Sim over, he quickly enlightened him to what he had just heard.
"He's in the Clerk's room, sir."
"S'blood, George," said Sim. "Could the man be so stupid? Or has he had a change of heart?"
"Perhaps he's fallen in with Cowbury and found religion," said George drily.
"I'm coming with you," said Sim. Gesturing at the messenger, he said crisply, "Here, you must take our place briefly. Be cheerful and attend to all needs on the spot, you understand?"
"Yes sir," replied the messenger, looking nervously at the Justices.
"Never fear, man," said Sim. "They are in merry mood and will not send you to jail for long."
"Yes sir," said the man, understanding that it was a jest but still looking nervous.
"Where is this man?" said Sim. George was already making his way towards the stairs. Sim followed George at a regal pace, but once outside the door, hitched up his magisterial gown and ran.
There were several people in the Clerk's room and the Clerk was trying to talk to all of them at once. When the Justices entered, the room fell silent. Sim and George looked around.
"Briggs," said Sim, beckoning him over. Lewin, who had been standing by the door as though to block it, loped over.
George was looking puzzled.
"Where is he? We were told that James Jostler was here. I don't see him ..."
Lewin indicated a sober looking brown haired man. His arms were folded and his lips pursed in irritation. He looked travel-weary, as though he had been on the road for days.
"James Jostler, at your service, sir," said the man, with deference.
"I think I know what this is about, sir," said the man. "I tried to explain, but ..." He scowled at Lewin.
"You've done well, Briggs," said Sim. Lewin looked confused. "You can all go now - apart from you." He nodded at Jostler.
"But the book, sir," argued Lewin, showing it to them.
George looked at it and at the men in the room. "All's well, I believe." He glanced at Sim, who nodded.
"But the signature, sir," said Lewin. "This morning, when they cried the loss of your horse at the fair ..."
The man who called himself James Jostler stepped forward with an exclamation of "The bastard ..."
"Exactly," said George. Lewin still looked confused. "We'll explain this later, Briggs. For the moment, all is well. This sale is not fraudulent."
"You look weary," said Sim, after the others had left. "Please, sit down. Arrange some meat and drink for this man." The Clerk bobbed his head out of his room and called for a servant. "And then we can discuss ... what you are here to discuss."
The man thanked them warmly. A little later, with some meat, bread and beer from the kitchen inside him, he began to tell his story.
"I came to the fair this morning with a cousin who wanted to buy a horse, but I'll admit I've been searching for a month now for a certain rogue who I think took some documents of mine from an inn near Leicester."
"I know," said George. "Do you have any idea of the whereabouts of this rogue now?"
The man shook his head. "None whatsoever, sir," he said. "Unfortunately, for I'd break his head for him. If you knew of the trouble he has caused me ..."
"Well, I know of some of it," said George, "but he will make no more of it in your name, be assured, for he no longer has your papers."
"That's a relief, sir!" said the real Jostler gratefully. "What I don't understand is how he was able to convince anyone that he was me! We are nothing like each other and he doesn't match my description in any way."
