Mistress Meg and the Prigger of Prancers

by Miriam Bibby

  Something was starting to make sense to George.

  "Tell me," he said, "did your papers carry your description?"

  "Aye, sir, they did."

  "I'm afraid one at least no longer does that. Evidently he tore that piece and threw it away, pretending that it was damaged by accident."

  "I think I can obtain other copies, sir. My reputation - the reputation of the real James Jostler - is good."

  "There is much we need to talk about. A deposition, I think. We need ink and paper."

  "I'll order that, cousin," said Sim. "Then, I must return to our Brother Justices."

  "Enjoy your dinner, cousin," said George. "I think it will be a while before I take mine."

  "I'll make sure that Julius does not eat it all," said Sim. "You know his reputation as a trencherman."

  * * * * *

  Matthew and Meg had not been much in evidence at the Goat in Chains for the past two days, but the inn had been so busy that Jacob had not really had time to notice. On the morning of the fair, they had both left the inn together, early. Cornelius, clean, trimmed and wearing a small ruff, was with them. Fair day was a good day to make some money and the little dog was skilled at tricks. Matthew and Cornelius had put on shows in the common room of the inn and these had always met with approval. When the musicians were there, they had improvised an accompaniment, with drum rolls, and the drinkers had been very appreciative. They had thrown money and drunk even more.

  "Will ye sell that dog to me?" said one farmer, after Cornelius had walked on his front paws over to him and then sat up and begged for a piece of pie. Matthew had simply grinned and shaken his head.

  The old stablehand was only slightly surprised to see that, when the two returned later, Matthew was leading a horse; after all there had been quite a lot of discussion about whether they were to buy one or not. It was a good looking animal, calm and well-behaved, a nondescript brown with one white star and a white foot, and a slightly darker mane and tail. No need for grooming - Matthew wished to see to it himself. The ostler was glad to hear this, because anything that helped ease his burden of work was welcome. Fortunately, the inn would be quieter now, as the Quarter Sessions and the fair came to an end. He made his way towards the hay loft.

  "Davey," said Meg softly to Matthew as the man disappeared. Matthew nodded and set off for the kitchen. He returned quickly.

  "All's well," he said.

  "This afternoon?"

  "Yes. Within the hour. The maids will be in charge of the kitchen so Bess can have her hour or two at the fair. He can take an hour or two now but he will be needed later."

  Meg smiled.

  "Perfect. I will go and fetch what's needed and you can tell the boy what he's to do." Meg ran lightly up the gallery stairs.

  Very soon, Davey was in the inn yard, all curiosity. He was to be sent on an errand for Meg and Matthew. He knew that in some way this was important; that these mysterious and fascinating people had entrusted him to do something for them.

  "Davey, you know the Market House?" asked Matthew. Davey nodded. "I want you to carry something there for me, very carefully."

  Davey nodded, confidence growing at the thought of doing something responsible.

  Meg came running down the steps again like a girl, but carrying something carefully wrapped up in a small fabric sack fastened with string.

  She knelt down in front of Davey. "You can carry this? It's not heavy but it must be carried very carefully."

  Davey hefted it in his hand. He nodded. What was it? It seemed to be a few small pieces bulging roundly through the fabric. Nuts? Small fruit? The right size and shape. One seemed to be larger than the others.

  "And this. Put it inside your shirt for safety." This was a note, wrapped and sealed with a blob of wax. "You are to take this to Sir George Paston, who will be dining at the Market House today. You are to give this to Sir George and Sir George alone. He needs to receive it in about one hour. Can you tell an hour?"

  "Yes," said Davey. "I can tell by the sun and the shadows and there is a clock in the parlour."

  "Do you go there? Can you tell the time?"

  "I can tell when it's on the hour. Jacob doesn't mind if I go to the parlour."

  "On your way then, Davey. One last thing. Do not tell Sir George who sent this. Oh - and this for you. I believe Matthew has already given you a sixpence? You can add this to it now."

  A shilling!

  Chapter 12: Saturn's Blows

  The Clerk of the Market looked at the small boy outside his door. The boy brought with him the unmistakable scents of the kitchen - of meat, fat, fish and many days - or months, or years - of sleeping in the rushes by a fire. However, the note he brought out of his shirt had Sir George's name on it, written in a good hand and there was a faint smell of perfume rising from it, despite its recent proximity to Davey. The Clerk looked at the packet.

  "What d'you want, boy?" he said in an irritated voice.

  "Message for Sir George Past'n," repeated Davey.

  "I can see that. Give it to me, then," said the Clerk.

  "No," said Davey, holding the note away from him. "Must give it to him myself."

  "Don't be ridiculous, lad," said the Clerk. "Give it to me."

  "No," said Davey again, making as though to walk away. "Have to give it to Sir George himself. I promised."

  "Sir George won't see you," snorted the Clerk.

  "Must!" said Davey. "It's important."

  "He's busy."

  "I'll wait then." Davey, slightly surprised by his own boldness. He put the note back inside his shirt.

  The Clerk, looking as though he had a bad smell under his nose, said, "You'll be waiting a long time, then."

  "Don't mind." And Davey backed off and stood just outside the door from the cloister surrounding the Market House, peeping in.

  * * * * *

  Things were getting lively at the Widow Patterson's. Clink and the Frog had found their way there, sniggering at the ease with which they had cut purses at the fair. The two of them were wearing sharp slivers of horn on their thumbs, which made it easy to cut belts and straps. That was one skill; but the greater skills were the ability to pick their victims well and disappear into the crowd afterwards, or remain standing nearby with innocent expressions on their faces. Sometimes, on seeing the alarm of their victims, they would even shout loudly, "Stop that thief!" and chase wildly after an imaginary villain. Today there had been no need for such subtleties.

  "Bumpkins!" snorted Clink in a low voice to the others in the alehouse. They laughed.

  "My, you're a fine one, Clink," said Ruby admiringly. "What with the town full o' queer-cuffins, an' all!" She was referring to the Justices.

  Clink smiled modestly. Then he looked at her. "You're not so bad yourself, my mort," he said, taking in her finery, the low cut blouse, her earrings, rings and bracelets. "Anyone 'ud take you for the real thing!" Ruby laughed, leaned over and kissed him, which put her breasts handily within reach.

  "None o' that!" said the Widow, who had been keeping an eye on the party in the corner, as well as she could with all the business she was doing that day.

  "Ruby was popular, all right," said the Frater. "Look." He showed Clink the takings. Clink was suitably impressed. The Frater put the coins back into the sheep's bladder that he used as a purse.

  The Frog was always uncomfortable in crowded places. As the room continued to fill and the walls began to stream with condensation, his nervousness increased. The others, knowing that they had no need of money for a while, were perfectly comfortable drinking for a few hours; indeed, for as long as they could stay. The Sad Mort, knowing that the Jingler was hiding somewhere, possibly still nearby, was a little downcast; but even she began to cheer up as the drink went down. Her children were in the care of one of the other women, Doll, who was as good as a grandmother to them and so she had no fears on that score.

  As the drink went down, the men, other than the Frog, became more boastful and r
aucous. The Frog, ever sensitive to any danger, had become aware that one of the men drinking at the Widow's was glancing at them. He was a big man, perhaps a tradesman, and he was purplish faced and his eyes almost lop-sided with drink. He looked like the type who would pick a fight when he was in his cups and it unnerved the Frog to see him. His eyes began to shift up and down and he wriggled uncomfortably. Eventually even Clink noticed him.

  "What ails you now?" he asked irritably.

  "Cove there, staring," muttered the Frog.

  "So? Let him stare. Got a right to stare, same as the rest of us. Just a gaper."

  "No, Clink, mebbe he recognises us."

  "Well, I don't recognise him."

  The Frater had broken into song, quietly and quite cheerfully.

  "For God's sake," hissed Clink to the Egyptian Mort, "don't let him sing anything Papist."

  "I don't think y'need worry about that," said Ruby, leaning towards the Frater, who was part singing, part humming. "It's the one about having no petticoats, y'know ..."

  Clink sniggered into his drink. "Oh yes, I know. I like that one."

  "Lifting up her skirt," sang the Frater under his breath, "she tum and I diddle-I tum tum tum ..."

  Clink was exasperated. "Ye've surely not forgotten the words. How could yer forget the words?"

  "So she lifted up ... no, I lifted up her skirts ..." said the Frater, his brow knotting with concentration. "So I said to, no she ... and she tum tum diddle-I dee ..."

  Ruby gave him a gentle tap and the Frater keeled sideways, sploshing drink all over himself and two men who were standing beside him with their backs to him. They shouted in anger.

  "Sorry, sorry brothers," said the Frater, mildly, righting himself. His hand made a vague sort of gesture, like a benediction, but with one finger perhaps more prominent than the others ."Here, have a drink. Drink on me. Madam! A drink for my friends here. Good friends. Known them since, since Lepanto. At least since Lepanto. Maybe before Lepanto? Anyway, good, good friends. A drink for my good friends."

  "Sssshhhhhh," said Ruby. She smiled across at the two men. "So sorry, my gentlemen. He's maybe celebrated a bit much today."

  "Lepanto, eh?" said one of the men, slightly mollified at the thought of the drink and Ruby's provocative smile. He seated himself on the bench next to Clink, who moved away from the Sad Mort to make room for him on the middle of the bench. They were facing the Frater, Ruby and the Frog. "Your good health. Now, let's hear more of Lepanto."

  * * * * *

  Davey peered round the corner. The Clerk of the Market was still talking to one of the stall holders from the fair. Davey scowled. Then, getting a whiff of cooking, an idea came to him. There was a great kitchen here; the Justices were dining today and it would be busy beyond belief. There must be another door into the building, into that kitchen. More than one door. The cooks and servants would surely not be coming and going through here. He sidled round the corner and the smell of cooking grew stronger, along with the smell of rotting scraps and ordure thrown out into the street. This was what he wanted. Beyond that door he would find what he was looking for and the kitchen was, after all, his element. Pushing the door, which was slightly ajar, he found himself in a small passageway dripping with condensation from the work that was going on in the room next to it. Peeping in, he saw the enormous fireplace, the steaming pans and pots and the frantic activity of a kitchen that was an enormous version of the one he knew. And he saw, ahead of him down the passageway, a drawn back curtain behind which there were some steps. Proper steps, not just a ladder.

  Meanwhile, The Goat in Chains was filling up with fairgoers, satiated by the noise and activity and ready to eat and drink. Jacob was run off his feet and the maids were complaining that Davey was still not back from his errand.

  "If you see Matthew, ask him how long the lad was supposed to be about this business," said Jacob. But no-one had seen him.

  * * * * *

  The rogues and their new companions were getting on famously. The Frater, cheered by the talk of Lepanto, became expansive and cheery, although he kept losing the drift of his talk and sat staring into space on occasions until it returned. Across the trestle, the Egyptian Mort was holding the hand of one of the men who had been doused with drink by the Frater.

  "Oh, I see a long life for you, my dear," she was saying, her eyes wide and a fixed smile on her face. "A long and happy life. And tell me now, dear, d'ye know a Jenny? Or is it Jane ... no, it's Jenny, I'm sure it's Jenny. Jenny with long, brown hair - and a little mole under her chin, just here ..." She freed one of her own hands from the sweaty thumb of the fascinated man and pointed under her own chin.

  He shook his head, wonderingly. "Jenny ... no, I don't recall a Jenny."

  "Oh," said the Egyptian Mort with conviction, "then Jenny is in your future, m'dear. Oh yes, I see Jenny in your future. There she is, on the path of the future between night and day, where the shadows walk, Jenny is waiting for you and brushing her long, brown hair ..."

  * * * * *

  Davey climbed the kitchen stairs as quickly as he could. At the top, there was another curtain, drawn across the open door into the Guild Room. Davey did not know that the room was behind it, but he pushed aside the curtain a little and saw a lot of men, laughing, eating and drinking, one still at table, others standing in front of a good fire, with glasses.

  He did not know which one was Sir George Paston, but that didn't matter. He was here on a special errand and he would see that the message was delivered. He pushed the curtain back, squared his shoulders and walked in.

  It was one of the servants who spotted him, viewing the small, dirty boy with horror.

  "What are you doing here?" he hissed, nearly dropping the salver with its cover that he was carrying. "Get out at once."

  "Message for Sir George Paston," said Davey.

  "Oh," said the man, still slightly annoyed. "Give it here then."

  "Have to give it to him myself," said Davey. "S'important. From the inn." In his own mind, he sounded more convincing. The servant's face whitened and he sniffed, his eyes wide with disgust, but he crossed the room and left Davey standing where he was. He went over to the man who was sitting down and said something to him, looking back at Davey.

  George had just sat down to dine on the overdone remnants of what had evidently been one of the best dinners the Justices had ever eaten - in the opinion of Julius, anyway - when the servant came over to tell him there was someone with a message for him.

  "Forgive me for this intrusion, Sir George," he began, almost squirming. "There is someone here who would speak with you and you alone. He does say it's urgent though," he added quickly, as he saw George's expression changing.

  "Oh, by the Lord Harry!" began George.

  "I'll go," said Sim, who had been listening. "Where is he?"

  "If it's another James Jostler, tell him I already have a blasted surfeit of the fellows," said George, through a mouthful of pastry.

  "Er ... the small boy, sir, by the door."

  But Davey, now knowing who Sir George was, had started to make his way over to the table, to the servant's horror.

  "Sir George Paston?" said Davey, bluntly.

  George bit his lip. "I am. And you are?"

  "Davey." Thinking about it, he felt he needed to say more. "From the inn. This is for you."

  "Who sent it?"

  "Can't say," said Davey. "I mean, don't know. But it's important."

  George and Sim looked at one another and then Davey.

  George took the note and the packet. Laying the packet on the table, he opened the note and read it. It was sealed with just a blob of wax, no details on it.

  "Very well, boy," he said. "You can go now - and thank you." He paused. "Sim, have you a farthing or so about you?"

  Sim flipped a three-farthing at Davey, who caught it with surprise. "Thank ye!" He said seriously, but without deference.

  "Out you go, boy," said the servant.

  "Going,"
said Davey.

  * * * * *

  "Exalted earth in Capricorn rules thievery and greed;

  Exalted in Aquarius, the earth-bound horse is freed."

  George was frowning. Sim, watching him, said "What is it?"

  "I don't know ..." said George. "At least, it makes no sense to me. Does it to you?"

  Sim took the paper from him and read it. "No, it makes no sense. What is in the packet?"

  "These ... clay balls," said George. "Just little balls of white clay, or earth, I think."

  Sim looked at them. "No," he said, "it means nothing to me. Capricorn? Aquarius? The heavenly signs?"

  "A horse is mentioned," said Sim.

  "True. But an "earth-bound" horse?"

  "As distinct from ... perhaps a winged horse? A horse in the air?"

  George shook his head. "I do not see it."

  "Has not Bayard flown?" said Sim.

  "I suppose ... " said George. He shook his head again. As always, he turned to action, rather than thought. "But what is to do?"

  "The cunning-man - what d'you call him? I do not believe he has any magical power, but he might know something of what this means."

  "Peter Siskin?" said George, rolling his eyes. "Well, perhaps he might. I'll send for him," he said, wearily.

  * * * * *

  Back at the inn, Davey was hurled into a maelstrom of scolding. He was whirled around between the kitchen and the common room until his head spun as though he was a turnspit dog and he wanted to cry.

  "Blast it," said Bess, who had been in a good mood that morning, but who was now in a temper again. "That dog's worse than useless and as for the boy ... we need another turnspit dog, the one just will not do and since the other one had the distemper and died ... this one's no use. Needs taking and hanging, it does ..." She grumbled and slammed around the kitchen.

  "Tis well, Bess, go and have your fairing," said one of the maids. "They have just about finished eating in the room and it's drinking now."