Mistress Meg and the Prigger of Prancers

by Miriam Bibby

  Peter was poring over it when he heard an exclamation from Sir George. "What is that - where did it come from?"

  "It was in the pail, Sir George. Floating on the surface," said Peter, still surprised. He held it out.

  George took it and an indefinable look came over his face. Peter tried hard to read it, but couldn't quite do so. Anger? There seemed to be anger there; and also a strange sort of triumph, almost vindication; and humour. But Peter had studied Sir George enough to know that there was always humour, sometimes dark and sardonic, in the way he viewed the world.

  "Well now," he said in a low, slightly bitter sounding voice. "Perhaps ..."

  "George!" It was Sim, looking anxious. "There is serious trouble. I need you, Cousin. We may need swords, too."

  Chapter 13: Justice

  It was Ben Smithers, one of Follett's Watch, who had told him what was happening at the stocks. Smithers was in a panic. "Sir, Constable Follett asks that you attend. He says there is a dangerous crowd and they certainly won't stop at just some turnips, if he knows the ways of men."

  "What - how did they come to be there?"

  "Well, sir, Cowbury had a hand in encouraging it, like, but there seems to be good cause ..."

  "Oh, Cowbury," said Sim, gritting his teeth as though the name tasted bad. "What cause?"

  Smithers said, imitating Cowbury's manner, "Drunkenness, profanity, not to mention theft, bawdiness, lewd behaviour, disturbance of the peace, impersonating an Egyptian and plenty more besides."

  "If drunkenness were a crime," began Sim, "then ..." He had been about to say that some members of the party in the Market House would most certainly be found guilty, but he stopped himself in time, quickly straightening his face into a serious look. "The day of the fair is often a time for ... well ..."

  "Sir, it's bad. There's a lot of them drunk in the crowd, too."

  "Very well. Wait - I'll fetch Sir George. Find us a couple of horses from somewhere. You'll get them at the Angel. In the name of the Justices."

  "Yes, sir."

  Upstairs, after alerting George, Sim found Bailey wandering in search of them. "Ah, Sim, my boy ..." he began.

  "My apologies, Julius, but there is something I need to deal with ..."

  "Ah. Not too serious, I hope?"

  "No, no, not at all," said Sim, hoping he did not sound too breathless. "Naught to speak of. We'll be back within the hour." He smiled, as confidently as he could.

  "Good, good," said Bailey, "I've always envied you your quiet little town of Guildern. No trouble here, eh?"

  "No, no," said Sim, smiling and backing towards the stairs. He gestured and left, as quickly as he could without making it too obvious - he hoped.

  Bailey shrugged and turned towards a passing servant. "I think we find ourselves somewhat dry," he said.

  "No sooner said than mended, Sir," said the man, already on his way to the cellar.

  The cousins set off at a run towards the duck pond. It was not far, but horses would make it quicker. On the way, the servant and the horses from the inn caught up with them and they quickly flung themselves into the saddle and carried on. They found Follett and his men in a circle round the stocks, with arms linked, facing an angry crowd. Despite their attempt to protect the rogues, there had evidently been quite a bit of turnip throwing and eggs and clods of earth too. However, they had held off the crowd. Occasionally some people surged forward and the members of the Watch had to brace themselves and throw them back again. Their faces were sweating and anxious, those of the crowd angry and crumpled, with signs of drink clearly showing in many of them. Follett had a stout stick pressed into the link of his arm, held against that of the man on his left, and whenever there was a sign that the Watch might be pressed out of the way he quickly wielded the stick and got back into place again. Ruby had been put into the ducking stool but not yet immersed.

  "Thank God," said Follett loudly, as the cousins rode up. "Now will you go back!" - this to the determined countryman who tried to push past him again.

  "In the Queen's name, desist!" cried Sim loudly. George said nothing, but simply put a hand on the hilt of his sword and stared broodingly at the crowd.

  "Follett?" said Sim.

  "Sir, the crowd simply would not listen to reason ..."

  "They will now." Sim raised his voice. "I command you, in the Queen's name, to depart from this place ..."

  All he wanted them to do was disperse, and to get the rogues away from the stocks. The greatest fears of any Officer of the Queen's Peace were not parcels of rogues, but rebellion and riot.

  It worked with the majority. There was the usual complaint and grumbling, but most of the crowd backed off. Some began to move away. This was how the dispersal began, with little knots of people losing interest, or fearing trouble for themselves. Then when the chief troublemakers realised their support was going, they too began to lose interest.

  "If I might have a word, sir?" said Follett, who had released his grip on the arms of his colleagues as soon as the crowd began to quiet down. "Alone." He glared at Cowbury who was pushing up beside him.

  "Of course," said Sim. "Cowbury, I thank you for whatever assistance you have given our constable, but where matters of the law are concerned, I believe you will understand that it is a matter for ... for ..." His face spoke greater volumes than his words.

  Cowbury looked disappointed but stepped to one side.

  "Sir, they are undoubtedly rogues," began Follett. "I'm not in any doubt of that. But Cowbury said the crowd was right to set them in the stocks and I think he'd already whipped up some fervour for it amongst the crowd from the alehouse where they were discovered."

  "S'blood," said Sim, "I think the man was determined to get someone set there today. Personally, I wouldn't have minded seeing him there myself."

  Follett said nothing but rolled his eyes back towards Cowbury as he stood nearby. Sim did not care if Cowbury overheard. "Sir, if it was any other day but the day of the Fair ... you know what crowds can be like on a day like this ..."

  "If crime has been committed, then they must go through due process of the law, not be set in the stocks," said Sim, meaning the rogues. "Drunkenness is one thing, theft is entirely another."

  "A farmer who lost his purse at the fair has identified some of them."

  "Can he be sure?"

  "Well, sure as can be, but there is only him against them so ..."

  "It's his word against theirs."

  "Yes, sir. And there are five of them; three men and two women, all drinking together, although they don't claim knowledge of each other prior to the fair; but one of the men stands faith for the one who is accused of being a cutpurse."

  "What do you think?"

  "Rogues, sir, without a doubt."

  George interrupted at this point, nodding at the Frater.

  "That's the rogue - with the stolen ass," he said. "He doesn't look very harmful at present, however." He suddenly snapped his fingers. "Of course! This is the same rogue who went to Siskin's house! It has to be." The Frater frowned back at him drunkenly, then half recognised him but fell back into confusion.

  "Well, let us take them to be locked up securely and we'll examine them," said Sim.

  "Thank you, Master Cantle," said Follett, obviously much relieved.

  "Well, come along then," said Sim, leading the way, "sooner done, sooner ended, but ..." and here he swung round on Cowbury, "there'll be no more setting in the stocks, is that clear?"

  "Yes, Master Cantle," said Cowbury, a little sullenly. "If they are to be formally charged, I understand."

  The rogues were released. Ruby seemed more angry about the dirt and damage done to her gown than anything else; the Sad Mort had ceased to cry; the Frater and Clink had blood on their swollen faces and the Frog had collapsed forward and appeared to be half fainting.

  Sim and George, dismounted, led the way quickly to the lockup that stood by the Constable's house, a solid little cell of wood with a barred window and door
. It adjoined the stable and both overlooked the yard by the Constable's house.

  "See they are truly secure and set a watch until we are certain that no-one will come back for them," ordered Sim. "And find some means of treating their wounds."

  "Yes, sir. And sir, if you wish, I will examine them."

  Sim thought quickly. "Very well, Follett. We have guests at the Market House as you know." He looked dubiously at the Constable. "If you are certain that you can deal with any more ..."

  "With my fellows here, certain, Master Cantle," said Follett firmly. "I'll see to it later when they've sobered up."

  "Then we'll return later too, to see what you've discovered."

  Peter was still waiting at the Market Hall, confused and concerned. George dismounted and handed his horse to one of the boys who hung around to perform this service. George was now determined to know what all this "faw-fummery" with the clay was about. He was surprised that the Goat in Chains should be involved in some way - at least that it was implicated in some way by the piece of paper. He had always found them to be honest people there - well, he would go there now. He set off swiftly, with Peter at his side.

  At the inn, George went straight through the yard to the stables, not stopping to advise anyone of his arrival. The old ostler was working hard and the yard was as neat as a pin, the horses well-bedded down, all clean and munching on good fodder. George looked up and down the stalls. Two carty types, a small grey nag, a bay hunter, a couple of pads and a good looking brown with black points at the far end. It wasn't even a bay, it was definitely a unremarkable brown with darker points and a neat black mane and tail. No Bayard.

  Jacob came running in, alerted by one of the maids that Sir George Paston had come striding through the yard with a look of utter determination on his face and was now to be found in the inn stable.

  "Where is she?" said George. "I know that rogue of a woman has been here. Where is she now?"

  "Sir George, I ... I ... can you mean - the woman who was staying here? Mistress Meg?"

  At that point the ostler said to Jacob, as though reminded of something, "Oh, Master, I was wondering what time their horse would be needed on the morrow?"

  Jacob turned to him with a frown and replied in an irritated voice: "What horse? They are both away on foot, earlier today. They are no longer staying at the inn - did they not tell you?"

  The ostler said, "Why, the brown horse in the end stall that they bought at the fair. It's a grand horse, a pleasure to manage." They stepped forward to look at it more closely and the horse, as though aware of their interest, flung up its head and gave a grunting whinny.

  George's expression looked as though he'd been pole-axed. He walked back to the end stall. Peter Siskin, who had been about to apologise once again for his failure to find George's horse, watched him. Jacob, wondering what was happening, said anxiously, "Sir George, I do not know what has been happening here, but if aught is amiss, I am sorry for it."

  George was looking closely at the brown horse. He spoke gently to it and the horse nickered slightly, turning its head towards him. Jacob said, "If it is to do with your missing horse, I am sorry that it is not here. It would be a black day for our inn if a stolen horse were to be found in our stable. As for this horse ... I do not know what to do with it ... could it be they simply forgot they had purchased it? Or are they keeping it for someone?"

  To their astonishment, George started to laugh as though he had heard the best jest of the day. He laughed and laughed until the others, although absolutely certain that he had lost his wits, could scarcely stop themselves from joining in. He looked at them helplessly, putting a hand on the wooden partition beam to hold himself up.

  "Sir George, sir!" said Jacob, laughing helplessly himself.

  George stopped eventually and looked at them all with a gleeful expression. "Oh, but my missing horse is here, Jacob. This is Bayard!"

  Jacob, understanding now that somehow Sir George's horse had entered his stable in a disguised state and that it was something to do with Meg and Matthew, was horrified at the possible consequences for the inn. What on earth could he say to his father and mother when they returned?

  "Sir, shall I send for a constable? If we send some men now, we can catch them up."

  "It's nothing to do with you Jacob," said George, smiling. "I know that. You've nothing to fear on that score. And no, there's no need for a constable. My horse is returned and all's well. There'll be no sending of constables. But you can send for a saddle and bridle for me." He turned to Peter Siskin. "And thanks, to you - you have found my horse for me and I'm grateful. Attend me at Oakenhall at your leisure and you will be well rewarded for it."

  "Thank you, Sir George," said Peter, gratefully. "I'll be glad to do that - I may go now?" The call of home had never been stronger.

  George nodded and waved him away with his hand. He had nearly forgotten Peter already. All his focus was on the horse.

  * * * * *

  The rogues were recovering slowly in the lockup. There was some light coming in from the small shuttered, barred window and around the edges of the door: which was extremely strong. They had been given water and some salve and the women had dealt with the bruises and splits on the men's faces as well as their own. Now the Sad Mort was sitting with her knees drawn up, her head in her hands so that no-one would have seen her face, even if there had been enough light to do so. Ruby stared straight ahead. Clink's face was purple, not just with the bruising, but with anger. The Frog was hunched over, his hands scratching purposelessly at the floor, just relieving nervous tension. The Frater's head was sunk down into his neck and he moaned occasionally. They could hear the donkey munching contentedly in the stable next door.

  "Stop that," said Clink to the Frog, through grinding teeth.

  The Frog hunched even more and, turning to one side, apparently stopped, but in fact he had simply turned his attention to the base of the wall with the stable. Clink could still hear him. Then he suddenly straightened.

  "We've done it before," he said. "Wouldn't be the first time. D'you remember that time in Mildenhall? We got out of that, didn't we?"

  "Yer - but we had a cuttle then," said Ruby.

  Clink got up and hunkered down by the Frog who glanced up at him and then back down at his hands. "Don't pick at it, find somewhere that's loose," said Clink. He began searching along the boards that lined the wall. "Got to be somewhere. Look, curse ye, look!"

  They all began exploring every chink and splinter in the wood.

  The Frater suddenly began to mumble something and then got unsteadily to his feet and walked over to the furthest corner of the lockup away from the door, which was as a consequence also the darkest corner. There he began to relieve himself, noisily.

  "Puh, Jack!" said Ruby.

  Clink began to chuckle, huskily and quietly. "Bet he ain't the first one to have done that in here, eh? That's the place for us."

  "What d'ye mean, Clink?" asked Ruby.

  "Wood'll be rotten there, eh?"

  "Oh, yer a wonder, Clink! I knew ye'd think of something!" She kissed him hard and her remaining bracelets jangled defiantly and cheerfully.

  "'S better!" mumbled the Frater. He belched.

  "D'ye know, I think I feel the need to go meself," said Clink.

  * * * * *

  Tyger's time was near at hand. She rarely moved outside, but lay by the fire, purring and staring into the flames or the embers, if the fire was low. She ate and drank whatever Peter gave her and then slept. Sometimes Peter was sure he could not only see her belly expanding, but little movements both outside and around her, as though the kittens were not only ready to enter the world but also that their spirits were already here. Fanciful, he told himself; but watching the placid Tyger wrapped in her own world of coming motherhood relaxed him.

  It would be some time before he felt his confidence return, he knew that. He realised how much he had been taking for granted. He understood that he had taken too much pride
in his skill in reading people. He had not realised how easy it was to be read, or with what facility he could become tied up in someone's web.

  One comfort was that the Constable or one of the watch came past regularly. This was not entirely because of Peter's safety. He knew that. If the rogues did return, then they might well attempt to take some sort of revenge on him - and that would provide a great opportunity to capture them. And now, perhaps, after the excitement of the past few days, culminating in the finding of Sir George's horse - and the prospect of reward - he could rest quietly at home for a change this evening.

  He bent down to stroke Tyger who raised her head and made a silent contented "meow" shape with her mouth. Then, there came a knock at the door. Peter was instantly on the alert. It was a curious knock though; not demanding; not cautious; not sly. It was gentle. In fact, if he hadn't been on the alert for noises outside, he might have missed it.

  Peter prepared himself and went to the door. It was unlikely that it would be a threat, he reasoned; it was still daylight. He waited. There was no further sound. Rather than open the door, he went cautiously to one of the small windows and tried to peer out. Eventually he opened the casement. He could see that standing on the path that led to his door, was a woman, or a girl; at least, he could see the edge of a brown skirt moving about as if impatient or ill at ease. Then the woman stepped back and looked around, first at one window and then the other, the one he had opened. Peter drew back. He didn't think she'd seen him.

  A trap? Then he mentally shook himself. No, far more likely to be a client. Really, he must pull himself together. He went to the door, took a deep breath and opened it.

  She was very young, probably about sixteen and wore clothes that suggested that her family were yeomen stock. Her face showed anxiety but there was a trace of hope in the eyes that looked into his. He knew immediately what the cause of her visit was likely to be. There were usually only three reasons for a visit from a girl of her age. The first was to do with a lover - either to gain one, bring one back or to get rid of one; the second was to find out whether they would marry and when - the who was often of less importance; and the third reason was to find out whether they were with child or not.