by Miriam Bibby
Except ...
The rider put the horn under his arm, withdrew the packet again, opened it and began to shred it into tiny pieces, which he threw to the side as he rode. The pieces fluttered away, some falling to the ground nearby, others flying further. He paused, blowing another blast on the horn. More shreds blew away on the breeze. Another blast. More scattering. Soon there was nothing left.
The man that had been known to Sir George as Jostler and to the rogues as the Jingler carried on his way, blowing the horn as he went. He was approaching the next town and had to make a decision. Avoid the town or enter it and hand over the rest of the mail? He would then be expected to return with his horse whilst the new post boy carried on for the next stage.
The Jingler was bold by nature. Yes, that was what he would do, he would ride into town, hand over the mail, take his cup in the saddle, and make as though he was returning.
Except ...
He would then cut across country, he decided. He probably had at least an hour before the chase would be up in earnest. He knew that he would meet up with Clink and the others eventually, at one of the fairs or races. It was all just a question of time. He put the horn to his lips again and blew a long blast. When it was over he laughed long and loud. Yes, all just a question of time.
Behind him, the real post boy from the Angel was tramping gingerly over the wet grass towards the highway back to Guildern. He had well over four miles to go and it had taken him at least half an hour to free himself from the tree to which he had been tied.
The Jingler blew the horn again. He was no longer laughing. He smiled and a strange light danced in his pale eyes. As the town ahead awoke, the moon slipped away to rest and the only shadows were cast by the sun.
