by Miriam Bibby
Meg watched as the man glanced across at her. He was smiling sympathetically but shaking his head as he talked to Matthew. Meg heard Matthew say “I am her servant. Her name? Mistress Margaret - ” there was a pause ” - Loveday.” The man’s face changed.
“Wait here,” he said. His voice sounded warm and a little surprised. Not long now, thought Cornelius.
Rooms were found for Meg and Matthew. Soon they were settled in comfort sipping spiced ale after supper. Cornelius, brushed and washed, snored on a cushion in front of a low fire, gathering energy for another attack on the knuckle bone that lay in front of him. Meg, wearing a warm gown borrowed from the hostess of the inn, rested her feet on a footstool. Matthew, wearing clean servant’s garments taken from his pack, cracked some more hazelnuts and threw the shells into the grate.
“On certain nights of the year,” began Meg, looking at the fire, “if a maid takes a pair of chestnuts and puts them together on the grate, she can tell whether her love is true or not.”
Matthew raised a sceptical eyebrow.
“If her love is true, the two will heat together without flying apart or bursting asunder; if her love is not true, then one chestnut will fly from the other.”
“As sound a basis for matrimony as I have yet heard,” said Matthew.
“But only on certain nights of the year.”
“The rest of the time it is in the hands of fate …”
“Or fortune - more usually, fortune.“They both laughed. There was a knock at the door and the maidservant who had brought the supper dishes in came to collect their dusty travel clothes for cleaning.
“Pleas’um,” she said, dropping a half curtsey, “Mistress Metcalf said you met have summat for ‘er.” She pronounced “Metcalf” “Meayetcaalf” with the vowels drawn out richly.
“That I do,” said Meg. Matthew fetched an item wrapped in cloth that was about the size of a small jar. Meg held it out to the maid and then suddenly stopped, looking at her keenly.
“Do you perhaps …” she began, then paused. Then, as though something had just come to her, she commenced again: “Do ye perhaps know of one who - ” she wriggled her shoulder and winced, as though in pain ” - one who suffers - here?” And she pointed at her own shoulder.
The maidservant’s eyes were round with surprise and interest.
“Aye, that ah do!” she said eagerly. “Ah do, mam, I mean, ‘tis me what suffers wi’ me shoulder. Such pain ah’m in, in t’morning, I can hardly rise out o’ bed.”
“Ah,” said Meg, sympathetically. “Well, it might be I can help there.” She glanced at Matthew. Matthew rose swiftly to his feet, and, hand on heart, bowed elegantly to Meg and the maidservant.
“Madam,” he said to Meg, “an it please you, I will attend to those messages …” Meg inclined her head slightly. Cornelius snuffled and wriggled a bit and then snored on. The maidservant, still round-eyed, thought to herself what a fine-looking man Matthew was, although a bit foreign-looking with it. Fascination and curiosity showed clearly on her face.
As he left, Matthew heard Meg say, in a low, confidential voice, “In a moment, I will find you a remedy that will help with your shoulder. First though - is there aught else in life troubles you?” The maidservant murmured something in response and Meg added, “Tell me about him - andif you’re delayed about your duties, I’ll say it was to help me and all will be well.”
Matthew smiled as he closed the door. It still surprised him that most people were so ready to slip into animated conversation about themselves with a stranger; and then, he considered, that was the point, it was about themselves. Who else would have shown an interest in a serving wench? Well, he’d better prove that he was just as good at seeking information as Meg was. He headed off to the common room for a drink.
Chapter 2: The Craftsman
Zacharias Kane had broad shoulders and powerful arms like those of his father, Zenithal Kane the smith. The elder Kane’s fame lived on ten years after his death, not only in Marcaster but throughout three counties around it. Zenithal had been a black-haired giant whose exploits included lifting a hog’s carcass in each hand and striding around the fair as easily as if he held a couple of pups in his fists. When he roared with laughter, people turned to look at the man whose sharp strong teeth showed through his black beard under the split upper lip created by an untamed young colt. Another horse had broken Zenithal’s nose whilst he was still an apprentice. As he grew older and his fame spread, his strange appearance only added to the legends about Zenithal Kane. Zacharias adored his father and feared him. Zenithal loved his son, but it was clear that the name he had been given by his own parents was prophetic. Zenithal was the zenith of his tribe, as far as shoeing horses was concerned.
Zacharias was over a foot smaller than his father and one of his legs was crippled and twisted. It had been clear from birth that he would never walk properly and would not take over his father’s trade. But as soon as he could move he had half crawled, half dragged himself into the forge and watched, entranced, as his father, frowning with concentration, brought the hammer down onto the glowing metal on the anvil. He remembered so clearly the time that his father, for a wager, lay down with an anvil on his chest whilst a farrier struck horseshoes on it.
Tied up in these memories was another, more an impression than a memory. Zacharias was never quite sure whether it was real or not. He had a sense of being carried, high in the air, and he was certain that it was on his father’s shoulder. He could see something glowing and felt its warmth; and then a rough cloth like a sack was placed under him as he lay on something cold: cold like the anvil. He saw the outline of his father’s chest and arms rising above him and high above that, on the barrel roof of the forge, the shadow of the hammer in his hands. The shape moved as the hammer descended, swiftly. Zacharias was sure that he felt the breath of its movement and its cold face against his naked belly as it just touched his flesh, once, twice, three times. Zacharias felt no fear. It was a strange and entertaining experience and it concerned his father, so he knew all was well. Zacharias seemed to remember chuckling as he lay on the anvil. Then his father caught him up laughing, and he saw the ruddy, creased face, the battered nose, the split lip with the white teeth showing through the beard. It was an intense, strong impression but it must have happened when he was tiny, if it happened at all.
“My son,” said his father, hugging him. Zacharias felt Zenithal’s beard rub roughly against his face and experienced pride for the first, but not the last, time.
Now both mother and father were in the grave and Zacharias lived alone in Marcaster. He had not been able to work with iron or create horseshoes as his father had done but he was a smith. He considered himself his father’s heir but his skills were different. His father had come to admire and respect them and to find an apprenticeship for him. The metals that Zacharias understood were not cold, unrelenting warrior iron that had to be beaten and burned by forge and hammer. They were soft, malleable and intriguing gold, silver and copper that could be charmed and coaxed into shape, needing to be approached with gentleness that bordered on affection and seduction. Silver, particularly, with its play of fire and water in the annealing process, appealed to him. He saw the nature of the metals and recognised them. He acknowledged them. And then he hammered, shaped, rounded and formed them into intricate curving shapes to hold a polished stone. Gems for the gold and silver, glass for the copper. Sometimes it would be a ring; or a necklace or a pretty bracelet; or a tiny silver cup or spoon for a christening.
Today, though, he was working on something different as he bent over the bench. Now that it had been to the engraver and the burnisher, it was in the final stages. As he fitted the pieces together, it jingled, lightly and brightly. He held it up to examine it closely before rolling it about on his palm. A silver bell, the two halves plated with gold, with an inscription in flowing script set along its silver centre like an equatorial belt: “The Swyftest Runnyng Horse, Marcaster 1589, VINCIT”.
He rolled the bell, savouring its music and the way the light played on the gold and silver of its decorated surface. He was so absorbed in this that he might not have noticed anyone knocking, but the two mastiffs that he kept were on their feet in an instant. Side by side, hackles raised terrifyingly, they gazed fixedly at the door, ready to leap on whatever might be beyond it. The younger of the two, lips drawn back from white teeth, snarled and slavered. The older dog, his eyes two burning points of danger, gave a deep, menacing rumble. His eyes never left the stout piece of timber that barred the door on the inside. Zacharias took every precaution that he could to keep his house and workshop secure, because of the valuable metals that he used. The mastiffs were two of the precautions. Others were bars and shutters on every opening; a bar, lock and two chains on the door; and several weapons, from some of his father’s old forge tools to a horse pistol that he kept in excellent condition.
“Off!” he said to the dogs. The older obeyed immediately. The younger glanced at him and back at the door, hackles still raised. Then, slowly taking its cue from the older dog, it lay down.
Zacharias went to the door and cautiously lifted the piece of leather that covered the peep-hole. Then, even though he was not a tall man, he lowered his head, because the peep-hole was constructed so that he could peer slightly upwards in comparative safety. With the leather flap in place it was impossible to tell from the outside that there was a small hole in the door. Anyone bothering to lean down and look at it from the outside would just see an apparent knothole in the wood. By that point, he was certain that the dogs, who mostly lay at the foot of the door, would have erupted into life.
He recognised the sober and well-tended clothing of his visitor, his lean shanks and anxious face. Just before the knocking started again, Zacharias grunted “Wait!” and went to remove the bar. There was one other precautionary measure that he had as a last resort. Set into the ceiling above the door was a lump of lead suspended on a rope that could be released instantly on unwanted callers, if they posed a serious threat. Zacharias did not think it would be required, but as he opened the door, he kept his hand on the lever that, with a quick twist, would set the lead plummeting down.
“Zacharias! I need to talk to you.” The visitor’s voice, like his face, was anxious. This was Amiot Goldspink, a former town clerk who now made a modest, but adequate, living as a lawyer. Zacharias sometimes wondered whether the constant state of anxiety in which he lived was created for professional purposes. It impressed most people, but not Zacharias, who knew Goldspink well.
“Come in,” mumbled Zacharias.
“Thank ye,” said Amiot, with relief. As he came in, Zacharias observed that he seemed slightly bulkier than usual under the loose outer garment. And as well as the anxiety, he seemed - almost furtive. Zacharias indicated a seat on the bench under the window, but Amiot shook his head.
“Bar the door again,” he said. Zacharias tried not to let surprise show in his face as he did so, ordering the two dogs to lie just inside it.
Amiot glanced at the small window in the room that overlooked a yard at the back of the house. Surprised, but taking his cue from Goldspink, Zacharias gestured him silently through up some steps into the workshop, with its barred window set high in the wall. They could not be overseen. There was an eight foot drop on the outside wall below the window.
“I can put the shutters up …” began Zacharias, but Amiot shook his head.
“This will be secure enough,” he said. Then he brought out something that made the reason for his apparent bulk clear - two leather bags fastened up tightly with strong, twisted cords. They were obviously heavy. He laid them on the work bench and looked at Zacharias expectantly.
“What is in them?” said Zacharias, although he was already certain he knew.
“Gold, Zacharias. Gold - and silver - coins.”
* * * * *
The trouble began, as usual, in an alehouse. As she considered what had happened later, Ruby blamed the alehouse.
Clink had quickly caught her up and they crammed food into their mouths as they hurried along. When not eating, they congratulated each other and chuckled over their success. There was still plenty left for the Sad Mort and the Frog and when they found them, they discovered that the Frog had caught and cooked a pheasant. This was life; famine turned to feast and they made the most of it while they could. They decided to make camp for a day or two and found a suitable spot in the middle of a wood with some running water nearby. As they knelt by the fire or sat on the grass whilst the men lay about smoking, Ruby and Moll talked about Moll’s kinchins - her children - and wondered whether they would meet up soon with Doll, who was looking after them.
Moll was often without her children because she could not bear to be separated from the Jingler for too long. The Jingler was a restless rover, always on the move as he searched out opportunities. He acknowledged his children by Moll and tolerated their company when he and Moll were together, but that was not often. Not often enough for Moll. Ruby, full of food, enjoyed the sun, the soft grass, the wind on her face and the brief respite from the hard slog of life on the road. She scarcely listened to what Moll was saying, simply nodding and agreeing at intervals. She had heard it all before anyway. The Jingler’ll never change, she thought, but she kept that thought to herself.
Clink sat up suddenly.
“Thirst’s got a hold on me,” he said. Ruby knew what he meant. She offered him some water from a bottle that they carried with them. He refused. “Salt cheese and bacon; always goes down better with ale, eh?” Ruby knew that, in this mood, nothing would do for him but ale. Something, some foreknowledge, made her offer to go with him when he said he would go to find an alehouse. They scraped together the few farthings they had, augmented by the two that Ruby had been given, and she and Clink set off down a different lane from the one that led to the farmhouse. The Frog and Moll followed slowly on behind.
It didn’t take them long to find a wayside cottage that would sell them some ale. Clink said he would bring some out for them all and Ruby waited a little way off on a broken down wall, swinging her heels and wondering if she would find some new shoes - stampers, they called them - to wear when they got to Marcaster. Her shoes were broken down, like the wall, she thought. Clink was taking his time, but she had expected that. He wouldn’t come out until the money had gone and he’d make it stretch as far as he could, but he wouldn’t forget the others. He’d bring something out for ‘em, thought Ruby. Full and happy, she began to sing under her breath.
It took Clink a while to adjust to the darkness inside the alehouse and so he scarcely noticed that one of the drinkers had taken a good look at him before slipping out of another door. The Frog, with his greater sensitivity to danger, would have been out of there in an instant. Clink settled onto a bench with a sigh and took a long, long drink. It was good. Cool and flavoursome. He wondered what they used to make it taste so good and then decided that it was probably his thirst. He was still sitting there, blissfully content, when the local constable and two other men walked in and seized him. The galling thing was, he hadn’t finished his drink.
Ruby, sitting on the broken wall in the sun, was suddenly aware of a disturbance at the front of the alehouse. She hoped Clink hadn’t got into a fight - or worse, tried to cut a purse. That’s what had got them into trouble the last time. The rickety door of the alehouse burst open and Clink was pushed out into the lane. Ruby instantly dropped down behind the wall. Her eyes widened as she peeped over it. She was hardly aware of the constable with his staff or the man that accompanied them. No; it was the third man, whose face was so familiar to her, that drew her attention. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been helping to get them all set in the stocks. She’d never forget his laughing face as he heaved turnips at them. A little earlier, she’d been telling him his fortune - and a grand fortune it had been, rot him.
It was the pigman from Guildern.
* * * * *
The Jing
ler knew it was time to lose the nag. Marcaster was close enough now. He put the little horse through a gate by the road and slapped it on the rump, which set it cantering and bucking towards some cows. The cows snorted and jumped, with their eyes popping, as it approached. He had some regret; it had been a good enough little nag, but he was taking no chances of being picked up as a prigger of prancers, not for that ‘un, anyway! He set off towards Marcaster with the saddle and bridle stowed in his bag.
Marcaster had seen many, many Jinglers in its two thousand year history. From a little huddle of huts where hunters and herders came down from the hills to trade - and occasionally fight - with local farmers in the days before the Romans, Marcaster had developed into a strategic centre under Roman rule, with a cavalry barracks, town walls and a small arena where there were some wild animal fights and gladiatorial contests. It had also gained a reputation for food, drink and diversion. The cavalry barracks were now just some hillocks on a common where stock was grazed and the stone and timber of the circus had long since disappeared, but some of the walls remained. They had been rebuilt and extended occasionally over the years, mostly whenever there was a rumour about an invasion by the Scots. At one end, the town was dominated by a square tower, the grim Norman keep that now served as Marcaster Jail. The moat that surrounded it had been filled in to provide land for the courthouse, the undersheriff’s house, the town hall and some fine new dwellings for merchants. Marcaster was now known for its livestock and grain markets; and horses, not unlike that ridden lately by the Jingler, still came jogging down from the hills just as they had done in ancient times. Market days continued to be a riot of thundering hooves as the horses and cattle ran through parts of the town, but the local council was moving to bring this to an end.
