by Miriam Bibby
The Jingler, whom Meg and Matthew had also known under the alias of James Jostler, ignored the brooding tower that cast its shadow and a warning across the town and made his way, inevitably, to a stable. Horses and stables always drew him as a lodestone draws iron. In a lifetime around horses he had learned a thing or two and some of these could be usefully be applied in legitimate service that would earn him a few coins. The other, more dubious skills - well, they just awaited an opportunity to be applied. The right opportunity. And so, finding himself here, in Marcaster, in the knowledge that the Frater was keeping an eye on the woman and her servant, the Jingler settled into his natural element. In his experience, information, knowledge and that most important quality, opportunity, were always to be found in a stable. And the best opportunities of all were found in the stables of an inn. This one smelled good, in every sense of the word.
The Blue Boar was a fine house: Marcaster’s best, in fact. It was also a busy one, with its regular local and passing trade augmented by the occasional sporting match, fair, or execution. The Jingler savoured the bustle around the stable yard that accompanied the anticipation of some forthcoming event and it invigorated him. And there was something especially lively in the air of the Blue Boar and its yard; the ostlers and kitchen staff had a self-important air as they went about their work. Some especially significant duty lay on them, the Jingler was sure.
It wasn’t long before the opportunity to hold a traveller’s horse arrived and the Jingler was given a groat for his pains. “Thank ye!” he said, smiling gratefully and touching his forelock. “If there’s aught more that I can do?” He made sure that he was spotted by one of the older ostlers, a harassed little man, with a crab-like walk, weighed down by some water buckets that he carried. Eventually the ostler gestured at him with his head.
“Thoo, aye, thoo, man, don’t just stand there doing nowt - tak’ these pails.” The Jingler complied. “Th’oss in stall, aye, there - ” The little man indicated with another jerk of his head, because he had already picked up a pitchfork and begun to lift hay into a rack for another of the stable’s inmates. “When tha’s done, fetch more watter.”
The Jingler gave the nondescript brown horse a drink, noting the near-dried dusty sweat on it. “Give this’un a rub down after?” he said, keeping his speech as clipped and economical as the ostler, who nodded, flinging some curt instruction over his shoulder as he went after another task. The Jingler frowned as he caught what had been said. The little man had a local accent with some other variations - perhaps he’d travelled - and it was hard to follow.
For the next two hours the Jingler worked as hard as, or harder than, the rest of them. Afterwards, the little man came up to him and looked him up and down. “Knows tha trade, does,” he said. “Be thoo looking for place?” The Jingler nodded. “Name?”
“Will Aitchison,” said the Jingler, without hesitation. It was not his name. The old ostler pursed his lips and regarded him with one eye half closed. He saw a tall thin man, with straight yellow hair and light-coloured eyes that were hard to read as he gave the ostler his most ingenuous smile. The ostler was not convinced, but he knew he was dealing with a man who knew horses. Eventually he nodded. This man would have to prove his reliability through his work. That was the way of it.
“Aye, well, ah’ll fix it wi’ maister. Had a lad run aht on uz afore year was up. Next hiring fair’s not till Martinmas.” This explanation was obviously a lot of words for the ostler and he turned swiftly away, muttering “Tak’ thysen up kitchen door, man.”
As the Jingler ate, sitting on a sack stuffed with straw, he listened. The little ostler gave nothing away, of course, but a couple of the younger lads, full of their own self-importance - without reason - tended to boasting and gossip. When they strayed too far the ostler shut them up with a look or a sharp derogatory “puh!” of breath. After quickly cramming the food down, there was more work; more horses came in and one or two went out, although it was growing late. When the work was finally at an end, the Jingler found himself a space in the loft and fell asleep immediately.
He woke very early in the morning and stretched his aching muscles. The work here was hard, fast and unrelenting. No wonder the lad who’d been working for them had sloped off. He listened to the other men snoring in the loft around him and quietly eased himself out of the ragged horse blanket and straw that he was wrapped in. The old ladder creaked a little as he descended. He found some water and sluiced his face, slapping it on his skin to wake himself up. Then he stepped outside to sniff the air. There was a strip of gold on the eastern horizon, but it was still dark and warm inside the stable, with only the sound of horses munching the few scraps of remaining forage, shifting their weight or groaning or relieving themselves. The Jingler found a lantern and a candle stub and set to work by its dim light. He intended to be well ahead in his chores by the time the others woke to the day. He had an inkling that the little ostler would be up and about early and if he found the Jingler already working it would be noted to the Jingler’s credit. He had another reason, though.
The Jingler skipped out the already immaculate stalls which had received their last cleaning just before the lads turned in. Then he filled pails and started to sluice down the drainage channel. As he worked, he looked over the stable’s inhabitants carefully. Nothing to speak of - but there had been a horse brought in late and in a hurry which had been put into a far stall that he thought might be worth his glance. He’d tried to catch what they said about it, but whenever he was within hearing distance, he found the other lads shut up quickly. He now made his way slowly and methodically towards that corner of the stable .
From time to time he glanced briefly up towards the corner, but kept on sweeping, pushing any remaining scraps of dirty straw and hay into a couple of heaps that could be quickly shovelled up, moving the lantern along as he swept. Finally he was at the far stall, flicking an interested glance at the restive black horse that was in it. He noted that the horse turned its head - a fine one, all right - and attempted to look at him, the lantern light glancing on its eye as it rolled back towards him. What happened next took him completely by surprise.
* * * * *
Amiot Goldspink was a worried man as he lay awake in the early hours of the morning. He was always worried, but this present state of anxiety was exceptional even for him. His nails were bitten and torn and he had lost weight. Sometimes he felt that the weight he had lost approximated to the weight of the gold in the bags that he had left with Zacharias. He could still feel the weight of those bags. He dreamed about them. Sometimes he saw them sitting side by side on a trestle. Then there was a chinking of coins and suddenly they were two sinister beings, not bags, rocking towards him across the board with their tightly fastened necks flopping backwards and forwards like fat waddling - what? Nothing friendly, nothing homely like a hen or a duck or a puppy. Nothing like that.
It had been the obvious thing to do, to take them to Zacharias, whose entire home was a strong box. He knew they would be safe there. He entirely trusted Zacharias, as much as the people who had handed over the gold trusted Goldspink. Everyone knew the lawyer was honest and totally dependable.
It had started last year, when a few people, mainly well-to-do Marcaster worthies, had asked Goldspink to hold their wager money on the Widderis-Grasset match in the spring. This year, he had been asked again, but it was quite alarming the way the word had spread so quickly that he was holding the money. Others had approached him, secretly and confidentially. They had placed a little wager and would he mind holding the money for them? And so it had gone on until it had grown like the giant snowballs created by the town lads in winter. He was not concerned about the accounting; he had it all accounted for, in a ledger, in his meticulous way.
This year was different, though. He had made some wagers on his own behalf, with less consequential people. It had been so easy to do. Little wagers, of course, nothing that would cause him any difficulty. None at all; especially i
f he won, which he hoped to do. It had provided him with a sense of excitement and pleasure, to begin with. Now though - doubts were creeping in.
He was concerned by the thought of how many people knew he was entrusted with the gold. And how many of those should not know about it? He might still end up with a bash on the head even though he did not have it any more. Desperate rogues didn’t care about that. If they got a whiff of the wealth contained in those sacks, they would not think twice about beating its whereabouts out of him. For this reason, he was temporarily avoiding quiet places, deserted alleys and lonely lanes. His house was inside the town and well known and he felt reasonably secure whilst he was there. On one side of him lived an elderly woman and her sons, strong lads who would scare off a robber. On the other side, in a substantial, half-timbered gilded property, was a wool broker with several servants. People who would keep an eye out for him and come to his aid if he needed it.
Also, people saw him coming and going there all the time. They would call a greeting or ask him how he was. “How are you, Amiot?” “How goes it, Amiot?” “Be ye well, Goldspink?” It was all very friendly and warming and he found himself truly appreciating it for the first time. Sometimes in the past he had found his visibility and the calls on his time irritating. No longer. He just thought how fortunate he was to have good neighbours and to live in so friendly a place. Mostly friendly, anyhow. He would be glad when this match was over.
He had also avoided Zacharias, for a few days at least. Then he encountered Kane in the street and pretended not to see him. Zacharias had looked at him in a quizzical fashion and then grinned at him with those sharp white teeth, exactly the same as his father’s.
“Good day, Amiot,” he said, in an ironic voice. “Naught ails thee, I trust.”
Goldspink shook his head. “N…no, Zacharias, naught.”
Zacharias had laughed then, saying in a low voice that all was safe, he had nothing to fear regarding the money.
“But, man,” he continued, half whispering, “by the look on your face the day of judgement approaches. Be of better cheer. D’ye want to draw attention to yourself?”
So Amiot tried to act as though all was well.
Zacharias was not concerned about the safety of the money. He had ingenious hiding places in his house - in the roof, in the floor and in the walls - and he had placed the bags in the most secure place that he had. He carried on with his work as though nothing had changed. The beautiful silver bell, the prize for the winner of the Widderis-Grasset match, gleamed in his hand. Metal liked to be handled, he always thought; it liked to be handled and cleaned. Silver, the metal of the moon. Beautiful, mysterious, gentle silver. Silver had revealed some of its secrets to Zacharias. He knew that silver worn against the skin guarded against disease. Silver reflected and softened the features when polished into a mirror. And then there was the other silver, that was not silver; dangerous, deceptive quicksilver. Mercury’s metal. The metal of madness.
He put the bell down and went towards the place where the bags were hidden. Turning the key, he went into his sleeping chamber. The door was stout and reinforced on the inside with hefty pieces of iron. As with the door into his house, there were two strong chains, one at the top and one at the bottom. Two iron bars were used to pin it once he was inside. More bars secured the window. There was the horse pistol; there was the arquebus leaning at the foot of the wall under the casement. Zacharias grinned. Who would guess?
The bags were in the bolster of course. Inside each end was tucked some cloth and beyond that, the bags. It was obvious. Most robbers would immediately seek out the bed chamber and ransack it, shaking out the bedclothes, ripping up the bolsters and mattress. This was still the securest place in the house, though, because of the strength of the door and window. And the weapons he kept here.
Robbers would, by instinct, pick up the bolster as soon as they saw it. Greed was a great spur. If they grabbed the bolster to loosen or rip at it, then Zacharias had a little surprise for them. A hidden trail of rope led up into the canopy of the bed - it was a grand bed; why not, he could afford it - and as the robber took hold of the bolster and began to lift it, a heavy piece of wood, cleverly placed to look like a strut in the canopy, was released to smack down on his head. For obvious reasons, Zacharias never got out on the wrong side of bed in the morning.
He disarmed the mechanism and took up the bolster. Inside the leather bags were coarse fabric bags and inside those were the coins. They had been sorted, to some degree; Zacharias knew Goldspink well and he reckoned that one bag, containing mainly angels and sovereigns, contained the wagers of some well-to-do Marcaster worthies - possibly even Widderis and Grasset gentry themselves. The other was literally a more mixed bag. Zacharias, who had investigated the contents of both bags thoroughly, had found sixpences and groats and even a lead token - usually used for gaming - alongside the more expected shillings, crowns, halfpounds and sovereigns. He wondered if Goldspink was making wagers with other people as well as simply holding their money. One thing was certain; there was something that he hadn’t told Zacharias.
Selecting particular coins from the bags, Zacharias made his way thoughtfully down to the workshop. He laid them out on the wooden work bench and looked at them closely. Then he smiled. He was pretty sure he knew what Goldspink’s secret was now; but there was a test he needed to make.
* * * * *
The Jingler had been about to approach the horse slowly, with a soothing tone to his voice. He had barely had time to move before he felt the presence of someone behind him. Something, that he knew instinctively was a pistol, was sticking in his back and a voice, low and grim, said “What are you about, there?” The Jingler stood stock still.
“Naught,” he said, and the surprise in his voice was genuine. “Just sweeping up …” He held out the broom in his hand and dropped it to the ground.
“Up before the larks, eh?” said the voice ironically. The Jingler knew that if he had really been about to be shot, it would have already happened. He was now more curious than alarmed.
“I like to get an early start to me work.”
“Walk forward and turn round,” said the voice. The pistol disappeared from his back. The Jingler did as he was bidden. When he turned round, he saw, by the dim lantern light, not one man, but two. They had evidently been seated silently, deep in the shadows in the stall opposite the black horse. It was empty, and the Jingler pondered this fact briefly. The stables had been busy and yet this place remained unoccupied. Curious …
“Will I fetch the horse some water?” he asked, casually. “Or ‘is corn, like?”
“We’ll see to it,” said the first man, but the second man interrupted.
“Let him get watter,” he said. “No harm in that, is there? And we can keep an eye on t’hoss.”
“Aye, well, might be there’s no harm in it and might be there is,” said the first man. “Who’s to know until it’s too late?”
The Jingler’s curiosity was piqued beyond bearing, but he simply said, “No harm, gentlemen, I’m just trying to be helpful.” Two men; one to watch, one to sleep. Taking turns. There must be something of great value here. The horse?
“Thanks to thee, man,” said the friendlier of the two men. “But no need. There’ll be plenty more needs doing, eh?”
The Jingler nodded agreement. It was hard to make out their faces or clothing in the dark, but he thought he saw the faint gleam of something light-coloured on both of them and the shape of hats that were identical. Servants; but possibly servants of a well-to-do household. He tugged his forelock - it was too dark for them to see the ironic look that accompanied it - and walked quickly back down between the stalls. Somehow - by some means - he was going to discover what the mystery was here.
When the light grew great enough and the rest of the household of the inn began to stir, the Jingler got a better look at the two men. They came forth, singly, to visit the common room to fetch food and drink and visit the stinking hut kno
wn as ‘the offices’ that was located as remotely as possible from the inn. They were, as he had thought, smartly and similarly dressed in dark blue and white garments, although their clothing looked slightly the worse for a night in an inn stable.
The Jingler worked, watched and waited. The old ostler kept the lads busy and, the Jingler noted, well away from the corner of the stable where the black horse stood. At mid morning, the friendlier of the two men took saddle and bridle and went into the stall. Shortly afterwards he led the black horse out to a mounting block on the yard and tightened the girth. The Jingler, head down as he groomed a stout grey horse, watched sideways from under his brows. That was a fine horse, all right. Black, with a white star. Very fine. The servant walked the horse about a little. When one of the stable cats chased a bird on the yard the horse threw up its head and laid its ears back, stepping sideways. The servant leading it ignored it, then, as it calmed, stroked its neck down from its ears to the withers. The horse relaxed and rubbed its nose on his sleeve. It was groomed to a smoothness that gleamed in the hazy morning sun. The Jingler knew that viewed closely, every single hair would reflect an entire spectrum of colour. Very, very fine …
