by Miriam Bibby
There was no opportunity to get one of those talkative lads on one side and ply him with a drink or two to find out who owned the horse and why it was being held in the stable. The pace of the work and the ever-watchful eye of the old ostler saw to that. The Jingler had an inkling - but he needed some inside information. Choosing an informer would require a lot of thought, if he wasn’t to give his interest away.
Whilst he was thinking about this, the old ostler sought him out to tell him curtly that there was a place for him if he wanted it and that it would be agreed properly like, but not in a hurry because t’maister was busy. That suited the Jingler down to the ground. He was in no hurry to tie himself to this work and he had other business in Marcaster. He frowned as he thought about the less pleasant aspect that needed attention.
The black horse was ridden out by the servant, who came back leading it two hours later. There were little traces of foam and sweat on its neck and flanks, but it had not been ridden hard. The Jingler happened to be out on the yard wisping one of the horses belonging to the inn. He moved with compact, efficient strokes that left the horse’s coat gleaming and flat under his hand. While he worked, he whistled out between clenched teeth. He had shaken his head when one of the other lads attempted to clean the horse with a hedgehog skin brush. The Jingler only ever used a wide wooden toothed implement, a wisp made of hay, or his own hands. He would flatten the coat with a sprinkle of water and follow with a trace of scented oil wiped on to finish. He knew several recipes that would make a horse look and feel fine, protect the skin and promote hair growth. He also knew several that would darken a horse’s coat or lighten it. Then there were the secret ones, the dark ones, that would have undesirable effects - undesirable to most owners, at any rate. He looked up to find the liveried servant watching him. The man looked at him with approval.
“Ah like to see a good worker,” he said. “Tha knows horses, I can see that.” The Jingler said nothing, but allowed his face to relax slightly and nodded his thanks. He carried on grooming the horse.
The servant unsaddled the black horse and glanced over at the Jingler.
“Y’nearly done there, man?”
“Aye,” said the Jingler.
“Well, y’can tak’ care o’ this’un an’ all,” said the man.
“Aye, sir,” said the Jingler, with relish. “And if I may say so, it’ll be a pleasure to work on so fine a beast.”
“He is that, all right,” said the servant, with the pride that reflects from a master and his chattels onto one of his household. He looked around as if to see if the other servant were watching before continuing, “The best in my master’s stable.”
The Jingler raised a questioning eyebrow and took the reins that the servant offered him. As he ran a hand up over the horse’s nose, past the star on its brow and over its ears, the horse started a little. The Jingler continued passing his hand down the horse’s neck on top of the mane to the withers and the horse settled, blowing out gently. He felt the warmth rising under his hand and continued down the shoulder and leg. All clean, save for a small bony lump on the lower limb. Nothing that would affect the horse’s performance, he thought. It would seem too obvious if he checked its mouth, but he reckoned it was about eight. It had been treated well.
“I’ll see to it,” he said, starting. “Seems gentle enough.”
“I’ll watch, if y’don’t mind,” said the servant. “‘Tis a pleasure to see you work.”
The Jingler almost smiled as he accepted this double-edged compliment. The servant evidently didn’t enjoy stable chores. He gave compliments as his master might have done, not necessarily out of generosity but to gain a result. The Jingler was not offended by this. He appreciated it, in a way. The servant wanted something from the Jingler; and the Jingler wanted something in return.
“What’s ‘is name?”
There was a slight pause. Then the servant began to speak. “Y’mean - ye’ve not heard?”
The Jostler looked at him blankly.
“This here horse belongs to my master, Sir Richard Grasset,” began the servant, but before he could get any further, his companion gave a shout across the yard.
“Hoy, what’re ye about, there!” His voice was angry. He strode over and began berating his fellow servant and the Jingler. “Leave t’horse, I said leave it!” The Jingler, remembering the pistol, stepped back and turned his palms to the man in a conciliatory, confused gesture.
“Just trying to help, like,” he said. “No harm done. Grand horse.”
“Aye, well,” said the man, slightly mollified. “I’ll not disagree with thee there.” Turning to his fellow servant, he continued, “Could y’not have seen to t’horse thysen? I know what it is - y’think thysen too good for it, cleaning a horse!”
The Jingler noted this comment but did not let anything show in his face other than confused inferiority. Got that one right on the nose, he had; he had reckoned the friendlier servant was too conscious of his place and he’d been right. Grooming a horse would be beneath him, now that he wore household livery. The Jingler vowed he would never allow himself such airs and graces. Never miss an opportunity to handle a horse, especially a good’un. Looking at the two servants glaring at each other, he realised he wasn’t going to learn anything more from them. But he had all the information he needed now to seek out what was going on here.
* * * * *
Some time later, the Jingler was seated in an alehouse.
“And what did y’say they called him?” he asked idly, watching the wreaths of smoke rising into the air. A hint of a smile was on his lips but it was hidden by the corner of his mouth that was drawn down by the pipe he was smoking.
“Galingale,” said the young stable lad, coughing as he drew inexpertly on the pipe of tobacco the Jingler had just given him. He hadn’t needed much persuasion when the Jingler suggested taking a glass or two when they had finished their work. “Gahahaha - ” he coughed some more - “Galingale.” He took a sip of ale and coughed again.
“Galingale,” said the Jingler, thoughtfully.
“Aye,” said the lad, still wheezing. He wiped a tear from his eye.
“Good bacca, this,” said the Jingler.
“Aye,” said the lad, but he sounded uncertain. Picking up the thread again, he said, “Out of Sir Richard’s Galloway mare - she’s famous hereabouts for her speed - and by his foreign stallion, Galleon, is it? No … Galleyhead, or some such.”
“Galliard?” suggested the Jingler.
“Aye, that’s it!” said the lad eagerly. “Have y’heard of him?” The Jingler thought.
“Perhaps I have, now I come to think on it. And he - this Galingale - is to be matched against a horse belonging to another one o’ the gentry round here?”
“Aye, belongs to Sir John Widderis. The Fly, he’s called. T’horse, I mean.”
“Seen ‘im?”
“T’horse? Nah.”
“Whose d’ye think will win?”
The lad looked cunning. “Couldn’t say. The Fly’s a tall lean ‘orse that can run all right, they say but t’other’s got the heart. ‘Tis said.”
Staying power counted. There’d be more than one heat and the race wasn’t always to the swiftest.
“And the horses are here in Marcaster for all to see, so there’s no chance of changing ‘em? That’s what’s agreed?” continued the Jingler.
“Aye,” said the lad. “And it’s the undersheriff who sees that all’s carried out properly.”
“Ah. Match often, do they? This Widderis and Grasset.”
“Not often. Fall in and out with each other. Natural rivals.”
“Over what? Horses?”
The lad shook his head. “Religion.”
“Grasset?”
The lad shook his head again. “Widderis.”
That was all he needed to say. The Jingler inferred, correctly, that the Widderis family were Catholics and probably recusants. Their religious beliefs were an open secret. But - Sir J
ohn would need to be a wealthy man, if he was a recusant, because the recusancy fees for non-attendance of the new services were twenty pounds a month! Twenty pounds - aye, he’d need to be a very wealthy man indeed. And if he was hearing mass in secret - well, he could have most of his estate confiscated and spend a year in jail if it became known.
The Jingler, who was seated so that he could see out of the window bay on the street side of the inn, moved slightly. The lad, struggling with ale and tobacco, which he had rarely taken before, didn’t notice. The Jingler’s light coloured eyes moved almost imperceptibly to follow the two figures who crossed his vision. That woman. That man. Even that blasted dog, trotting ahead with a tiny basket in his mouth. As he watched, Matthew half halted and glanced round. The Jingler sniffed. As if he knew …
The figures walked on. The woman was veiled and wore a round pleated bonnet on her head. Matthew was bare-headed and carried a stout stick. Apparently, he knew how to use it, or so the Jingler had been reliably informed by his companions. The Jingler narrowed his eyes. The day would come when he would deal with that one as he deserved. The pair and the dog disappeared from his view.
“Come on lad, we’d best be going back,” said the Jingler. He swiftly downed his drink and knocked the dottle out of his pipe onto the floor. The lad looked relieved.
“Owd Tom’d have me guts if he knew,” he said.
The Jingler tapped his nose. “Well, y’say - nowt - and I’ll say nowt. Eh?” he said, slipping into local dialect.
“Aye!”
As they left, they almost bumped into a rotund, red-faced man with a fringe of white hair and beard. Startled, his eyes met the Jingler’s, but before he could say anything, the Jingler spoke gruffly. “My pardon, I didn’t see you there”. Turning to the stable lad, the Jingler added, “Get on back, Harry lad, I’ve just remembered a task Tom set me.” He watched the lad’s thin, hunched back as he set off in the direction of the Blue Boar, and then turned to the Frater.
“Jingler!” said Frater John. “I’m glad to see ‘ee. Never will ye guess who I’ve met with here.”
The Jingler looked at him in an exasperated fashion. “Seeing as you was set to following ‘em, not meeting ‘em, I don’t see that’s anything to boast about.”
“Who?” said the Frater, bemused. “Oh, you mean the woman and that boy Moses and the dog? Oh, aye, they’ve set up in the Hart and Hawthorn, they have. Nay, Jingler, not them.”
“Who, then?”
The Frater paused for effect and then hissed, “Francis Jugg! Except he don’t call himself Francis any more - it’s Uriel now.”
“Uriel?” said the Jingler in a tone of utter disgust. “That’d be Master Jugg. Incense-stinking, swindling, double-faced whoreson dog …” He swore violently. Then, “No time to talk now, Jack. I’ll meet ye later. Where are you couched of a night?” While they were talking, the Jingler was assessing the Frater, who was looking spruce in some new garments. The Frater looked embarrassed.
“Jugg’s found a place for me. He’s sexton of …” began the Frater.
“Sexton! Jugg! A sexton!” The Jingler whooped with laughter.
“Aye, Jingler. He’s a house on the parish and that’s where I couch me hogshead of a night.”
“Near the boneyard, eh? Does that not trouble your sleep?”
“Nay, Jingler; y’know me, it’s the living we have to fear, not the dead ones!”
“Aye, well. That’s true. Got work for ye, has he?”
“He has, Jingler.” The Frater did not enlighten him further, for if he knew what he and Jugg were up to with the cards he might want to join in; and the last time that had happened, things had turned very ugly between the Jingler and Jugg. Very nasty indeed.
The Jingler was thinking.
“Best not be seen together too much, Jack. D’ye know of somewhere quiet, like?”
.
“Aye,” said the Frater. He gave the Jingler directions.
“Thought ye would know of somewhere, ” said the Jingler, with a wink. “I’ll make my way, you make yours. See y’there, Jack!”
The Frater was just trotting off to his meeting with the Jingler when he saw some poor wretch being marched along with his hands tied in front of him. He felt for the fellow - there but for the grace of God … The Frater sent up a quick prayer for the poor lad as he was pushed along by one fellow on foot and pulled along by another on a horse. Then he recognised the man and his heart began to race.
“Mother of God,” said the Frater, with genuine feeling. He was overcome by faintness and stepped into the shadows where he secretly crossed himself. “Clink.”
Chapter 3: The Rivals
The mare had struggled and sweated for hours while one of the men watched, soothed and encouraged. As often as not, it was Sir George Paston himself who was there, feeling wretched and helpless. About midnight, she lay on her side and her legs scrabbled in the air, catching on the wall with a sickening sound. Then she sighed, as though she was about to give up. Her eyes became fixed and her breathing seemed to halt.
“Don’t die, lass,” muttered George. For a while he was convinced that she had gone, he had lost both his mare and her foal, and then breath seemed to whoosh into her lungs again. She rolled over and half sat up. He encouraged her to get up with a hand on her mane, tugging, half pleading with her. She stood, sweating and looking round at her belly again; then shook herself slightly and pawed the ground. The wandering and struggling began once more.
As dawn came, the mare gave one last heaving, groaning push, and the foal slithered into the churned-up straw. A big strong foal - no wonder the mare had struggled so hard - and a filly. George waited until the foal was up on its feet and drinking, and the mare had taken a sip of water and was acquainting herself with her new daughter. Then he left them together. Standing outside, feeling the fresh dawn wind on his skin, he took deep breaths of the air, watching the light growing on the line of hills on the eastern horizon. The birds were starting to greet the sun. This was his land and he loved it, never more so than in this space between night and morning. It was cool now, but he knew instinctively that it would be a glorious day, probably as warm as the heights of summer. This was good, since there was a lot of work to do and it would give them the opportunity to get the mare and foal outside as soon as possible. There was nothing more miserable than young creatures coming into a world of cold, lashing rain, or worse, snow and hail. George went inside, cleaned himself up and fell asleep in the hall in front of the cold fireplace.
When he woke up, his house steward John was standing beside him holding out a note apologetically. It was from George’s cousin Sim. George rubbed his eyes and tried to focus on the words.
The message began with the usual greeting that managed to be cousinly and formal at the same time. “To Sir George Paston at Oakenhall from Simon Cantle Esquire, sent from Whitrishes and in our own hand: Greetings. Cousin, I hope all is well with you …” and then turned quickly to business.
“It seems that one of our rogues from the Guildern Fair: you’ll recall the one who cut the purse: has been taken up by a brother Justice in another county and sent directly to jail in Marcaster; there are certain matters that need attention, not least on points of law …” George smiled as he read this. They were both Justices of the Peace but of the two, Sim had the legal mind. Sim was usually several steps ahead of him in any legal argument. Just occasionally though, George remembered something that Sim had overlooked. Sim’s mind ran on mercurially, taking in point after point, restructuring and reassessing them; George’s knowledge tended to be practical and deeply lodged, and mostly - even he would have admitted - devoted to horses and farming topics. Occasionally though, some useful nugget emerged in a court room.
He had to read and re-read the note before it began to have any reality for him. What he needed was a wash, some fresh clothes and a large platter of ham collops and coddled eggs. And morning ale. Once that was done, his horse was brought round for him.
