by Miriam Bibby
Meg put down her quill, sighed and stretched. That would suffice for now. She had more clients to see and she needed to rest and prepare herself.
The first visitor was a young woman who was trying to rid herself of an unwelcome lover. The second was a young woman who was hoping to gain one. Meg suppressed the desire to introduce the second one to the first. A pity; for she was sure that it could work to their mutual benefit. The third, arriving rather breathlessly after climbing slowly up the stairs to Meg’s room, was an elderly - no, an old, a very old, woman who was also somewhat stout. Probably not looking for a lover - although it had been known. Meg helped her to a seat.
“Eeeh, dear,” said the old woman, with a hand to her chest. Meg heard her wheezing and gulping as she tried to catch her breath. Meg fetched her a glass of wine and handed it to her, smiling encouragingly. “Thank ye, my dear,” said the woman, taking a sip and then a larger swallow. She smacked her lips. “Eh, that gives ye courage. Gi’s ye heart, that does.” Meg took the hint and refilled the glass. It was probably a taste that the old woman didn’t have very often.
After a couple of glasses the woman confided to Meg quite cheerfully that she’d come about her knees, which were giving her terrible trouble, though they seemed to have temporarily improved since the glass of wine. “Didn’t know if I’d arrive at top of the stairs, I didn’t!” She held out her glass again. “Mother Garland’s my name, Mistress.”
“And I am - called - Mistress Loveday,” said Meg, smiling.
“Someone told me that ye’d be able t’help wi’ me knees,” said the woman.
“I believe I can,” said Meg. “Tell me, when is the pain at its worst?” With a few questions, she discovered that Mother Garland, despite her great age, was in service. She was employed to clean and cook by more than one of the town’s bachelors and it was the scrubbing of floors in some establishments that “was a bit too nice”, that caused her the greatest pain and trouble in rising afterwards.
“I do wish that floors was all dirt, my dear, and then there’d be no need of scouring and scrubbing.”
Meg nodded sympathetically and fetched a jar of ointment from amongst her belongings. She told Mother Garland, who was now quite perky, to use a very small amount on her knees each night and rest as much as she could with her feet elevated.
“How much, my dear?” said Mother Garland, fumbling for a coin. Meg shook her head, but Mother Garland insisted and in the end Meg took a groat, but made sure that the woman had a drop more wine before leaving.
“Mind the stairs,” warned Meg as Mother Garland wove her way happily towards the door. She paused in the doorway to give her thanks.
“Thank ye, me dearie. I do wish that y’would help one of them that I serves, one of me new gentlemen, but how I would make him consult ye, I do not know. That’s men for ye, eh?”
“What is his name - and what ails him?” said Meg, deciding that she had better see the old lady safely down to the street. “There is perhaps something amongst my wares that you could take for him.”
“He’s greatly troubled in mind and heart,” said Mother Garland. “Greatly troubled, but there, Master Goldspink has always been troubled in spirit over one thing or another. ‘Tis his nature, I do believe.”
Meg took Mother Garland’s arm firmly in her own. “I hope for an improvement in your knees soon,” she said. “Send me word, if so. And as for Master Goldspink - send him to me, an y’can, for I certainly have the wares to help him. Simple wares that will provide a restful night and lift the spirit; but ‘tis best with a consultation. And I will prepare something else for ye, a rare scented dust to help with your floor-scrubbing and laundering. ‘Tis a little thing, but all helps to ease the labour.”
Mother Garland smiled at her and then, with a conspiratorial glance around, beckoned to Meg to draw closer to her.
“A last thing, my dear,” she whispered, as Meg leaned down towards her. “A word in your ear. Perhaps y’could tell me - some says y’have the power - ” she glanced around furtively, “so perhaps ye can see which horse it might be that will win the match? D’ye have some advice?” Her eyes gazed into Meg’s with innocent trust as though Meg were the Oracle of Delphi itself.
Meg shook her head and smiled wryly. “My best advice would be never to wager more than y’can afford.”
As she waved Mother Garland on her way, Meg was sure that she would have no need of anything more to help her sleep well that night.
* * * * *
Amiot Goldspink made his way nervously towards the Hart and Hawthorn, telling himself that it was on the way to the goldsmith’s house and he was just passing by as he went to see his old friend Zacharias. It was probably his state of mind that had given him the courage to come this far, rather than Mother Garland’s delighted praise of Meg’s knee rubbing remedy. He was impressed, though. Mother Garland had arrived for her work in a perky mood. She liked the work at Goldspink’s because he was not as picky as some of the others. The poor man was in need of comfort and cheer, that’s what Mother Garland thought. She hoped that the sudden improvement in her own health would encourage him to have more care for his own.
Amiot hesitated outside the Hart and Hawthorn. Glancing up, he thought he saw a face at one of the casements, a face that quickly withdrew. This was the moment to change his mind. He thought of Mother Garland, who had smiled at him and told him how much improved her knees were. She’d almost danced a jig in proof. True, the sight of her wrinkled stockings and her clattering pattens as she waved a leg at him hadn’t been exactly inspiring, but there was no denying her physical improvement. Also, the house had started to smell beautifully of lavender with a hint of rose, scents that calmed and uplifted the spirit. Perhaps there was something that this cunning-woman could provide that would help him sleep better, because that was the worst time. The early hours of the morning. It seemed a long time since he had rested well and woken refreshed. Could he even remember that time?
Amiot plucked up his courage and went into the inn. Once inside, he was greeted by one of the apronmen.
“I am here to see - a Mistress Loveday?” said Amiot, adding hastily, “‘Tis not for myself, y’understand, but for the woman that tends my house. This woman has provided a remedy for her and she is in need of some more.”
Soon he was feeling his heart pound in apprehension as he climbed the stairs to Meg’s rooms. By the time he reached the door, he was almost breathless and Meg, seeing his face, helped him quickly to a chair. Without being told, she knew that his pulse would be racing hard. A decoction of hawthorn berries, she thought. That was easy to do. Also, there were still a few precious tiny bundles of her most special item. This case warranted it, she thought.
Bringing Amiot a glass of wine, she waited, smiling encouragingly as he took some sips. She saw that the muscles of his face and neck were tight and his lips looked pale. Even when he recovered, he seemed reluctant to speak about whatever it was that was causing his anxiety. Meg was almost certain that she knew, though. There was one thing guaranteed to make a man look like that. Gold - particularly gold that belonged to other people. Rubrum unguentum, red ointment, she thought, though her face betrayed nothing. That’s what the Puritans call it, with mocking irony, for they know its grease will open any door.
Amiot, feeling somewhat better, said, “My servant - Mother Garland - recommended you …” The words came out almost in little gasps.
“Pray, wait until you have found some more breath,” said Meg, and was encouraged to see the hint of a smile on the man’s face in response.
After a while, Amiot spoke again. “‘Tis true that she seems mightily improved these days and she speaks highly of the ointment that you provided for her.”
Meg smiled modestly. “I am content that I was able to assist.”
“It is - she is - almost rejuvenated!” said Amiot, thinking of the way Mother Garland had twirled a leg.
“It’s kind of you to say so,” said Meg, wondering how much, if
any, wine Amiot kept in the house.
“And so - I was wondering whether y’might be able to assist me. Y’see, I find it so difficult to find rest of a night.”
Meg made a little noise of sympathy.
“The dawn’s in the sky some mornings before I find any ease. Then when my eyes do close in sleep, it’s time to rise and be about the day’s labours.”
“What is your occupation?” asked Meg, although she already knew. She was watching him closely as he replied.
“I am a lawyer,” said Amiot, shifting slightly on his chair, as though he was suddenly uncomfortable. “And well-known here in Marcaster.”
“Forgive my ignorance,” said Meg, apologetically.
“No offence taken, Madam,” said Amiot. His shoulders seemed to sag slightly as he continued, “If y’can help me - if anyone could help me - find rest - I would pay anything for a good night’s sleep.”
There was genuine sympathy in Meg’s voice as she said, “I understand. Even the highest in the land would pay for sweet rest; and I have a noble remedy that will provide it.”
“The highest in the land?” said Amiot, looking at her curiously. He sighed. “Well, perhaps the highest have the most afflicted dreams at night, since they have the heaviest burdens to carry.”
Meg wanted to ask him about his own burdens, but she knew when to remain silent. Trust and confidence were important parts of her relationship with those who sought her aid and it took time and patience to build them. Instead, she rose to her feet and went over to a chest that rested on a stool in a dark corner of the room. When she came back, she was carrying a little packet wrapped in dark coloured fabric.
“This,” she said, looking directly at him in a kindly and serious fashion, “is a receipt from ancient times. Place a little in wine each night and allow it to infuse slowly. Then drink it. There is enough here for a week. When it is gone, return and I will provide more. And be not afraid - ” she raised a hand, because Amiot had looked as though he wanted to say something ” - for there is naught that will harm y’here. The ingredients are all wholesome and many would be familiar to you. ‘Tis all in the blending, that is where the skill lies.”
Amiot looked at the packet. It was fastened with ribbon and sealed with a blob of wax. He saw that there was something impressed into the wax - an image with words around it. He thought that he could make out something like “Meg” and then saw that the legend was Tris*Meg*Istus. But the smell - there was a glorious smell rising from the packet. A smell of fruit, resin and, curiously, fresh green plants. The smell transported him to the outdoors and he felt momentarily better. If simply the smell of this could have such an effect …
Meg put a finger to her lips. “This is so remarkable that it is only available to the few that I believe have most need of it. I do not advertise it abroad. I will also prepare a decoction for you to take in the morning and at noon.”
“Thank ye,” began Amiot. “And what do I owe ye?”
Meg shook her head. “Try it; and if you do not find yourself sleeping well after two nights, there will be no fee.” She could say this with confidence, for she had never known anyone who did not wish for more of this drink.
Amiot felt better already. He hesitated, looking down at the packet he was clutching in his hand. A curious look came over his face. He seemed to be avoiding Meg’s eyes. It was a furtive look, and when he did glance at her, briefly, she read more in his eyes. There was desperation there; and fear; and greed.
“I thank you, madam. And - I wonder …” He paused. “You know of the forthcoming match?”
Meg nodded, giving nothing away.
“I wonder - it is said by some that you - that you - ” He paused, glancing at her again. She saw the colour in his face deepen. “Do you know - can you see - the outcome? I would - pay well - ” He dropped his eyes again. The pause that followed was so long he wondered if she had heard him.
Meg had drawn a deep breath and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she did not look at Goldspink, but as if she were seeing something that was not there. Something she did not wholly understand. One hand was stretched out in front of her.
“I see red - a red stone. And a golden letter.”
Amiot hardly dared breathe. Eventually, looking at her wide-eyed, he stammered out, “A letter? A letter - of the alphabet?”
Meg’s voice seemed to come from a great distance. “Yes. It is - the letter ‘G’ that I see - a golden ‘G’.”
* * * * *
Two days later Meg was looking down into the street and turning a coin - a sovereign from Amiot Goldspink - over and over in her fingers *** occasionally stopping to weigh it contemplatively in the palm of her hand *** . She turned her head slightly and said, “Matthew, what d’ye recall of the goldsmith’s house?”
Matthew thought for a moment. “It is interesting; the workshop is at one end with a barred and shuttered shop window onto the street. The workshop window itself is high, long and barred, on the wall at right angles to the street. The other end of the dwelling has two storeys and is finer, with a good roof and chimney. The door is in the centre and faces the street. Other than the shop window, the street wall is blank, as is the other gable end. Not quite true; there is a small casement on the second storey, and it faces the street also. But, behind the dwelling, I do not know. There is a high wall and I heard barking dogs.”
“Is it possibly two dwellings united as one?”
“It might be,” said Matthew, considering. “Yes. The workshop has a more rustic look and the other end is quite new and fine despite the lack of casements; and the roof and chimney, as I said, are good and impressive. The lower portion might be the part that housed the original forge of his father?”
“Yes; and perhaps there was an arch or a - how do they call it in these parts? A vennel? Or ginnel? Between the two buildings to give entry. An alley, in short. And as for the lack of casements; windows can be removed and the space filled in again. A goldsmith might do that for purposes of security.”
“True,” said Matthew. “If so, it was by good workmen; the outside of the whole is clean and smoothly plastered. You could not tell if it were once two dwellings, or see where there were casements.”
“Our Zacharias has proved successful in his trade, it seems; and there’s nearly as much wealth in gold as there is in horses’ feet. I don’t doubt he keeps his house secure. However - there’s always a way - where there’s a will. Matthew, I don’t believe we have ever had a wager, have we?”
“No. Are you thinking of the forthcoming match? If so,” Matthew smiled smugly at her, “perhaps you should hear my other news.”
“Which is?”
“That Sir George Paston is staying with Sir Richard; though that’s not widely known. Don’t you think he would be the rider for Sir Richard’s horse in the match? And that there is likely to be a hanging or two. One of them we - I - certainly know. This is the reason - well, the apparent reason - for Sir George’s presence. To bear witness. And the rogue is Clink, who has been identified by his victim. Meg, I feel ill about this …”
“Mmmm. And - forgive me, Matthew - I already knew your news. As for Clink, the man is a rogue - and a fool …”
“Certes; and a bully as well. But I have broken bread with him. Stolen for him and the others. With a purpose, but …”
“We all fear the rope, high and low. It’s hard to wish that end on anyone, even a knave like Clink.”
“You were talking of a wager?” said Matthew, seeing that Meg’s thoughts had moved away. She was turning the coin in her hand again.
“Yes. Not to do with the match, although - perhaps we shall find a way of wagering on that, too; no, my wager is with you, Matthew, if you will …”
Matthew grinned. “What wager is this?” he said, looking at Meg with mock suspicion.
“I’d wager that you had no chance of entering the goldsmith’s house without his knowing it.”
Matthew whistled. “You play for high st
akes.”
“Well, let us say it is an imaginary wager. How would you achieve it?”
“With the help of a diversion - it’s possible …”
“Let us consider it - out of idle interest, of course.”
“Of course. The rub, as always, is in the dogs that guard the premises …”
Cornelius, having woken up on hearing the word “dogs”, gave a little squeaking yawn and stretched himself. His bright eyes looked from Meg to Matthew in hope of a walk. They exchanged glances.
“Do your thoughts go with mine?” said Meg. “Brother Nose-all is known for his diversions.”
“Yes,” agreed Matthew. “He is indeed.”
* * * * *
Later that week, Zacharias was surprised to receive a visit from a new customer. Amiot Goldspink had just recently left and Zacharias had been sorry to see that Goldspink seemed to be shadowed by something again. He had been much better of late. Putting aside thoughts of Goldspink and the lateness of the hour, Zacharias greeted Meg courteously and gestured for her to come into his shop, which was as comfortable as a parlour. Meg saw a small man with broad shoulders, a strong, handsome face, and a keen glance. She knew that he was summing her up and returned his smile with a gracious nod. As he moved across the room to find wine for her, she saw that he had to almost drag one leg behind him. This was not a recent injury, she thought. He accommodated it without self-consciousness and moved with confidence.
