Miriam Bibby - Mistress Meg 02 - Mistress Meg and the Silver Bell

by Miriam Bibby

  “If only I knew that, I’d be a very rich man, Gran’da,” said Matthew. “The best I can say is - whichever is the swiftest.”

  The old man seemed disappointed.

  * * * * *

  Matthew handed Meg the sovereign with a flourish and a smug look. The challenge had been met. Meg was studying the coin closely whilst he told her his story.

  “I found all very much as we’d imagined it,” concluded Matthew. “Apart from the loose brick in the chimney, which alarmed me for an instant.”

  “‘Twould not surprise me if there were some hiding places within the chimney as well,” mused Meg. She put the sovereign into her hand as though feeling its weight.

  “It’s possible,” said Matthew.

  Meg looked at Matthew with amusement in her eyes. “D’ye know what the legend is on this coin? Or has your Latin decayed since y’left the priests?” She held it out to him. Matthew looked at it with narrowed eyes. The inscription on the side showing the Queen seated on her throne was: A DNO FACTU EST ISTUD ET EST MIRAB IN OCULIS NRIS.

  Matthew wrestled with it briefly, then his eyes gleamed with mischief. “‘It is the Lord’s doing and it is marvellous in our eyes.’” He bowed. “With a little aid from your servant, of course. But then don’t they say that God helps the doers?”

  “Aeschylus said something in that way, certainly. In Scotland they would say ‘The De’el’s aye good to his ain’.”

  “Hmmm. And why did you want me to replace the sovereign?”

  Meg seemed not to have heard him. “Tomorrow,” she said, looking directly at him, “you will take this sovereign to the goldsmith and ask him to weigh it.”

  Matthew groaned, slapped his head with the palm of his hand and looked back at her. “You are, without a doubt, the most provoking, changeable damned witch …”

  “Oh, come now, Matthew. Is that your best? Sir George Paston says far worse things about me than that.”

  “I’m sure he does,” grumbled Matthew, “but perhaps he has more license than do I, your servant …” He glanced across at Meg and they both burst out laughing.

  “I heartily wish I had been able to see it,” said Meg. “Perhaps I’ll turn chimney sweep next time.”

  “Why not,” agreed Matthew. “You are slighter than I.”

  Meg flourished the coins. “We’ll hire a lad if needs must.”

  “Or a lass.”

  “Here,” said Meg. “This should slake a most considerable thirst, I think.” She tipped several coins into his hand and stored the sovereign away separately from the others. “And I will not be requiring you any more this day. You’ve done well, but you already know that and I’m not about to invoke the sin of pride in you any further.” She looked thoughtful for a moment, then continued, “He’s a fine man, our Master Kane; and a shrewd one. Talented, too. But - I fear there is something that he is keeping to himself. And I think - there is some matter to do with this Goldspink that casts a shade on him.”

  “Why is it - he - of interest to you?” asked Matthew, curiosity getting the better of him. In the time he had spent on the road with Meg, he had learned to keep it in check, most of the time. He had seen some situations played out to their fullest extent through a sequence of strange twists and turns, and others apparently come to an abrupt end only to surface again in another place and time.

  “The best I can say is that sometimes there is a connection that I cannot entirely explain. So it is with this man; and so it was with you, when we first encountered each other.”

  “Yes, I shall not forget that soon,” said Matthew with a grin.

  “You, my poor Matthew, accused of a crime for no greater reason than the fact you were a stranger.”

  “A foreigner.”

  “It must gall to hear every nation on earth spoken of without them guessing the truth about you.”

  “Why should I mind? They never guess the truth about you.”

  “A touch, a veritable hit! Very good, dear Matthew. Now, which truth would that be? No, don’t tell me. Run along and spend your well-earned vail.”

  * * * * *

  I have earned this, thought Matthew, watching as the ale was drawn for him. He settled himself on a bench against the wall and glanced round at the other drinkers, some of whom he knew by now. He nodded to the familiar faces. He was still not sure of Meg’s intentions; but for now, he was just going to enjoy his drink in the knowledge that he deserved it. The room was already full and drinkers were still coming in. Soon he found an elderly man whose face he recognised coming to sit by him. Matthew moved up towards the chimney breast to make room for him. Chimneys. He smiled to himself.

  “Good even t’ye,” said the man. He took a sip of his drink. “You’re the lad with the dog, aren’t ye? The little dog. Clever little beast.”

  “He is,” agreed Matthew. There was a pause. “They serve a good brew here.”

  “Good enough,” agreed the old man in an offhanded way. “Not like the ales of my youth of course.”

  Matthew was amused. It was not the first time he had heard an old man say that ale - or other things - were so much better in the days of his youth. The girls were prettier, the horses bigger and stronger, the men tougher, the summers sunnier. Or, on occasions, the winters were colder. He waited. Most times the conversation quickly turned to Matthew and his assumed “foreignness”. People were curious. Sometimes they were wary. They could, of course, be nasty and dangerous and he had experience of that too. Mostly they were interested and often kind. He felt that he knew the English quite well by now. They were an odd mixture; fascinated by the foreign and novel and, at the same time mocking and critical of anyone who was different. And now they had begun to explore the globe. He could see it in his mind, the turning globe, with the great surging seas and little ships, terrifyingly small, travelling over them. Out there were the English, sailing, raiding and drinking, sure of their superiority over the Spanish, the French, the Moors, the Venetians … the Scots …

  Matthew realised that the old man was saying something to him. “In Marcaster for the gentry’s match, are ye? Care to guess the outcome? Got a wager on it, ha’ ye?”

  Matthew shook his head, smiling.

  The old man started to say something about how bad the times were and how the running horses were a mixed blessing to the town.

  “Good for the alehouses, o’ course, but y’can’t hardly get yer own seat in yer own inn when the town’s so full o’ folk. Why, owd Robin Roberts was just saying that he came across a foreigner up to no good just today. He’s blind, poor owd feller but he knows when summat’s wrong.” He pronounced “wrong” in the local way, “wrang”.

  Matthew was less concerned about the fact that he had been noted than the fact that he’d been singled out as a “foreigner” when the man couldn’t even see him. Wasn’t his English good enough then? He practised enough and was proud of it. Then he almost laughed out loud as he remembered that “foreigner” could be applied to someone from the next village or town. He’d often come across that.

  The old man took another sip of his drink. Then, the expected, “You’re not from hereabouts, are ye?” Matthew was just about to shake his head and explain when the old man continued, “You’re from the New World, eh?”

  This was the first time that anyone had recognised Matthew. He had been called a Spaniard, a Frenchman, a Moor. Sometimes the words were just a description but other times they were definitely intended to insult, coming from an Englishman or woman. This man - he knew what Matthew was; who he was. But - that was the difficult thing. Matthew was no longer sure of what he was, in the sense of what to call himself - and he no longer cared. He certainly knew who he was in terms of experience, knowledge and well, plain sense of self.

  He turned to the old man. “Yes, I am. How did you know?”

  “I’ve seen men like ye afore.”

  “Where?” said Matthew, astonished. “And - when?”

  “On board Spanish ships. When our ships w
as held in the Spanish ports, not so long agone.”

  “But - ” began Matthew. The man must be - oh, maybe he could be in his seventies or eighties! What had he been doing on board an English naval vessel in recent times?

  “Oh, I know what ye’re thinking,” chuckled the old man. “Ye’re wondering what an old man like me would be doing there? Serving me country lad, serving me country! And yes, it’s a long time since I saw the egg!” He chuckled again. “I’m eighty-six, ye know.”

  “Eighty-six!” marvelled Matthew.

  “Aye,” said the man, “but capable of serving me country in time of need. They was takin’ all sorts on board when needed. And at least I was shipwise. Most of me life at sea. Know the ropes, I do.” He held up his left hand. The second and third fingers were missing and the little finger ended at the last joint.

  “In a sea battle?” asked Matthew, sympathetically and curiously.

  “No, lad, no. The ropes, like I was telling ye! Learned the ropes the hard way, as a lad, I did. Always treat a running line with respect.”

  Matthew knew exactly what he meant. He had spent a lot of time in the rigging and had done his share of hauling, dropping anchor and tying up. The old man was off on a reverie now, remembering an exploit in his younger days.

  “Once we was boarded in the Mediterranean by Sicilian pirates. After the rogues rammed and boarded us we was taken ashore and that feared us,” he said, “because we was certain to be taken up for the galleys. Fortunate though, because we was bought by the Moors - “

  “Fortunate?” queried Matthew.

  “Aye, lad, fortunate! For if they’d been Spanish galleys, we’d none of us never have seen home again. But after sore trials, there was thirty-seven of us ransomed and so we came home alive. I remember - I’ll never forget - all the bells of London rang and the crowds! I was deaf with the shouting and my eyes were sore with crying …”

  Matthew listened with genuine interest, making an occasional comment.

  The old man continued, “When I was a lad, there was a big battle up north, at Branxton. I mind loading the arrow shafts for fletching …” Finally, after a number of entertaining stories - and a few obvious tall tales - he paused. “Makes you dry, talking,” he said. Matthew took the hint.

  “Now, lad,” said the old man, when their drinks were refreshed. “How came you here?”

  “Where to begin?” said Matthew, smiling. “Yes, I am - from the New World.” He paused. “It was - a new world - to me, for I was very young when I - left it.”

  “What d’ye recall of it?” asked the man.

  “I remember - ” said Matthew, slowly, “running wild in what seemed to me to be a paradise.” Quick, fleeting visions passed in front of his eyes. “I remember - mainly greenery that seemed so tall, so tall; of course it was, because I was so small. I remember - always being IN this - tangled - green world and watching and waiting. I wanted to hunt, like all the boys I knew. And fish, of course. Lots of fish, in the sea and in the streams. There was everything we needed. We lacked nothing, nothing … and I ran wild when I could, there in the green or on the beach. And in the water. I was like a fish …”

  The old man was nodding understandingly. “Aye, that was me as well when I were a youth! Not in the New World o’ course, but here, in the becks and the hills. I would leister the trout out of the watter and fetch the coneys out of their burrows. Wild as a fox, I was.”

  “Leister?” queried Matthew. He had not encountered this word before.

  “Aye, aye, leister ‘em, lad! Spear ‘em, d’ye see?”

  “Ah, yes, I understand,” said Matthew. Then he continued, “We knew about the big ships. They had been coming for a long time, many, many years. Long before the English came. There were Spanish and French; and before that, the Brezou and Vascones. Some said they had been coming since ancient, ancient times. Forever. But that was a long way towards the cold land in the north. Sometimes, tales about them reached us.”

  “Bretons and Basques,” nodded the old man. “Great sailors. And fishermen and whale catchers. The English can best ‘em now; but the fishing trade’s not so good along our coast these days. Herringmen - all foreigners o’ course. They’ve all the trade, saving for Hull. What did they call your people, lad?”

  Matthew gave a faint smile. “There are many different names for many different people. In our own language, we were the true men, the real people.”

  He wondered if the old man would see any irony in this, but he simply said, “Go on.”

  Matthew continued, “So - it was one day when I was on the - shore - that I was taken. I looked round and all the others had fled. There were two men and I didn’t see them until it was too late. I was terrified because of what they wore and the sounds they made. The way they looked and the noise of their laughing and - the smell of them - I thought they were monsters. Some strange beast from the sea … they were from a Spanish vessel.”

  “What happened then, lad?”

  “I was taken to the ship and there were others there; many died. I was sick, very sick. I couldn’t breathe.” Matthew put an arm across his chest involuntarily at the memory. “I don’t remember very much for a long time; just the movement of the ship and noises. The sea and the wind …” He fell silent and the old man said nothing, waiting. Eventually Matthew resumed, “When I recovered, I was set to work on the ship. I learned quickly and kept quiet. Every day I was surprised to wake in the morning. I expected to be dead, because I thought the heart had been torn out of me and I would never see my home and people again. But I lived …”

  “Where was this ship bound?”

  “For San Domingo, in time,” said Matthew. “We arrived in port and I - being the only one who survived of the - Indians *** as they called us *** - that they had taken, I was given in care of some Jesuits there. I was fortunate. One was kind and the other I served was - not unkind.” The old man sensed he was choosing his words with care. “They thought it was their duty to bring me - to the light; I learned Spanish. I sailed with them on their missions. I learned some sea craft and they taught me about the Bible. I think I was to be a - sword for their faith amongst others like me.”

  “Papists,” said the old man, but not viciously. “How did ye come to be called Matthew, lad? Did they name you that?”

  “Ah, no,” said Matthew, slightly more cheerfully. “That was the English. Like you, I’ve sailed on board English vessels and learned the ropes. The first Protestant sailors I met called me Matthew because they thought something I said sounded like ‘Metiu, Metiu’.”

  “And how did that come about? Was it to do with Drake?”

  “Aye!” confirmed Matthew. “Y’see, when Drake sacked San Domingo - “

  “Come on now, Dad. It’s late.” A friendly-looking plump woman who had come into the room was taking the old man by the arm. “Time for your supper.”

  “But - me drink! ” protested the man. “And this lad here is going to tell me about Drake at San Domingo … “

  “Aye, well finish it up!” said the woman, smiling at Matthew. “And he can tell you another time. Y’don’t want your supper to burn.” The old man was borne off protesting.

  * * * * *

  Early the next morning, Meg was standing just inside the shadowed doorway of the Hart and Hawthorn stables, trying to catch the eye of one of the stable lads without being too obvious about it. She needed to act the part of a woman who was unsure of her reception in this all male domain. She stepped back and forth hesitantly as though she was changing her mind and about to walk away again. In the end, one of the younger lads, pushed towards her by his grinning mates, asked her whether he could be of assistance.

  “Aye,” said Meg, lowering her eyes demurely. “My servant is away on an errand and I wish to enquire about horses for hire.” She managed to sound flustered and a little irritated, as though she felt this request was beneath her dignity.

  “Aye, mam,” said the lad, and although he sounded as though he was filled
with self-importance, he was nervous himself. Custom was hard-earned and to be kept at all costs - that was the training he and the other servants received at the Hart and Hawthorn. This woman’s custom might be dependent on how he dealt with her request. “We’ve nags for hire, the best in Marcaster, mam!” This wasn’t quite true. The Blue Boar had a bigger and better selection, but the Hart had the next best. “D’ye need to travel far, mam?”

  While he was speaking, Meg had walked right inside the stable and was moving slowly down one of the rows of stalls, as though gauging the worth of the horses in them.

  “I may need to,” she said, over her shoulder. She stopped beside a stocky little grey. “Is this one for hire? It looks safe enough …”

  “Aye mam,” said the stable lad. “A good choice, if I may say so, mam. A right good nag for a lady. Safe and surefooted.” He tried to ignore the other lads in the corner, sniggering at him.