by Miriam Bibby
“That’s to the good,” said Meg, nodding. “And - I may have need of another - for my servant. Oh - !” She stopped and indicated a black horse not far from the grey. “That is a very fine looking animal.”
“Aye, mam,” said the lad, “but not for hire, mam.”
“Oh?” said Meg, moving towards the horse to examine it more closely. “That is a pity. A very fine horse. Who owns it?”
As she spoke, a man came towards her and bowed. “This horse is not for hire, madam,” he said, courteously but firmly. “It is not one of the inn’s. And it is not a suitable horse for a lady, madam - or a servant.”
“Oh,” said Meg, again, sounding disappointed. She seemed reluctant to move away from the horse. “What is his name?”
There was a slight pause before the man replied. “Lucifer, madam. And - he can live up to it.” Meg thought she detected a hint of menace in the man’s voice. The horse, which had no white markings that she could see, turned its head and tried to look at her, with a wisp of hay dangling from its mouth. It regarded her with more curiosity than aggression.
“May I recommend this’un instead?” came the anxious voice of the lad from further down the stalls. He indicated a dark brown horse standing sleepily with one leg cocked at rest. “This is one of our safest and most reliable.”
“Of course,” said Meg. “Thank ye.” She nodded to the man who was now standing close by the black horse and watching her. “A very fine horse indeed.” The servant bowed his head slightly in appreciation.
While Meg was talking, Cornelius had wandered off to sniff at the various stable smells with great enjoyment. If Cornelius and the Jingler had been able to share an opinion, they would both have agreed that stables and their inhabitants offered lots of interesting opportunities. Obviously they would not have agreed entirely on the nature of those opportunities, since for Cornelius, one of them involved rolling ecstatically in muck and straw, getting up and sneezing a lot. Then attempting, by subtle means, to avoid the inevitable bath. There had been dogs here this morning, he decided; but not for an hour or two. Nevertheless, he left a few messages just in case they came back. He was having a good sniff at a sack that smelled vaguely - but only vaguely - rabbity, when something, a large, flying something, catapulted over the top of him, thumping him in the back as it did so.
Cornelius jumped round, instantly on the alert. He glanced from side to side suspiciously. A dog always needed to have his wits about him. He saw nothing unusual and so he turned back to the sack. He was ready though; if it happened again, there would be trouble. He decided that the rabbity sack was old and not worth further nosework and moved across the stable to investigate a cask.
There! There it was again! He had the impression of a thing whirling over the top of him followed by a smack in the back. He jumped round again, then jumped quickly back so that he could catch the thing if it had moved round behind him. Nothing. This was frustrating. Then it dawned on Cornelius. Slowly and almost unconcernedly, he glanced up, moving his eyes and not his head. Above him, over the top of the cask, he saw a face glaring down. The face had narrowed green eyes, a large projecting jaw and a fanged mouth shaped into a curious square that was the epitome of malicious glee. Cornelius knew a cat laugh when he saw one. As he caught sight of it, the face whisked back behind the edge of the cask.
Ha! Did he, Monsieur Chat, not know that Cornelius, Brother Nose-all, was one of the greatest leapers and dancers upon a barrel that the country had ever known? This athletic cat was about to meet his match. In an instant Cornelius had jumped onto the barrel, ready to do combat with such a worthy foe. He was met by the terrifying sight of a cat on its hind legs, coat fluffed out to make it twice its normal size, mouth still open in a grimace of joy and front paws stretched out towards Cornelius with every claw fully extended. Paf! Paf! Cornelius had never encountered a cat that boxed in such a fashion before and he quickly decided that in this case discretion was definitely the better part of valour. Cornelius left the barrel in an elegant flying leap, followed closely by the cat. The pair galloped down the stable towards the stable lad and Meg.
“Cornelius!” said Meg sharply as he skidded to a stop beside her. “Leave the cat be!” The cat bounded up one of the ladders and hung over the edge of the loft, his lashing tail just visible.
“Leave the cat be!”? Cornelius was deeply hurt. Could she not see that it was the other way about? That cat, the one that boxed so hard with paws and claws, was looking down at him and still laughing. Even the stable lads were sniggering at him.
Cornelius gathered the rags of his dignity around him and walked off, nose in air.
* * * * *
Over at the Blue Boar, the Jingler found that the servants in charge of Galingale became a little more lax about allowing him around the horse as the match grew closer. They had come to rely on the Jingler’s obvious expertise and advice. Under his instructions - delivered to the servants without the Jingler handling the horse - Galingale, already gleaming and healthy, had developed a coat with a sheen like a black pearl. He looked as though he was in a fit state to run to York and back and scarcely raise sweat. Not that the Jingler had an opportunity to test him. He had learned that at the match the previous year between members of the local gentry, a horse had been threatened and finally withdrawn. Sir Richard Grasset’s horse had also received threats, but Grasset had simply put more guards on it and offered a reward for anyone providing information leading to an arrest. A local rogue who had subsequently committed a murder had been blamed for the threats and he was currently awaiting his fate in Marcaster Jail. He was almost certain to be found guilty and condemned to death.
The Jingler did not yet know who would be riding Galingale. Sir Richard’s servants were still quite discreet about the family, despite him asking questions as subtly as he could. It was possible, he supposed, that Sir Richard might ride his own horse. He seemed to have a name as a horseman but he was evidently not a young man. The Jingler watched, worked and waited. And planned, because he had an idea in his head and once he had an idea, it would not let him go until it had hatched.
If the Jingler had an Achilles heel, it was horses. His regard for them was genuine, if pragmatic. It went against his nature to do them harm in any way, but he had a trick or two that bordered on the unscrupulous but did the horse no lasting injury. This was what he was mulling over as he worked and watched. It was almost a wrestling match, his thoughts veering from wanting to get even with Jugg, to wanting to see Galingale win, for he could be a winner. Thoughts of revenging himself on Meg had faded, for the moment. His thoughts were entirely on the match - and Jugg.
The stable lad, Harry, was trying to catch his eye. He was up and about early, for once. The Jingler glanced across at him, frowning.
“A word with ye, Will?” The boy looked furtive, almost embarrassed. And - scared?
“What is it, lad?”
“Not here,” said the lad. They stepped outside into the street. Harry looked up and down to see if all was clear. “Well - it’s like this, Will. I might be able to help you - earn a bit of money, like? Ten shillings, maybe?”
The Jingler was almost amused. To think of this puppy trying to involve him, the Jingler, in some side dealing. This he must hear.
“Interesting, Harry. Tell me,” he said blandly, “what did y’have in mind?”
“Well,” said the lad, emboldened now, “it’s Galingale, like; the servants trust ye; and you perhaps wouldn’t find it difficult to get something to t’horse - nothing that would do him harm, o’ course, but … “
The Jingler moved fast. Before Harry could think or speak, he found himself pinned to the ground behind the water cask with the Jingler’s hand at his throat. The Jingler was holding a knife in his other hand and the knife was pressed just under Harry’s ear. Harry hadn’t been expecting this and he was frozen with terror.
“What in hell are you up to, y’little … ” snarled the Jingler, almost spitting the words into Harry’s
face.
“Nowt, nowt, Will! Don’t kill me!” Rather than trying to fight back, the lad was just snivelling and trying to cover his face with his hands, as though blocking out the Jingler from his view would prevent him from being stabbed. Then he started to whine, like a small boy. “Forgive me, Will, please, please, Will, I meant no harm.”
The Jingler eased off the pressure on his throat and Harry coughed and choked. The Jingler picked the boy up roughly and, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck, hustled him round the corner to a quiet back lane.
“Now,” he said. “Tell me everything, you little turd.”
“It’s like this, Will,” said Harry miserably. “There was a few people I knew needing Galingale to win and one of ‘em, knowing a sure and certain charm to get ‘im to run like a hare, they asked me to help and I said I would … “
“What charm?” said the Jingler, irritably. The devil knew what rubbish the hatchers of this plan had used.
“Well,” sobbed the boy, “it’s got hare bones ground up fine in it and - and - the Host - and holy water that’s been in the silver basin - and some other things …”
“Y’stupid little … ” The Jingler was disgusted.
“There’s no harm in it, Will,” said Harry, rubbing his hand over his eyes. “We gave it to a Grasset ‘orse another time and it won. And we got some good vails as a result.” A lowly servant’s wages were always the better for a few tips from satisfied customers.
The Jingler was suddenly struck by something.
“The Host? Y’mean, consecrated bread?”
Harry nodded.
“It’s naught but bread, lad. And where in hell … ” The Jingler paused. He suddenly saw it all. Jugg. It had to be Jugg. He looked at the boy. “And how much did y’pay for that?”
“Forty shillings, Will.”
“Forty shillings!” The Jingler’s brows shot up. “Where the devil did you get forty shillings?”
“‘Twasn’t just me. There was a fair few of us put money into the pot for it. I only gave sixpence. And we had to pay for the other things as well; and to get it made. I don’t know everyone who paid in. Some of ‘em was secret. I think they might be too well-known hereabouts t’say.”
A good little income for Jugg. Something else occurred to the Jingler. He looked fiercely at Harry. “And last year y’fed something like it to the horse? You hand that - charm - over. Now. And never ye say a word to anyone of what’s passed between us. And tell me, now, you little rat. Who d’ye know who works in the stables of the Hart and Hawthorn?”
Because there was one thing for certain. Jugg wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to sell to the rival side. And what might he put into that charm? While he had been planning ways to put Galingale out of the race, had Jugg been working secretly to do the same to The Fly? The Jingler needed to find the Frater - and fast.
* * * * *
Within a day, Marcaster was full to bursting and many of the people that thronged the inns and streets were connected to the Assizes. This did not concern the Jingler too much. He knew that there was safety in numbers and very few of the self-important characters who huffed and puffed about the place would bother themselves with what went on in any of the stables in the town. In fact, official activity always provided useful cover for all sorts of illegal dealings and so he quite relished the coming and going. For, all being well, two of his plans were about to come to fruition.
The Jingler was not one to leave anything to chance and, wherever possible, he liked to handle matters himself. A shame; but really there was but one person he trusted to get any job done to his satisfaction. He needed to find a way into the stables of the Hart and Hawthorn to reassure himself about The Fly; and he - or someone trusted - needed to get his hands on the lad who was intending to feed the charm to the horse. After much deliberation, the Jingler decided to use the Frater, who had already provided some information regarding the charms.
The Frater had done his best to reassure the Jingler that, according to Jugg, the bread he’d provided for the two charms was identical and he was not intending The Fly harm. What the Frater had not told the Jingler was that Jugg had no intention of handing over ten pounds to him, whichever horse won. That Jugg had said he would starve his belly and see the Jingler damned to hell first and that the next time they met he, Jugg, would make sure he had a weapon to hand, even if the devil himself said to give the money over. All of this the Frater kept to himself.
“Jugg says ‘e don’t care whether the horses get fed the charms or not,” hissed the Frater, to the Jingler. The Frater looked around furtively even though they were meeting in an old overgrown burial ground - not the one attached to Jugg’s church, of course - which few people visited any longer. “He says, e’s got ‘is money and don’t care any more!”
“And you believe him?” The Jingler tutted sarcastically.
“Aye, he says may the best horse win. And he just gave the lads the communion wafer, well, the bread, I should say. Naught else. He didn’t make the charms.”
“And Holy Water? Where’d that come from? Some renegade priest, eh?”
“I don’t know anything about that,” said the Frater. “One of his acquaintances, maybe?”
“I could say much about Master Jugg and the company he keeps but I’ll spare my breath,” said the Jingler. “Which lad’s he been dealing with at the Hart and Hawthorn?” The Jingler had tried to get this information out of Harry, but Harry had genuinely not known. He had appeared to be shocked at the idea that Jugg might have been selling consecrated material for charms to the other side as well. The Frater had found out, though.
“The one with freckles and a shoulder higher than the other. Bit humpitty-backed. He’s a relative of one of Sir John’s servants, one that’s keeping watch on the horse. Distant cousin …”
“But close enough for a blind eye to be turned if needs be. Let’s trust Sir John’s manservant’s put a wager on ‘is master’s nag. That way he’ll make sure he gets fed naught that’ll harm him.”
If an opportunity to go to the Hart and Hawthorn did not arise as a matter of course, then the Jingler would have to manufacture it. Invent a message to be taken, if needs be. He toyed with the idea of telling the old ostler, Tom, about the charms, and suggesting that he, the Jingler, went to warn the Widderis servants as well; but there was always the possibility that Tom already knew. The Jingler didn’t know the full extent of the group who had put money into the pot for that charm. From what he knew of the old ostler it seemed an unlikely thing for him to do, but superstition was a curious thing and it swirled around any dealings with horses like an impenetrable fog. It wasn’t impenetrable to the Jingler, of course. He could separate the rational from the pointless. He was just as certain that grinding hare bones with some communion bread and feeding it to a horse would not make it faster, as he was that feeding it the best oats would make it buck out of its glossy skin and run like the devil. In his younger days he had tried many, many of the recipes and tricks that were the horsemen’s currency. Then he’d discarded those that obviously did not work.
Jugg, like the Jingler, had been finding the Frater a useful messenger and spy, not to mention a handy stooge in card games and the like. The Frater didn’t resent this. He was happy to have a roof over his head, food in his belly, more than enough to drink and a few coins to share with the Egyptian Mort, the Sad Mort and the Frog. He had also been to see Clink again. Now that Jugg had gained the Frater access to the jail, Jugg had no further interest in Clink and the Frater had been making his recent visits alone. He had always felt a certain paternal responsibility for them all and if Clink was about to die, well, he, the Frater, would make sure that his final days were as comfortable as they could be. Comfortable materially and spiritually. That was his role as - a sort of spiritual advisor to them all. Aye, that was it.
The idea of himself as a spiritual comforter and helper was so appealing to the Frater that he was ready and primed to help out when the Jingler ask
ed him to go down to the Hart and Hawthorn and find out if they had a little nag for hire. He had no idea why the Jingler was enquiring, but God worked in mysterious ways. Anything that would take the Jingler’s mind off Jugg and keep the peace between them.
“Take a look about ye while yer there, Jack,” said the Jingler. “Get the lie o’ the land and see if ye can cast an eye over the Widderis horse. And the lad with the charm. I reckon they won’t be feeding it ‘till the morning of the match. Not from what Harry said they did with the Grasset horse another year, anyhow.”
The Frater came huffing and puffing back to the deserted burying ground at an appointed time.
“Aye, there’s three Widderis servants that takes turns to take the horse out and guards him close, Jingler. And the Widderis lad has come to town some days to ride ‘im out as well.”
“And what about the lad with the charm?”
“Did well there, Jingler,” the Frater was smug. “I saw him and said I was collecting for the poor captives of the Turk. Made up a tale about a missing lad that could have been his cousin. Affecting, it was. When he fetched his purse to get me a coin, I saw the charm in there whilst I was - helping - him choose a coin. Leastways, I think that’s what it was. A little piece of cloth holding something ‘bout the size of an Agnus Dei.” As he said this, the Frater’s voice dropped to a whisper and he looked around.
