by Miriam Bibby
“Never mind that. Meg, I need to talk to you. I have no idea what has brought you to Marcaster, but if it is aught to do with the match then I have to warn you that …”
“The match between Sir John Widderis and Sir Richard Grasset? Or rather their horses, I doubt the gentlemen themselves would give good sport. No, George, although of course it is of interest to me because …”
“Meg, I am warning you in all sincerity that if you are intending to benefit from this match in some way then …”
“How would I benefit?” interrupted Meg.
“I don’t know,” said George impatiently, “by guessing, or divining the horse that would win, or taking wagers, or making wagers on the winner, or, or …”
“Don’t be silly, George. Who would place a wager with me? If I claim any sort of special knowledge - not that I am so doing - how could I find someone to wager with me? After all, if I - or any person - can divine the winner, then the one who places a wager with me - as an example only, you understand - is certain to lose; or else the person who is believed to know the future is made to look a fool. And who would risk that?”
“Don’t jest with me, Meg. This is not a prank. And can you make your little dog be quiet, please. Your name has been mentioned to the undersheriff in connection with a possible …”
“Mentioned to the undersheriff? Well, I must say the pleasure is not returned - quiet, Brother Nose-all - for I do not know the man.”
“Be serious, Meg. This is serious. There is some - underhand dealing going on to do with the match - and our - acquaintance - the man once known to me - and you - as James Jostler, is currently at liberty in Marcaster, although not for much longer if I have anything to do with it. And one of the Guildern rogues is to be tried at the Assizes …”
“That much I knew,” said Meg. “Is that the only reason you are here? Here in Marcaster - Cornelius, quiet, please! Matthew, do take him …”
“No, it is not the only reason …” George sneezed and Cornelius barked even more loudly, then fell silent as George glared at him.
“Well, Meg?” said George, sniffing. “D’you have anything else to say for yourself?”
Meg looked back at him.
“Don’t you think you should divest yourself of those wet garments, George? It’s difficult to take you seriously when you are dripping water everywhere and ‘neezing. Matthew will find you something.”
Matthew, taking the hint, and also Cornelius, left.
* * * * *
Not long afterwards, George made his way to the undersheriff’s house below the brooding tower of the jail. It was a large and pleasant dwelling and, as a servant ushered him in, he felt momentarily self-conscious in the somewhat motley collection of garments that had been provided by Hal and Matthew. He could still hear Meg’s last words, whispered gently to him as he left her room. “I have seen the winner’s bell - it’s a beautiful prize and should be yours, George. Sir Richard chose his rider well. The Grasset horse must surely finish ahead of that of Widderis.” It was not what she had said; rather, how she had said it, that seemed to hold some mystery that he did not understand.
Richard and Edward Davison were sitting in a well-appointed room drinking wine.
“Paston,” said Davison, nodding to him. One of the servants brought wine. Richard seemed completely at ease; but George noticed that he was occasionally twisting the stem of his glass round in his fingers.
“I trust you have not taken harm by your - unexpected - exertion,” said Richard. Doing his best to appear calm and collected, George took too large a gulp of wine and coughed, shaking his head.
“My apologies, no, I have taken no harm, from that, nor from the soaking.”
“Good, good. Davison and I have been discussing the contents of this letter.” Richard reached for the note and handed it to George. It was well-made paper, although it appeared to have been used previously and cleaned; cut from the bottom of a sheet as well, probably. The handwriting, too, was decent. Some of the words had been stressed by extra pressure or underlining.
“A friend believes your honour should be made aware that there is some danger to the horses belonging to Sir John Widderis and Sir Richard Grasset, that is to match together. There is some that would give them things that might do them harm, although intended to make them run the better. And are your honours aware that there is one with whom Sir George Paston, who is to be present for the assizes, is not unacquainted, a women travelling by the name of Mistress Loveday, who, if not intending some deception, might have more knowledge than she is willing to say; and the same woman has known skills in presenting horses to be other than they are. These are matters that both you and Sir George and the other gentlemen might like to examine. As you might a certain black horse that is kept in the Hart and Hawthorn and charged to Sir John; but does he know of it? A word is sufficient to the wise, whilst many words are insufficient to the ignorant. Believe me to be, your honours, needing naught of benefit to myself, A Well-wisher.”
George read it and re-read it. There was a curious - familiarity about it. As though someone he knew had written it. It was a literate hand but not, George thought, that of a very highly educated person. It managed to hint cleverly at all sorts of things without pointing a definite finger. And it almost implicated him but the writer did not seem to be aware that he was Sir Richard’s guest. A few words had been heavily inked out after “does he know of it?” George held the letter this way and that to see if he could make out what those words had been, but he could not. Strange. He frowned at the letter.
“Perhaps we should find and interview this woman,” said Davison.
As George began to say “But this is mere speculation …”, Richard moveing restlessly and speaking simultaneously, said “An anonymous letter? This is simply more matter to attempt to frighten either Sir John or myself.”
“Into withdrawing your horses? Or worse?” Davison looked sharply at him. “Then you are certain this came from supporters or friends of the man Giddens?”
“Yes.” Richard glanced across at George, who was looking at him in puzzlement. Richard had not spoken too much about this case; but he had mentioned the murderer who was to stand trial at the forthcoming assizes. “I’ll enlighten you further, George. This man, Giddens, made a threat to harm my horse last year. Perhaps he intended to wager on Sir John’s horse since he also threatened another participant. I took his threats seriously and the owner of the other horse eventually withdrew it from the match. Giddens is a trouble-maker and we’d have taken him in time, but he sped up the process by committing murder. And - before you ask, Sir John was as hot after the villain as any of us.”
“Would it not make more sense if the letter mentioned this Giddens?” said George, hoping to draw away attention from the reference to himself - and Meg. “If the intention is to make you fear his supporters, surely the letter would - contain more threatening matter?”
Sir Richard shrugged, but George thought he was not entirely comfortable.
“Well, let’s find this woman and have her interrogated to see if she can guide us to the truth.” Davison got to his feet. Richard sat upright, but looked down at the floor as he flicked at one hand with his gloves. Well, Meg, thought George, as he prepared himself, I have no idea of what you are plotting; and I don’t know if you can talk your way out of this - but I will try to help if I can.
“Wait,” said Sir Richard suddenly. “Sit down, please, Master Davison. There is something - I have not been entirely truthful with - either of you. That is, I have been entirely truthful, but you do not know the whole of it.”
George sat down again and waited.
“I would not wish,” said Richard slowly, “that anyone else should suffer for my own behaviour. So - I must tell you that whatever deception there has been regarding the horse - I know naught of any charms, however - is my own.”
“Your deception?” Davison regarded him disbelievingly.
“Yes.” Richard was frowning a
s though trying to make sense of something. “The truth is that - I have received threats - made directly by correspondence to me, and recently - relating to my horse, Galingale, from - acquaintances of this Giddens.”
“And you told no-one of this?”
“I told one other. One that I believed would help me.”
“And that other was?” asked the undersheriff.
“Sir John Widderis,” said Richard.
Davison threw back his head and laughed. “Sir Richard! You expect me to believe that? Come now!”
“It is the truth,” said Richard. “He had received no such threats, but then he is not a Justice of the Commission of the Queen’s Peace. Together we came to an agreement that he would aid me by putting my own horse, Galingale, under the scrutiny of his servants, the ones he set to guard The Fly, at the Hart and Hawthorn. In the meantime, the horse lodged at the Blue Boar is also my horse, Galingale’s full brother Gallus, older by two years. I did not lie to you.”
“But everyone knows that you and Sir John are at odds with one another in all things!”
“Not all things,” corrected Richard. “And do not believe he assisted me entirely from Christian duty - ” he gave the word “Christian” an ironic twist, “- nor neighbourliness only. Sir John, like me, wishes to match his horse with the best - and would do whatever was required to ensure the horses were fit to run against each other on the morning of the match. It served his needs as well as mine. The true Galingale was disguised only slightly by covering his star.”
“And the horse I rode?” asked George. “Which one was that?”
“You have ridden the true Galingale,” said Richard, with the ghost of a smile. “They are very alike. Gallus is a fine horse, but he has not the heart of Galingale; and he has a slight deficiency in one leg, a splint that is currently causing occasional lameness. He may pass through it to soundness again. Neither of them should come to harm, if I could so choose it; but of the two …” He left the words hanging in the air. Silence fell for a time as two of them digested what Richard had said; and Richard himself pondered on the outcome of his revelation.
Eventually he spoke. “With regard to the match …” He stopped.
“It is very irregular, Sir Richard,” said the undersheriff soberly. “Very irregular. Did you not consider how it would appear? That - you might be attempting to - to - effect a particular outcome to the match? That the very reason for our calling for the horses to be stabled in Marcaster prior to the match - to avoid deception - would be subject to abuse - and by one of the participants in collusion with the other! It looks very bad, Sir Richard.”
“Yes. There is - more - that I think I must tell you.” Richard seemed very reluctant to speak. “It was not only my horse that was threatened. It was also - my family. My daughters.”
“My God, Richard,” said George. “Does Anne know of this?”
“No,” said Richard, soberly. “I did not tell her. I thought it best to wait until - after the Assizes.”
“You have been bearing this knowledge all alone?”
“Yes. Even Sir John does not know the full extent of it.”
“D’you have the letters?” asked the undersheriff.
“Yes. But not with me. They are safe.”
“From what you recall, would you say they were in the same hand as this? From the same source?”
Richard shook his head slowly. “No, I would not; I would need the other notes to compare; but no, I would say they were a different and less educated hand; and the paper was not so good.” He turned swiftly to George. “Forgive me, my boy, for not telling you the whole of it; it concerned me that you might also be at risk if word spread that you were to ride my horse for me in the match. It was a difficult decision, but I hoped that the Assize would deal with all - bring all to an end.”
Silence fell.
“I had hoped that Sir George would ride Galingale,” explained Richard to the undersheriff.
“You do not wish to continue with the match?” asked Davison. “You wish to withdraw your horse?”
“As you say - the circumstances are - irregular.”
Davison called for more wine.
“As to the irregularity,” he said, “it is so; but perhaps the circumstances justify it.”
“Both my horses have been - will have been - stabled in Marcaster for the necessary period before the match,” Richard pointed out.
“Just so,” said Davison. “And this evidently provides no problem for Sir John.” He sounded thoughtful. “Perhaps the circumstances could be overlooked, if … if … ” He glanced at Richard questioningly and then across at George, “if you gentlemen - and Sir John, of course - would accept a third runner in this match?”
“In principle, yes,” said Richard, sounding surprised. “Who did you have in mind?”
“My lad, Ned,” said Davison. “It would give me - and Ned - great pleasure to participate and we have a suitable horse, here in Marcaster.”
It was difficult for George to read Richard’s expression. Irritation? Confusion? Surprise? Eventually Richard nodded and there was no mistaking the genuine surprise in his voice.
“Aye, I agree to it, if Sir John agrees; and I see no reason why he will not.”
“Good, good,” said Davison, looking pleased.
“And now,” said Richard, rising to his feet, “there are many matters that I need to deal with regarding my horses. Gallus is slightly lame and that is in need of attention. And as I need to communicate with Sir John, I will advise him of our agreement in principle and of events to date.”
Somehow in all of this, George thought with relief, Meg has been forgotten. He glanced at the undersheriff, who was looking quite satisfied with himself. George decided he would take the first opportunity to visit Meg at the inn and say that there would be no further action - yet - but that she had better keep her nose out of sight and be on her best behaviour. He found the opportunity when they went to visit Galingale - the true Galingale - at the Hart and Hawthorn.
But Meg was not there; nor was Matthew. When asked of their whereabouts, the host simply shrugged and looked blankly at him. They might return; or they might not. They had paid for several more days, but of the three of them and their belongings, there was no sign.
Chapter 7: Greyhound or Portcullis?
“We have a choice here, George,” said Richard Grasset as they viewed the ground. “To take a longer course round the woodland - it would make the entire course some five miles - or to divert through the wood along this ride.”
George nodded, trying to avoid looking across to distant Gibbet Hill, where an empty cage swung about gently in the breeze. The remains of the last criminal to hang out to view had now been thrown into unhallowed ground. Before too long though, it was likely to have another occupant, Giddens, the robber and murderer. George told himself to attend to the matter in hand. They had seen to Richard’s horses, who were now both standing in the stables of the Hart and Hawthorn alongside The Fly, and under the care of some very chastened servants who had been warned to let no-one else - no-one else - other than Sir Richard or Sir George anywhere near them. Sir Richard had said he was minded to make the servants eat a little of the hay that was fed to his horses and drink some of their water, to make sure it was not tainted in any way. And by the look on his face he meant it.
It was a relief to the two men to ride out to view the course itself and to walk it. The woodland was mostly second growth and as they walked along, the ride became little more than a path in parts. Under last autumn’s fallen leaves, the earth was rich and black. It began to run downhill, leading to a small stream. They stood on the bank to examine the slight drop. The ground sloped out of the water on the further side with an old rotting tree stump about five feet high, quite thick-girthed, to the left as they viewed it. A broader access ride crossed the track at right angles at this point, roughly following the course of the stream.
“The leap will be nothing to Galingale,” said Ri
chard and George agreed. He mentally assessed the best angle to leave the bank, avoiding the stump and getting the best start on the further side. After a few minutes he nodded, sure that he had a strong visual impression of the place. They both managed to jump onto the further side without difficulty and turned to view the bank from the far side.
“Very well,” said George, half to himself, as they carried on through the wood. The track opened out and they came back out onto turf again.
“So, then, we can sweep round once more - the course will be marked with flags - and come back round to the start. What think ye?”
George shrugged. “‘Tis all one to me, Richard. What of Sir John? He should have a say in this; and the sheriff, who will oversee all?”
“The undersheriff, you mean. I think Sir John will be content with our decision, whatever that may be; and as for the undersheriff …” Richard left the thought hanging, and George once again thought that there was some deeper matter there.
