by Miriam Bibby
“I shugged some of them up in a sack,” said Amiot. Zacharias knew exactly what he meant. As well as clipping tiny pieces of gold from the edge of some of the coins, whilst trying to leave them looking as untouched as possible, Goldspink had shaken the gold for hours in a coarse sack, causing tiny fragments to stick to the fabric. Then he would have burned the sack and collected the gold flakes that remained.
There was a pause.
“What will you do?”
“I don’t know. I know what I ought to do. What my duty is.” There was a long silence after Zacharias had said this. Clipping was a treasonable offence. High treason. And that meant hanging, drawing and quartering. The fact that the practice was widespread did not make it any less a crime. Zacharias poured them both more ale. “What did ye do with the clippings?”
“I have them yet, Zacharias. I - know someone who can …”
“Don’t tell me. I don’t wish to know.” Zacharias guessed that Goldspink had found someone to strike them back into coinage, using an illegal stamp. Or perhaps he simply meant to hand on the clippings for a price. To sell them, in other words, to a counterfeiter, leaving no evidence remaining against Goldspink. Had he even thought to approach Zacharias? He would be an obvious choice.
Goldspink was flooded with relief at what Zacharias had said. “Thank ye, oh, thank ye Zacharias! I knew that …”
“I have not said I will not do anything, Amiot. I need to think on this.”
Amiot’s shoulders sank again. “Whatever you think best.”
“Aye, whatever’s best. And best means go, now, Amiot.”
When Goldspink had gone, Zacharias heaved a huge sigh. He felt melancholic. What he hadn’t told Goldspink was that he too was feeling - not exactly guilty, but worried. It was something that was impossible to share with anyone. Just a feeling. The strange conviction that - somehow - someone else knew what was going on. Also, the even stranger feeling that somehow - impossible though it was! - someone had been in his house. Ridiculous. He had hardly been out of sight of it lately and when he did need to go out, he made sure that one of the neighbours kept an eye on his home. Occasionally one or two of the local lads, trustworthy ones, came and stayed while he was away. He knew they couldn’t get into the bedchamber or any of the other secret hiding places that he had. Not without giving that fact away, anyway.
It had happened after that woman paid her visit. The woman with the dog. She had been so knowledgeable about stones and metals and she’d kept Zacharias talking until late. She’d said she would return to discuss her requirements and leave a deposit, but she hadn’t returned, yet. Like all craftsmen, Zacharias knew that the authorities kept an eye on what he was doing. There were official visits from the Wardens of the Goldsmiths’ Company and also from local officials. There had never been a serious problem yet. Was it possible that the woman was in some way involved with these? Then there’d been that lad who came round to have the sovereign weighed. Nothing unusual in that. And yet …
Zacharias went up to the bedchamber and retrieved the gold. Almost casually, he began to stack it into neat piles on top of the chest, checking the edge of each coin carefully for the second time. How obvious was it? Because if he didn’t betray Goldspink and it was noted, suspicion would fall onto him, Zacharias. That was a very unpleasant thought. Zacharias had never done anything bad in his life. Not really bad. He carried on stacking the coins. What he had said to Amiot was true; he knew gold. He almost knew each individual coin and he began to wonder if he had really started to stack this gold without a purpose. All was well - nothing was missing.
If all was well, why could he not shake off the uncomfortable feeling?
* * * * *
George, who had decided to stay overnight in Marcaster before the match, spent a restless night at the Hart and Hawthorn. He had half hoped, half feared that Meg and Matthew would reappear for the running horses; but there was still no sign of them. Knowing Meg, though, this did not necessarily mean that there was no mischief afoot. However, there was plenty to think about regarding the match and he knew that Richard was pleased to have him there in Marcaster in case of further threats or even direct attacks on his horse. Richard had sent a servant for Gallus and the horse was now safely back at Marfield Hall receiving the best of treatment for his leg. Oddly, though, he appeared to be completely sound again.
It was hard to sleep. The long, light May night and some late roistering and arguing in the street - dealt with by the watch - kept George awake most of the time.
“Tha’s a mazer, lad!” he heard one drunk roar at another. “T’Widderis ‘orse’ll never last!” His companion roared something incomprehensible back and the two stumbled away, shouting and singing.
As dawn broke, George, having given up the pretence of trying to sleep, was already dressed and ready to ride. He went down to the stable, where the Widderis and Grasset grooms seemed to have come to some sort of understanding. The horses were ready and both were well guarded by servants from both houses.
In a couple of hours, Richard arrived and the group prepared to set off for the course. Galingale was to be led there, rather than ridden and as if by some unspoken understanding, the Widderis grooms stayed behind with The Fly whilst the Grasset party got underway. There was no sign of either Philip Widderis or Sir John.
“They will be at the course already,” said Richard. “And my family will meet us there later this morning.”
As they rode out into a beautiful May morning, George felt his usual spirits returning. Over the past few days, the course had mushroomed with little growths, booths selling food, drink and entertainment. There were gingerbread and roasts and various potions, alcoholic and non-alcoholic for sale; and games and performers. Justice looked benignly on all but the worst of market abuses on days such as this. George was thankful that for once this was not his responsibility and all he had to do was concern himself with Galingale. He was impressed by the horse’s condition. It had taken some sleight-of-hand on Richard’s part to assure that, whilst attention was focussed on Gallus, Galingale quietly and unobtrusively received even better care. He had received his exercise mostly secretly on the Grasset estate, and occasionally in public whilst Gallus was hidden elsewhere. The similarity between the two horses was remarkable, but even so, Richard had needed to take only his most trusted stable staff into his complete confidence as to what he was about - and why. The servants Mark and Jack had most certainly not been included in that.
By the time the rest of the Marfield Hall contingent arrived, there was a gratifying crowd and the field had divided naturally into Grasset, Widderis and Davison camps, with a great deal of knowing commentary, nodding and nose-tapping going on around them. Anne and Amelia arrived on horseback with maid and menservants and food and drink in a little cart. There was no sign of Amabilis.
“Lissy did not feel well this morning,” said Amelia. “She will miss it all, Sir George. Poor Lissy.”
Richard glanced across at his wife.
“She was very pale and said her head ached,” said Anne. “She seemed spiritless and tired. Truly she was not well enough to appear.”
“Is she well attended?” said Richard. “I do not want her to be left alone at any time.”
“Yes, all is well, my dear,” said his wife. “She has her maid with her; and there are still three menservants, the steward, the warrener and the kennelmaster and their men. I have said that all should have special care for the house and estate whilst we are from home. I offered her the services of Judith my maid but she would not have it. I gave her a draught and she intends to sleep, I believe …”
Richard still looked slightly worried, but there was plenty to take his attention that morning. In a short time, no-one was interested any more in the booths or their sellers. The crowd was currently completely mesmerised by the antics of Jerome the Stone Eater, who was steadily swallowing his way through a pile of small stones and flints. This wasn’t the first time that Jerome had shown his skills
in Marcaster and he was a popular attraction. As the stones went down, helped by an occasional gulp of ale, the crowd’s initial humour and excitement turned to an awed silence. Several men, women and children, clutching half eaten goodies in their hands, were watching open-mouthed. Jerome began to sweat and groan a little and those who could count, began to keep tally in a low chant.
“Three and twenty, four and twenty …” At last Jerome stopped, wiped the sweat from his brow and turned to his assistant, who silenced the crowd with his hand.
“Listen now, to the stones in the belly of the magnificent, the unique, Jerome the Stone Eater!”
Clattering was distinctly audible as Jerome moved about and his assistant invited a couple of crowd members to come out and put a hand on his stomach, where the lumps could be felt. The crowd applauded and whilst Jerome went into a booth to recover (and regurgitate the stones), the assistant took a collection. The assistant went into the booth and came back shortly with a pail.
“Now, the magnificent Jerome the Stone Eater will show you his greatest skill - frog eating!” The assistant shook the pail a little and some of the little frogs started croaking. The assistant showed the crowd that they were all alive. “And then, when he has eaten them all, Jerome will return them all, alive, alive-oh!”
“How shall we know they are the same frogs?” shouted one wit. “One frog looks the same as the next, eh?” The crowd roared with laughter.
George did his best to ignore the distractions. He walked Galingale about, occasionally glancing over at The Fly and his entourage. Now that the first trial was about to start, the rivalry between the Widderis and Grasset camps had arisen to separate them once more. The Sheriff’s lad, currently sitting on his horse and staring about him indifferently, did not concern George. If the way that he sat on a horse was any indication of the way that he rode, it was unlikely that he would stay the course. The horse was decent enough but no match for either Galingale or The Fly, in George’s opinion.
A boy with a hurdy-gurdy struck up a rousing tune too close to The Fly and the horse erupted into a series of high kicks with his ears laid back flat against his head. One of the grooms bellowed “Get that away from t’horse, y’stupid …” and the lad was quickly sent packing to a far corner of the field.
About ten minutes before the start, George mounted Galingale and rode him gently about to warm him up. He felt the horse’s power and spoke to it, setting his mind on the task ahead. It was so difficult, impossible, he thought, to describe to anyone how this communication worked. It was in part the preparation that the horse had received, but there was more to it than that, a subtle transfer of thought or feeling or both. He also tried to remain calm and collected and to convey that to the horse as well. Nothing to concern yourself about, Galingale; just another run, my lad. George picked up a lock of the horse’s mane and pulled it through his fingers, gently. Then he leaned forward to feel the muscles of the neck, strong and hard, but not too tense.
“George? I think we are ready to start.” Richard was waving him over to the starting point. The crowd, losing interest in Jerome and his antics, gathered nearby.
“Godspeed, Sir George!” called Amelia, anxiously. She waved to the horse and rider.
“Quiet, daughter!” said her mother. “Don’t make a show of yourself.”
The three horses moved steadily up all abreast, with the Fly under strong control and as they reached the line, the white starting cloth was dropped suddenly. As the horses started, the gathering of people let out a shout that seemed to be involuntary. George realised with some surprise that he was following the chestnut tail of The Fly as the horse surged ahead of him, despite the good start he thought that he and Galingale had made. The Fly had power, and his legs, finer than Galingale’s, were stretching over the grass at an astonishing rate. It put Galingale on his mettle, though, and George felt the horse move into a speed that he hadn’t yet experienced. As they headed towards the woodland track, a mile and a half from the start, The Fly began to slow a little and Galingale was only a length or so behind him as Widderis took the gentle corner into the wood. George noted this; he thought The Fly was slightly winded by then. The Fly plunged on as the track narrowed and began to descend to the stream. George kept as close to his heels as he dared, sensing uncertainty in the chestnut as the trees moved in closer on either side. George, keeping his eyes on the horse and man in front as they sped downhill, could see that Philip Widderis was a courageous and skilful rider. He noted the sweat on The Fly’s flanks and realised that Galingale was dripping with sweat as well. So was he, probably, but he had lost all sense of individual sensation; he was seeing as Galingale saw and feeling as the horse felt; he was conscious of the softer ground underneath and the slight shortening of Galingale’s stride to compensate for it.
He steadied Galingale and fell back as they approached the stream. If The Fly balked at the jump, George wanted to avoid colliding with him. He had a plan ready; if The Fly refused or floundered the jump, George had noted another place just downstream where he could cross. It would mean coming up on the outside of the stump and the crossing place was much boggier, but it could be used. He hoped he wouldn’t have to do that.
Ahead of him he saw The Fly throw up his head and slip as he approached the bank. Galingale’s more equable temper would show at a place like this. He heard Philip grunt something to the horse and saw him raise his whip as the horse hesitated momentarily on the edge.
“Get on!” The whip hand descended and the horse flung himself awkwardly into space. As he landed on the sloping ground on the other side, he stumbled and pecked. George held his breath for a second wondering if the horse would go down. Philip, who had simply settled harder into the saddle as the horse’s legs went under him, kept his head and the horse recovered, gained the top of the slope and quickly galloped onwards. George gathered Galingale under him and felt the horse leap from the bank, almost reaching the top of the slope on the far side. No time to be impressed, though. Galingale’s valiant leap had helped gain some ground and George pushed the horse up as hard as he could behind The Fly. He had nearly drawn up alongside Widderis by the time they left the woodland. At this point George intended to keep on the inside of The Fly as they curved back to the left towards the start again, but he found that Widderis still had a trick or two in his sleeve; as Galingale put in an extra surge to take the inside, Widderis raised the whip in his right hand and The Fly, moving to the left away from it, cut slightly across Galingale’s track. George was not sure whether the horses had touched or not, but Galingale lost a stride and Widderis, coolly taking advantage of the situation, gained a length and held off Galingale. George had lost his best opportunity to take the lead and could no longer manage it on the inside. Well. He wouldn’t forget that.
The Fly won the first trial by several lengths, but towards the finish Widderis was driving him hard. George eased up on Galingale as they approached the posts that marked the end of the course. Already he was planning how to ride the next heat. He had learned a lot about himself, Galingale and their rivals. Now he needed to use that knowledge to good effect. The undersheriff’s lad arrived so tardily that he scarcely gave him a thought.
George spent the interval tending to Galingale and was only vaguely conscious of the other runners’ heats - there were three other very minor matches being run - and the crowds that thronged the common. There was an occasional roar from the wrestling match and applause or derisive laughter from the scratch archery contest going on at the butts.
George wiped the horse down and scraped off the sweat. Galingale lay down and rolled vigorously and then got to his feet and shook himself thoroughly. George supervised the groom as he put a blanket on the horse and then walked him gently up and down. They allowed the horse to take a small drink at intervals and George was pleased to see that he nibbled at grass in a relaxed way. Galingale’s breathing quickly eased and he snorted several times, shaking his head and clearing his nostrils. Then he rubbed his h
ead on George’s shoulder.
One thing was certain, George decided; if he planned on participating in any more matches like this, he would have to be better prepared. He’d thought that the hours he spent in the saddle every day would be enough to ready him. After all, it was only four miles each time. He realised now that he was wrong; it required a different way of riding and thinking, especially if the horse and the course were unfamiliar. The next heat would be as much about strategy as anything else.
He glanced across at The Fly, in the care of Philip Widderis and the grooms. The horse had not settled, but was still sweating and moving around. George decided that this time he must take the lead and stay there. The first part, across the common and part of the parkland, would be the most difficult. He planned the route in his mind, glad that he had spent so much time examining the course. Every slight camber that might slow the horse infinitesimally, every piece of uneven ground; he had to take as much account of them as he reasonably could. Then - the woodland. His strategy here would be to keep the lead and block The Fly. The track narrowed so much in the middle section that there was not room for two horses side by side. The Widderis boy had taken advantage of that last time. This time, George would do everything in his power to keep him back. This wouldn’t suit The Fly, nor the Widderis lad, he thought; they were both young and impatient and the horse would waste energy in trying to get past. Philip Widderis would attempt to hold The Fly back and that would mean fighting with him; which would put both the boy and horse at a disadvantage.
