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

by Miriam Bibby

“I understand - this is painful for you. But - perhaps it will not be too long before we have news,” said George.

  “I had so much to tell her,” sniffed Amelia. “We had both looked forward to it for so long. Well - I thought Lissy - how could she seem to - I don’t understand …”

  George could think of nothing more helpful to say and it seemed that Anne felt the same. A wilful young woman and a young man’s first love: ingredients for a great adventure for the two of them and great pain for their families, unless those families could come to an agreement.

  Amelia wiped her eyes. Some memory struck her and she almost smiled. “The funniest thing, though, was the little dog that did the tricks. It was outside a booth at the back of the pavilion where there weren’t many people. I don’t know why the man had set up in that place. He just smiled and bowed when I said not many would see him there. I tried to remember all the things that it could do, because I knew that Lissy would have loved it too … what is it, Sir George?”

  “A little dog?” said George, quickly recovering himself. “A dog that could do tricks?”

  “Yes, a curious black dog with a tiny face that looked as though it knew some secrets …”

  “That’s very fanciful, Amelia,” said her mother, pleased that she had cheered up.

  “It could walk on its hind legs and on its front legs; and it could bring things and unfasten things … and do all kinds of funny tricks.”

  “Very curious!” said George. “Excuse me - I believe I will see if I can be of use in the search.”

  * * * * *

  The Jingler slid quietly through the door of Jugg’s house. He knew it was safe. Jugg was out for the day on parish affairs, so the Frater had told him. And when he came back, the Jingler would be ready.

  First of all, he was going to take a look in that chest, the one that Jugg’s eyes had strayed to, briefly, the last time he was here. There was something in it. Gold, maybe. Or a weapon. Whatever it was, the Jingler was going to take it. It had been a big risk, coming here, after what happened, but he was tired of skulking in the countryside with the others whilst Jugg, sneering, scheming Francis Jugg, remained smugly in Marcaster.

  The Jingler lifted the lid of the chest. Empty!

  “That must be a disappointment to ye, Jingler.“The lid fell with a crash at the sound of Jugg’s voice. The Jingler turned and saw Jugg standing just inside the doorway with a pistol in his hand.

  “Jugg!”

  “Hands in the air, Jingler. And stay where y’are.” The Jingler acquiesced, fuming. He knew at that distance it was likely that a shot would be fatal. Jugg would make sure of that.

  “Jack told me that ye wouldn’t be here, the lying dog.”

  “He didn’t lie. That’s what I told him. That’s what I wanted him to believe.” Jugg gestured with the pistol and the Jingler moved further into the room and away from Jugg. Jugg took a couple of steps towards him. The two men kept their eyes on one another. The Jingler’s mind was racing, taking in everything, searching for opportunities; something, anything, that he might grasp and throw at Jugg, something to blind him temporarily; a piece of furniture to hurl against him. There was the table; it was a solid thing, not just a trestle - but the timing had to be right. How could he contrive it?

  “I wouldn’t try any tricks,” said Jugg. “Reckon I can shoot ye before ye manage it. I’m not sure I want to shoot ye, Jingler. But I might. Accidents happen.”

  “Why don’t ye, then? I might do the same to you in similar circumstances.” The Jingler’s voice was jeering.

  “Well,” said Jugg, as though he was considering the matter in all seriousness, “I do owe ye something, Jingler. You played yer part well, after all …”

  “Part? What part?” said the Jingler. What was Jugg talking about? And why didn’t he just get on with shooting him, if that was what he intended to do? Mind, even Jugg would have some explaining to do if he did that. And Jugg had never shown any signs of enjoying the company of constables or justices. Might be able to carry it off though, with that sanctimonious air of his. The Jingler could just imagine Jugg being questioned by the constable. “Aye, constable, caught him red-handed in the act, the villain; with the consequences that y’see before you … either him or me, it was …” And perhaps no-one would question why a sexton might have a pistol, primed, at the ready …

  The Jingler was struck by the sudden thought that perhaps the pistol was not primed. Perhaps this was Jugg’s bluff.

  “Y’really don’t know, do you?” said Jugg, slightly wonderingly. “Well, it’s of no consequence now. But y’were very useful, for a time, to some friends of mine, regarding the Grasset horse. Thought we’d carried it off, right up until the day, near enough …” The Jingler stayed quiet, but his face must have betrayed something, because Jugg continued, “No-one could have done it better than you. Jingler. Put the prancer out of the match, without anyone realising anyone had a hand in it, as if nature had done it. If all had gone as it should, that is …”

  Light was beginning to dawn in the Jingler’s mind. Jugg had made a coney out of him, used him as a verser, a game player, for another plan. He’d wanted the Jingler to harm the horse in some way. If suspicion had fallen on anyone, it would have fallen on the Jingler, not Jugg. Another thought suddenly came to the Jingler.

  “Did you send word to Grasset - and Paston?” he said. There was something here that he had been wondering about, ever since the sudden arrival of George and Richard at the inn yard. “Or - did you intercept the letter?”

  Jugg looked genuinely confused and irritated. “What’re ye talking about? What letter?” he said. “I told you, don’t try any tricks.”

  The Jingler was thinking, hard. When he asked the Frater to write to the undersheriff, he had told him to make sure that the finger of suspicion was pointed at both Jugg and the cunning-woman. But nothing had happened to Jugg. He had just carried on as though nothing had changed. No-one had questioned him - or the cunning-woman either? The Jingler’s mind started racing again. It might be coincidence that Grasset and Paston had arrived so suddenly on the inn yard, before the two prime suspects were taken up, or it might not. He hadn’t seen what the Frater had written, of course. The Jingler couldn’t read, not properly. Make out a few words here and there when needed. What was going on? More to the point - what use could he make of it this instant?

  “Grasset got word of your plans. How did that come about?” bluffed the Jingler. Jugg stared at him, with a new uncertainty in his expression. “Somebody went tittiwell on yer friends,” continued the Jingler with more confidence. “Somebody went tattle-telling. Who was that, eh? Who’s around ye that ye can’t trust … ?” That was the way to break ‘em, he thought. Once suspicion was in Jugg’s mind, it would go take it off a-wandering … watch the eyes …

  The instant Jugg wavered, the Jingler was upon him, grappling like a demon for the pistol. He didn’t want to shoot Jugg; just prevent him from shooting him; or point the pistol out of the door and discharge the shot. With the pistol spent, he knew that he could overcome Jugg in a fist fight - and there was always the knife.

  Jugg was strong. His arms were surprisingly long and wiry and he stretched one hand, the hand with the pistol, as far back as he could, whilst the other first pushed at the Jingler’s face and then gripped his throat. The Jingler, with tears of pain starting in his eyes despite himself, tried to ignore the gripping hand as he used both his to reach for the pistol. With one he managed to grip Jugg’s wrist and hold the hand steady. Then he balled the other into a fist, ready to smash it into Jugg’s face.

  “Ooof!” Jugg’s knee came up towards the Jingler’s groin just as the Jingler’s fist met his nose. Jugg was knocked back across the table and the Jingler, bent over him and gasping in agony, tried to get control of the pistol. As he was bringing it round towards the door, Jugg lifted his head up and grabbed for the Jingler’s throat again. Afterwards, the Jingler was never sure whose finger it was pulled the trigger. The powd
er in the pan exploded and the Jingler yelped with pain as the muzzle flashed sparks. Jugg fell back with a dull thud onto the top of the table and did not move again. The Jingler, holding his burnt hand in his good one, stood upright drawing gasping breath after gasping breath. Fragments of burned paper and wadding floated down over the still body of Jugg. Blood began to seep across the table. The Jingler, feeling that he would never get enough air into his lungs again, imagined that he could hear the first drops falling onto the floor …then becoming a trickle …

  “Jingler - what …” The Frater’s face was white with fear. The room stank of explosion and burning. “Ye’ve killed ‘im!”

  “What’re you doing here?”

  “I heard the shot. I heard it from the church, Jingler!”

  “Bing a waste, Jack,” advised the Jingler, curtly.

  “Aye, I will,” said the Frater in a scared voice, getting ready to follow the Jingler’s instructions, meaning leave, now. “I’ll go now, Jingler. But ye’d better bing a waste as well!”

  “Aye - but first - wait for me by the old yew - where the wall drops down on the other side. If ye see anyone, hold ‘em till I get away!”

  No sooner was the Frater out of the door than the Jingler began to ransack the room. Where was it - where was it - it had to be somewhere. The Jingler turned reluctantly to the body lying across the table. He didn’t want to touch Jugg, but if his purse was on him, he would have to … shuddering, he ran his hands over Jugg’s trunk - nothing - then, with a flash of inspiration, he peered under the table.

  There it was, large and bulging, nailed to the underside. The Jingler grabbed it and pulled it away with a slight tearing sound. No coins fell out and he stowed it carefully inside his jerkin. Then he picked up the pistol and ran.

  * * * * *

  It had been taken for granted that Sir John would carry on receiving Grasset hospitality for as long as he needed it. No-one had spoken openly about it, but it seemed to suit them all very well. For Anne, it was like old times, because the relationship between the two houses had been very cordial when the children were young. Then, as they were growing, Catholic plots and threats to the safety of the Queen’s life and the execution of the Queen of Scots, the Queen’s cousin, had brought an atmosphere of suspicion that had affected nearly everyone they knew. When Anne thought about it, though, the final breakdown had come with Lucy’s death.

  Anne missed Lucy’s company. They had both lost children, sons, as babes in arms and had been there to comfort each other like sisters. Lucy had gone on to bear Sir John two sons and two daughters whilst Anne had daughters only. But Anne still lived for which she gave thanks. Her belief did not accommodate prayers for the dead, but she thought fondly of Lucy’s memory and that, she thought, was as good as a prayer. She felt sorry for Sir John. What had just happened had robbed her of a daughter, but it had also robbed him of a son. And how foolish it all was, really, that it had come to this.

  Secretly, whilst she was worried about Amabilis, she was not entirely unhappy with the idea of this match. Philip Widderis was a good lad. In fact, he was such a dutiful son that Anne was quite surprised at what he had done. If she thought about that too much, however, it would bring thoughts of Lissy’s part in all of this. There was no doubt that Lissy was determined, even headstrong on occasions. No-one knew that better than her mother - and like all mothers, she thought that Lissy’s father had sometimes been too indulgent with the children. But what was done, was done; and now the best should be made of it. The best, as far as Anne was concerned, was to ensure that they were married as soon as possible. At times, she even allowed her thoughts to stray ahead to a future where the Grasset and Widderis estates were united. In her mind’s eye, she saw little children with red-gold hair and blue eyes - or perhaps green ones, like Philip - running through the garden at Marfield Hall, or riding over from Calness … best not think too much about that, presently.

  It helped that she could occupy herself with hospitality. She had made sure that a room was prepared for Sir John with all the comforts he might need. As usual, the menfolk had gathered in Richard’s study and she was about to advise them to ready themselves to dine. As she went into the room, she saw that Sir George was not there and was grateful, as ever, for all the efforts he had made to find which way the runaways had gone. Riders had been sent out to send word and now there was just the waiting … Waiting …

  John Widderis rose to his feet when she came in. “Thank thee for thy kindness, Anne,” he said, sounding a little embarrassed.

  Anne smiled. “‘Tis naught, John; well, indeed it is a pleasure to have you stay with us again.” She suddenly felt awkward and wondered if it had been the right thing to say. Richard came to her support.

  “So it is, Jack, though - the circumstances are somewhat - unexpected.” Richard poured a glass of wine for their guest and then looked enquiringly at his wife, who shook her head and then, shrugging, said, “Yes, I will then.” She took her drink and sat down. The men raised their glasses to her.

  “I must thank you for stalling my horses, as well as myself,” said Jack Widderis, with humour.

  Anne countered his humour with mild irony. “One or two more is nothing to my husband.” The resulting laughter warmed the atmosphere slightly.

  “I feel for your - other - guest,” said Widderis.

  “Yes,” said Richard, “‘tis a pity that we could not match our horses fully, for George’s sake at least.”

  Anne wished that Lissy were there, if only to say her usual “Horses - again!” She decided to say nothing herself, though for a moment she had to bite back some words. Finally, she satisfied herself by remarking, with only slight coolness in her tone, “I imagine that there was no small amount of gold wagered on this match.”

  “I imagine so,” said Richard. He went to pour his wife some more wine but Anne shook her head and rose to her feet.

  “We dine within the hour,” she said, firmly, curtseying to them. If she did not lay down the law about this, they would stay for hours, talking about horses while the wine went down and the food cooled on the table.

  “Of course, my dear,” said Richard. The two men rose to their feet and bowed as she moved towards the door. Before resuming their places and their wine, they exchanged a mutual warning glance behind her back. A glance that said clearly, one to the other, “Say naught to Anne about our wager!”

  As the door closed behind her, their glasses clicked conspiratorially together.

  Chapter 10: Gold and Ruby

  The strange events of the running horses would reverberate in Marcaster for days, if not years to come, thought Zacharias. He delivered the coins back to Amiot with some relief and watched with interest as Goldspink’s face and body shrank under his burden again. He’d brought two young men with him, neighbour’s sons, to see him safely back home. Yes, gold was a responsibility. The matter of the wagers would take some clearing up, as this was an outcome that very few - if any - could have foreseen. Widderis had effectively thrown the match; and Sir George was disqualified, although there had been a lot of grumbling about it. Some had said that further trials should have been run between the undersheriff’s lad and Sir George. There had been quite a few fights on the night after and many sore heads the following morning. Zacharias had heard shouts and arguments going on for hours not far from his own house. The gentry probably knew naught about it, having their own affairs to occupy them. Perhaps Goldspink would be lucky and be able to return the gold quickly to those who had wagered it. They might be pleased just to have their money back at all, under the circumstances - and not look at it too closely.

  Zacharias had come to a decision in the past few days. He had reason to travel to York and it seemed to him that it might be a good idea to put some time and distance between himself and what had happened. He still had an uncomfortable feeling about the coins. He couldn’t shake off the feeling that someone had entered his house without him knowing, impossible though it was. There was also
the strange business of the woman who had visited his house, saying that she would come back with a deposit for some jewellery. She hadn’t returned. She was certainly an unusual and attractive woman and her knowledge of the curious history of gems matched his own, but he did not believe she was a thief. He had only left her alone for a very brief space of time. Still, there had been enough opportunity for her to palm some of his jewellery and she had not done so. Then there was the young man who had arrived with a sovereign for him to weigh. It wasn’t unknown for people to do this but it was unusual. The sovereign was a legal coin; there was naught amiss with it. Zacharias had been slightly unnerved by the man’s request, but perhaps that was because of Goldspink.

  Well, whatever followed regarding the wagers was now the concern of Goldspink. Zacharias made his preparations. Leaving the older of the two dogs with the lads who watched his home for him, he made an early start, along with the younger mastiff, in a little canvas-covered cart drawn by a nag hired from the Blue Boar.

  As he drove along, it seemed to him that it had been a long time since he had seen the spring. His craft, his workshop, the various Marcaster intrigues and factions; these were things that had dominated his thoughts for a long time. His eyes needed to adjust to the sunshine after hours spent crouched over his work. He found pleasure in watching the nesting birds in the fresh green leaves and in smelling the heady scent from the hedgerows and orchards. Even the nag seemed glad to be ambling along. When he caught at leaves and grasses at the side of the lane and continued on his way chomping contentedly, Zacharias did not chide him. He was not in a hurry. Taking a roundabout route suited him well. He looked round warily occasionally, just to make sure he was not being followed by anyone. Everyone who travelled alone feared highway robbers. So far, he had the tempting May morning all to himself.