Mistress Meg and the Prigger of Prancers

by Miriam Bibby

  Matthew smiled agreeably. The Frater was speaking.

  "And I'm Frater John, though these miserable wenches have other names for me ..." He turned to Matthew with a look of enquiry.

  "Mmm...oses," said Matthew.

  "Got a stammer, have ye?" asked the Frater.

  "Moses," said Matthew with greater confidence, holding out his hand. The Frater gripped it hard.

  "Well, that was a good turn you done us today and no mistake," said the Frater. "Your health."

  "My pleasure," said Matthew. "More drink?"

  It seemed that the Frater would be rolling back under the stars again, to his temporary home in the forest.

  * * * * *

  The numbers at the camp had swollen to fifteen or so. The Frater, the Sad Mort and the Egyptian Mort had not yet returned. A group of children tumbled and danced about under the feet of other, newly arrived women who were gathering wood. One of them had been carrying a large pot in her bundle and this was now heating over the fire with more rabbit meat in it. Clink and the Frog were discussing matters together over a pipe. The day was turning to dusk.

  "They followed the marks easy enough," said Clink, gesturing with his head at the others around the fire. "The Jingler will find us, no doubt."

  "Depends which way he's coming from," said the Frog, who was argumentative by nature. If he comes from the south he'll see them, for certain. But what if he's found himself a prancer and ridden on ahead of us? Supposing he's headed up the Chester road?"

  "Why would he do that? What would that get 'im?"

  As if in response to their talk, they felt, as much as heard, the unmistakable reverberation of a horse coming through the grass, towards them. It was so close that they could even hear the dead bracken crackling and regular snorting as though the animal had been ridden hard. Instantly the two men were on their feet and their daggers were out.

  "Douse that!" said Clink, gesturing at the fire. The women tending it quickly smothered it with turf, leaving just a few small embers glowing on one side.

  The sound of the horse grew closer and within a few seconds a man on a fine bay horse was riding into the clearing.

  Clink looked at the shadowy horseman and gave a long appreciative whistle. His face broke into an ironic smile. He nodded at the newcomer. "Jingler. Talk of the devil ... and I might have known you'd furnish yourself with a prancer of quality. D'ye find the signs we left?"

  "Smelled yer fire miles off," said the man they called the Jingler, swinging down from the saddle. "Leave that ..." he continued, to the others who crowded round asking questions. They hastily withdrew. This was a man to be obeyed. The Jingler turned to Clink. "I've found us our country cousin."

  Clink's smile widened and that of the Frog looked as though it would split in two. They knew he was not talking about a long lost relative.

  Chapter 6: Pegasus Invisible

  Peter Siskin was troubled by day and by night. Every shadow was a threat; he could scarcely bear to look into the warm heart of the fire on his hearth in the evening. Isolation had made him self-sufficient, he thought, but in fact he had fewer resources to deal with his own fears than he had for dealing with those of his clients. Professionally, he could offer sympathy, support, insight and genuinely helpful suggestions for people who came seeking help. He could not offer the same to his own troubled mind, which, once set off on its road, kept going around in ever smaller circles that always ended up at the heart of the maze. And at the heart was Jostler.

  Peter was in no doubt that Jostler's threats were serious and he was also in no doubt about what he had to deal with. The obvious thing to do was to tell the Constable, or Sir George himself, what Jostler was planning. But Jostler would simply deny it and he now seemed to have gained impregnable security on the staff of Sir George Paston. If he waited until Jostler had carried out his plan, then he would be implicated. If he waited until the plan was put into action, and then went to tell Sir George, then he was under threat from both parties. Sir George would distrust him for not telling him earlier and Jostler, if he escaped, would be an extremely dangerous man indeed. Thus ran Peter's mind, and his conscience.

  He could see, very clearly, in his mind's eye, the face of Jostler as he had seen it at the alehouse, grinning with the audacity of his own plan. He could hear the laughter in the voice and see the shifting colour in Jostler's eyes. Then the face became serious and threatening and he heard him say again, clearly, "No, I don't think you do", saw and heard the glass splinter. It was an old bottle that had been in the possession of his uncle for a long time. It had once belonged to an old wise woman, who claimed she kept a spirit in it. Neither Peter nor his uncle really believed this, but they were both interested in curious things and in the beliefs that people had. Somehow recent events had changed Peter from a thoughtful and rational man into one who was superstitious; despite himself, he thought of the spirit escaped from the bottle, free to work its mischief and perhaps vengeful after years of imprisonment. Nonsense, he knew in his happier moments; but in the middle of the night when mice and beetles were scurrying in the thatch, and there was an unexplained creak or sigh from the timber frame or the badly hung door, it was a different matter.

  Despite himself, he found he was going over the discussion he and Jostler had had in the alehouse. He remembered how Jostler had leaned forward to hold him with his eyes and how he had lowered his voice, speaking to Peter confidentially, as to a proven confederate. He remembered how fascination had mixed with shock in his mind as Jostler began to unfold his plan. As a cunning-man, Peter had often had to listen to strange tales, confessions almost; certainly he had heard his clients confess to thoughts and actions that would have counted as sins. Often they gave this away unawares. Peter had never heard anyone recount so gleefully the intention to commit a crime, a serious crime with potentially serious consequences.

  "There's no real harm in it, is there," Jostler had said, but his tone had been soothing rather than questioning. "The prancer won't come to any harm - you trust me for that - and it'll be back home in no time at all, if you play your part."

  Peter remembered his subsequent, more sinister meeting with Jostler, at Peter's cottage, when Jostler had made him recount the plan and his role in it.

  "So I take the prancer and stow it away safe," said Jostler. "No doubt ye'll get word of that because it will be the talk of the town. Then what happens?"

  Peter answered slowly, "I ... contrive to send word to Sir George that I can find his horse for him again ..." His mouth dried. "But what if I cannot think of a way to do that? What if he will not see me?"

  "Ye'll think of something," said Jostler, almost kindly. "Ye're clever enough."

  Peter felt a stab of anger. He had wanted to throw this back at Jostler, to make some tart remark about who was the more cunning; but his courage failed him.

  "And ...?" prompted Jostler.

  "I ... persuade him to give me a fee, once the pra... the horse is found."

  "A good fee," said Jostler. "I intend to prig a good prancer. I think ... oh ... a fee of thirty angels would not be unreasonable."

  "Thirty angels! You must be moonstruck!"

  "Oh no, Master Siskin," said Jostler, with cold malice. "Most certainly I am not. Sir George will pay that for the return of his favourite mare. And having done that? Next, you ...?"

  "I wait for you to send me word of where to find the horse. I take Sir George to that place and ..."

  "Claim yer fee," said Jostler, helpfully.

  Peter swallowed. "Which I then ... share with you, you finding me secretly after the horse has been safely returned."

  "Just so," said Jostler, smoothly. "And the last thing?"

  "That if I should in any way attempt to betray you, or make word against you, or spoil your intentions ..."

  "I, or one sent by me ..."

  "Will seek me out," continued Peter, in an agony, as if being prompted in a catechism.

  "And show you the meaning of fear" said Jostler.


  Peter looked at Jostler. "But - what of you? Where will you be after the horse vanishes? Surely if you disappear at the same time ... "

  Jostler looked at him as though he were mad. "I've no intention of vanishing. Sir George is happy with my work and I've good commendations. Oh no, no-one will be so grieved by this loss as I will; and no-one will be more vigilant in helping to find the missing prancer."

  Peter looked at him in total bewilderment. From his perspective, Jostler seemed to be the obvious suspect.

  "What I do is none of your affair," said Jostler, with finality. "All you have to do is play your part - and await my word to you. All clear?"

  Peter made as if he would lift up his hands, helplessly. Then his head dropped and his shoulders sagged.

  "I understand," he said.

  * * * * *

  By the time Matthew, the Frater and the two women left the Widow Patterson's alehouse, the party, somewhat raucous, gave every impression of being old friends. A visit to two more alehouses cemented this. By this stage, the Frater was becoming confidential, the Sad Mort was beginning to sniff into her ale and the Egyptian Mort, in between comforting the Sad Mort, mocking the Frater and flirting with Matthew, was becoming loud. Matthew, despite his best intentions to keep his intake low, found himself in a slightly elevated and familiar state. He focussed again on what the Frater was saying, with a little difficulty, for this alehouse was hot, noisy and crowded.

  The Frater became sentimental in his cups. "Tis hard to live a good, honest life," he said, "however hard a man tries."

  The Egyptian Mort, overhearing this, gave a loud laugh. The Frater frowned at her. Matthew nodded sympathetically at him. The Frater was drifting slowly into his life story. Matthew attempted to follow it, but it was meandering and full of cant words. He managed to fix an interested look on his face, but the Frater wasn't really talking to him, more to himself.

  "I was there, ye know, at Lepanto," said the Frater hoarsely. His eyes, reddened with drink and tobacco, stared into Matthew's. His voice sounded belligerent as though he didn't expect Matthew to believe him. The Frater leaned closer. Matthew wondered whether that was the reason for the Frater's two eyes occasionally becoming four. It was quite an effort to keep his own wide and interested, and focussed on the Frater, who seemed to be wavering about quite a lot.

  "Oh yes," said the Frater, "I was there. I was there. A sight I'll never forget. The sun on the water and the fleet stretching away as far as eye could see. But theirs was even bigger ... they reckon the Turks had 250 ships or thereabouts, but it seemed more to us. Ye gods! 30,000 of those bastards!" His faced suddenly changed and he started to laugh. "We wiped out their bowmen, blasted them to pieces. I'd seen them in action years before Lepanto, with those bows and the shiz, shiz of the arrows, watching men around me drop. You've never seen anything like it - those bows 'ud send an arrow through anything. Nothing 'ud stop 'em. We stopped 'em at Lepanto, though. Guns, y'see. Cannon. We had the guns."

  Matthew nodded sympathetically.

  "Lot 'o Moors at that battle," said the Frater, looking at Matthew. "Some of your relatives among them, perhaps." He managed to sound sympathetic and triumphant at the same time, then his mood changed. "Bad, very bad," he said, staring into his cup. "Bodies in the water. Not the setting sun that turned the water red. No, blood. Lots and lots and lots of blood. And the smell ..." He took a swig. "Never forget the smell."

  There was a pause, then he added, "Been in the galleys meself, before that, you know, Turkish galley."

  The Egyptian Mort overheard this and gave a little screech of laughter.

  "'E's not tellin' you about Lepanto is he? Turkish galley my ... backside," she said, with an attempt at politeness. "'E was never in no galley, 'e wasn't, if you ask me. Turned Turk hisself more like, lived a life of ease on the coast of Barbary, killin' 'is own kind, more like!"

  "Stow it, woman!" snarled the Frater. "I never killed no Christians, not knowingly anyways." He was now turning sentimental and some innate religiosity was beginning to show. "Have to give it to those Papists, they was a sight to see in all their finery and those priests in black, with all that praying to our Lady of Guadaloupe and the incense ... smell of incense and blood ..." He suddenly stood up and burst into song.

  "Ave Maria, Grazia Plena, Ave, ave, ave ..."

  At exactly the same moment the Sad Mort chose to stand up and yowl, "Jingler! I want the Jingler!" before descending into inarticulate tears and great gasps for air. They had already been drawing some attention in the form of scowls and comments from some of the other customers and this was, apparently, the signal for action.

  "Bloody papists! Gypsies! Get them!"

  And that was how they ended up in the street, making as hasty a retreat as the drink, cold air and darkness would let them.

  * * * * *

  Meg was sitting in the window of her room, without a candle lit. The only light came from the logs that were crackling on the fire. Although she could not see the sliver of the setting moon from this room, she knew that it was there, low in the sky to the west. She could see it in her mind's eye, clear, cold and untainted with any remaining colour from the sunset. It was growing cold outside, she knew, and the stars that she could see flashed icily, disappearing from time to time as plumes of smoke from nearby chimneys drifted across them. The moon, in her inner vision, was the portal into a world of the imagination and she waited patiently to see what lay behind the door. She lifted up the glass she was holding and watched the flames through it for a few minutes. Then she drank. It was slightly bitter, as she expected.

  Meg put down the glass and waited. She was looking ahead, but after a while she saw nothing that was in the room. She didn't hear the crackling of the fire any longer, was unaware of the increasing cold creeping in through the casement or the draught under the door. She was somehow more conscious of the stars outside, as though they blazed more brightly. She was moving along a corridor. She had the impression of torches burning as they cast light on the underground passage as she was carried through it like a wraith but she knew from experience that it was only an impression. What was coming into focus more clearly was ...

  She was outside a building of indescribable size. It was, perhaps, a facade rather than a building. Behind it rock caverns might lie, or a temple of vast extent. It was both, simultaneously, and she did not question it. She was walking across hot sand and as she approached the building she saw the two gigantic guardians of its gateway. On the left, a black horse of immense size reared up to meet, at the centre of the entrance, the ascending arc of its white counterpart on the right. The statues of the horses were immobile, but their eyes were of gold, and alive.

  At her feet, in front of the doorway, she knew there lay a skull, a bloody double ended goad and a broken circlet of gold. She ignored them, stepping over them as if they were not there. Under the shadow of the great descending hooves, she silently said the word. The way was open to her and she walked into the darkness. She knew the way. The first thing she would encounter was ...

  The woman's form seemed to be emerging from the rock. Carved in relief, the robes flowed like water, the hair blew across the image's face and the legs strode confidently, but they had no feet. In one hand she held a stylus and a tablet, and in the other a jewelled flask. Next came ...

  The statue. A horse, still of immense size, but smaller than the guardians, was in front of her. Its form was tense with frustration and around it lay the still forms of fallen riders. The chamber was filled with sound, a relentless sighing, the sound of something or someone that wanted to communicate but could not. She knew that if she walked on she would next see...

  She did not see what she was expecting. She was entering not a chamber with a form in it, but an empty space. The creature she expected to see was not there ... somewhere, a door creaked in the wind. Empty, gone. There was a sound like wings and an unmistakeable scent; the scent of stable, ammonia, straw, dung, corn. There was something here,
something unexpected in the shadows; but what was it, and where? An immense shadow, like ... like a pair of horns ...

  The door was a real door. It had creaked open cautiously. Meg's eyes opened wide with a start and Cornelius awoke from his sleep in front of the fire and yawned, giving a happy little yip as he saw Matthew sliding carefully into the room. Meg looked at Matthew and Matthew looked slightly guilty.

  "You look like an owl in an ivy bush," said Meg, back in the world again. Matthew had taken off the knitted cap, leaving his hair sticking up like ruffled feathers. The comparison was an accurate one, as he gazed around with a wide, owlish stare, a silly grin on his face. He slumped into the best rush chair beside the fire. Meg tried not to laugh.

  "There are some mutton pasties keeping warm by the fire, if you want them," she said. "Another aquatic sheep."

  "Good!" said Matthew, with enthusiasm, reaching for them. Meg waited until he had taken a large and hungry bite.

  "It was to have been pigeon pie, I believe," she said innocently, "followed by a special tart. But when Bess went to retrieve the pies from the larder, where they had been put for safe keeping ..." Meg emphasised this slightly, "... she found that some passing vagrant ..." she emphasised this too, "... had apparently hooked them through the larder window."

  "Ah," said Matthew. He grinned ingratiatingly at her.

  "I hope it was worth it!"

  Matthew nodded. "I think so," he said, almost to himself. "Yes."

  Meg rolled her eyes heavenwards. "Well?"

  "Interesting," said Matthew. "Very interesting ... afternoon ... what time ...?"

  "Late enough," said Meg. "What happened?"

  "Three of them. The Frater ... he was at Lepanto, you know? And the Sad Mort." Here Matthew frowned. "Think she is in love but it is not returned. Sad. Very, very sad." His face fell.

  "And?" prompted Meg, trying not to smile.