by Miriam Bibby
Follett subsided, but Cowbury was still red in the face.
"Aye well," he said. "Fine constable, y'have there, Master Cantle. Good day, both." He stalked off.
"What's to do, Master Cantle?" asked Follett.
"Well, naught I'd say," said Sim. "The rogues are flown. Did the ass have wings?"
Follett couldn't help a little snicker of laughter at the idea. "Not that I saw, sir."
"You had a watch outside?"
"I did, Master Cantle. All the time. There was someone there all the time."
"But not yourself, though."
"I was called away once or twice," conceded Follett, slightly embarrassed. "It was a busy day."
"And might there have been times when whoever was set outside was called away too?"
"It's possible, Master Cantle. I'll enquire."
"It's as well that we've had a lot to concern us," said Sim in an icy tone.
"It's as well, Master Cantle," agreed Follett more soberly, considering the investigation that would almost certainly have to follow.
* * * * *
The two figures turned from shadows to ghosts to shadows again as they walked in the forest under the starlight. The moon had not risen yet, but her glowing light was visible under the eastern horizon. As the figures walked, they talked; and Davey, attempting to be a shadow himself, listened as he followed, but he did not understand. The air was the purest he had ever breathed. It was as though the earth was coming back to life and exhaling deeply with the joy of it. Somewhere a bird piped tentatively and an owl hooted, but gently, as though it too was rapt with the spring.
Perhaps the night was more beautiful and mysterious to Davey because of the life he had lived. The starlight, the air, the scent of the ground and the occasional early flower glowing under his feet were pure enchantment. The turnspit dog was no longer snuffling about but walked calmly on the rope, sniffing quietly with pleasure as though the night had charmed him too. The softness of turf was under his feet instead of the roughness of the endless wheel. Even the words that Davey could hear occasionally, although he did not understand them all, were enchantments to his ear.
"The She Bear," said Meg, softly, looking up. "Some say the Great and Little Bears are the sons of Calisto and Jupiter, that were changed into bears by Juno. Jupiter set them in the sky as bright stars to circle forever. Some say the greater one is Calisto herself. Those seven stars in the Great Bear are sometimes called the Plough; did you know that?"
"I have an old, old tale in my head about those stars, that they are bears. From long, long ago," said Matthew.
They had stopped, two ghosts now in the glade as the moonlight began to trickle into it, and they were looking upwards. Davey knelt down, gripping the dog by the neck, ready to hold his jaw if needed. The two figures began to walk slowly onwards again.
"And also, Matthew, from those bright stars in the Little Bear, we come by the word cynosure," said Meg, with a lively note in her voice now. "Which means, 'that which draws attention to itself like a dog's tail'."
"Oh?" said Matthew. It sounded as though he was smiling.
"Some say the stars stretch out from the Pole Star like the tail of a dog ... cyno, or kun, of the dog ... oura, the tail ..."
"I see," said Matthew, looking up. Cornelius, hearing the word "dog" uttered, wondered if it had anything to do with him and looked up into the sky too, his eyes peering round as he looked over Matthew's shoulder.
Davey still could not believe he was here. When, with his heart hammering in his ears, he had released the turnspit dog, he had only thought to get away, somewhere, anywhere, as quickly as he could. He knew that would make him masterless - a vagabond - and he no longer cared. He was excited and terrified in equal measure as he slipped out of the inn yard with the dog hidden as well as it could be in an old cloth. He had not thought about what he was going to do.
"Quiet," breathed Davey under his breath to the turnspit dog. The dog wriggled, but seemed to understand. So far this new master had led it into a world of wonder, of scents, sounds and feelings that were completely new. It had quickly learned to trust him. Davey let the two shadows move away, confident that he could follow them by their voices. He had recognised that they were following a path, a little used path. It was clear once he had the eyes to see.
He had headed to the north, passing not far from Peter Siskin's house, although he didn't know that at the time. And he had found himself on a track, and then another; and then, suddenly almost stumbling on the old Cistercian foundation in the middle of the forest he had been terrified for a while when he heard voices, until one of them laughed. He had never heard of ghosts laughing, not in such a robust way, anyway. And so he had sneaked forward and seen them - Meg and Matthew - hiding something under an old cracked stone that had some writing on it.
"There," Meg had said. "That will be less to carry and they'll be safe enough there for now. If we come back this way - " but he had lost the rest of her words as she and Matthew started to walk away. Davey had started to follow them, cautiously. He had been following them now for a long time, it seemed to him, from day into night, and he wondered where they were going.
Meg's voice continued, a little more faintly. Now It was filled with a kind of reverence. Though Davey, walking behind, could not quite fathom the change, he was aware of it. There was resonance in the voice, and awe.
"Some say, that Great Bear carries the Cosmos, and we are all turning on her shoulder ..."
Behind the wanderers came a sound. Davey had never heard the hooves of a horse in a moonlit forest, but he realised that was what it was. The two shadows stopped and looked at one another. Davey, looking around for a hiding place, scrambled up a small bank, dragging the dog with him and scratching and tearing himself on old brambles as he did so. Somewhere along the back of the bank he found a hollow that was a bit softer than the ground around it and settled into it, one arm around the dog, the hand of the other on its muzzle. He waited. So did the two shadows, apparently without fear.
A horse and rider, trotting, and then walking, under the rising moon, came to a halt as the rider saw the two shadows faint on the path ahead of him. For a moment Davey wondered if this really was a ghostly presence. He felt himself trembling and the tremors passed themselves on to the dog, still in his grip. It whined, and he shook it, gently.
The two shadows, Meg and Matthew, did not hide from the rider, who waited now under the moonlight in the centre of the glade. The horse was dark, shadowy and strange in the moonlight, and the rider was a man who bore a sword and wore a cloak. Meg, followed by Matthew, turned towards the rider and then began to walk towards him. The horse blew through its nose and the rider dismounted. It was not a ghost, then.
"You," said the rider, as Meg approached. "I have been looking for you for hours. Then - do not ask me how I knew - I thought of the Cistercians and came that way, following the old road."
"Good even, George," said Meg. "I am glad that your horse is restored to you."
"Good even, Meg," said the man, and there was amusement in his voice.
"Matthew, of course, you remember?"
The men nodded to one another.
"How long has it been, Meg?"
"Three years, I think, George. Yes - that would be it. Cambridge, three years ago."
"You don't change. You are no older."
"My mistress," said Matthew, seriously, "does not age."
The horseman took Meg's hand, the left one, that bore a ring. To Davey's wide-eyed astonishment he looked at the ring and then turned her hand over and lifted the palm to his lips, bowing.
"Immortal Meg," said George, gravely.
Meg half smiled and shook her head. "Perhaps not even the immortal stars are ... immortal."
"Heresy," said George, still looking at her. "Where are you going?"
"Walking into the spring," said Meg. "Will you join us?"
"For a while," said George. He walked beside her, his horse stepping quietly alongsi
de. Davey cautiously started to follow them again.
"His colour will soon be restored, George," said Meg, glancing at Bayard as he walked quietly at George's side.
"I know. Some concoction of yours, is it?"
Meg laughed.
"Do you think I will admit to it?"
"Oh Meg, it had to be you. Only you could have managed it."
Meg inclined her head slightly, as though accepting a compliment.
"I remember at Cambridge when you lodged with your uncle," continued George. "We thought he was crazed, with a strange exalted kind of madness, that sometimes saw truth. Always searching for nature's hidden secrets. He had a reputation as an alchemist - or was it just a maggot in the brain?"
"He had some skills. I have been fortunate to study with those who have knowledge. He was one of them. Learning comes at a price and the price he paid was with his mind, his own nature ..."
They walked on in silence.
"Meg," said George after a while, "why not come back with me, you and Matthew, and stay for a while? I have a good library with things that you would like to read. Or, if you wish, return with me and I will give you horses. I know you like to wander, but why not ride, rather than walk?"
"And be arraigned as a horse thief, before I had gone a mile?"
They all laughed.
"A good jest," George conceded.
"Besides, one often sees more on foot - and is less conspicuous," said Meg.
"And so," said George after another pause, "my horse is restored - albeit a different colour; a certain Peter Siskin has his reputation returned - enhanced, even ..."
"And will not, God willing, mix with rogues again, " interjected Meg.
"Ah, the rogues," said George. "I suppose I should be dealing with that."
"Oh, the rogues," said Meg. "Hmmm. I wonder what they are up to. Perhaps you will not need to worry about it. Anyway, we kept your horse safe for you. You can thank Matthew for that, as well as me. Although I take the credit for teaching him to go up and down steps; it might be of use one day. And is Bayard the worse for it?"
"No, I think he is rather the better. To his own good nature you have added some special enchantment."
"If you believe it, George."
"But - I'll not forget you're in my debt - Mistress Loveday."
"Ah," said Meg, laughing. "Your cousin told you of that."
"He did indeed. Meg, you put yourself into danger sometimes."
"He told you of Cornelius?"
"A little," said George, joining her in helpless laughter. "He said it was as well I was not there."
"It was! It was as well I had not met him before ..."
Cornelius, on hearing his name, had grumbled and now he started to bark. The turnspit dog, who was quickly learning the ways of the wide world, barked loudly in return and the three turned quickly to where Davey was cowering in the shadows.
"Come out!" said George, authoritatively. Davey, terrified now that the Justice would send him back, hesitated for an instant and then realised that there was nowhere he could go. The turnspit dog was barking and snarling and Cornelius, secure in his superiority, was barking in return. The whole of the woods rang with their noise and some frightened blackbirds called out an alarm as they hastily quitted their night-time roosts.
"What have we here?" said George, as Davey, like a little ghost, walked out into the moonlight. "Or rather, who have we here?"
"It's the boy from the inn," explained Meg. Then she turned to Davey. "Have you followed us all this way?"
Davey, his chest tight with fear and excitement, nodded.
Matthew and Meg exchanged glances. George looked at the boy.
"What is that you have with you?"
Davey took a deep breath.
"My dog, sir."
"It's the kitchen dog," whispered Meg. "The turnspit dog." She went to the boy. "Why did you follow us, Davey?" She knelt down so that she could see his face better.
The boy, seeing no other way, said, "Want to go with you."
There was a pause whilst Meg thought of an answer.
"It's not often you don't find the words, Meg," said George dryly.
"Davey," she said. "You cannot come with us. We ... are often travelling and it would not be right."
"I'll not go back!" the boy bared his teeth, as he had seen Matthew do in jest, but he was serious. Clutching the dog to him, he cried, "You'll not send me back! I'll run away!"
Meg straightened up and the three looked at each other. Davey started to cry. There was a pause.
"Do you remember my uncle speaking of Master Ibn al-Marzuban, who wrote of the 'Superiority of dogs over those who wear garments'?" said Meg, softly. "Here is loyalty that you rarely see in those who claim superiority over other men - and women."
George said, eventually, "I'll take him back, Meg. No, listen, boy, listen, not to the kitchen. If you come back with me you can be a kennel boy. Will could do with some help now that he's old and rheumaticky."
"I'll not leave my dog!" said the boy fiercely.
"No one said you should have to," said George reasonably. "There is nothing more admirable than loyalty to a friend. You've shown that. I'll make all necessary arrangements, including your proper apprenticeship."
Davey stood looking at them, wondering what this meant for him.
George said, "But you realise what this means - you and your dog will be ... free ... from the kitchen life. Don't doubt though, that another boy and dog will be found to take your place in the kitchen. You understand the word responsibility? That it is your leaving that will make this necessary?"
Davey didn't understand the word, but he knew what George meant.
"It won't be this dog, though," he said. "This is my dog now."
George looked at Meg and lifted his eyebrow.
"Thank you," she said. "I know he will do well. And ... there might well be another boy and dog, but they will not be serving Bess."
"Bess - is that the cook at the Goat in Chains?" said George. Matthew was also looking at Meg with some surprise.
"How so?" he said.
"Because," said Meg, "Bess is leaving - to be wed."
"Bess - married?" said Matthew in disbelief.
"That is a part of the story that neither of you knows," said Meg slyly. "But beneath all the great affairs that have been going on ..." it sounded as though she was enjoying telling them something they didn't know, "... there have also been some minor affairs of the heart, including that of Bess and Tony Eaglestone."
"Tony Eaglestone?" said George, thinking hard. "Is that ... the butcher of the high street in Guildern?"
"You are well advised, George," said Meg. "Is that from your housekeeper?"
"As a justice," began George, "I need to know ..." Then he stopped, realising that Meg was teasing him.
"I think it will be a good match," said Meg. "They will be happy. But George, I think you need to know that there has been a slight case of perjury - at least, I think that is what a lawyer would call it, if it had happened in court."
"Perjury?"
"Yes. Tony Eaglestone. I think he was unwilling to tell your cousin the true nature of something I provided for him ..."
"Meg!" expostulated George, grinning.
"No, no, nothing of that kind!" replied Meg. "Really George! No, it was just ... some perfume of my making, for a gift."
"A butcher who wears perfume? Well, I suppose ..." began George.
"Stop teasing," said Meg exasperatedly. "It was not for him, as you well understand. It was a love gift for Bess."
"And what went into its making? Onions? Cowheels?"
"Stop it, George! No, it was the best he wanted and paid for. Orange flower it had in it and - no, you are just trying to steal my receipt and I'll not tell you."
Throughout all this Davey stood, open-mouthed. He was thinking that no-one would ever believe him if he told them that he had witnessed Sir George Paston jesting with this strange woman under the light of a
waning moon.
As if Meg had read his thought, she gestured to him and said, "George, it grows late and if ..."
"I understand," said George. "Come here, boy - what was your name? Well then, Davey, give me your hand and get up on the horse here, behind me. No, Matthew will hold your dog and hand him up to you. You will be safe, just hold him tight and don't let him wriggle or I will make him follow us. You have done well with this horse, Meg. And Meg ..."
"No, George, that is the answer, before you ask," said Meg firmly. "Matthew has a wish for fresh venison and I have a wish to see northern forests in the spring again, and nothing will change my mind."
"By God," said George, with feeling, "if I did not have the responsibility of an estate."
"But you do, George, and you have the responsibility of the Commission of the Peace."
"But where are you going?" asked George, as Bayard stamped a little, feeling a strange new burden on his back, along with the man he trusted. He sensed George's uncertainty.
Meg took a deep breath of the air as though it invigorated her. "Who knows? York perhaps; or Chester; or Carlisle ..."
"Carlisle!"
"Why not? I don't know where exactly, George, don't ask me."
"Well, perhaps I also have a wish to see ..."
"Well, then, we shall meet there."
"But where?" said George.
"Oh there ... or somewhere. You will find us, I know that. Now, farewell."
"Wait!" And to Davey's astonishment, Sir George leaned out of saddle and briefly - but not too briefly - kissed this woman on the lips.
"Till we meet ..."
And they were off, speeding, back towards Guildern. Davey, at first terrified, was then exhilarated by the movement and surefootedness of the horse. He gazed at the moonlit landscape open-mouthed. But who, he thought, as the horse slowed down, would ever believe him - a kennel boy? He clutched the dog to him, the only part of his old world remaining now.
The moon, not quite a round silver bell, hung in the sky over the silent clearing.
Envoi
It was a fresh morning giving promise of a beautiful day; and still so early that the ageing moon was hanging in the sky to the west. Every blade and leaf was sparkling, full of the power of spring dew. A man came riding out of the woods towards the highway and as he brushed against the hanging leaves, shimmering drops fell onto his head and back. He was dressed in the clothing of a post boy, with high protective boots. Slung on a long strap across his shoulders, so that it rested in his lap, he carried a bag. As the horse reached the highway the rider raised the post horn to his lips and blew a long blast. The horse settled into a medium fast rack and the man dropped the reins on its neck and fumbled in the bag which held the post. He drew out a packet that had a gibbet drawn on it to indicate that the post should haste, indeed, ride as though for life itself to deliver this. This was probably a letter from Sir George or one of the other Justices. It would alert their brother officials to the fact that one possibly travelling under the name of Jostler, also known as the Jingler, had perpetrated a theft in association with some other rogues, although their names were not known with certainty. The man smiled, put it back into the bag and blew another blast. He then rode for a while, smiling and occasionally delivering another blast on the horn to warn anyone on the road ahead that he was on his way. As he neared the next village, the long horn blast would tell the people at the inn to prepare a fresh horse and rider to carry the post on its next stage.