by Miriam Bibby
“Whatever be cooking smells good,” he said, adopting what he firmly believed was a winning smile. “Smells good to an old man who’s served his country and - ” here he began to cough, “suffered many hardships in the doing of it.”
“We’re not an ordinary. Think I can feed ye as well?” returned the alewife. Served his country well at cards, drinking and wenching, the owd ruffler, she thought, unimpressed. But the money was good and he’d taken it from those idlers. Good luck to ‘im, then. Food and ale were fetched.
Some time later, the Frater, with a full belly and a purse that was still full enough, left the alehouse. As he set off he peered about cautiously as though he thought someone might be lying in wait for him. Then, gaining confidence, he set off, not at a jog, for he was too full for that, but at a fast walk with an occasional hop. It looked purposeful but in truth he had no certainty about his destination. Ahead of him was a churchyard, with a leaning wall and a lych gate. He was just past the gate when a muscular arm fixed itself around his neck and he was drawn backwards to the gate and brought under the shelter of its roof.
“Ooof!” said Frater John, but he did not protest. There was no point. His assailant’s other hand reached for the purse.
“Well now, Jack,” said Sleepy-eyes’ voice, low and sinister, “I was wondering how long it would take you. Eaten well, have ye? And drunk?”
The Frater said hoarsely, “If ye’d just let go of me throat, Francis. Old man now, I am, and not in the best of health. Ye’ve got yer bung, what harm can I do ye?” The man released him.
“It’s Uriel, now, Jack. Not Francis. Uriel. And your health seems good enough.”
“Uriel?” said the Frater, wonderingly, as he turned round to face the man, who was feeling the weight of the purse with a frown on his face.
“Aye, Uriel. Has a fine sound to it, don’t it? Uriel Jugg. Fitting name for a sexton, I do believe.”
“Sexton, Fra - Uriel, I mean? What, here?”
“Aye. So keep your voice down and don’t go sticking that belly outside for any parishioners to gawp at. Eighth wonder of the world, the Frater’s belly!” The Frater was not abashed, proud rather. He sat down on the coffin-rest.
“You’d not have denied me a bite to eat, F…Uriel, I mean?”
“A bite!” said Uriel Jugg, ironically. He shook the purse at him. “The bung has lost its belly, so that you could keep yours, that much I can see - and the rest?”
The Frater drew out his own purse with a sigh and handed over most of its contents to Jugg. “Ye’ve not lost yer old skill,” said the Frater admiringly. “Rare old skill y’have, Uriel. Set them up properly y’did. All I had to do was play my part.”
“Which y’did, if not to perfection, then well enough, Jack,” conceded Uriel Jugg. “‘Twas a good enough foist of the bung, after all this time. Y’must have kept your hand in.”
“Not so much a foist, with you playing the barrator so well,” countered the Frater, acidly. “Friends of your’n, were they?”
“Acquaintances. Acquaintances that I owe a cozening turn or two …”
“Stayed long in Marcaster?” asked the Frater.
“Long enough to have learned a thing or two,” said Jugg. He looked the Frater up and down in a thoughtful manner. “And - well now, I’m wondering if whatever ill wind blew you into town might not have some providence behind it.”
“How’d you mean, Uriel?” The Frater’s curiosity was piqued.
Jugg did not answer his question, but asked one of his own. “What did bring you to Marcaster?”
“Well now, it might be that I was keeping an eye on someone that was coming to Marcaster and …” The Frater stopped.
“And?”
“Ye’ll remember the Jingler, Uriel?”
“The Jingler!” said Jugg. “Aye. I remember the Jingler, all right.” His voice suggested that there might be one or two old scores to settle there. “Heard about the match between Sir Richard Grasset and Sir Jack Widderis has he? On his way for that, is he?”
“Match?” said the Frater, confused. “Match, Uriel? Y’mean - fisticuffs?”
“No,” said Jugg, in an exasperated tone. “Matching their horses, you cokes!”
“Ah,” said the Frater, quickly recovering from being caught out as a simpleton. It suddenly dawned on him; that was the reason the woman and her servant were coming over to Marcaster - of course - running horses! There’d be plenty of people in town for that. Plenty of money. Plenty of business.
“It’s thought,” continued Jugg, “that a bit of additional excitement in the form of a few dancing rogues might add to the festivities as it’s coming up for the assizes.”
“Ah,” said the Frater again, but there was a note of anxiety in his voice. His flesh, like that of all the rogues, crept at the idea of the gallows.
“There’s a new gallows will take three at a time,” said Uriel, watching the Frater’s reaction. “It’s already gained itself a name, hereabouts. ‘The Trinity’ they call it. Clever, eh?”
“Keep you in business digging graves, Uriel,” blustered the Frater, though he knew that the bodies of the hanged would not be laid in hallowed ground. About half a mile outside Marcaster the road passed close by a bare knoll with a cage on it. In the cage were the stinking remains of some criminal, the eyes picked out of the skull by crows.
“I? Dig graves for rogues?” Jugg sounded superior. “Nay, Jack, ‘tis not my responsibility. But for certain there’s no one of your acquaintance will be hanging, is there.” He sounded almost smug.
“No, no, Uriel,” confirmed the Frater hastily. “Of course not.”
* * * * *
Ruby, Moll, Clink and the Frog, companions of the Frater and the Jingler, were making their way slowly in the general direction of Marcaster. Along with them was the Frater’s long suffering donkey. They were not in a hurry as they knew they would all meet in Marcaster eventually and so they had chosen to travel by the back lanes rather than the highway. There had been good pickings along the way, up to now; but the last day or two had been harder going, with scarcely a building in sight.
Ruby was also known as the Egyptian Mort, although she came from Wapping in east London. There was intense and often violent rivalry between the Egyptians, or gypsies, and those who considered themselves to be indigenous travellers. Since the days of great Henry, eighth of that name, several acts of parliament had attempted to noose the Egyptians and anyone aiding and abetting them. The latest legislation ordered that anyone found to be a gypsy - or claiming to be one - was to be taken immediately to the nearest sea and deported: anywhere, anyhow. The law cracked down with equal severity on anyone aiding them or helping them into the country. That was the official view. However, many a lonely hamlet or farm on the wildest moors welcomed the Egyptians. They brought cheerfulness and colour into the drab regularity of the farming year and provided much needed additional labour, if they were so inclined. And they had knowledge - everyone knew that. They told fortunes and did magic that no-one could explain. This could prove so lucrative an activity that there were quite a few claiming to be gypsies when they were not. Amongst them was Ruby, the Egyptian Mort, mort being rogue’s cant for a woman.
Her companion, Moll, was known as the Sad Mort because of her drab clothing. As they walked, she sighed, as ever, over the Jingler.
“Ruby,” she said to the Egyptian Mort. “I think I might be carryin’ again.”
Ruby looked at her with a mixture of sympathy and annoyance.
“Well, me dear, if only you’d take note o’ my advice - ” She glanced across at the Sad Mort. “Naught showing yet. Yer belly’s smaller, if anything. Yer not eating enough. Ye look a bit white. Why not ride on the ass for a while?”
They halted for a while to let the Sad Mort get onto the donkey. The sun had been up for a few hours now and they were all hungry.
“Rest up,” said Clink to the Sad Mort. “Th’ Frog’ll stay with yer. Ruby, girl, come along and let’s see what
we can find up ahead.”
There seemed to be a dearth of anything to steal and no barns. Usually they would have kept an eye out for linen or anything that they might sell or exchange; but for now, hunger was the spur and all they sought was food.
“Aw, Clink, I’m famished!” said Ruby, after a hour or so.
“Looks like a township up ahead,” said Clink, with some relief, as they rounded a corner of the lane. It was; of the kind that is little more than a large hamlet or small village, a group of farms and cottages mostly owned by members of the same family or related families. There were stands of elms around it filled with old rook nests; and a strong smell of pigs and cow manure filled the air. The principal farmhouse was quite large, bringing thoughts of dairies, milk, cheese and hams to mind. The windowless wall of the byres and barns faced the lane, which ran straight through between the buildings and up a small hill. Ruby and Clink stepped off to the side at the corner of the byre to take stock and discuss possibilities.
“Quiet, ain’t it?” said Ruby.
“Most of the men’ll be off working and some of the women too.”
“D’ye think there’d be a milkmaid or two wanting her fortune telled?”
“Wouldn’t risk it,” said Clink. “Y’never know what these dewse-a-ville folk will do.”
“Aye,” agreed Ruby fervently. “Gi’ me the town any day.” She sounded regretful. “But - I could go to the door, mebbe? And ask ‘em for something.”
Clink looked at her. The clothes she was wearing were plain; they’d lifted them off a hedge a few days ago. They made Ruby look - respectable. Ruby was perhaps too big, too rounded, too handsome and experienced a woman to look like a needy beggar going from door to door. She worked well with the Frater and the Sad Mort when they collected for imaginary causes, with the women playing the part of widows of seamen or soldiers. And of course, she could dance a bit and sing; and tell fortunes. She looked the part, when she had some finery to wear.
“Weeell - ” said Clink, “y’can try. Tell y’what, Ruby, you do what you can and I’ll take a look round the back of these barns and see what I can find. Don’t look ‘em in the eye and whine a bit. Hunch yer shoulders.”
“Aye. Trust me, Clink.” Ruby wrapped her kerchief around her head and dropped her chin. She made her way slowly and uncertainly, limping slightly, towards the entrance to the farmyard and Clink, having watched her on her way, started around the back of the byre wall. He discovered that the wall ran all the way around the farm, enclosing not only the yard but a garden and orchard further away. He found a place on the wall with some footholds behind the house and climbed up it, peering over the top. He couldn’t see the entrance to the farmhouse from this angle but he could see a dairy; and to his left, outside the wall, was a muddy enclosure with some pigs rolling and grunting contentedly. He watched as a maid, wearing pattens and an apron, left the dairy and headed towards the house.
He couldn’t see anyone else about. No dogs barking. Cautiously he slung a leg over the wall and lay for a second along the top; then he dropped down onto the far side. Half bent, he headed towards the dairy. It was an open run; nowhere to hide. No shouting followed him; nothing at all. A worn stone staircase outside the dairy led to the upper level where, he guessed, there might be some cheeses. Clink gained the dairy door and flattened himself against it. It was standing ajar. Inside he could hear someone humming and there was a thumping sound; churning, perhaps. He tried to get a sense of where the person was standing; yes, he was fairly sure now, at which end of the dairy she was. He peeped in, ready with a tale if he was spotted. He couldn’t see anyone and therefore there was a good chance they couldn’t see him, especially if they were concentrating on their task.
Clink walked briskly past the door and towards the staircase. Still nothing. He glanced round and swiftly mounted the steps that led to a loft above the dairy.
Ruby was engaged in pleading conversation at the door of the house. Her audience was a girl of about ten and a maid from the dairy.
“Me mam’s bakin’,” said the girl. “I’ll ask.” She disappeared. The maid glanced at Ruby, half pityingly, half critically. She sniffed. Ruby ignored her, thinking that if only the girl would go back to her work, it would give her the chance to see if there was anything in the porch that was worth lifting. Ruby doubted it; all she could see were old boots, crooks and staves; and some ropes and woollen capes hanging up. The house, like the yard, smelled mainly of muck and wool, but there was also the delicious smell of baking bread and some sort of broth that was cooking.
The girl came back.
“Me mam says y’can have this,” she said, holding out a loaf and a large hunk of cheese. “N’some blue milk and a pat o’ butter from t’dairy. N’this.” She handed over two farthings.
“Thank ye!” said Ruby, with genuine surprise and gratitude. “And - bless ye.” She was glad now that she hadn’t taken anything. The dairy maid, who had come over with a question, received an answer and she and Ruby set off together.
Clink found himself in a hungry man’s paradise. The loft was quite clean and airy and still held a good amount of last season’s salted cheese; and, even better, there were some hams hanging up in cloths suspended on strings, to help foil attacks from vermin. The boards underfoot were rough and incomplete, leaving big gaps through which the dairy floor could be glimpsed. At one end of the loft there was a sleeping place with mattresses made from sacks stuffed with straw and chaff. Hearing voices below him he paused, with his hand out towards a ham; better not take one that was too big to carry; didn’t want a small one either! He was fairly confident he could make out Ruby’s voice and grinned as he realised she was telling one of the dairymaids that she would meet a tall, wealthy man with black hair by midsummer and would live in contentment for the rest of her life. That must mean she had been given something!
Having selected his ham - and a piece of cheese - he stole back to the door and peeped out. Ruby was just walking quickly away from the farmyard. Fortunately, she had remembered her temporary limp. She was holding something in her arms. Good. Let her get ahead - better if they left separately. While he was waiting he munched on some of the cheese and ham. His mouth had been watering. He could hear the two dairymaids discussing possible husbands and the identity of the man whom Ruby had described. Now, while they were occupied, he would make his escape too. He peeped out through the door and, seeing no-one, slipped through. Stuffing the ham and cheese into his jerkin, he heaved himself up onto the top of the wall above the stone landing outside the loft. Lying along it full length as before, he slid his legs over the lane side of the wall and hung there for an instant. Then he slid down the outside of the wall into the lane, catching on protruding stones wherever he could to slow his descent. Once on the ground, he did not stop to look but ran back the way he had come as though all the farm dogs in Yorkshire were chasing him.
* * * * *
Marcaster smelled interesting, Cornelius decided. The delicious roast rabbit breakfast was now just a fading memory. He was weary and wondered where they would be resting for the night. Why, in heaven’s name, they could not have stopped at that inn that smelled of chickens and wool; or the one that smelled of lavender and oak; or the one that smelled of cheese and cats - now that was the one he would have chosen - he did not understand. As they walked along, Meg and Matthew talked of things they saw that were of interest to them. Not to him. Cornelius sighed and laid his head on Matthew’s shoulder. They had stopped, finally, and were looking up at the sign that hung outside a building that smelled quite pleasantly of honey, wax and fresh bread. And beer. That wasn’t quite so pleasant, thought Cornelius. Rather have cheese. Matthew and Meg were talking. Again.
At first glance, the sign showed simply a mass of frothy white blossom with touches of pink, green and shadowy black or midnight blue. The flowers almost surged out of the frame, giving the impression they would grow and flow into the street. Another glance, though, revealed a creature dwelling
in the depths of the blossom - two dark patches for eyes, another for a black nose and - possibly - a double point of horns leading up towards the corners of the frame. Perhaps - because a second glance showed just the flowers again. It was cleverly done, or was it simply a coincidence? The flowers were quite crudely drawn when viewed closely. Then a deer-like creature appeared - or did it?
This meant nothing to Cornelius. This building smelled good enough and he was sure, from past experience, that there would be a room with a fire, some cushions and a bone with lots of scraps on it. Come on, let’s enter! He exerted every ounce of willpower that he could. To his relief, Matthew and Meg went under the strange sign and through the carved and painted doorway.
The Hart and Hawthorn was small and peaceful and the plain furniture in its rooms was dark with age and cleaning. It was busy though and no-one took any notice of the two strangers and the little dog for a few moments. Finally Matthew caught the eye of an apronman who had two fistfuls of beer in jugs.
“A moment!” he called over his shoulder. He was quickly back and talking to Matthew whilst Meg sat on a bench and examined her dusty boots. Cornelius was so coated in dust from the road that he was no longer a little black dog with a curious monkey face, but a ghost with round dark eyes and a grey beard.