by Miriam Bibby
“Touch of ague, George my boy,” he said by way of explanation. “Naught of consequence.” He coughed raspingly.
“Read this,” said Sim, handing George the note. It had been sent two days previously from one Justice Brough, and described how a hog drover had spotted a rogue, who had nipped his purse earlier in Guildern, drinking in a Marcaster alehouse. The constable had been called and the rogue taken to Justice Brough who had committed him to Marcaster jail to await trial. As George reached this point, he raised his eyebrows and looked at Sim.
Sim said, “This - ‘hog drover’ - would be the pigman whose stolen purse started the riot at the fair - you recall?”
“Of course,” said George. “The rogue, though; has he committed a crime in Marcaster as well?”
“Justice Brough mentions none,” said Sim impatiently, “but read on!”
The note said that the assizes were due at Marcaster and that the prisoner could be tried soon. Justice Brough asked for a copy of the original deposition made by the man who had lost his purse, as evidence in a trial; this to be sent to the Clerk of the Assize at Marcaster.
“But - ” said George, “has he committed him to the Marcaster Assizes?”
Sim shrugged. “It’s unclear. This message tells us little or nothing. This matter requires discussion with the Clerk of the Assizes at Marcaster. And that requires a knowledgeable messenger.”
“Marcaster is on the same circuit as Guildern; it would be the same judge, whichever assize …”
“That’s likely. But - ‘twould have been better to have some discussion between ourselves and Justice Brough to ensure a sound trial - is that not so, Father?” Sim glanced at his father for agreement and old Simon nodded, happy to still be able to use his own experience as a justice although he was no longer able to carry out the role formally. “And if he has committed him for trial at Marcaster, it would have been simple courtesy to ask us whether we wanted the rogue returned or not,” concluded Sim.
“Does it matter?”
“In the general scheme of things, perhaps not. But in the name of justice, yes. I’d not have anyone say that we did not do all that was expected of us. All that was correct. The form of it …”
George glanced at old Simon, who was hunched over and looking into the fire. Sim nodded and shrugged, but he was obviously concerned. George knew his cousin almost as well as himself. Sim’s inquisitive nature would urge him to go over there and find out exactly what was happening; and he’d waste no sympathy on anyone who was not following correct legal procedure, whoever they were. But then there was old Simon to consider. There was also the mare and her new foal, who might need his help. It was difficult.
George made his decision.
“I’ll ride over, Sim. Brief me on what is to be done, as much as you can.”
Sim was both relieved and disappointed.
“Well - if you are sure; and of course, you are a valuable witness to what resulted … but the expense?”
“I am content to go,” said George. “If you will have an occasional glance for what is happening at Oakenhall?”
“Of course. I will spend a night or two there whenever needed. I am sure that this Justice Brough will find lodging for you.”
“Indeed,” said George, “but if not, I have a standing invitation with another of which I can avail myself …”
“Is that so?” said Sim, with just a hint of suspicion in his voice. “Of course, Marcaster has a great reputation for raising horses, has it not? And did I not hear a whisper of a forthcoming match between two of the gentry? That wouldn’t be the reason for your generosity in taking this task on yourself, would it, though, cousin?”
“Has it such a reputation?” said George in mock surprise, ignoring the second part of Sim’s comment. “Now I consider it, I think you might be right …”
“Hmph,” said Sim. “Well, let’s have a glass on that and I can begin to educate you in how to question our counterpart. Father? Some wine?”
* * * * *
Clink sat in shackles on a hard board in Marcaster jail. The cell he was in measured about ten feet by six and up until that morning it had contained two other prisoners. There was a barred window - not much more than a slit - and a hole in the floor that led into a stinking drain that emptied - eventually, after trickling down the exterior wall - into an open sewer outside. This side of the keep faced away from the town and the ground where the moat had once existed in this direction was now a malodorous polluted bog. He had known worse; and better. He had spent time in several jails, usually in London. The Counter and the Clink were well known to him. Fortunately, he had always escaped serious punishment - so far. The last time, four years ago, he had been sent off to fight in the Low Countries. The authorities had wanted men to serve and they didn’t care who they were or what they’d done. Along with many others he’d taken to the road when he came back.
This time it had all happened so quickly. That was life, he reflected. One moment a man’s sitting taking his ease with a drink in an alehouse; the next he’s in the grip of a constable, being marched off to the local justice. Justice Brough had seemed distracted, somehow. From the lop-sided swelling in his face and the way he kept dabbing it with a cloth that stank of some vaporous mixture, Clink deduced he had toothache. Very bad toothache. The swelling seemed to be extending up his face and by the end of the interview, one eye was half shut too. It hadn’t taken too long for the pigman to convince Justice Brough that Clink needed committing to jail. Word was to be sent to the Guilden justices that one who had committed a crime in their locality had been captured; and a Mittimus, based on the pigman’s evidence, was quickly drafted up and sent off, with Clink himself, to the Keeper of Marcaster Jail, so that the law could argue over who had a right to him. Habeas corpus. Or corpsus, as the Frater always used to jest. It was no longer a jest though, since the assizes were close at hand.
Clink stretched out on the board and attempted to put his hands behind his head; the shackles didn’t permit him to do that. He gazed up at the low smoke-blackened ceiling which was covered in small irregular blobs. It looked as though some previous inmates had been indulging in an explosive spitting contest, or worse. At least it was unlikely to consist of the jail food, which was slops: broth or stew in which a meat bone and turnips might have been dunked and quickly removed. There were doles of bread each morning. Clink supposed that the chewed up bread would make quite an effective pellet to glue to the ceiling. It was not a very interesting thought, but he found it less melancholy than thinking about the others: Ruby, Moll, the Frog, the Frater and even that bastard the Jingler. Especially he didn’t want to think about Ruby, her warm arms and body, her laugh, her common sense, her wit, her optimism, the very smell of her. What were they all doing now, he wondered, hating himself for doing so. Sitting in the woods around a fire with rabbits or game birds roasting on it? He found his mouth watering. He could almost smell the woodsmoke, breathe the fresh air and hear the sound of the wind in the trees, feel it on his face …
How in hell was he to know that he would be spotted by that nasty hog of a countryman from whom he’d cut the purse in Guildern? Why had the bastard suddenly reappeared in that alehouse miles away, where he, Clink, and Ruby happened to be? What rotten stinking star in the heavens had put him and Clink into the same place at the same time? And why was Ruby not there to help when hog-face and the constable collared him? Perhaps that was as well.
Surely, thought Clink, he had never been more miserable or felt more unlucky. He rolled over and stared at the wall. Obscene and banal scratchings stared back at him as they had done since he was put in here. He took no pleasure in them, nor wished to add to them. Pulling the ragged blanket over him, he closed his eyes and awaited his fate.
* * * * *
In the last few years, Sir Richard Grasset had embarked on a programme of refurbishment at Marfield Hall that almost amounted to reconstruction. The result was an elegant building with two new wings and many mul
lioned windows. The front of the house overlooked his park and woodland, with a fine formal garden to the south. The great hall remained, but life increasingly turned around the dining parlour and, in Richard’s case, his new library. In summer, his wife and daughters preferred the many windowed gallery in one of the new wings, where they sewed or played musical instruments. In winter they no longer huddled against the drafts round the fire in the great hall but sat in a cosy room called the little parlour where they played cards, sang and told stories.
Sir Richard’s famous cattle, red with white patches, grazed in the park alongside his horses. Elms lined the road leading up to the house and there were newly planted lime trees around the formal garden and alongside the path that led down to the fishponds and the warren. There was also an extensive and well-stocked deer park that was lucrative as well as attractive. The house and its grounds were tranquil, harmonious and welcoming rather than formal. A traveller who saw the house might think it was a serene and calm place.
However, inside Marfield Hall Richard Grasset’s daughters were arguing. This was not an unusual state of affairs. What was strange was that they were carrying out their disagreement in whispers. The whispers were accompanied by pushes and hard digs of the elbow into one another’s ribs; but their mother knew nothing of that and would have cared little if she had known, as long as they were quiet. From their place in the gallery above the impressive new staircase that led down to the equally splendid redecorated hall, the sisters could see the door of their father’s study and it was on this door that their gazes were jointly locked, when not engaged in glaring at each other.
“When d’you think they’ll come out? Father’s kept ‘im in there for an age!” This was Amelia, the younger daughter, in a stage whisper.
“How would I know?” hissed her sister. “And be quiet - even when you whisper, y’do sound like an old crow cawing!”
“Well, and what of you? You do sound like an ass braying!” And Amelia performed what she thought was a wheezy imitation of her sister as a donkey: “Heeeh-haaa, heeeeh-haaa!”, which resulted in a scuffle and a bump as Amabilis, the elder, knocked her sister’s curl-covered head against the gallery rail.
“Ow,” said Amelia, rubbing the bruise, but being a tomboy she was used to knocks. Her interest in it soon passed and her gaze returned to the door. After a while she ventured, “Fine looking though, isn’t he?”
Amabilis shrugged. “I suppose so,” she said indifferently.
Her sister looked at her a little oddly. “I’m sure mother thinks so,” she said.
“What does it matter what mother thinks?” said Amabilis. Amelia looked shocked, but pressed her sister again.
“Well, don’t you think so?”
“I’ve said I suppose so, haven’t I?” hissed Amabilis. “Now be quiet, Meely, they might come out any time now …” They waited. The door remained closed and although they strained their ears they could hear nothing.
The irrepressible Amelia could not keep silent for long. “And he’s supposed to be a wonderful horseman.”
Her sister rolled her eyes. “Ye gods, Meely, is that all you can ever think of? Horses, horses, horses. You stink of the stable and have hands like a laundress. Look at your nails! How’d you ever hope to find a husband?”
“Husband? Don’t know whether I want one. Anyway, I don’t have to think about that, yet.”
“You can’t put it off for ever, Meely. D’ye want to be an old maid? D’ye know what the fate of old maids is, hmm?” Amabilis was jeering. “Leading apes in hell, that’s what!”
“I don’t believe that!” said Amelia, but she didn’t sound entirely confident. Amabilis saw an advantage and took it.
“You’re thirteen now, Meely! ‘Bout time you began to pay some attention to your appearance. Men don’t want wenches that smell of horses and dogs and have mud all over their kirtles and screech like popinjays.”
“They might, if they liked horses and dogs - and popinjays - as well …” reasoned Amelia. She looked at her sister’s gleaming golden hair, straight and superior nose and brilliant, though critical, blue eyes. The rich dark murray of her kirtle suited her; it contrasted stunningly with her fair colouring. “Y’are very pretty, Lissy.”
Amabilis inclined her head to accept the compliment.
“But,” added Amelia, rather thoughtlessly, “perhaps ‘tis you who needs to give some thought to marriage, if it’s true what y’say about old maids and I’m but thirteen; after all - ” she was still gazing at the study door and didn’t see the dangerous expression on her sister’s face “- you’re gone sixteen and no-one has asked for - ow!”
“Be quiet!” hissed Amabilis. “I don’t recall asking for your opinion!” And she gave her annoying little sister a hard shove.
Amelia pushed her back, taking her sister by surprise.
“Mind my gown!” snapped Amabilis, smoothing the velvet with one hand and her hair with the other.
“What does your stupid gown matter? That’s all you ever think about! You’re vain, Amabilis Grasset and y’know what the parson says about vanity - it’s in the Bible …” Suddenly struck by the inspiration of thirteen, she jeered at her sister, “And very pretty you’ll look - when you’re leading apes in hell.” Amelia began to lurch up and down the gallery, doing an impression of her sister performing that task.
“Why, you …” Amabilis, her eyes narrowed, flung herself at Amelia who began to run down the gallery, her feet thudding loudly on the floor as she taunted Amabilis over her shoulder. Amabilis was taller, slimmer and faster. There was a loud banshee wail as her fingers twined into her sister’s brown curls to twist and pull them, hard. At precisely that moment, the study door opened and Sir Richard and his visitor came out, still talking animatedly. At the same time the girls’ mother, preternaturally alert to her daughters’ misdemeanours, materialised in the hall from the kitchen where she had been overseeing the servants.
As Amelia’s long wail echoed down the stairs and across the hall, Sir Richard, Anne his wife and their visitor stared at one another. Sir Richard had a sardonic look on his face, his wife was clearly trying to remain cool and composed and their visitor looked around quizzically for the source of the noise.
After a slight pause, Sir Richard spoke. “‘Tis the family ghost, George. Take no heed of it - every ancient family has at least one - d’you not have a few dozen at Oakenhall?”
Sir George Paston, his guest, was about to reply when Lady Anne spoke up quickly.
“Pay him no attention, Sir George.” She frowned at her husband. “It was probably one of the servants - think nothing of it, I pray. I will chastise - the individual.”
“What, dear, you’d deny our inheritance? For I believe our inheritance was its cause.”
Sir George interrupted, taking up the jest. “And what does it portend, that blood-curdling shriek? Surely it foretells doom upon the house.”
“I fear it does; for every time it is heard, some dish begins to burn in the kitchen …” As Sir Richard made this remark, his wife looked as though she would like to fell him with one of the ancient shields decorating the walls. Quickly straightening her frown into a pleasant smile, she half curtsied to the men and excused herself.
“So, now our business is - mostly - transacted,” began Sir Richard in a happy and somewhat relieved voice, “we’ll away to the stables, my boy.” He clapped George on the shoulder and the two men made their escape.
“Did you spend as much on refurnishing the stables as you did the manor?” George was half jesting, but there was admiration in his voice as they approached the building.
His host gave a wry smile. “No; but my wife would say however much was spent, it was too much. I do recall her saying something to the effect that I should ‘lay good Turkey carpet as well for the beasts and have done with it’.”
George laughed. “It certainly impresses, Richard.” The stables were light and airy and scrupulously clean. They entered through a central arch int
o a building that held two rows of stalls, where it seemed scarcely a blade of hay was out of place. In a prominent place stood a dark brown mare, not very tall but with clean, strong legs that were long relative to her height, below a good clean shoulder. It could be clearly seen that her stride would be ground covering and as she swung about impatiently to look at them, this was confirmed. She was not young - her back was bowed and her belly rounded with pregnancy - but she had spirit and power about her. Her feet were blue black and when they struck cobbles, the sound was full and ringing. This was quality.
“You’ll remember Sweet Gale,” said Sir Richard. “Of the north; and one of the best in the north.”