by Miriam Bibby
Sir Richard’s Galloway mare viewed them with severity.
“I do,” said George.
“Fifteen,” said Sir Richard, with pride. “And in foal again to my stallion, Galliard. She is not in the best of tempers at this stage. I wanted you to see her again; but she will back at grass again within the hour. And now - we’ll see the sire.”
Galliard was black, fine limbed and long maned with a white star and a white spot on one foot.
“Good feet, like Gale,” said George, but he did not think the stallion had the presence of his own Bayard. Out of courtesy to his host, he did not say so, but made some conventional and truthful comments about the horse.
“He came from Marseilles, of course,” said Sir Richard, meaning he was a special import. “The progeny they have produced thus far is fast and enduring.”
“You have some of them here?” said George, looking around. He did not see anything amongst the other occupants of the stable that suggested they were the offspring of the mare and stallion. There was a slight pause and George wondered if Sir Richard, who had moved across the stable to examine a grey gelding, had not heard him.
“What? Oh, no, not here at present -”
George thought he detected something in the casual tone of his host and waited.
” - and that brings me to a matter that I wish to discuss. I need your help, George …”
* * * * *
Meg opened the box she had brought with her from the lonely inn on the crossroads, way back in the hills. She had not needed to collect it from the innkeeper or his wife. She had just needed to find the thorn tree under which she had buried it, one of a small group near a dark, peaty pool. Spring was so far behind there that the leaves were scarcely showing and there would be no blossom for another month. She had found the tree, though, gnarled and beautiful, standing guard like the graceful old custodian that it was. The ground was hard, but not frozen and the box came up from under its deep, flat topped stone cover, smelling of soil and leaf mould, aged, mellow wood and - just a hint of what was inside it.
Cornelius was beside her as she opened it. They were sitting in the window seat of Meg’s room at the Hart and Hawthorn. Whenever possible, Meg liked to have a room from which she could view the street. She learned so much that way and it was a constant entertainment, better than a play. Cornelius sniffed at the beautiful earthy smell of the box. Some buried items, when dug up and brought into the light again, smell of the grave and stinking rot, a smell that chills the marrow and drives the nose - and its owner - away to seek more lively scents. Others simply smell of the richness of the earth and soil, roots of trees - and secrets. That was what this box smelled of, and Cornelius appreciated it, although he would not really have minded if it had smelled of rot and decay.
The box contained a number of small phials. Even stoppered and sealed, some of the scent of each one hovered around it. Some were rich and powerful, matching the earthy smell that still lingered round the box. Others were fragrant and enticing, hinting at rare flowers and spices. The deepest, darkest ones were compelling and mysterious. The noses of Cornelius and Meg inhaled instinctively. Then they both breathed out long sighs.
“Pleasant, Brother Nose-all?” Cornelius looked as though he was considering the question and then jumped down from the window seat to go to his place by the fire. Just a little too much, said his back, eloquently, as he turned away from her. A touch too much for a dog’s nose.
“Good,” said Meg, shutting the box. “Human noses lack the subtlety of yours, my Cornelius. Perfumes need to sleep in earth for a while and then they are quite enchanting to those inferior human noses.”
She closed the box and looked out of the window. Evening was coming on, a lovely cool long-shadowed May evening that carried a tiny memory of winter into summer. Children were playing in the street and shouting out to one another. Mothers came to some of the doors and casements to call them in. The street grew peaceful for a while. And then, out of nowhere, there was a sudden alert, almost an alarm; and a group of men came trotting up towards the inn. They were the focus of attention immediately. All passers by turned and stared; some people pointed or nodded and fell into discussion. In the middle of the riders, led on a rope, was a tall, rangy, chestnut horse. Its rolling eye, and the awkward angle at which it was holding its head as it tried to see what was going on around it suggested a restless, lively temperament. As Meg watched, the riders came up to the front of the Hart and Hawthorn and dismounted. The one who had led the chestnut was a tall, thin lad, probably not more than twenty years old. It was a little more difficult now to see what was happening, but she thought that someone had taken the chestnut horse around to the inn stable. Some of the voices outside sounded agitated.
Meg waited. Soon afterwards she heard a quick light step outside the room.
“Matthew,” she said to Cornelius. He turned his head and gave a small sound, not quitea whine or a bark. A happy sound.
Matthew came in and scents of cool outdoors, street, common room and stable accompanied him in a wonderful message for Cornelius. There was even a hint of inn yard cat there, just to make it even more interesting. A pompous ginger tom. Cornelius wished he could enliven its obviously dull existence. Just a little.
“You’ve news,” said Meg, smiling mischievously. “To do with a horse?”
“You already know,” said Matthew, deadpan. “Or if you do not, why not look in that scrying mirror of yours?” He knelt down and added some fuel to the low fire with one hand, whilst rolling Cornelius around on his back with the other. Cornelius grunted happily and his tail thumped the floor.
“How undignified, Brother Nose-all,” said Meg.
“But if you didn’t know,” said Matthew, “or if - as sometimes happens - there is a mysterious mist on the face of the scrying mirror that will let you see nothing - then perhaps some generous soul would tell you that a party of serving men has arrived in Marcaster with the horse belonging to Sir John Widderis. The horse that is to be matched against that of Sir Richard Grasset. They are rivals - and sometimes, perhaps - friends.”
The fire began to spark back into life again. Cornelius began to think about his next meal.
“So, before our rivals match their horses, both animals are to be displayed in the town to show there is no deception or substitution,” said Meg, gazing at the wavering little flames.
“Yes. That of Sir John here in the stables of the Hart and Hawthorn. That of Sir Richard at the Blue Boar.”
“I would like to see that horse.”
“You mean, ‘Matthew, go and view that horse and come back and tell me about it’.”
Meg laughed. “You are starting to read me too well.”
“Never well enough, it seems.”
“We shall let that pass, eh, Brother Nose-all? I ask myself who will ride those horses.”
“And the answer you give yourself is?”
“I know who I would choose, if I wanted the best.”
Matthew nodded. “Sir George Paston; if he were here.”
* * * * *
Anne Grasset was evidently as keen to display her new dining parlour as she was to show off her daughters. The bright evening was overcast now and as they sat down to sup, candlelight gleamed on silver and Venetian glass and lit up the portraits of the Grasset ancestors in a slightly baleful fashion. It seemed a little odd, but pleasant, to George to be supping with just the family and two servants in attendance. He often ate alone in his study, or the great hall; but he made sure that on high days and holidays his entire household, from the steward and his wife to the kennel boy, ate together seated at trestles with him in his place at the head of the board. The youngest servants waited on the older ones and learned their skills that way.
George remembered to pass an admiring comment on the table, which was laid with damask cloth drawn up decoratively in parts to show the Turkey carpet underneath it. Being more at home in riding clothes, he felt slightly uncomfortable in his best suit o
f deep red velvet trimmed with silver. Sir Richard was finely dressed in blue and silver whilst the simplicity of Anne’s black and gold gown did not in any way traduce its obvious cost. Amabilis was pretty in her murray with a French hood edged with Venetian pearls framing her demure face. Her ruff and cuffs were set to perfection. Amelia had stomped grumpily into the room wearing what was obviously her best gown but with just a coif on her head. Her mother sent her back immediately to put on her hood. Now she was seated at the table gazing about her, especially at George. Her mother attempted to send a warning glance in her direction.
“Those breeches that you d’wear, Sir George,” began Amelia. Her mother and sister looked as though they would like to gag her. “Be they in the Venetian style?”
George, trying not to sound amused, was in the process of answering “I believe they are, Mistress Amelia,” when both her parents cut in simultaneously.
“Give me an opinion on this wine, Paston,” said Sir Richard, glancing at one of the servants in attendance.
“Have you tasted this, Sir George? My daughter Amabilis made it. I do believe she makes excellent pastry.”
Amelia, ignoring them both, carried on. “Father, why do you not wear that style? It is very becoming. Ow!”
Amabilis, head down and looking at the dish in front of her, had managed to land a good kick on her sister, who was sitting next to her. Sir Richard, pretending he had heard nothing, carried on his conversation with George.
“And how is your dear Aunt Julia? I had heard that she was not well.”
“Aunt Julia is hale and hearty as far as I know,” said George. “However, it suits her to retire to the country away from court duties every now and then, pleading age and infirmity. There she works away on her histories and looks after her garden and dogs.”
“I think you take after her, George.”
George grinned. “So ‘tis said.”
“There are not a few who believe that your father did not receive the preferment one might have expected …”
“Perhaps not. I am sure that it did not concern him over much.”
“But his plans to build the new hall; that came to naught?”
“He sold the land,” said George. “Oakenhall is still my home.”
Sir Richard said nothing, but indicated that George’s glass should be refilled. George knew what he was thinking. By modern standards, Oakenhall was old, small and rather cramped; life still revolved around the central hall with its large fireplace where George spent most of his time with a book and his dogs lying at his feet, when not out with the horses or in his study or library, both small rooms that he had adapted in the existing fabric of the house. Oakenhall was not grand, nor convenient. It could not compare with the fine dwelling that the Grassets had created. George did not tell Sir Richard that he felt his father had been extremely wise to sell some of the land and its plans for a grand new building. In any case it was not the best part of the Oakenhall estate. The money and land he had left to George, along with the old hall, were substantial and had enabled George to invest in two things that he loved: horses and books. He lived modestly but comfortably at Oakenhall and that suited him.
Lady Anne was now asking him about Oakenhall in the forensic manner of a woman in search of husbands for her daughters. He knew it well. He replied as best he could, hoping that she would not make that unanswerable comment about a woman making a house a home, or suchlike. Yes, one day he would marry - of course. But for the moment, he enjoyed his bachelor existence at Oakenhall. Fortunately, guessing which way his wife was taking the conversation, Sir Richard began asking about George’s cousin Sim and his sister Serena; and their father and mother.
“Aunt Cat?” burst in Amelia, who had been following all this. “That’s a strange name …”
“Catherine, it would be, of course,” said her sister scornfully.
“Oh!” said Amelia, as enlightenment dawned.
“All well,” said George. Thinking of Sim reminded him of their recent encounter with a horse thief; and when Lady Anne asked him at what he was smiling, he found himself telling them the whole tale of Bayard’s abduction and its outcome, deftly managing the facts to play down Meg’s part in it.
“Astonishing!” said Sir Richard, filling George’s glass again.
“No, Amelia, you may not have more wine,” murmured Anne to her daughter. “Amabilis, you may take a little more.”
“But Sir George!” burst forth Amelia, “Did father not show you my little horse today? She is so much like your Pommely. Well, she is bay not grey of course; and she is a mare. But other than that they could be brother and sister. Why, just the other day she …”
“Not now, Amelia,” said her mother, while Amabilis rolled her eyes and muttered, “Horses - again!”
“Perhaps I shall see her tomorrow,” said George gallantly, inclining forward.
“Oh yes, Sir George! I would be so glad to show you her!”
“‘Show her to you’,” corrected her mother. “And I am sure that Sir George will have better things to do on the morrow.”
“I’m sure he will, my dear. Such as assisting in preparing for the trial of a rogue or two,” said her husband dryly.
“Oh no, father! You will not truly be hanging any rogues, will you?” said Amelia in an anguished tone.
“One at least, I trust to God and our countrymen. One deserving of the rope. Don’t worry thyself, daughter,” said her father, comfortingly. “It does not concern thee.”
Amelia, feeling herself put back into a child’s situation, sulked a little.
“And in any case,” added Sir Richard, “Sir George will be doing us a great and much more pleasurable service.” Lady Anne and her daughters all turned their gazes on George. Was it his imagination, or did the Grasset womenfolk suddenly look on him with greater favour?
Sir Richard, savouring the moment, paused before saying, with relish, “Aye! Paston has done me the very great honour of agreeing to ride Galingale in the match against Jack Widderis’s horse, The Fly. He will try him tomorrow on the mede alongside the Marcaster Road. It was agreed with the undersheriff that our Galingale should exercise there in the morning and Sir John’s horse in the afternoon.”
Amelia clapped her hands with excitement. Lady Anne, looking slightly confused and disappointed, murmured something neutral. Amabilis, sighing, muttered, “Horses - yet again!”
The following morning, the whole family rode out towards Marcaster. Amelia was able to prove in no uncertain terms that her little mare was Pommely’s counterpart in character, as the mare laid her ears back and snapped if any of the bigger horses came near her. Amabilis had looked slightly sulky at the thought of spending the morning on horseback, but she sat her horse well and cheered up as they rode on. It was a bright May morning and her pale cheeks were soon filled with colour that made her look very attractive indeed. Her mother was obviously happy since she knew that a pretty woman on a fine horse was a great attraction; and Sir George had paid Amabilis a compliment and Lissy had smiled flirtatiously and seemed pleased.
Richard had indicated that they would probably meet with one of the servants riding Galingale out to exercise and as they approached the meadowland alongside the Marcaster Road where the horses were running out each day, they saw a man approaching on a black horse with a white star on its forehead. They all stopped and waited for the horse to come up to them, giving George plenty of opportunity to appraise Galingale. Yes, this was quality. A broad chest indicating strong lungs and heart, a long stride; the horse was lively and curious, but not wild or temperamental. It seemed that the offspring of Sweet Gale and Galliard had taken the qualities of both but had made his own unique creation of them. One that bettered them, perhaps, with the addition of nurture from the knowledgeable Sir Richard and his skilful staff.
The servant rode up to them, bowed, dismounted and bowed again. Whilst Richard was explaining to him that this gentleman wished to try the horse, George was taking further stock o
f Galingale. Some further discussion followed about his nature and the tactics to be employed whilst riding him. Ordinarily, George would have spent more time with the horse, assessing his character beforehand; but on this occasion, he realised that he would need to do the best he could in the short space of time before the match. Trusting to his instincts, his experience and his faith in Richard’s skill in raising and training horses, George felt that Galingale was a horse that he could ride with confidence. That was the principle of the thing. As to the match; well, there were many matters to take into consideration; but he would not think about those now.
Galingale did not pace or amble. His trot was comfortable but he soon wanted to move into the Canterbury gallop, the three-beat pace that was so much smoother. George rode him away from the spectators, getting a feel for the ground as he did so. This part of the meadow, next to the road, was raised slightly above the land alongside the river. It was probably drier and would only become saturated in the highest floods, George thought. Good going for the horse’s legs. This was not where the race would be, though. That was to be held on some common land bordering another side of Richard’s estate.