Miriam Bibby - Mistress Meg 02 - Mistress Meg and the Silver Bell

by Miriam Bibby

  As he reached a point about a quarter of a mile from the Grasset party, he turned the horse round. Galingale, like all horses, wanted to join his fellows; and George took advantage of this to let the horse have his head and run. Leaning forward and encouraging him, George felt sensations of speed, energy, power and communication that told him he was dealing with a remarkable individual. As he swept up towards Sir Richard and his family, Galingale’s hooves and his own heartbeat drummed in his ears. Galingale had not shown his full capacity yet.

  “Well, Paston?” said Richard. George nodded, slowly. The others were exclaiming and congratulating him. Even Lissy seemed impressed.

  When his breath came back, George said simply, “If we do not win the match for you, Richard, it will not be for lack of heart in Galingale.”

  “No. And it might simply be that Widderis has the better horse. But - time will tell. And you can try the horse again tomorrow and become better acquainted. For the moment though, we shall keep the knowledge that you are to ride Galingale within the family. Rumour and gossip have wings, George, and I’ve learned that the less people - some people - know about my intentions, the better.”

  It seemed a small enough matter yet important to his host, thought George. As a horseman, he understood.

  “As you will, Richard.”

  * * * * *

  Sir John Widderis - Jack to his friends and rivals - was waiting in his library at Calness for his son Philip to arrive. Calness lay some ten miles to the north east of Marfield Hall and it was subject to cold winds from the German Ocean that came blasting over the plain. It was a red dressed stone building with two thick walled round towers, in one of which Sir John had made himself a comfortable, wainscotted study. Sir John, dressed in sober black and immaculate silver, with freshly starched ruff and cuffs, would have passed for a portrait of a Spanish nobleman, with his commanding stance, short white hair and well trimmed beard. He was a Catholic who also considered himself to be a patriot. He found qualities in his monarch that he could admire, despite her heresy; and truly, she had served her nation better than her cousin Mary had served hers - a heretical thought in itself and one he should confess - but he hoped one day to see England return to the true faith. Above all, though, he was a northern English gentleman, which meant he was a shrewd driver of a hard bargain and a user of biting wit on occasions; and horses were in his blood.

  His son Philip came into the room and paused. The door had been open and he did not knock. Philip’s green eyes looked directly into his father’s brown ones in a slightly challenging fashion. There was nothing unusual in it. This was simply the typical behaviour of two men of the Widderis family. They were sparing of words and time. Philip was taller than his father and very lean, with light hair with a red glint in it. His nose was long and his mouth firm. He favoured his mother, who had died five years earlier.

  “Philip.”

  “Father?” Like the Grasset daughters, Philip pronounced the word “Feyther”. He bowed slightly and Sir John nodded to him but did not ask him to sit down.

  “All’s well with t’horse?”

  “Aye, feyther.”

  “He lacks naught in his new quarters?”

  “Naught, feyther.”

  “He needs must win, Philip lad.”

  “Aye, feyther. He’s in fine fettle and safe at the inn.”

  “He has the speed, lad, but Grasset’s horse will have the bottom,” said Sir John, meaning the horse would have greater stamina. “Ye must try not to let him have his head for the first heat, but mind ye dinna hold him back! Dinna fight with him.”

  “No, feyther.”

  “That’ll be the greatest danger - t’horse will not last. So spare him early if y’can.”

  “Aye, feyther.”

  “Ye’re a good lad, Philip.”

  “Thank ye, Feyther!” When Philip grinned, his eyes sparkled, revealing a handsome lad that reminded Jack Widderis so much of his Lucy, Philip’s mother.

  “Aye, well, I’ll see thee at supper, Philip.” Sir John turned away so that he would not betray the emotion in his face. He could not conceal his voice though, and Philip looked at Sir John’s back in a slightly troubled way. There was so much he would like to discuss with his father, but he knew he could not. He did not know why winning was so important to Sir John, but he accepted it. Philip could ride for his life, if needs be!

  * * * * *

  Amabilis slipped through the door of her bedchamber and closed it as silently as she could behind her. The curtains of her bed were drawn across. She didn’t remember doing that but what concerned her at the moment was how dark it was in the room and the fact that she didn’t have a candle. She tried to count how many steps it was to the little casket with a drawer in it that stood on a folding frame not far from her bed, failed, and banged her knee on the hard point of the frame. It hurt, even through the layers of gown, kirtle, shift and underskirts that she wore.

  “Ow,” hissed Amabilis. Grabbing hold of the bed curtains, she threw them back to discover that the curtains on the other side, the side facing the window, were drawn back and the moon was shining in. The light revealed Amelia sitting cross legged in her shift and gown on the bed.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I couldn’t sleep, Lissy. Where have you been?”

  “Out walking! Go back to bed.”

  “I’m scared. The moon’s up and the ghost might be about.”

  “Which ghost, you goose?”

  “You know. Old Sir Joshua or whatever he was called.”

  “There is no ghost. Go back to bed, Meely.” Amabilis began to remove her outer garments and lay them on the bed.

  “Lissy, you’ve got mud all over your kirtle hem and it’s your best one! I can see it, even by the moon. What were you doing out there?”

  “It’ll brush away when it dries. I was gathering dew. Now, go back to bed!”

  “Can’t I stay awhile?” said Amelia. “I’m icy.” Amabilis felt her hands, which were cold. She was shivering. Her own felt warm. Her blood was tingling through her body and her ears were burning.

  “Why are you sitting in the moonlight? Get into bed then. Draw those bedcurtains.”

  Amelia huddled up to her sister. “I didn’t want to sit in the dark with all the curtains drawn so I sat in the moonlight. There’s a draught from the door so I drew those that face it. Why were you gathering dew? If it’s for the complexion, you have to gather it just before sun-up, everyone knows that.”

  Amabilis did not reply. There was silence for a while and her sister stopped shivering.

  “And why don’t you mind that your kirtle is muddy? You usually mind.”

  “Go to sleep,” said Amabilis through gritted teeth.

  “And father is always telling us not to go out unaccompanied! There are dangerous men about, that’s what father says.”

  “I didn’t go far. Go to sleep now, Meely.”

  “I will.” Her sister sounded sleepier now she was warmer. “Say the charm against nightmares, Lissy. The one that old Bessie taught us.”

  “Th’ mon o’ micht, he rade o’ nicht, wi’ neider sword ne ferd ne licht, he socht the Mare, he fond the Mare, he band the Mare wi’ her ain hair, an’ gared her swar by midder-micht she wolde nae mair rid o’nicht, whar aince he rade, the mon o’ micht.”

  While she recited the rhyme Amabilis began to feel sleepy herself. Her mind filled with visions of a giant horseman who chased a skeletal mare with a long mane across a sky filled with stars. “… he socht the Mare, he fond the Mare, he band the Mare wi’ her ain hair …” Amelia should never have been sitting there in cold, full moonlight. No wonder she had been so chilled and nervous.

  “Lissy …”

  “Mmmhmm?”

  “Who d’you think will win the match? D’you think Sir George will? Who will ride Sir John’s horse?”

  Amabilis gave a sigh that was almost a groan of annoyance. “I don’t care! Now - GO TO SLEEP!”

 
“‘Night, Lissy.”

  “Good NIGHT, Amelia!”

  Soon Amelia’s breathing deepened and Amabilis felt her sister’s back relax against her. For a while Amabilis stared upwards at the bed canopy, faintly lit by the moon through chinks in the fabric. Then she closed her eyes and huddled down into the warmth of the soft feather mattress and fell into dreams of a wonderful new home of her own, where she could be mistress of all without constantly having an irritating little sister tagging along.

  * * * * *

  “Visitors for you, prisoner.” The voice of the jailer accompanied the sound of a key in the lock as Clink started into life. Visitors? Vaguely he wondered what time it was. It seemed it was morning. Late morning, even.

  Two pious-looking men in clerical clothing entered his cell. One with sleepy eyes and a jowly face; the other, with a fluff of white hair - newly washed and trimmed white hair - around his red face. The fluff of hair ringed his head like a tonsure round the back. His eyes were bright blue and innocent. Each man carried a Bible and an official Book of Prayer.

  “Read the Bible with us, brother,” said the sleepy-eyed man. “And pray, for we all are sinful, and praise the glory of God’s name.”

  “Aye,” said the other, soberly. “Even though undoubtedly y’are not saved, the more reason y’should get down on your knees and pray with us …”

  The sleepy-eyed man, with his back turned to the jailer, rolled his eyes. Don’t lay it on too thick, said his expression.

  Clink said nothing. The sleepy-eyed man turned to the jailer.

  “You too, brother? Why not pray with us?”

  The jailer laughed and shook his head. Still laughing, he turned the key in the lock behind them. “Just give us a shout when yer knees give up,” he said. His footsteps disappeared towards the guard room.

  “Let us pray, brother,” said Jugg, kneeling.

  “Aye,” said Clink. Kneeling on the floor brought their heads close together. “Been a while since we met, Francis.”

  “It’s Uriel,” hissed Jugg. Clink looked confused.

  The Frater opened the prayer book to show that the centre had been cut away and a piece of pie placed in it. Despite his circumstances, Clink grinned.

  “Have ye seen Ruby?” he whispered.

  “Oh Lord God,” said the Frater loudly, then, dropping into a whisper, while Jugg took up the prayer, “well. All’s well. She’s followed ye to Marcaster. She saw ye taken. Cried for a day and a night she did. Worse than Moll. Naught she could do. The Jingler’s here too.” He took a small bottle out of his sleeve. Clink took a swig out of it and wiped his mouth.

  “They’re like to hang me,” he said.

  “Seems so,” said the Frater, watching him with concern. There had been fear and a sort of pride in Clink’s voice. “Never fear, never fear, we’ll think of summat to free ye!” He sounded more encouraging than he felt. “It’s a felony, ain’t it? Purse cutting …”

  Clink took another swig, morosely.

  “It’s finished then. Don’t see a way out this time, Jack. Just the rope’s end.”

  The Frater patted his arm. “Nay, we’ll find a way. Never say die. Aaaaaamen!” Their voices rose and fell. Jugg read a passage from the Bible.

  “Beautiful, beautiful,” said the Frater. “Never fear the vale of shadows; well, not if ye be saved. But of course we can’t know who be saved …”

  Jugg rolled his eyes again. They heard the footsteps of the jailer coming to look in on them.

  “Let us pray once more,” said Jugg. The jailer went away quickly. Under cover of more praying the Frater passed a piece of rabbit to Clink, who gnawed it gratefully. Like all prisoners, he was dependent on either money or friends to supply him with real food to eat. The items were only hidden away so that they did not draw the attention of the jailer or his men, who would likely help themselves to the tastiest bits. The Frater and Jugg stood with their backs to the door, blocking out Clink, just in case the jailer looked in again. Once the meat and drink had gone, the men called to be let out.

  “When’s the trial?” asked Jugg as they walked away without a backward look.

  “Don’t know for certain,” said the jailer. “But the assizes are in town next week.” As they walked down a gloomy corridor that led to the great room, with its barred windows and nailed door, where the jailers sat and jingled their keys, ate, drank, and talked of the prisoners, a party of cloaked and masked men and women squeezed past them. The women pulled their cloaks right across their faces.

  “Visitors for our most important guest,” smirked the jailer ironically. “It’s always the prettiest womenfolk who like to visit the biggest villains, eh? One Giddens, who was taken for battering an old man near to death in a highway robbery. The old man died, but not before he’d put the finger on his assailant. He’ll hang, for certain sure!”

  “We’ll come back again,” said the Frater as the jailer unbarred and unlocked the small door at the side of the mighty entrance to the keep. The jailer shrugged. It was none of his business.

  “Got ten in all,” he said, “if you want to read the Bible with them …”

  “We’ll return,” said Jugg. “Singly or together.”

  “Don’t delay,” said the jailer in a jocular fashion. He tightened an imaginary noose round his own neck, stuck out his tongue and rolled his eyes. “Not if you don’t want to miss his final strut on the stage.”

  * * * * *

  Whilst Meg was busy with clients, Matthew and Cornelius were entertaining the common room of the Hart and Hawthorn. It was an appreciative audience, mostly. However, there was one man who had definitely been in his cups to start with and who was now becoming a belligerent nuisance. There’s always one, thought Matthew. So did Cornelius, although he continued to do his tricks on cue.

  “My dog - I said, my - dog - well, my dog’s - arse - can do - be’er - tricks - than tha’ dog - can,” said the drunk, eventually. It took him quite a time to get the sentence out. Matthew listened politely, with one eyebrow raised, whilst throwing a red kerchief at Cornelius, who threw it back to him.

  “It must have some competition in your house,” countered Matthew with a pleasant smile. The crowd laughed whilst the drunk frowned, trying to work out whether he had been insulted or not. Matthew picked up a wooden box containing playing cards, displayed them expertly and quickly in a fan in front of his audience and placed them back in the box.

  “Now, master,” he said, nodding at a man sitting near him, who had been watching the performance with appreciation. “You saw that it was a deck of cards, a simple deck - I am playing no tricks upon you, you agree?” The man nodded. “Take these cards, then, and cut the deck once and pass it to your neighbour - you sir, do the same, yes, that’s it, put that portion on top - “

  As the trick progressed, Cornelius disappeared.

  “Now sir, cut and take the top card and pass the remainder back to the person who gave you the cards - just so - “

  The drunk was temporarily quiet whilst he tried to follow the complicated card trick that was going on around him. There was much laughter as the trick progressed and Matthew, whilst appearing casual, was watching closely to see that his instructions were followed.

  “Now, with the powers given me by my mistress Semiramis - “

  “Oooohhh!” said the crowd, genially.

  ” - I will divine the cards that you chose.” Matthew frowned hard. “‘Tis hard this evening - there is too much tobacco smoke in here - the spirit messages are muddled - “More genial laughter. “A little help is needed - those of you who drew red cards, hold up your hands - “

  “‘S’a trick!” bellowed the drunk. It took all the concentration Matthew could muster to keep his mind on the sequence.

  “Ah, now I have it!” he said. “You, master, I believe, drew the knave of diamonds?”

  The man held up his card in amazement. The room roared.

  “And you master, the seven of clubs - ” More applause.

&nbs
p; “Well, how’d ‘e do that?” said one to another.

  “Devil if I know!”

  Matthew bowed and smiled. It was time for Cornelius to take the little bag round the room for a collection - but where was he? Matthew whistled. Cornelius jumped up onto the table and dropped a purse onto it in front of him. It was quite full and it looked as though the strings had been loosened rather than cut. Perhaps they hadn’t been well enough fastened in the first place. Matthew quickly covered his surprise.

  “Our thanks for your appreciation!” he said, thinking on his feet and picking up the purse. He looked at Cornelius, who looked innocently back at him and then, briefly, across at the drunk.