by Miriam Bibby
“Ah,” said Matthew. Leaning over the table he continued, “Yours, sir, I believe? My dog took it up for safe keeping. Y’cannot be too careful, these days, with cutpurses and foists about.”
The drunk clapped a hand to his side and swore. The room erupted into laughter and more coins started to chink and roll onto the table, accompanied by foot stamping and cheering. Matthew began to sweep them into his hand, bowing again. A good day’s work. Now for something to eat.
In her chamber above, vaguely aware of the applause, Meg looked long and seriously at her image in the mirror by the light of a candle. A leatherbound book, with ancient sigils in it, lay forgotten in her hand. The last image that she had looked at was a stylised design of a winged figure. The black ink had turned to brown and the page was yellow with age. But - when she closed her eyes, the image behind the image appeared. What was dark, was light; and light became dark. The profiles of two lovers facing one another appeared in its stead. A trick, some would say.
Was it her imagination; her eyes; the candlelight … had something changed? When others said she was no older, it might be flattery. But what of her own eyes, her own senses? She looked directly into the reflection’s eyes and a stranger looked back. The image wavered and then disappeared. The harder she stared, the less she saw. After a while the image in the silver mirror became the same as the image in the polished black stone of the scrying mirror. The eyes came back into focus in a sea of darkness. It was as though she saw the world by moonlight, a different world; which was the real one? Everything should change - everything must change. Only that which was noble did not change.
The earth seemed to breathe by moonlight as though there was some soul link between the moon and all the living things that slept. Sometimes, as she looked up from some lonely forest under its light, Meg could see that the sighing of the earth lifted up the souls of everything that slept, along the rays into the moon. And in the moon, they woke to some other life, a life denied them during the day. Knowledge that was denied them by sunlight.
Where had she learned that? Had she been taught it? Or was it imagination that took her to a garden under a green tree where someone, a sage, was explaining this slowly, patiently, so that his listeners might truly understand? There was a scent like lemons and a warm breeze and the knowledge that somewhere to the east a caravan laden with silks and swords was swaying slowly along. She saw the pad, pad, pad of the camels and watched the beat of the horses’ shifting hooves patterning the dust as their riders rode back and forth shouting anxiously to one another. There were men with bows, riding sharp little horses, hidden in the rocks above. The caravan carried other materials, secret, rare substances that one day would be made into perfumes to stir the heart and blood … men would kill for those secrets and give their lives … their weight in gold … secrets …
The vision faded and another took its place. The hoofbeats still drummed, but there was no caravan. Two riders, running alongside each other over a green meadow dotted with flowers. The horses and riders were identical. She could not see the men’s faces as they bent over the necks of their coursers. Both animals were dark coloured and both exerted themselves to the utmost, as equally matched as twins. Castor and Pollux. Stride for stride, breath for breath, heartbeat for heartbeat … something was happening. The two horses drew closer and closer together; now there were six legs and two heads; now one head; the horses merged and there was one rider only, under the moon that now lit the meadow. Meg waited, waited, scarcely breathing, to see what would happen next.
Someone knocked at the door of Meg’s chamber, hesitantly, quietly. Meg turned. She had thought there would be no more clients today. There had been something about that knock that intrigued her.
“Come in,” she called.
The door opened slowly and a woman wearing a cloak, scarf and hood came in. She paused uncertainly in the doorway.
“You wish to consult with me? You have a question?”
The woman took off the cloak, revealing a mask. There was a discrepancy about her clothing. Under the cloak she wore a simple russet kirtle with an apron. It was too big for her and looked as though she had borrowed it from a serving maid. Her fingers were white and unblemished, her blonde hair neat and apparently quite fancily dressed under a plain coif.
“I heard,” she began, a little uncertainly, “from one of our - my household - that is - ” She stumbled to a halt. She clearly lived nearby, from her manner of speech, but she was no servant.
“Sit down,” said Meg, in a kindly way. She poured out some wine.
“Thank you,” said Amabilis Grasset. “Yes, I do wish to consult with you.”
Chapter 4: Venus and Vulcan
Early the next day, Meg was on her way to collect a gown from a seamstress that lived not far from the inn. She often bought and sold clothes as they travelled; it was easier than carrying them and if they were of good enough quality, she could always find a purchaser. She was thinking about the young woman who had come to see her dressed in her maidservant’s clothes. A pitiful concoction of a disguise, but probably the best she could summon up from her resources. She had spoken evasively and Meg had needed all her skill to draw out what was in her mind. Meg had guessed immediately of course, that a man would be involved. The young woman, evidently wealthy, had readily bought one of Meg’s best perfumes. She had not needed any convincing that this was a powerful talisman in itself.
As Meg passed the entrance to a cooper’s yard, she heard a woman’s voice behind her, speaking quietly but urgently. She turned and saw a woman, muffled up in a kerchief, standing pressed against the wall just inside the entrance.
“Mistress, ” said Ruby, pleadingly. “I need your help.”
“Have you been watching me?” said Meg, swiftly. She knew who it was, immediately. She had seen Ruby at a distance and knew her description. Ruby nodded. “Wait here. I’ll return soon.”
“I’ll wait,” said Ruby.
When Meg returned, she took Ruby’s arm.
“We’ll not talk here, in the street,” said Meg. “Come with me to the inn.” She felt Ruby’s arm stiffen in protest and then relax. At the Hart and Hawthorn she led her up to her room. Ruby took off her kerchief and looked at Meg.
“Sit down,” said Meg. Ruby sat.
“I need your help,” she said, simply. “You can help me - I know who you are.”
“And I know you, I believe,” said Meg.
“Moses - he didn’t tell us about you, but ‘e’s your servant, ain’t he?”
There was a slight hesitation before Meg replied.
“Yes,” she said.
“I don’t - have the sight,” said Ruby hesitantly. “But - sometimes, I seem to see; and sometimes, y’can - read people; y’can - see their nature.” She glanced at Meg for confirmation. Meg said nothing, but gave a slight nod. “But - you’ve got the knowledge, y’can see, can’t ye?” Ruby sounded almost anxious.
Meg let out the breath she’d been holding.
“If you have a question, ask it,” she said. Her voice was neutral.
“Well,” said Ruby. “Ohhhhh…” She burst into tears and put her face into her hands. The sobbing went on for some time but occasionally incoherent words came out.
Meg poured some wine and held it out to Ruby.
“Thank ye.” Ruby sniffed and wiped her nose. She took a sip of wine, pensively. “It’s the - hanging - y’see. Oh, Clink knows the risk. They all do. All of us do. But - there comes a time when y’can see the rope, y’can almost feel it.” She gulped and turned pale. “Clink’s in Marcaster Jail, held for the taking of the pigman’s purse that he never even kept. He lost it when we was caught in Guildern. And the pigman’s recognised him and he’s been taken up. And if he isn’t hanged for that; well, there’s other things. There always is - once they have you.”
Meg said nothing for a while. Then she said, “You don’t know for a certainty that he will hang.”
“Nooo,” said Ruby. She sniffed ag
ain. “But - it’s just a feelin’ - this time. And - it came to me that someone - might be able to help. Someone with power …” She looked straight at Meg, pleadingly.
Meg looked directly at Ruby for so long that it felt uncomfortable. But, Ruby thought, she wasn’t really seeing Ruby; it was as though she saw something else.
“Ruby,” she said, thoughtfully. “Rubies. Ah, I see it now … some … but not all …” She might have said “Ruby’s”; Ruby wasn’t sure.
Eventually, Meg seemed to come back into herself. She took Ruby’s hands briefly and smiled at her. Then she poured them both some more wine.
“I have no spell or charm to offer that will keep away the hangman’s halter,” she said, almost briskly. “If justice …”
“Justice!” said Ruby, sarcastically. “He didn’t even keep the goddamned purse!”
“No,” said Meg, “but he took it; and the intention to keep it was clear. But - the future is not fixed. There is no certainty that anyone will hang.”
“But …” began Ruby, puzzled.
“Ruby,” said Meg, “you have wit. Use it! Y’have everything that you need - you need nothing from me but you will take something from me when you leave.” She turned away and moved towards the casement.
Ruby waited.
Meg said almost to herself, “A pigman? In Marcaster on business, no doubt. It seems to me, that a pigman needs must spend time in a pigsty. A lot of time.”
When she turned round, Ruby was at the door holding the latch. She was smiling.
“Thank ye!” she said.
After Ruby left, Meg resumed her regular occupation of watching the street from the window of her room. For a while she could still see Ruby’s pleading face and hear her voice, but eventually her reverie was broken by a figure in the street below. “Who is that?” she mused, half to herself. “That’s the second time he’s passed by today.”
It was a man who was evidently drawn in on himself, at least when he passed by in the morning. She caught a glimpse of bowed shoulders and a heavy tread - for such a thin man. As he walked quickly up the street away from her gaze, his back seemed to be bearing a heavy burden. Then, later, when she saw him coming back, he was transformed; he waved and nodded to acquaintances and his tread was lighter. His whole body looked lighter, in fact. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry any more and stopped to talk to someone for a few moments.
“I’ll find out,” said Matthew, who had just come back with Cornelius, whose most recent encounter with the stable cat had been very unsuccessful, at least from the perspective of Cornelius. The big ginger tom who knew his territory so well and had evaded Cornelius effortlessly, found it very satisfactory indeed.
“There’s something else you can do,” said Meg, still looking down at the street. “Go to the stable and see if you can discover something of the horse belonging to Sir John Widderis. If anyone questions you, tell them we might have need of some horses for hire. And - look well about you whilst you are there. Tell me what you see.”
It was several hours before Matthew returned and Meg waited until Cornelius had welcomed him noisily and quietened down again and Matthew had eaten before listening to what he had learned about the thin, anxious man that she had seen from the casement.
“He’s a well-known man, locally,” said Matthew. “Amiot Goldspink. Has some knowledge of the law, it seems and has served the town well. Once I knew who he was, I made some further enquiries, hinting that I - that you - might have business to conduct. He has a sound reputation amongst his countrymen and was recommended. So I found out where his home is. I saw him leaving that home and followed him, in a casual fashion …”
“Continue,” said Meg.
“He ended at the house of one Zacharias Kane, a goldsmith, who, it appears, is responsible for the making of a bell for the winner of the forthcoming match …”
“A goldsmith who does not have a shop in the centre of Marcaster?” interrupted Meg, surprised. Goldsmiths were expected to work and keep shop in commercial parts of towns.
“It appears this Kane is not only a goldsmith, but the only goldsmith as far as Marcaster is concerned,” said Matthew, “at the present time, at any rate. There have been others, but they either died or moved elsewhere. A shortage of suitable property, or perhaps property to his liking, has kept him in the place of his father’s former smithy, which, truth to tell, is not so very far from the centre of Marcaster, although it is somewhat secluded. It abuts some common ground and a plantation for timber that is used by local trades. On fair days, he sets up a stall under license in Marcaster where he does well. Other than that, he knows his clients and they often go to his house, which serves as his workshop and shop. His reputation, too, is good. All his work is dispensed with the approval of his company, I believe; he is - untarnished - in any way.”
Meg smiled at his jest and then was thoughtful again. “Does he keep any apprentices?” she asked. Matthew shook his head.
“No. The Goldsmiths’ Company is currently oversubscribed, it appears and that is probably in part why Kane remains the only goldsmith in Marcaster. Lack of apprentices; and better trade elsewhere that draws the master smiths. That’s what drew his last journeyman away. There’s little scope for the trade hereabouts and Kane supplies all that’s needful. Farming folk round here are - canny? Is that the word?”
Meg nodded.
” - and keep their gold under their beds, mostly.”
“How did this Goldspink appear to you?” asked Meg.
Matthew thought momentarily. “Burdened. As though he was carrying something burdensome.”
“Yes, that’s how he was, seemingly, when I first saw him. And when he left the goldsmith’s?”
“Possibly a little less burdened, but I’d describe him as a man who was troubled in spirit. A man in need of one of your finest - and more expensive - remedies.”
Meg inclined her head in mock thanks. “Y’remind me that I have need of some ingredients, which, by fortune, I can obtain whilst we are here. I must correspond with a merchant in Hull who has proved not only to be a source of goods of the highest quality, but also a discreet and reliable friend.”
“Ingredients - including myrrh?” asked Matthew with interest.
“Yes, I have need of myrrh, certainly. I know that it is your favourite. And one of mine.”
“It is - the breath of mystery that it carries.”
Meg nodded agreement. “According to an ancient belief, myrrh is formed of the tears of the moon, whilst frankincense is obtained from those of the sun. Myrrh holds many mysteries. And it is at the heart of many remedies. Many of my remedies. Now, tell me about the horses.”
“The horse belonging to Sir John Widderis is kept towards the back of our inn stable here and well guarded by Sir John’s men,” said Matthew. “Three of ‘em. But from what I saw - and heard - he is a horse that is somewhat fearful by nature and starts easily at an unexpected sight or noise. He is a big horse and likes to gallop with his nose to the stars - they say. He will be ridden by Philip Widderis, son of Sir John; and they also say that if he had any other rider, he would be likely to gallop with his nose to the stars in all directions but the correct one.”
“And how does he like the company of an inn stable?”
Matthew shrugged. “He finds himself amongst a few nags and carters; and one or two quality mounts. There’s a black horse there next to The Fly that’s most likely with Sir John’s servants. A quality horse. And a fine grey, might be theirs as well. Also a good light bay, not unlike Bayard, with a long mane, but dark where his is light.”
“When not dyed,” said Meg mischievously. “And Sir Richard’s horse?”
“I thought you would ask and so I called in at the Blue Boar. A decent brew; but not as good as they serve here, I’d say. And I was not quite so welcome at the stable as I was here in our own. In truth - ” Matthew frowned. ” - I believe that one of our acquaintance might have a place there.”
“Let me guess. Fr
om your face, I would say, one Jostler, also known as the Jingler.”
“I caught a glimpse. And when I asked about him, he matched the description; but this man was named - Will Aitchison.”
“What’s in a name to the Jingler?” said Meg. “It would seem likely that our friend the Frater was following us, then.”
Matthew nodded. “He did well to keep up with us; we rise early.”
“And travel fast, sometimes. But - ” Meg paused. “The Jingler is at the stables of the Blue Boar and so is Sir Richard’s horse. That is - “
“An ill coupling?” suggested Matthew. “Perhaps the Jingler might view it in a different light.”
“The Jingler might see it as a heaven sent opportunity,” said Meg. “Someone should tell Sir Richard Grasset to guard his horse well.”