by Miriam Bibby
“He has done that,” said Matthew. “Two servants keep watch there. You can see one of ‘em ride the horse out any morning. However, should we send word to him?”
“Consider it, Matthew. The Jingler stole Sir George’s horse; but so did we …”
“After a fashion, yes, but …”
“I’d rather attention was not drawn our way. And the Jingler may have a card or two to play of which we know nothing; best be watchful for the moment.”
* * * * *
The funeral was over. The Frater glanced down at the fresh earth on the grave and muttered a prayer under his breath. All had been done correctly, of course, in the new style. The clergyman here was nothing if not correct. A cold, hard thing, this new way, the Frater still thought it, with its emphasis on preaching and Bible reading; and such prayers as were said sounded like the wheels of a cart grinding over a rocky road. There was no mystery, mused the Frater; no warmth or light for a cold soul going into the dark. There was something comforting about the idea of a candle being lighted for the dead. And music and prayer. Aye, comforting. Jugg hadn’t asked him to stand with the mourners, but it seemed right. It was a young man - younger than the Frater, anyway - who had died after a sudden fever with great heaving of the lungs. So he and Jugg and the mourners had stood together whilst the coffin was lowered. Now the Frater felt chilled to the bone, despite the warmth of the afternoon and the sweat he’d worked up helping Jugg to fill in the grave afterwards. And the thought he was pushing away all the time was that one day - soon - a grave like this would be dug for Clink, and …
No. He was not going to think of it. Whilst he was staring at the newly dug ground, Jugg disappeared. The Frater made his way towards the church, knowing that he would find Jugg in there. He had a bottle put away under the stairs and that’s what would have drawn him, the Frater was sure. He licked his lips. Now he came to consider it, a sup of something strong would go down well. A sad thing indeed, a burial. A drink would drive the shivers from him.
The Frater looked around the church, wondering what it would have looked like lit with candles and smelling of incense. Once, there would have been sacred images everywhere, on the walls, in the niches, filled with colour and symbolism. Now the walls were bare and starkly white, the images broken, hacked away or painted over. Most of the congregation would stand, with only a few benches for the easement of the old and infirm. Where was Jugg? No sign of him in the porch or by the stairs. Then the Frater spotted him, bent over beside the rough piece of wood that served now as an altar table. As he went towards him, Jugg glanced up.
“Here y’are, Jack. Take a sup.”
“Thank ‘ee, Uriel,” said the Frater gratefully. He tipped the bottle up.
“A sup, I said!” grumbled Jugg, but not unkindly. The Frater wiped his mouth.
“What’re ye about there?” he asked curiously. Jugg tapped his nose.
“Just giving a helping hand to - a bit o’ business, you might say.”
When the Frater saw what Jugg was holding in his hand, he was genuinely shocked.
“The Host, Uriel! Of what use would that be to ye?” His voice had dropped to a whisper and he looked round as though they might be overseen or heard.
“It’s naught but a bit o’ bread wi’ a few words said over it, when all’s said and done!” hissed Jugg, but he had dropped his voice and he looked around him furtively too.
“The bread, though, the sacred wafer that was! What can y’need that for? ‘Tis used in spell casting, I do know that.” The Frater was almost anguished.
“Pish, Jack!” said Jugg in an exasperated way. He wrapped the bread in a clean cloth and stowed it away. “Even the preachers do say it’s naught but bread. Anything more than that is Popish, according to their reckoning.”
“But what’s it for?” pressed the Frater. Jugg took a long swig out of the bottle, then stared hard at the Frater.
“You take care for the bottle and I’ll tell ye when we’re away from here. And - ” his voice took on a chilling edge ” - ye’ll keep it to yourself.”
“Of course, Uriel!”
They hurried away from the church.
The Frater was not entirely surprised to see Ruby standing on the corner of the road that led from the church to the centre of Marcaster. They had met several times since Clink had been jailed. She waved at the Frater. Jugg was not pleased to see her as he had warned the Frater not to do anything that might bring him, Uriel Jugg, into disrepute with his employers. When the Frater had challenged him regarding Jugg’s own drinking and card playing, Jugg had said that was of no account; nobody saw him and what they didn’t see didn’t hurt ‘em. It was matters such as this, with Ruby flaunting herself out in the open road as though they were bosom friends that he wouldn’t tolerate. He continued on his way - warning the Frater to keep the bottle well hid and not to drink it all - whilst the Frater crossed over to where Ruby was standing, looking up and down the way as though expecting to see a constable at any minute.
“Jack! Jack!” The Frater hadn’t seen Ruby so animated for some days now. She was quite her old self, with colour in her face, life in her dark eyes and a smile on her lips.
“What is it, Ruby girl?” said the Frater grumpily. “Didn’t I tell ye not to come and find me here?”
“I know Jack, I know. Forgive me, but I had to tell ye this. It’s for Clink’s sake, Jack. I - it came to me - that we can help him, get him safe from jail like …”
“And how’re ye going to do that, then?” snorted the Frater. “There’s a lock on this jail, my mort, and it has walls of stone, not like that mouldy old shed they threw us in at Guildern. Clink’s not going to piss his way out of this’n!”
“I know - but listen. Supposing - supposing the pigman wasn’t to bear witness against Clink, eh?”
“Why wouldn’t he? Change of heart?” said the Frater with deep sarcasm. “Christian love of his fellow man?”
“No, but supposing he couldn’t? If he wasn’t there, like?” Ruby was determined not to tell any of her acquaintances that she had consulted with Meg. It would - complicate matters too much. No, best claim the idea as her own. It was, anyway, in a sense. The cunning-woman hadn’t told her to do anything. She had just - put a thought in Ruby’s head, that was all.
“Well, if he was to be called away elsewhere, I suppose …” mused the Frater. He suddenly thought he saw where Ruby was leading. “No, girl, yer not thinking of doing him harm?”
“No, Jack, of course not,” said Ruby, frowning. “Just - putting him away for a time. That’s all.”
“I follow ye now. Well, it might work; but there’s Sir George to think of, and all. He’s to be in court - you knew that.”
“That’s so,” said Ruby. She sighed. “But, without the man who was the reason of it all to witness …”
“Look ye,” said the Frater, conscious of the bottle and suddenly hungry again. “I can’t help ye now, cause o’ Jugg - but if you and the Frog and the Sad Mort was to do it somehow - I don’t want to see Clink hang, no more than do you. “
“Well; I was wondering if ye knew of somewhere, Jack? Somewhere we might hold him for a day or two?”
“I’ll think on it.” As they talked, the Frater took out a couple of coins and chinked them together, before pressing them into her hand and looking at her earnestly as though she was simply a needy woman he had encountered along the way.
“Where’s the Sad Mort and the Frog now?”
“Hid, Jack. Moll’s been poorly.” Ruby and the Frater parted, after making arrangements for their next meeting. The Frater returned briefly to the lych gate for a few sips at the bottle before following after Jugg.
The instant Jugg had walked in through the door, he knew something was wrong. Some subtle change in the atmosphere. He stopped in his tracks and at the same time a familiar voice spoke behind him.
“It’s been long since we met - Francis.”
Jugg did not correct the speaker. He simply said, withou
t turning round, “Y’always did have the gift of breaking and entering, Jingler. Bad coins always roll back again, eh? You ain’t the first today. Quite the day for it. I’ve already seen the Egyptian Mort, standing out on the side of the road like a bawdy basket.”
“Aye. She brought me news o’ Moll. I told Ruby I had a bit of business - didn’t tell her what - or who with.”
“I didn’t know of any business between us.”
The Jingler laughed. “Oh, that’s a good one, that is. Lost your memory, have ye?”
Jugg turned round and looked straight at him. It was quite dark in the room but the Jingler did not have to see Jugg’s expression to know that if looks could kill, he would be lying on the floor stone dead.
“I said,” growled Jugg between gritted teeth, “I didn’t know of any business between us.”
“A small matter, Francis. Was it ten pounds?”
“What ten pounds is this?”
“The ten pounds ye cheated me of - the last time we met.”
“Won fair and square,” said Jugg, with finality. The two men locked gaze and held it, each attempting to stare the other down. The Jingler was smiling, his light eyes fixed for once; Jugg’s sleepy eyes were bulging slightly and his jaw was set like a bulldog’s. Almost imperceptibly he began to inch towards a chest where he kept a pistol that he’d taken against a debt in a card game - much more valuable than money - and a short blade. The pistol would take too long to prime of course but if he could get to the blade …
The Jingler, guessing what he was up to, stepped quickly to the side.
“Oh, no, Francis. I know ye. Don’t try any tricks on your old friend the Jingler, who has one or two himself …” There was suddenly a knife in the Jingler’s right hand and he tapped the blade on the back of his left. Jugg knew him well enough to know that this was partly the Jingler’s nervous energy showing itself. He was fast and unpredictable. The only advantages Jugg had were solidity and determination. They carried on staring at each other, each waiting for the other to make a move.
This was the scene that the Frater walked into, not suspecting anything. Immediately taking in the situation, he attempted to walk directly back out again.
“My apologies, gentlemen, I didn’t realise what y’were about, I’ll leave …”
“Stay where you are!” growled Jugg, while the Jingler snarled “Stay your carcass, for your life, Jack!”
The Frater held his ground and his breath. As the two men continued to stare at each other, he ventured, “I don’t like to see old friends falling out wi’ each other.”
This prompted an explosive, derisory laugh from the Jingler and an oath from Jugg.
“And with Clink in jail, and all,” continued the Frater. “Life’s short, ain’t it? And not so sweet - but you don’t want to lose it any more’n me.”
The two men did not move.
“Come on, coves, let’s shake hands and have a drink on it, eh?” The Frater’s own hand was trembling as he brought out the bottle and set it on the table. “Come on now,” he added. “Come on, lads.” It was all he found he could say and repeating it gave him some comfort even if it had no effect on the other two.
The Jingler gave a deep sigh. He was no longer smiling. His face had fallen into a sullen frown, but he put the knife back into his sleeve, walked over to the trestle and took a drink from the bottle.
“Ten pounds. Ten pounds ye cheated me of. And there’s other matter besides, eh, Jugg?” he said.
Jugg said nothing.
“But - I’m a fair man,” continued the Jingler. “I’m an honest man - after my fashion. And a sporting man. So, Jugg, I’ll tell you how it’s to be. I’ll wager you that ten pounds. Wager you on the match that’s to be run.”
The Frater looked back and forth between the two men and opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it. Jugg was smiling now, his sleepy eyes nearly closed and a smug expression on his face.
“Wager on a match with the Jingler, the best nagsman in the country? Oh yes, that’s likely, ain’t it.”
“Your choice, Francis. Oh, no, it’s Uriel now, isn’t it.” The Jingler’s voice was sneering. “Your choice. Whichever you choose to put the money on, I’ll take the other. What’s it to be? Or have you lost your stomach for gaming, now ye’re such a… a… now ye’ve found respectability?”
“Happy to wager with an old - friend,” said Jugg, with deep sarcasm. “If that’s how ye want it. My choice is Galingale.”
The Jingler gave a short half-laugh. “You certain of that? That’s yer final choice?” Jugg nodded. The Frater found he was watching with his mouth hanging open. The two men held out their hands and shook, briefly, as though either hand might turn out to have a weapon. Or be a weapon.
“You’ll be our witness, Jack, and stand good for us both with the money after the match. You’ll see it done fair and square.” It was not a request, rather an order, from the Jingler; and Jugg did not dispute it.
The Frater swallowed. “Aye,” he agreed, hoarsely. “D’you - d’you want me to hold the wager for you now? To keep the money for ye?”
Jugg and the Jingler looked at each other.
“No,” said Jugg, finally. “We trust each other that much.”
“Enough,” agreed the Jingler. “Ye’ll not get out of it this time. Your health, Jack.”
When he had gone, the Frater looked at Jugg in disbelief. He wanted to ask him about the communion bread but there was a more pressing question.
.
“You know he’s a place in the stable where the horse is? You surely don’t trust him, F…Uriel?”
“Of course not,” said Jugg. “But he ain’t the only one with a trick or two in his sleeve. Give me that bottle.”
* * * * *
It took Meg a long time to make out the list of requirements to send to her merchant in Hull. The rare and costly items that she needed in her work were expensive and the final decisions only came after careful thought and preparation. There were so many considerations, including how much could be safely carried on the road; her current finances; and the nature of her clients and their changing needs and circumstances. Her circumstances changed too, as she moved around the country. It required extensive knowledge and experience, both of which were largely contained in her head and not written down.
As she made out the list, each of the items on it came to life in her mind, creating correspondences that meshed together to make a living fabric of information, reminiscences and lore. Myrrh, for instance, evoked an image of Matthew’s face after he had smelled it for the first time. Simultaneously she could hear the recitation of verses from the Bible, teaching of three travellers who arrived in Bethlehem bearing with them the material symbols of their mysteries. Chants echoed from the walls of a cavern, at first in some unknown tongue and then in Greek; then in some mysterious way the sound changed to smoke rising from altars in ancient Egypt and Greece. As Time rolled on, she saw the same smoke rising in communication with the gods of the Roman Empire. The smoke had spiralled up to heaven from their temples here in Marcaster. At the uttermost edges of Rome’s power, desert dwellers of lineage even older than that of the empires of the east, sat in their flowing robes lapped in smoke. They had been amongst the first to discover the power of the burning resins to ward off illness and demons. Per fumum …
Meg moved from place to place in her mind. Thinking of ambergris brought with it the sound of oars and the lapping of warm sea water on wood. From this thought grew the practical reminder that her merchant could provide the substance as liquid or shavings, as well as in small pieces. Then, came a vision of a dancing goat, much like the inn sign for the Goat in Chains; but this prancing animal was the Goat and Comb. That was for Capricorn and for labdanum. Amongst the costliest of substances, labdanum was combed from the coats of goats, which gathered the material as they browsed amongst the rock-roses. The precious commodity was then formed into cakes which were wrapped and stamped for her merchant
with the sign of a goat and a comb with a handle. She smiled to herself as the next vision rose in her mind. Taurus, the bull; but a humorous bull with a cat’s tail, ears and paws as well as horns. And a stink, a powerful stench, of dung and tom cat. That was for civet, which was transported in sealed ox-horns. Next, orris, which carried her to Florence. In her image the city was all blue and white, a city of flowers fragmented into a scented mosaic. The scenes moved around her in her own, deeply personal Zodiac. And now, a starry figure was rising in the east; the outline of a man in flowing robes with a glass vessel in one hand and the forefinger of the other held to his lips for secrecy. Around him, the dawn was rosy; literally rosy, with the perfume of roses. She could both see it and smell it. Meg bowed in gratitude to the figure, for this was one of the greatest Masters of Perfumery. The vision began to fade…