by Miriam Bibby
“Like this’n?” said the Jingler. He showed the Frater the charm he had taken from Harry. It was a little hard baked circle with a cross on it.
“Aye!” agreed the Frater. Then he continued, “Generous souls, they were at the Hart and Hawthorn. Odd thing, though - this’ll make ye laugh, Jingler - there’s a horse in the Hart and Hawthorn stables that’s the living spit of Sir Richard Grasset’s horse, the one that’s to be in the match. All but the star on his head. This’n’s all black, not a white mark on ‘im; but other than that, ‘e could be Galingale’s brother!” The Frater had seen the servants riding Galingale through Marcaster and he knew the horse well by now.
The Jingler had been about to hand the Frater the little cake that he’d taken from Harry, with instructions to somehow exchange it with the one in the Hart and Hawthorn lad’s possession. That way, if Jugg had put something into the charm intended for The Fly, the Jingler would ensure it was fed to the rival horse instead. However, he stopped and looked at the Frater. Coincidence? A black horse in a stable that looked exactly like Galingale, but for the star? In the inn where Meg and her servant were staying? That pulled the Jingler up in his tracks. And something else occurred to him. The two charms would be as like as two peas in a pod, he suspected. Hard, round little disks with a rough cross shaped on them. If Jugg hadn’t made them - who had?
“Here,” he said to the Frater. “Set the Frog onto the lad from the Hart. See if he c’n get this swapped without the lad knowing. The purse was round his neck, was it?” The Frog was an expert in pickpocketing and purse cutting and this would be no difficult thing for him to achieve. The Jingler was brooding. Supposing Jugg - or whoever had made the charms - had put something harmful in the one for The Fly, knowing, somehow that the Jingler would exchange them? This was pointless speculation unless you were dealing with a known double-dealer; but the Jingler was beginning to suspect that he was. “And this horse,” said the Jingler, “the black ‘un at the Hart and Hawthorn - find out who owns it.”
“Oh, I know that,” said the Frater. “It’s to the charge of Sir John Widderis and under the care of his men. Strange, that, ain’t it?”
Strange indeed, thought the Jingler; but he simply said, “Aye, well; get the Frog to see where it goes, if it goes out.”
Not long afterwards, Saul, the freckle-faced stable lad from the Hart and Hawthorn, was making his way back from an errand to the saddler’s when a smallish wiry man walked towards him on the street. As he moved alongside he bumped against Saul, grabbed at his shoulder momentarily and then apologised quickly.
“My pardon, I stumbled.” Saul grunted something and carried on. A few seconds later, he heard the man call from behind him, “I think this might be yours?” in a questioning tone. He was trotting along the street with a purse in his hand.
Saul looked at it with shock.
“Aye, it is! Where’d ye find it?” his tone was accusing and even as he spoke, he was opening the purse that usually hung round his neck to check that nothing had been taken. His look of suspicion disappeared. All was in order, but the string had snapped and looked frayed. He must replace that. “My - my thanks, master!”
The Frog gave his wide grin and bowed. “My pleasure to reunite it with its owner.” And he was gone in an instant. Saul reflected that it was good that there were still honest men in these dishonest times - he hadn’t even asked for a reward!
The second part of the Frog’s task was slightly more difficult. He could have done with the help of Ruby or the Sad Mort to keep an eye on the Hart and Hawthorn stable and let him know the comings and goings there. But Ruby was less than useful these days. She seemed to be either moping or elated but not much in between. Hatching something there, thought the Frog. And Moll was not so well and had instructions from the Jingler not to show herself about the place. He was funny like that, the Jingler. He needed to control Moll and if he wasn’t there to watch her, which he wasn’t most of the time, then he never liked her to show herself in public without one of the other men there to keep an eye on her. The Frog remembered a time, afew years back, when that smooth cove Jugg had propositioned the Sad Mort and the Jingler had threatened to kill the both of them. He’d given Jugg a beating, all right. So, in the absence of his companions, the Frog would have to do what needed to be done by himself.
The Frog’s senses were sharp and when, eventually, one of the Widderis servants came out of the Hart and Hawthorn stable yard riding the black horse, he was instantly ready to follow him. The servant rode to the gate in the walls of Marcaster. It was one of the main thoroughfares and it was so busy that the Frog temporarily lost sight of the black horse as its rider increased speed and headed off towards the River Mar and the junction that led in one direction to Marfield Hall and the other, eventually, to Calness. The Frog, assuming that the servant was on an errand to Sir John, began to make his way in a more leisurely fashion towards the junction, intending to follow a little way to see if he could catch him returning. It was bare, open country; it took him a while to find somewhere he could sit comfortably and see the road. The best he could do was get in amongst some furze bushes and sit down, grateful that he had brought a bottle and his pipe.
The Frog didn’t know how far it was to Sir John’s home but he wasn’t expecting to see the rider returning in a hurry. It was with some surprise, then, that he saw a different servant riding towards the junction from the direction of Calness, on a black horse almost identical to the one that he had seen; but this one had a star on its forehead. The horse and rider carried on parallel to the river in the direction of Marfield Hall. The Frog sat and frowned for some time. Sensitive though he was to danger, he was no thinker. Something told him this might be more than mere coincidence, though. He puzzled over whether to stay where he was or move. Eventually he got up and started to walk cautiously down towards the junction of the roads, looking about him warily as he walked.
The sound of a horse snorting and the sight of a rider coming back down towards the junction caused him to panic momentarily and leap for the only cover that was available, which was a ditch. The Frog glanced up, his eyes wide with apprehension and curiosity as the horse and rider approached. The same black horse - well, the same servant - but this horse had no star on its forehead. The horse shied a little but the rider did not spot the Frog as he dropped down further into his hiding place. The Frog, by now thoroughly confused and unhappy, wondered whether he should wait for any more black horses - and what the hell the Jingler would make of this.
Chapter 6: For Want of a Shoe
When the Jingler heard a familiar whistle from the corner of one of the lanes, he knew immediately who it was. Glancing around, he temporarily left the horse he was grooming and went over to the Frog.
“I told yer, not here,” hissed the Jingler warningly.
“I know, but Jingler …”
“Not here,” said the Jingler through gritted teeth. The Frog knew that look and took the hint, running off swiftly towards the overgrown burial ground that was their agreed meeting place.
When the Jingler finally arrived, he enjoyed himself berating the Frog soundly for a time. Then he said, “Well - let’s hear it then.” The Frog, subdued and sullen, recounted what he had seen in a few brief sentences.
The Jingler, frowning, said: “So ye saw one black horse go out on the road to Widderis’s house and another come back …”
“It looked like the same ‘un to me, Jingler. But then I haven’t your eye for a horse.”
“There’s naught wrong with yer eyes. Ye can see as well as I can and y’know horses. And then - another horse - or the same one - came back the other way?”
“Aye,” said the Frog. “But with no star and the same servant. I can make naught of it, Jingler.”
“No, ye can’t,” said the Jingler. “But I can. Maybe.” The Frog looked at him blankly. “It don’t take much to put a star on a horse - or take it away.” continued the Jingler. “D’ye see it now?”
L
ight was dawning on the Frog’s face. Then he frowned, looked puzzled and shook his head.
“Easier to take it away - and bring it back,” mused the Jingler. “A bit o’ soot and grease will do the job, if y’want to cover it up. And ye can make one with chalk and grease. But if y’want to do it permanent, like, ye have to use a wire under the skin. Work it under, bit by bit, over time. And put a certain substance on it. That’ll give ye a star, or a snip, or a white spot, anywhere you like.”
“But why, Jingler? And - who?”
“As for the why, I don’t know - yet. As for the who - who d’ye know who can change the look of a horse as well as I can, by all accounts; and who is here in Marcaster; who is currently residing at the very inn where this other black horse is stabled, eh? I ask y’that. The cunning-woman and her man! Now - find me the Frater and bring him here. I need him to write - a letter - wait … ” The Jingler’s voice tailed off. “Aye. Aye. That would be it. O’ course, now I see it …”
“What, Jingler?”
“The cunning-woman. It would work to her advantage if she could say which horse was going to win, eh? That’d help her reputation all right; and bring her a lot of gold.”
“But the servants? They was real enough. The horse is in the name of Sir John Widderis, ain’t it?”
“There ain’t a servant alive but can be bribed. And there’s many a master trusts to ‘em to pay the bills and such and don’t notice an addition or two. He might know naught about it.”
“But - I don’t see how t’would be done. Sir Richard knows his own nag, don’t he? How could she exchange it for another?”
“She hasn’t acquainted me with the whole of her plan, has she!” said the Jingler with exasperated sarcasm. “But there’s something going off there, all right. She’ll have the grooms in the palm of her hand, I’ll wager.” His eyes narrowed. Could she have got word of his - agreement - with Jugg? Could she - even be working with him? The Jingler turned to the Frog, who was standing beside him, open-mouthed and with a confused expression on his face. “Now run and get the Frater for me.”
The Frog ran off, still confused; but with the uneasy sensation, one with which he was familiar, that things were about to get nasty. The Jingler rested himself against a cracked stone monument to wait and consider. A blackbird regarded him from the branches of a twisted old tree, putting its head to one side and then the other. He leaned there for so long that coneys hopped and rustled in the long grass next to the tomb. The Jingler was thinking, hard, about what he needed to get the Frater to put into a letter directed to the undersheriff; a letter that would implicate both the cunning-woman and Jugg. He no longer cared whether the woman was involved or not. He simply knew that time was pressing and this was a sure way to get even with both of them.
The Jingler frowned as he picked away at a piece of loose stone. He shifted uncomfortably. Dealing with authority didn’t come easily to any of the rogues. He hoped the Frater was not going to turn soft about pointing the finger at Jugg - or the woman, come to that. He could just hear Jack spouting sanctimoniously about honour amongst thieves, or saying he was in Jugg’s debt and this was an act of betrayal. The Jingler didn’t want to admit his own discomfort about it, even to himself.
The blackbird flew off with an alarm call and the coneys scattered as the Jingler suddenly shied the piece of broken stone at them. He smiled to himself. To hell with it. Two birds with one stone.
* * * * *
The Jingler was just finishing giving Galingale’s feet a brush with some oily liquid to make them shining and strong. The Grasset servants permitted him to do this task because neither of them liked to do it. They trusted him because he had provided the liquid and there was no doubt that since they had been applying it the condition of the horse’s hooves had improved. They were now in excellent condition. The Jingler glanced quickly round. The unpleasant servant was sitting just on the edge of his sight and the friendly one had his back to the Jingler and was combing his hair. This servant was having a dalliance with one of the maids at the inn and evidently thought himself good-looking. His mind was definitely no longer on the horse.
In an instant, the Jingler had snipped off the clenches securing two of the nails in the horse’s front shoe on the near side. To do this, he used a tiny, strong pincer tool that he had concealed in his palm. Then he inserted a thin v-shaped piece of metal between the hoof and shoe, pressed the pincer handle into it and forced it slightly. The horse shifted uncomfortably. As soon as the Jingler felt a slight movement of the shoe, he stopped. He straightened up and stroked the horse’s neck.
“Good lad,” said the Jingler.
“All done?” said the servant turning round. He preened himself.
“All done,” said the Jingler. He knew that the Grasset servant would be hoping that the maidservant would see him riding out on his master’s fine horse. “He’s ready for you.”
“My thanks, Aitchison,” said the servant, as though he were the master himself. “Fine job you’ve done there, if I may say so.”
“I thank ye!” grinned the Jingler, bowing in a servile fashion. Oh yes, he’d certainly done a fine job there, as the servant was about to find out.
An hour later and the servant returned, with an anxious look on his face, leading the horse. The shoe had flown off as he cantered along the riverside. An old tree root perhaps? He had not seen anything, but something must have caused it. Galingale was not lame but he was definitely tender-footed. The smith was called for and it was decided that it would be left until the morning to put the shoe back on. In the meantime, the Jingler was to treat the leg and foot with compresses and do anything he could to ensure that the horse would be sound on the morning of the match. When he pointed out that a small part of the hoof had been taken away when the shoe came off, the servant broke into a sweating panic. The Jingler observed him with interest.
“Do something, Aitchison!”
“Aye, well, I’ll do me best,” said the Jingler. “‘Tis naught, really, all will be well with the nag, of that I’m certain.”
But all was not well with the nag. When the Jingler brought Galingale out for inspection early the following morning, with the smith standing by ready to put the shoe back on, the horse was definitely lame. Not just tender-footed, but distinctly lame with a slight nod to the head and a classic dot and carry one movement of the front legs. The servants were beside themselves and putty in the hands of the Jingler. The Jingler thought it quite strange; after all accidents did happen. Why should they fear their master so much?
Not that it was an accident, of course. When the Jingler, apparently full of concern for the horse, had been treating it late the previous evening, he had wrapped the leg in a tight linen cloth. It was just for show. The horse didn’t really need bandaging, but it concealed the fact that under the cloth he had twisted a strong horse tail hair tightly below Galingale’s fetlock, the joint at the base of the leg above the pastern. It was a certain sure way of producing temporary lameness in a nag. And abracadabra - all he had to do was secretly break the tail hair before the horse came out and it walked up lame. It would wear off after a time, but would Sir Richard let his horse run in this state? Almost certainly not. And they had to get the shoe back on, which they couldn’t do whilst Galingale showed lameness. And if he did become sound again, the Jingler intended to do the same thing on the morning of the race if he could. Because he had made it damn clear to Jugg that if for whatever reason Sir Richard’s horse did not run, then the wager would go in the favour of the Jingler. And Jugg - the fool - had accepted it.
The servants, after much muttered consultation, agreed that there was only one thing to be done. It was unfortunate, but Sir Richard must be advised - and sent for. This did not suit the Jingler - not yet, anyway. He intended to carry on playing the two servants like fish on a line for the moment. Apart from anything else, they might be good for some additional payment for his skills.
“No need for that, gentlemen,” said the J
ingler, suavely. “Let me try a trick or two on ‘im before you do that.” He instructed the servants to take Galingale to the pond and stand him in it for an hour or two; and for certain the horse would be sound again when he came out. So said the Jingler. Which was true; and Galingale remained sound until the Jingler played the same trickwith the tail hair again the following night. The same thing in the morning; the horse went to stand in the pond and came back sound. This time they risked putting the shoe back on and then the horse was bedded down and given the best of attention.
“Trust me,” said the Jingler to the anxious servants. “I’ve a special salve made for him and by the morning he’ll be right again.”
The Jingler was whistling as he went about his work the following day. As he went to Galingale’s stall he smiled, knowing that the horse would walk out lame again. He removed the wrapping and snapped the tightly fastened hair round the leg. It was invisible to the casual observer, and that was how it did its work so well. And, whatever puzzle lay behind the strange incidents regarding the black horses, the Jingler was sure this was Galingale. The star was real enough and everyone knew the horse had a white star. The servants were adamant that it was Galingale. There was another thing that was sure, as far as the Jingler was concerned. This horse would not be running in any match if he could help it.