by Miriam Bibby
Someone was calling him from outside. Still whistling, the Jingler walked out into the stable yard.
* * * * *
Richard and George, both good horsemen, rode at a fast pace across the parkland towards Marcaster. They were followed by George’s servant Hal, who had accompanied George to Marfield Hall.
“I wish you were meeting the undersheriff under better circumstances,” shouted Richard.
George, finding the speed a little too great for conversation, nodded. Eventually they slowed down.
“Over here,” said Richard, indicating to the right, where there were some hummocks in the ground, “was where we found the broken piece, part of a dedication stone to Mars, whilst my men were digging a ditch. And a fragment which might have come from a statue to him. A piece from his mighty fist, perhaps. Those pieces that are now in the library. Devil of a task it was, getting them there. I believe there may have been a temple here.”
The route they had taken led them, via a short cut, to a plantation close to the Marcaster Road. For someone who had just been advised, by the undersheriff, that he’d received an anonymous letter saying that there was something underhand going on with his horse, George thought that Richard was remarkably sanguine.
That morning, Richard had explained the situation to George in a few brief words.
“It seems - according to the undersheriff, who lives in Marcaster - that there has been some deception regarding my horse,” he had said. “He was - is - to oversee that all is in order regarding the match.”
George noted the slight hesitation in Richard’s voice as he amended “was” to “is”.
“Does this - deception - mean there might - be no match?” asked George.
Richard seemed reluctant to reply.
“‘Tis difficult to say, George. Our undersheriff, Edward Davison, is a contrary man at the best of times. I have found him unpredictable in my past dealings with him. According to this letter, both horses, Sir John’s and my own, have been put at risk by one who might - feed them something harmful. And the anonymous letter hints at other matter which the undersheriff will only reveal in my presence.”
“Who might this correspondent be? D’ye know?”
Richard had shaken his head. “I do not know.”
George was carrying a letter of his own to send to Sim. Less than half an hour ago, as they hurried to prepare for riding, he had added a quick postscript detailing the morning’s news. The letter advised Sim that George had recently met with both the Clerk of the Assize and the pigman; and a decision had been made regarding Clink. The Clerk, clearly busy, had spared a quarter hour to speak with George and glance over the deposition. “After due consultation with the Clerk - and the victim and principal witness, our pigman - it has been arranged that the trial of the thief will take place at the forthcoming assize in Marcaster, the Clerk seeing that all is in order for presentation to the court. This will, I trust, receive your approval, cousin, for it is undoubtedly a decision that will mean the least expense and inconvenience to us all.”
The letter that Richard had received had changed the complexion of the day entirely. Amelia, who had been looking forward to riding out with them on her little mare to the edge of the park, was cross to be left behind. Amabilis, who had seemed to be showing some interest in accompanying them despite her obvious disinterest in horses, seemed partly relieved and partly annoyed.
“Here,” Richard was saying, indicating a small ditch and bank by a plantation. “We can reach the highway this way.” The horses jumped onto the bank and then off again onto a track that was rutted and dusty. Richard had little inclination to talk and George took his cue from his silence. As they approached Marcaster, Richard seemed about to say something, but thought better of it. They were riding along the main street of Marcaster before he spoke again.
“The Blue Boar, George. This is where Galingale is temporarily stabled. And I will send word to the undersheriff that we have arrived and he may meet us here.”
“Hal will take that word for you,” said George. “And Hal - when you have done so, see that this letter is sent to Master Cantle with all speed, and return.” He gave the letter to Hal.
“The undersheriff will most likely be at the Courthouse. If not … ” Richard gave Hal additional instructions. Hal rode off and the two men dismounted. Ostlers from the Blue Boar came to take their horses and two of the servants that Sir Richard had set to look after Galingale came out as well. Sir Richard had not sent them word that he was riding to Marcaster and so they were in some surprise to see him. When he advised them of the contents of the letter the undersheriff had received, they looked from one to the other. George thought they looked furtive - shifty even.
“D’ye have any idea who might have sent this letter to the undersheriff?” Richard was asking. “Or why?”
“No, sir,” said one of them. “‘Tis news to us. All - all’s well with the horse. Galingale. Whatever this letter says - it’s not true, sir!”
The other, younger and less experienced, spoke up. He was clearly anxious to stay in his employer’s good books.
“Aitchison might have knowledge, sir!”
“Aitchison? Who is he?” Richard was frowning and staring at the older servant. From the look on the older man’s face, George realised that the younger servant had said the wrong thing.
“Nobody, sir,” muttered the older servant. “Well, that’s to say - just a stableman, sir, who has helped with - with some tasks, sir. Nothing important. Fetching water and the like. He won’t know nowt.”
Richard was pulling off one of his gloves. His face was white and set. George could tell that he was extremely angry, but his voice remained calm.
“You had my instructions, Walton. It seems you have not kept to them. Accept no other assistance - those were my words.”
“Sir - the horse is … “
“Where is this Aitchison?” The voice was like cold steel.
“I’ll see if I can fetch ‘im, sir.”
“And bring out Galingale. Since you have not followed my instructions, I will take command of this horse myself. And if there has been deception - there will be a price to pay.”
The two men left to fetch the horse. One of them shouted “Aitchison! Yer wanted here” as they walked away. There was a returning shout and then a tall, thin man with straight yellow hair walked under the stable arch. He glanced across at Richard and George and his eyes widened in shock. The Jingler had grown a beard and his hair was shorter since George saw him last but he knew in an instant who it was.
George moved quickly but the Jingler was even faster. He grabbed a cask of water and half threw, half rolled it at George, who leaped quickly aside but received a soaking and a blow on the leg despite his speedy reaction. Instinctively, he called for Hal; and then cursed as he realised they’d sent the lad off on his errand. And the horses they had ridden had been led away to the trough.
The Jingler, who was off and running almost as he hurled the barrel, was around the corner and into the alley before anyone else had a chance to move. Throwing the dignity of the law to the winds, George sprinted after the Jingler as fast as he could, shouting for help as he did so. He saw the outline of the man ahead of him as he leaped over something and carried on running. As George approached the obstacle he saw it was a pig wallowing in a muddy patch created by an overflowing trough. Someone should really apply the local byelaws regarding stray animals, said a small voice in his head. Keep running, said a louder one. This is the bastard whoreson who stole your horse.
The Jingler almost skidded as he threw a quick turn to the left. He knew he was running for his life and his whole body strained to the utmost. He could not remember if George was carrying a sword or not, but in his sleeve the Jingler carried his knife; and if Sir George cornered him he would use it. In the meantime he ran blindly, instinctively, ducking under some blankets hung up for an airing, leaping over a basket full of baby chicks, pushing aside some children and knocking o
ver an old woman who got in his way. His breath rasped and his heart thundered in his ears. This was what the hare felt when the hounds closed on it. He turned down what he thought was another alley and found it was a courtyard. The Jingler began to panic. He saw that one of the cottages facing onto the yard had a green bush over the door - an alehouse. The Jingler ran inside.
George, who had nearly lost the Jingler after one of his sharp turns, guessed which way he had gone when he heard a sobbing, complaining voice. It was the old woman, picking herself up with the help of a concerned neighbour.
“Which way?” said George impatiently. “Which way?”
The woman’s neighbour looked at George and for a moment he thought she was not going to help. George had obvious authority - he came from the ruling class. This part of the alley reeked of poverty. He could almost read her thoughts. Why should she help him rather than the other? Why should her loyalty lie with either of them? Finally, the younger woman jerked her head to indicate where the Jingler had gone and turned back to tend to the older woman.
“My thanks!” said George, genuinely grateful. He ran on. When this was over - if - he would send to see that all was well with the old woman and give her some aid. He found himself in a deserted courtyard surrounded by small thatched cottages. Most of the doors were open. Which one, which one? George saw the green bush set over the door of one of them and, after hesitating for an instant, stepped just over the threshold. He looked around cautiously. The alewife regarded him with surprise.
“Can I fetch ye a drink, sir?” she said, questioningly, looking him up and down. George was soaking wet and had lost his hat as he started running.
“Searching for someone,” said George. “Queen’s Justice - no warrant. Have you seen a man, tall, thin, yellow hair?”
The woman shook her head. “No sir. But …” She indicated the open door into another yard at the side of the house. George ran through it. The yard had a small tree in a pot, some chickens, casks and a bench or two. It was walled, but the wall was low enough for an agile man to get over it, especially with a leg up from one of the benches. George stood on the bench and looked over. There was a drop into a larger walled garden and beyond that he could see more houses, some of them quite large and fine, more gardens and, in the distance, woods and the river. There was no sign of the Jingler.
“Damn,” said George. He dropped back onto the bench and leaned his head against the wall.
“I think y’need a drink, sir,” said the alewife.
George didn’t disagree.
The Jingler, who had run straight through the alehouse and out the other side, had leaped onto the wall and run along the top of it until he got to the corner with a neighbouring plot. He dropped down into the next garden where he found a gate leading onto a quiet lane. The gate was locked but that was no problem for the Jingler, who quickly picked the lock and let himself through. He leaned against the outside wall and sucked in lungfuls of air. Stupid. He had been very, very stupid. He had known that Sir George was coming over to the Assizes; it was obvious now that he would have the acquaintance of either Grasset or Widderis, or both. Why had he not considered it sooner? Well, there was nothing for it. He would find a barn and hide up; and then he would find the Sad Mort, the Egyptian Mort and the Frog. And then - he would settle up with Jugg.
When George got back to the Blue Boar, he found that Sir Richard had sent men to search for him. Richard was in the stableyard, looking anxious. Beside him was a stocky, square man with an ebullient face. The undersheriff.
“George, my boy! Thank God …” Richard’s relief was obvious. “That man - Aitchison …”
George shook his head. “No sign of him, Richard. I’ll explain all later. But in the meantime, if you could set men to search for him. He is a known horse thief and Aitchison is not, I wager, his true name.”
“I will see that it is done. I set some after you but I think you were too fast for them. This is Master Edward Davison, the Undersheriff of Mardale Wapentake - of whom you’ve heard me speak. The running horses are in his official charge.” There was meaning in Richard’s tone. “And this is his son, Ned. Master Davison, this is my guest - and friend - Sir George Paston. “
George, wet, sweating, hatless and still slightly out of breath, greeted them as courteously as he could.
“Forgive me, George, but the undersheriff needs to be - enlightened - on an urgent matter. As you know, he has received a note advising him that there are certain- irregularities to be investigated regarding the horses.”
“Says here that someone might have been tampering with your horse, Sir Richard; and there might be even more underhand dealing, with another black horse!” said the undersheriff bluntly. “I’d call that more’n irregular! And it also says that someone has been intending to feed poison to your horse and that of Sir John Widderis at the Hart and Hawthorn. I recall we had something similar last year. Not as bad as this, though.”
“No,” agreed Richard. “But we have the perpetrator of last year’s threats under lock and key; and so we know that this time he is not to blame; although I imagine he has friends and family who might want seek vengeance - or hope that a threat or two might result in his release. That will never happen. I believe Sir John and myself, although we do not see eye to eye on many matters, would agree to sacrifice our match and indeed our horses, much though we value them, to ensure that this villain stands trial.”
The undersheriff nodded approval. “With regard to the forthcoming match, you do indeed confirm that the horse currently stabled here is your horse?”
“It is.”
“Good, good. For our anonymous letter-writer has indicated that it might not be the correct horse. And also - ” the Undersheriff turned to George - “something that might concern you, sir - “
“Concerning me?” George was genuinely surprised.
“Yes, sir. It says that there is one that you might know who is presently in Marcaster who may have a hand in this - although it does not go so far as to implicate her as such …”
“Her?” George was instantly on the alert.
“Yes - one who might travel under the name of Mistress Loveday?”
“Ah … ” Had he managed not to give anything away? Richard was looking at him closely. George felt an overwhelming urge to sneeze, and did so, covering the fact he’d been momentarily startled.
“You need to find some clean, dry garments, my boy,” said Richard. “Galingale - that is, my horse - is somewhat lame, but it may not be of consequence. This we’ll all discuss, over a glass in the undersheriff’s parlour. There is a great deal to talk about.”
The undersheriff nodded agreement.
“Certainly,” said George. “But - excuse me - Hal! come with me - I will - your pardon, gentlemen, I will find …” as he was saying this, he was backing away making vague gestures, leaving the others looking at him, and then at one another, with confused expressions. George headed off in the direction of the Hart and Hawthorn. The inn sign had caught his attention as he rode along the high street and now that he knew it was the place where Sir John’s horse was stabled he was nearly certain she would be here. Very shortly afterwards he was in the yard, wondering whether to seek out a porter or simply run up the gallery stairs and bang on every door one by one.
“Hal, find me a shirt and some hose, breeches, trunks. Anything will do if it be clean and dry. And my hat.”
“Aye sir. I have your hat here.” Hal ran off.
“Now,” muttered George. “Where is she?”
“Can I help you, sir?” said a passing groom.
“Yes,” said George. “I am seeking a woman, with a serving man, and a little dog, who may be staying at this inn.”
“Oh, yes,” said the groom, looking slightly surprised. This wasn’t the customary visitor. The woman sold perfumes or some such and her clients were mainly women. However - he nodded towards a door. “Use the inner stairs, sir. ‘Tis one of the best chambers in the house and very p
rivate; and easiest gained that way. The Columbine Rooms, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“And when my man comes back, tell him to wait on me here.”
George took the stairs three at a time and was soon rapping on the door, trying to express urgency without drawing too much attention to himself. Within the room, Cornelius started to bark. Meg opened the door with a surprised look on her face.
“George! What a pleasure it is to see you. Matthew and I were just saying that …”